Now sleeps the land
of houses, and dead night holds the street,
And there thou liest, my baby, and sleepest soft and sweet;
My man is away for awhile, but safe and alone we lie;
And none heareth thy breath but thy mother, and the moon looking
down from the sky
On the weary waste of the town, as it looked on the grass-edged
road
Still warm with yesterday’s sun, when I left my old
abode,
Hand in hand with my love, that night of all nights in the
year;
When the river of love o’erflowed and drowned all doubt and
fear,
And we two were alone in the world, and once, if never again,
We knew of the secret of earth and the tale of its labour and
pain.
Lo amidst London I lift thee, and how little
and light thou art,
And thou without hope or fear, thou fear and hope of my heart!
Lo here thy body beginning, O son, and thy soul and thy life;
But how will it be if thou livest, and enterest into the
strife,
And in love we dwell together when the man is grown in thee,
When thy sweet speech I shall hearken, and yet ’twixt thee
and me
Shall rise that wall of distance, that round each one doth
grow,
And maketh it hard and bitter each other’s thought to
know?
Now, therefore, while yet thou art little and hast no thought of
thine own,
I will tell thee a word of the world, of the hope whence thou
hast grown,
p.
16Of the love that once begat thee, of the sorrow that
hath made
Thy little heart of hunger, and thy hands on my bosom laid.
Then mayst thou remember hereafter, as whiles when people say
All this hath happened before in the life of another day;
So mayst thou dimly remember this tale of thy mother’s
voice,
As oft in the calm of dawning I have heard the birds rejoice,
As oft I have heard the storm-wind go moaning through the
wood,
And I knew that earth was speaking, and the mother’s voice
was good.
Now, to thee alone will I tell it that thy
mother’s body is fair,
In the guise of the country maidens who play with the sun and the
air,
Who have stood in the row of the reapers in the August
afternoon,
Who have sat by the frozen water in the highday of the moon,
When the lights of the Christmas feasting were dead in the house
on the hill,
And the wild geese gone to the salt marsh had left the winter
still.
Yea, I am fair, my firstling; if thou couldst but remember me!
The hair that thy small hand clutcheth is a goodly sight to
see;
I am true, but my face is a snare; soft and deep are my eyes,
And they seem for men’s beguiling fulfilled with the dreams
of the wise.
Kind are my lips, and they look as though my soul had learned
Deep things I have never heard of. My face and my hands are
burned
By the lovely sun of the acres; three months of London-town
And thy birth-bed have bleached them indeed—“But lo,
where the edge of the gown”
(So said thy father one day) “parteth the wrist white as
curd
From the brown of the hands that I love, bright as the wing of a
bird.”
Such is thy mother, O firstling, yet strong as
the maidens of old,
Whose spears and whose swords were the warders of homestead, of
field and of fold.
p. 17Oft were
my feet on the highway, often they wearied the grass;
From dusk unto dusk of the summer three times in a week would I
pass
To the downs from the house on the river through the waves of the
blossoming corn.
Fair then I lay down in the even, and fresh I arose on the
morn,
And scarce in the noon was I weary. Ah, son, in the days of
thy strife,
If thy soul could harbour a dream of the blossom of my life!
It would be as sunlit meadows beheld from a tossing sea,
And thy soul should look on a vision of the peace that is to
be.
Yet, yet the tears on my cheek! And what
is this doth move
My heart to thy heart, beloved, save the flood of yearning
love?
For fair and fierce is thy father, and soft and strange are his
eyes
That look on the days that shall be with the hope of the brave
and the wise.
It was many a day that we laughed as over the meadows we
walked,
And many a day I hearkened and the pictures came as he talked;
It was many a day that we longed, and we lingered late at eve
Ere speech from speech was sundered, and my hand his hand could
leave.
Then I wept when I was alone, and I longed till the daylight
came;
And down the stairs I stole, and there was our housekeeping
dame
(No mother of me, the foundling) kindling the fire betimes
Ere the haymaking folk went forth to the meadows down by the
limes;
All things I saw at a glance; the quickening fire-tongues
leapt
Through the crackling heap of sticks, and the sweet smoke up from
it crept,
And close to the very hearth the low sun flooded the floor,
And the cat and her kittens played in the sun by the open
door.
The garden was fair in the morning, and there in the road he
stood
Beyond the crimson daisies and the bush of southernwood.
Then side by side together through the grey-walled place we
went,
And O the fear departed, and the rest and sweet content!
p.
18Son, sorrow and wisdom he
taught me, and sore I grieved and learned
As we twain grew into one; and the heart within me burned
With the very hopes of his heart. Ah, son, it is
piteous,
But never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus;
So may these lonely words about thee creep and cling,
These words of the lonely night in the days of our wayfaring.
Many a child of woman to-night is born in the town,
The desert of folly and wrong; and of what and whence are they
grown?
Many and many an one of wont and use is born;
For a husband is taken to bed as a hat or a ribbon is worn.
Prudence begets her thousands: “Good is a
housekeeper’s life,
So shall I sell my body that I may be matron and wife.”
“And I shall endure foul wedlock and bear the children of
need.”
Some are there born of hate—many the children of greed.
“I, I too can be wedded, though thou my love hast
got.”
“I am fair and hard of heart, and riches shall be my
lot.”
And all these are the good and the happy, on whom the world dawns
fair.
O son, when wilt thou learn of those that are born of despair,
As the fabled mud of the Nile that quickens under the sun
With a growth of creeping things, half dead when just begun?
E’en such is the care of Nature that man should never
die,
Though she breed of the fools of the earth, and the dregs of the
city sty.
But thou, O son, O son, of very love wert born,
When our hope fulfilled bred hope, and fear was a folly
outworn;
On the eve of the toil and the battle all sorrow and grief we
weighed,
We hoped and we were not ashamed, we knew and we were not
afraid.
Now waneth the night and the moon—ah,
son, it is piteous
That never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee
thus.
But sure from the wise and the simple shall the mighty come to
birth;
And fair were my fate, beloved, if I be yet on the earth
When the world is awaken at last, and from mouth to mouth they
tell
Of thy love and thy deeds and thy valour, and thy hope that
nought can quell.
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