'Say yea! Let them lash me, Hamish?'-' Nay!'-' Husband, the lashing will heal; But, oh, who will heal me the bonny sweet bairn in his grave? Could ye cure me my heart with the death of a knave? Quick! Love! I will bare thee-so- kneel!' Then Maclean 'gan slowly to kneel With never a word, till presently downward he jerked to the earth. Then the henchman-he that smote Hamish—would tremble and lag; 'Strike, hard!' quoth Hamish, full stern, from the crag; Then he struck him, and ‘One!' sang Hamish, and danced with the child in his mirth. And no man spake beside Hamish; he counted each stroke with a song. When the last stroke fell, then he moved him a pace down the height, And he held forth the child in the heart-aching sight Of the mother, and looked all pitiful grave, as repenting a wrong. And there as the motherly arms stretched out with the thanksgiving prayer And there as the mother crept up with a fearful swift pace, Till her finger nigh felt of the bairnie's face In a flash fierce Hamish turned round and lifted the child in the air, And sprang with the child in his arms from the horrible height in the sea, Shrill screeching, 'Revenge!' in the wind-rush; and pallid Maclean, Age-feeble with anger and impotent pain, Crawled up on the crag, and lay flat, and locked hold of dead roots of a tree, And gazed hungrily o'er, and the blood from his back drip dripped in the brine, And a sea-hawk flung down a skeleton fish as he flew, And the mother stared white on the waste of blue, And the wind drove a cloud to seaward, and the sun began to shine. 811 How LOVE LOOKED FOR HELL To heal his heart of long-time pain 'Now what to thee most strange may be?' Then Mind rode in and Sense rode out: First frightfully groaneth Sense. 'Where?' quoth Love 'Not far, not far,' said shivering Sense Look, King, dost see where suddenly ('Cold?' quoth Love) 'As I rode down, and the River was black, And rabble of souls,' sighed Sense, From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 'Their eyes upturned and begged and burned In brimstone lakes, and a Hand above Beat back the hands that upward yearned-' 'Nay!' quoth Love 'Yea, yea, sweet Prince; thyself shalt see, Wilt thou but down this slope with me; 'Tis palpable,' whispered Sense. At the foot of the hill a living rill Shone, and the lilies shone white above; 'But now 'twas black, 'twas a river, this rill,' ('Black?' quoth Love) 'Ay, black, but lo! the lilies grow, And yon-side where was woe, was woe, Where the rabble of souls,' cried Sense, 'Did shrivel and turn and beg and burn, Thrust back in the brimstone from aboveIs banked of violet, rose, and fern:' 'How?' quoth Love: 'For lakes of pain, yon pleasant plain Of woods and grass and yellow grain Doth ravish the soul and sense: And never a sigh beneath the sky, And folk that smile and gaze above-' 'But saw'st thou here, with thine own eye, Hell?' quoth Love. 'I saw true hell with mine own eye, True hell, or light hath told a lie, True, verily,' quoth stout Sense. Then Love rode round and searched the ground, The caves below, the hills above; 'But I cannot find where thou hast found Hell,' quoth Love. There, while they stood in a green wood Came suddenly Minister Mind. 'I saw a man sit by a corse; Hell's in the murderer's breast: remorse! 'Fixed: follow me, would'st thou but see: Fast chained to his corse,' quoth Mind. Hell,' quoth Love. There when they came Mind suffered shame: 'These be the same and not the same,' A-wondering whispered Mind. Lo, face by face two spirits pace Where the blissful willow waves above: ('Grace!' quoth Love) 'Read me two Dreams that linger long, Dim as returns of old-time song That flicker about the mind. I dreamed (how deep in mortal sleep!) (FF) HC XLII 'In dreams, again, I plucked a flower 'Now strange,' quoth Sense, and 'Strange,' 'We saw it, and yet 'tis hard to find, -But we saw it,' quoth Sense and Mind. 812 BRET HARTE [1839-1902] THE REVEILLE HARK! I hear the tramp of thousands, Ere your heritage be wasted,' said the quick alarming drum. Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum; Who shall stay and reap the harvest Echoed, Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest,' said the solemn-sound ing drum. |