Ballads and other poems

Preface

It is perhaps needless to say, that I have been all my life a passionate admirer of ballad-poetry. Brought up, as a child, in a picturesque, old-fashioned part of England, remote from books and from the world, and under circumstances of almost conventual seclusion, the echoes of this old, traditional literature found their way to my ear and my heart. Few books, excepting those of a religious and somewhat mystical character, reached me; but an old domestic, with every requisite for a German Marchen-Frau, who had a memory stored with ballads, old songs, and legends, inflamed my youthful imagination by her wild chaunts and recitations, and caused it to take very early flights into the regions of romance.

When I married, under circumstances the most favourable for a young poetical spirit, the world of

VI PREFACE.

literature was at once opened before me; and to mark the still prevailing character of my taste, I may say that the first book I read, when I had my free choice in a large library, was Percy's Relics of Ancient English Poetry, of which I had heard, but till then had never seen. The first fifteen years of my married life were devoted to poetry. My husband and I published two joint volumes of poems within the first few years of our marriage ; and then, giving freer vent to my own peculiar fancies, I again took to writing ballads, which were published in various periodicals of the day, and the favourable reception they met with gave me the utmost encouragement. The happiest period, however, of my literary life was when, gladdened by the praise of the public, and encouraged by my husband, on whose taste and judgment I had the greatest dependence, I resolved to put forth my whole strength into one effort, which should afford me free scope for working out character, and for dramatic effect, at which I had always aimed, even in the simplest ballad. My hopes were high, and I thought to achieve a name among the poets of

PREFACE. Vll

my country. I accordingly wrote the " Seven Temptations " — a poem faulty in many respects, and different to what I would now do, but with which at that time I spared no pains. Authors will therefore understand my feelings when I say that the first review I read of this work was so unfavourable, and that without giving a single quotation in proof of its opinion, that I was cut to the heart. I never experienced a sensation like that before, and I pray that I never may again. The book, however, had its share of praise, and made me many dear and valuable friends. But from that day I tremble at the name of critic, and feel a peculiar sensation of heart when public judgment is about to be passed upon me. I have somewhat of this feeling at this moment, because, although the critics have praised my ballads, and many of them have called upon me to give them to the public in a collected form, still, I myself am not precisely the same person that I was ten or fifteen years ago, when the greater number were written. Life teaches many lessons in that time ; the tastes and the feelings become matured, or perhaps greatly changed; and I, also, now require in poetry,

Vlll PKEFACE.

to say nothing of its subject, a degree of polish and finish which in my younger years I cared little about. My next volume of poetry must be different in many respects from any thing which I have yet done, though it must still retain that love of Christ, of the poor, and of little children, which always was and will be a ruling sentiment of my soul.

This is an egotistical preface, but I trust I shall be pardoned. And in conclusion, dear reader, while you receive in many of these poems a faithful transcript of myself ten or fifteen years ago, the volume will be found to contain also portions of my later self, in which I hope there are some breathings of that philosophy of life which is true religion — that spirit of love which knows a sympathy and fellowship with all who suffer as well as with all who rejoice.

MARY HO WITT.

Contents

BALLADS.

Page

Tibbie Inglis - - - - - - -18

Part I

In a large old house dwells Magdalene, And with her there are three :

A blithe old man the gardener ; And good Dame Margery ;

And a priest, who cometh now and then, With a high and shaven crown,

With a foot that treads so silently, And a long black camlet gown.

LADY MAGDALENE.

All up and down the galleries Went the Lady Magdalene,

A-looking at the pictures old, That on the walls were seen.

" And who is this, Dame Margery,

With the gold chain and the sword ?

" That was thy father, Magdalene ; He was a noble lord ! "

" And who is this boy, Dame Margery, With the greyhound at his side ? "

" That was thy brother, Magdalene ; At four years old he died ! "

" And tell me, I pr'ythee, Margery, Who 's this with the downcast eye ? It troubles my heart, Dame Margery, And yet I know not why."

ISTo answer at all made Margery, For a little season's space ;

LADY MAGDALENE.

And again the maiden, Magdalene, Looked up into her face.

** There are chambers many," quoth Magdalene, " And many a stately bed ; And many a room so beautiful, All green, and gold, and red.

" How is it, I pray, Dame Margery, That all alone I dwell?

I have asked the question of myself. And I'm sure I cannot tell.

" In the village street, Dame Margery, Even in winter weather, I see the children, sevens and eights, All playing there together :

" But in this large and grand old house, I pray, how may it be, That I am thus alone, alone, With none for company ?

LADY MAGDALENE.

" I look into the distant fields,

On the terrace as I stand,

And see the mothers walking there,

And children hand in hand.

" And now, I pray, Dame Margery,

This mystery make clear ;

What spell is it, so sad yet sweet,

That ever draws me here ?

" The face is very fair to see,

And so is many another ;

But the spell is like the yearning love

Which bindeth child and mother."

Sore troubled was Dame Margery,

The tears were in her eye,

And she wiped them with her withered hand,

As thus she made reply.

" Yes, she was fair, sweet Magdalene,

Like an angel fair and mild !

LADY MAGDALENE.

And she was thy mother, Magdalene ; I nursed her as a child.

" Ah me ! I can remember well Those times for ever fled, When there were children and friends enow To sleep in every bed.

" When the hall table was too small For those who sate to meat ; And serving-men went to and fro With rapid, noiseless feet.

" There were thirty horses then in stall, And grooms nigh half a score ; Even I was gay and handsome then — But all those times are o'er !

" The house, in troth, is silent now,

And hath a look of gloom ;

I can remember dance and song

And lights in every room !

LADY MAGDALENE.

" The jackdaws now, and swallows, build In the chimneys cold and tall ; The ivy creeps o'er the window-glass, And green damps on the wall.

" I can remember, Magdalene,

When the trees, that grow so wild Along the shrubbery paths, were set ; Thy mother was then a child.

" He thinks, old John the gardener, Those times may come again ; Mayhap they will, sweet Magdalene, — But ah ! I know not when ! "

PAKT II.

On the terrace broad walked Magdalene, With gentle steps and slow ;

And blithe old John the gardener Was working down below.

LADY MAGDALENE.

And he sang, the blithe old gardener — " The bird upon the tree Is merry in budding spring-time, And I'm as merry as he."

He cut the leaves of the snowdrop down,

And tied up the daffodilly ; And then he sang, as he bent to work,

Down the broad stone steps went Magdalene, And stood by the old flower-bed :

Still at his work the old man bent, Nor once raised up his head.

" 'Tis a lonesome place!" said Magdalene, " A lonesome dreary place ! "

The blithe old man he ceased his work, And gazed into her face.

" Ay, lone enough, my lady fair ! " Said the cheerful gardener ;

LADY MAGDALENE.

" But I can remember yon terrace steps With children all astir.

" There was my Lady Isabel,

With hair like the raven's wins; ; And the second sister, Adeline, A wilful, proud young thing.

i{ There was Lord Francis, and Lady Jane, And your blessed lady-mother ; Two younger brothers besides, and he That was dearer than a brother.

" He was your father afterwards — Good lack ! how time moves on ! —

There were seven children then i' th' house, And now there is but one !

And all those happy children, Like flowers of spring, are gone !

" What troops of ladies I have seen Go walking up and down,

LADY MAGDALENE.

Each softly fanning of herself, In a shining silken gown !

" What gay and gallant gentlemen, All clad in velvet fine ; What riding in and out there was ; What drinking of the wine !

" Ay, sure enough, the place is still — Stiller than it was then ; But perchance, my Lady Magdalene, It may be blithe again ! "

With that he stooped clown to his work, And harder worked than ever,

Nodding his head to his favourite song, " Let care drown in the river !"

And as he sang he cleared the leaves From the crocus, matted and wan ;

The Lady Magdalene walked away, But he kept singing on.