Evil Spirit

A sleeping thought--most innocent of good:It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend! it cannot if it would.I say in it no holy hymn, I do no holy work,I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that chimeth from the kirk.

Nay, let me dream at least.That far-off bell, it may be took for viol at a feast:I only walk among the fields, beneath the autumn-sun,With my dead father, hand in hand, as I have often done.

Nay, sweet fiend, let me go:I never more can walk with him, oh, never more but so!For they have tied my father's feet beneath the kirk-yard stone,Oh, deep and straight! oh, very straight! they move at nights alone:And then he calleth through my dreams, he calleth tenderly,"Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, and walk the fields with me!"

Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied, my word shall answer thine.I heard a bird which used to sing when I a child was praying,I see the poppies in the corn I used to sport away in:What shall I do--tread down the dew and pull the blossoms blowing?Or clap my wicked hands to fright the finches from the rowan?

Thou shalt do something harder still. Stand up where thou dost standAmong the fields of Dreamland with thy father hand in hand,And clear and slow repeat the vow, declare its cause and kind,Which not to break, in sleep or wake thou bearest on thy mind.

I bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for mournful cause;I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong, the spirits laughed applause:The spirits trailed along the pines low laughter like a breeze,While, high atween their swinging tops, the stars appeared to freeze.

Because that God decreed my death and I shrank back afraid.Have patience, O dead father mine! I did not fear to die--I wish I were a young dead child and had thy company!I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried three-year child,And wearing only a kiss of thine upon my lips that smiled!The linden-tree that covers thee might so have shadowed twain,For death itself I did not fear--'t is love that makes the pain:Love feareth death. I was no child, I was betrothed that day;I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away.How could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone,And feel mine own betrothed go by--alas! no more mine own--Go leading by in wedding pomp some lovely lady brave,With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, while mine were white ingrave?How could I bear to sit in heaven, on e'er so high a throne,And hear him say to her--to her! that else he loveth none?Though e'er so high I sate above, though e'er so low he spake,As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might take,That hers, forsooth, were heavenly eyes--ah me, while very dimSome heavenly eyes (indeed of heaven!) would darken down to him!

I sate all night beside thee:The grey owl on the ruined wall shut both his eyes to hide thee,And ever he flapped his heavy wing all brokenly and weak,And the long grass waved against the sky, around his gasping beak.I sate beside thee all the night, while the moonlight lay forlornStrewn round us like a dead world's shroud in ghastly fragments torn:And through the night, and through the hush, and over the flappingwing,We heard beside the Heavenly Gate the angels murmuring:We heard them say, "Put day to day, and count the days to seven,And God will draw Onora up the golden stairs of heaven.And yet the Evil ones have leave that purpose to defer,For if she has no need of HIM, He has no need of her."

And then I heard thee say--"I count upon my rosary brown the hours thou hast to stay!Yet God permits us Evil ones to put by that decree,Since if thou hast no need of HIM, He has no need of thee:And if thou wilt forgo the sight of angels, verilyThy true love gazing on thy face shall guess what angels be;Nor bride shall pass, save thee" ... Alas!--my father's hand's a-cold,The meadows seem ...

I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this string of antique beads,By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds,This rosary brown which is thine own,--lost soul of buried nun!Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone,--I vowed upon thy rosary brown,--and, till such vow should break,A pledge always of living days 't was hung around my neck--I vowed to thee on rosary (dead father, look not so!),I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe.

O love, my love! I felt him near again!I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain!Was this no weal for me to feel? Is greater weal than this?Yet when he came, I wept his name--and the angels heard but his.

Ah me, the sun! the dreamlight 'gins to pine,--Ah me, how dread can look the Dead! Aroint thee, father mine!

She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright,And her breath comes in sobs, while she stares through the night;There is nought; the great willow, her lattice before,Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor:But her hands tremble fast as their pulses and, freeFrom the death-clasp, close over--the BROWN ROSARY.