The Lily of the Valley

There was a wood, it does not change,Not while the thrush pipes through its glades,And she who did its thickets rangeHas willed her sunbeam to its shades.There still the lily weaves a netWith bluebell, primrose, violet.

The wood is what it was of old,A timber-farm where wildflowers grow.There woodman’s axe is never cold,That lays the oaks and beeches low.But though the hand of man deface,The lily ever grows in grace.

Of loving natures, proudly shy,The stock-doves sojourn in the tree,With breasts of feathered cloud and sky,And notes of soft though tuneless glee:Hid in the leaves they take a spring,And crush the stillness with their wing.

The wood is deep-boughed, and its gladeHas ruts of waggon to and fro;Yet where the print of wheel is madeThe bracken ventures still to grow;And where the foot of man may goad,The ants are toiling with their load.

The wood, even old in olden days,No longer alters with the year.The gnarléd boughs, to Nature’s waysInured, their honours mildly bear.And she who there has fixed her beamIs still remembered as a dream.

There many a legend of the woodHas hovered from the olden time,When, with their sooths and sayings good,Men told not of its youth or prime.The hollow trunks were hollow then,And honoured like the bones of men.

There like nine brethren, Nature’s own,Nine trees within a circle stand,And to a temple’s shape have grown,Each trunk a column tall and grand.And, there, a raven-oak uprearsIts dome that whitens with the years.

’Mid these, while on the earth at play,She, the true beam of living spring,The playmate of the lily’s ray,Learnt of the piping thrush to sing.The lily’s leaves were then her nest,Its buds half-nestled in her breast.

To her whose beam was lily-bright’Neath brakes that hide the sky above,A primrose seemed a holy sight:Loveless itself, it taught her love.It was her welcome to the bowers,And lured her fingers to its flowers.

Not yet to her was Nature’s ageIn gnarled and hollow shapes revealed:The buds and leaflets stamped her page,And all that Death could say concealed.To gnarled and hollow Nature cold,She had not caught the sense of old.

When folk who gossiped thereaboutAsked the child’s name,—the child so pale,—With looks that gave a sweetness out,She answered, ‘Lily of the Vale.’Not then her eyes had dew-drops shedIn early tribute to the dead.

Alas! her parents came to die;She was not then too young to weep.Through all the wood was heard her cry;Till with her sobs she fell asleep,And o’er her slumber shot those beamsThat with a shiver visit dreams.

The lilies in their nest had died,Violets were closed, their petals crushed,The bracken-stalks were parched and dried,The flowers she loved no longer blushed.Towards sorrow did her soul ascend;Her dawn of joys was at an end.

The oak spread o’er her troubled sleep,She sees a gnarled and hollow formWhose riven branches seem to creep,—Loosed from their long-enchanted storm,And like a phantom in the airIt sets on her its naked stare.

That oak she oft had seen before,And in its empty cell had played,But felt not it was bald and hoarWith the green ivy o’er it laid.Now have those thoughtless moments flownAnd with the oak she is alone.

Then she beheld o’ersnowed with age,Her grandsire trembling in the wind,Smiling on her, his heritage,The child his son had left behind.Old was she now, for she could seeHer grandsire agéd like the tree.

As flowers her eager heart once firedWith love for things that came and passed,These visions in her soul inspiredAn awe of sadder things that last:The sire by age and trouble bent,The tree by storm and lightning rent.

Sleep left her, but her startled gazeMet not the sire beside the oakThere standing in its leafless mazeAs in her dream, when she awoke.Where was the sire? She could not seeThe face that smiled beside the tree.

And then she towards the cottage ran,There was the sire in his retreat,There was he still,—the agéd man,—Calm-sitting on his mossy seat,And of her dream, as true, she spokeWhile resting ’neath the raven-oak.

He told her how the raven rearedHer young ones on the leafy crest,And now the oak by lightning searedCould give no shelter for a nest.With this her simple thoughts he ledTo how the bird the prophet fed.

Then did she feel that he was poor;That on a scanty crust he fared.She longed to see within his doorThe frugal meal she oft had shared,And prayed the raven in her needTo do for them the loving deed.

Through every grove she poured her lay,This drooping Lily of the Vale;As through the brakes she took her wayShe told the thrush her touching tale,And bade it in her service pressThe bird that waits on man’s distress.

So, like a creature on the wing,She spoke her griefs to all she met.The thrush had taught her how to singSoft notes to all things living set;Conies that peeped from out the grass,They had no fear and let her pass.

She thought the thrush with mellow songWould answer to her simple strain,She thought the other birds would throngTo bring the raven back again,But not to her the raven spedWho brought from heaven the prophet’s bread.

Meantime her grandsire day by dayWas hungered, hopeless though he smiled,For he would hide his pains awayFrom her, the watchful, loving child.She saw him sink upon his bedNot by the kindly raven fed.

Again through brake and bush she flew;Beyond the wood there lay the fieldAnd paths unknown broke on her view;Must she to childish terror yield?She looked at heaven and saw its scope,Taught by her mother there was hope.

And then she to her mother said,‘Can God the prophet’s raven spare?For grandsire lies upon his bed,And cannot earn his daily fare.All father’s work he leaves undone,And says I soon shall be alone.’

Then she went on and seemed to treadThe buoyant air that past her blew,But cast her looks about in dread,As o’er the footless path she flew.At last she stayed to breathe her fear,—All was so strange, and no one near.

And then she to her father said,‘Can God the prophet’s raven spare?For grandsire lies upon his bed,And cannot earn his daily fare.He leaves the work you left undone,And says I soon shall be alone.’

Her slackening pace now plainly toldThe way was long for timid feet.She felt her heart no longer bold:Oft she looked back her wood to greet.Her wood from sight a moment gone,She felt herself indeed alone.

She stood where hills and valleys blend;One struggle more, and heaven seemed nigh.Beyond where fields and woods ascend,She saw a mansion towering high,A noble lady’s home, that seemedTo her the heaven of which she dreamed.

‘Could I,’ she thought, ‘that hill ascend,Then should I see the lady’s face.She lives above, where troubles end,And I have found her heavenly place.God gives her plenty for the poor,Who come home laden from her door.’

She looked till flashed across her dreamsA sight that all her spirit fired;A form behind the window gleams,—Could it be she so long desired?Through windows in that stately pile,She thought she saw a human smile.

And then she to the lady said,‘Can God the prophet’s raven spare?For grandsire lies upon his bed,And cannot earn his daily fare.All father’s work he leaves undone,And says I soon shall be alone.’

The mansion stood against the sun:There long she looked for her reply.The ball of fire whose course had run,Filled with its red the western sky,’Twas awful to her childish sight:She turned her troubled steps for flight.

Dared she but enter at the gateTo reach that mansion vast and fair,Then could she all her tale relateTo that sweet lady dwelling there.But all her little courage fled:With fainting steps she homeward sped.

First slowly, then with swifter pace,She outran terror at her heels,As if to win with Death the race,Whose shroud now brushing by she feels.She starts at every rugged bank,For with the sun her spirit sank.

The orb, yet vast beyond the height,Had set more early in the wood;But o’er the trees the lingering lightSpread floating in a rosy flood.The birds sank one by one to rest,As pale and paler grew the west.

She spied her cot, O vision sweet!A rushlight through the lattice flamed,And threw its radiance at her feet,As it the grudging twilight shamed.Through diamond panes a glimpse to catch,She held her finger on the latch.

No sound, no breath she heard above,Where grandsire in the garret lay.But one was there whose looks of love,‘Poor little orphan,’ seemed to say.She knew the chaplain’s kindly face;The bearer of the lady’s grace.

‘Where hast thou been, my darling maid?Reply to one who likes thee well.’‘To fetch the raven home,’ she said;‘And him my grandsire’s wants to tell.I stood beneath the raven-treeAnd found no bird to succour me.’

‘Why call the raven to thy door,Thy little heart’s distress to share?’‘Because,’ said she, ‘the sire is poor,And has not earned his daily fare.All father’s work he leaves undone,And says I soon shall be alone.’

‘To kiss thee, child, he would have stayed,For oft he called thee to his side.Where didst thou wander, little maid?’‘I went across the world so wide.I looked at heaven and saw its scope,Taught by my mother there was hope.

‘I looked for mother in the sky:She taught me there my wants to tell;I looked for father standing by,For both among the happy dwell;I cried to them with heart of care,Can God the prophet’s raven spare?

‘Then I came nigh a stately pile,Where those who ask seek not in vain.I looked, and saw a human smile,And thought a lady looked again.Through windows I beheld her face,As she looked from her heavenly place.

‘And then I to the lady said,“Can God the prophet’s raven spare?For grandsire lies upon his bed,And has not earned his daily fare.My father’s work he leaves undone,And says I soon shall be alone.”’

‘Thou art not all alone, my child;Thy griefs that righteous lady hears:She loves a spirit undefiled;Her heart is open to thy tears.Thy father’s work at last is done,And thou shalt never be alone.’