The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

"Jessie, Jessie Cameron, Hear me but this once," quoth he. "Good luck go with you, neighbor's son, But I'm no mate for you," quoth she. Day was verging toward the night There beside the moaning sea, Dimness overtook the light There where the breakers be. "O Jessie, Jessie Cameron, I have loved you long and true."— "Good luck go with you, neighbor's son, But I'm no mate for you."

She was a careless, fearless girl, And made her answer plain; Outspoken she to earl or churl, Kind-hearted in the main, But somewhat heedless with her tongue, And apt at causing pain; A mirthful maiden she and young, Most fair for bliss or bane. "O, long ago I told you so, I tell you so to-day: Go you your way, and let me go Just my own free way."

The sea swept in with moan and foam Quickening the stretch of sand; They stood almost in sight of home; He strove to take her hand. "O, can't you take your answer then, And won't you understand? For me you're not the man of men, I've other plans are planned. You're good for Madge, or good for Cis, Or good for Kate, may be: But what's to me the good of this While you're not good for me?"

They stood together on the beach, They two alone, And louder waxed his urgent speech, His patience almost gone: "O, say but one kind word to me, Jessie, Jessie Cameron."— "I'd be too proud to beg," quoth she, And pride was in her tone. And pride was in her lifted head, And in her angry eye, And in her foot, which might have fled, But would not fly.

Some say that he had gypsy blood, That in his heart was guile: Yet he had gone through fire and flood Only to win her smile. Some say his grandam was a witch, A black witch from beyond the Nile, Who kept an image in a niche And talked with it the while. And by her hut far down the lane Some say they would not pass at night, Lest they should hear an unked strain Or see an unked sight.

Alas, for Jessie Cameron!— The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher: She should have hastened to be gone,— The sea swept higher, breaking by her: She should have hastened to her home While yet the west was flushed with fire, But now her feet are in the foam, The sea-foam, sweeping higher. O mother, linger at your door, And light your lamp to make it plain; But Jessie she comes home no more, No more again.

They stood together on the strand, They only, each by each; Home, her home, was close at hand, Utterly out of reach. Her mother in the chimney nook Heard a startled sea-gull screech, But never turned her head to look Towards the darkening beach: Neighbors here and neighbors there Heard one scream, as if a bird Shrilly screaming cleft the air:— That was all they heard.

Jessie she comes home no more, Comes home never; Her lover's step sounds at his door No more forever. And boats may search upon the sea And search along the river, But none know where the bodies be: Sea-winds that shiver, Sea-birds that breast the blast, Sea-waves swelling, Keep the secret first and last Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round With its pitiless flow, That when they would have gone they found No way to go; Whether she scorned him to the last With words flung to and fro, Or clung to him when hope was past, None will ever know: Whether he helped or hindered her, Threw up his life or lost it well, The troubled sea, for all its stir, Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying Have thought they heard one pray, Wordless, urgent; and replying, One seem to say him nay: And watchers by the dead have heard A windy swell from miles away, With sobs and screams, but not a word Distinct for them to say: And watchers out at sea have caught Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there, Come and gone as quick as thought, Which might be hand or hair.

Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing;

Where in the white-thorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents Are the budding boughs, Arching high over A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: "We spread no snare;

"Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossy stone.

"Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be."

"O whence do you come, my dear friend, to me, With your golden hair all fallen below your knee, And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea, And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?"

"From the other world I come back to you, My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching dew. You know the old, whilst I know the new: But to-morrow you shall know this too."

"O, not to-morrow into the dark, I pray; O, not to-morrow, too soon to go away: Here I feel warm and well-content and gay: Give me another year, another day."

"Am I so changed in a day and a night That mine own only love shrinks from me with fright, Is fain to turn away to left or right, And cover up his eyes from the sight?"

"Indeed I loved you, my chosen friend, I loved you for life, but life has an end; Through sickness I was ready to tend; But death mars all, which we cannot mend.

"Indeed I loved you; I love you yet If you will stay where your bed is set, Where I have planted a violet Which the wind waves, which the dew makes wet."

"Life is gone, then love too is gone, It was a reed that I leant upon: Never doubt I will leave you alone And not wake you rattling bone with bone.

"I go home alone to my bed, Dug deep at the foot and deep at the head, Roofed in with a load of lead, Warm enough for the forgotten dead.

"But why did your tears soak through the clay, And why did your sobs wake me where I lay? I was away, far enough away: Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day."

She gave up beauty in her tender youth, Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; She covered up her eyes lest they should gaze On vanity, and chose the bitter truth. Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth, Servant of servants, little known to praise, Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days: She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth, That with the poor and stricken she might make A home, until the least of all sufficed Her wants; her own self learned she to forsake, Counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss. So with calm will she chose and bore the cross, And hated all for love of Jesus Christ.

They knelt in silent anguish by her bed, And could not weep; but calmly there she lay. All pain had left her; and the sun's last ray Shone through upon her, warming into red The shady curtains. In her heart she said: "Heaven opens; I leave these and go away: The Bridegroom calls,—shall the Bride seek to stay?" Then low upon her breast she bowed her head. O lily-flower, O gem of priceless worth, O dove with patient voice and patient eyes, O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth, O maid replete with loving purities, Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth To raise it with the saints in Paradise.

Young Love lies sleeping In May-time of the year, Among the lilies, Lapped in the tender light: White lambs come grazing, White doves come building there; And round about him The May-bushes are white.

Soft moss the pillow For O, a softer cheek; Broad leaves cast shadow Upon the heavy eyes: There winds and waters Grow lulled and scarcely speak; There twilight lingers The longest in the skies.

Young Love lies dreaming; But who shall tell the dream? A perfect sunlight On rustling forest tips; Or perfect moonlight Upon a rippling stream; Or perfect silence, Or song of cherished lips.

Burn odors round him To fill the drowsy air; Weave silent dances Around him to and fro; For O, in waking, The sights are not so fair, And song and silence Are not like these below.

Young Love lies dreaming Till summer days are gone, Dreaming and drowsing Away to perfect sleep: He sees the beauty Sun hath not looked upon, And tastes the fountain Unutterably deep.

Him perfect music Doth hush unto his rest, And through the pauses The perfect silence calms: O, poor the voices Of earth from east to west, And poor earth's stillness Between her stately palms.

Young Love lies drowsing Away to poppied death; Cool shadows deepen Across the sleeping face: So fails the summer With warm, delicious breath; And what hath autumn To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains Of branched evergreen; Change cannot touch them With fading fingers sere: Here the first violets Perhaps will bud unseen, And a dove, maybe, Return to nestle here.

I took my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak (O my love, O my love); Yet a woman's words are weak: You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down, And said: It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown.

As you set it down it broke,— Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgment that I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor questioned since, Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand, O my God, O my God, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God; Now let Thy judgment stand,— Yea, judge me now.

This contemned of a man, This marred one heedless day, This heart take Thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge Thou its dross away,— Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand,— I shall not die, but live,— Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much.

A song in a cornfield Where corn begins to fall, Where reapers are reaping, Reaping one, reaping all. Sing pretty Lettice, Sing Rachel, sing May; Only Marian cannot sing While her sweetheart's away.

Where is he gone to And why does he stay? He came across the green sea But for a day, Across the deep green sea To help with the hay. His hair was curly yellow And his eyes were gray, He laughed a merry laugh And said a sweet say. Where is he gone to That he comes not home? To-day or to-morrow He surely will come. Let him haste to joy Lest he lag for sorrow, For one weeps to-day Who'll not weep to-morrow:

To-day she must weep For gnawing sorrow, To-night she may sleep And not wake to-morrow.

May sang with Rachel In the waxing warm weather, Lettice sang with them, They sang all together:—

"Take the wheat in your arm Whilst day is broad above, Take the wheat to your bosom, But not a false false love. Out in the fields Summer heat gloweth, Out in the fields Summer wind bloweth, Out in the fields Summer friend showeth, Out in the fields Summer wheat groweth: But in the winter When summer heat is dead And summer wind has veered And summer friend has fled, Only summer wheat remaineth, White cakes and bread. Take the wheat, clasp the wheat That's food for maid and dove; Take the wheat to your bosom, But not a false false love."

A silence of full noontide heat Grew on them at their toil: The farmer's dog woke up from sleep, The green snake hid her coil Where grass stood thickest; bird and beast Sought shadows as they could, The reaping men and women paused And sat down where they stood; They ate and drank and were refreshed, For rest from toil is good.

While the reapers took their ease, Their sickles lying by, Rachel sang a second strain, And singing seemed to sigh:—

"There goes the swallow,— Could we but follow! Hasty swallow stay, Point us out the way; Look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow.

"There went the swallow,— Too late to follow: Lost our note of way, Lost our chance to-day; Good by swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.

"After the swallow All sweet things follow: All things go their way, Only we must stay, Must not follow: good by swallow, good swallow."

Then listless Marian raised her head Among the nodding sheaves; Her voice was sweeter than that voice; She sang like one who grieves: Her voice was sweeter than its wont Among the nodding sheaves; All wondered while they heard her sing Like one who hopes and grieves:—

"Deeper than the hail can smite, Deeper than the frost can bite, Deep asleep through day and night, Our delight.

"Now thy sleep no pang can break, No to-morrow bid thee wake, Not our sobs who sit and ache For thy sake.

"Is it dark or light below? O, but is it cold like snow? Dost thou feel the green things grow Fast or slow?

"Is it warm or cold beneath, O, but is it cold like death? Cold like death, without a breath, Cold like death?"

If he comes to-day He will find her weeping; If he comes to-morrow He will find her sleeping; If he comes the next day He'll not find her at all, He may tear his curling hair, Beat his breast and call.