The Village Wifes Lament | Page 6

heart stood still.
Life had been fair as I stood there,
Eight weeks a bride;
All of me
laid warm and bare
To my true love's side!
Oh, who should dream
of dark to-morrows
And lonely weeping
Whose steadfast joys and
passing sorrows
Lay in such a keeping?
There blew a chill wind from the hill
Like a sea-breath;
I shiver'd
and a taint of ill
Brought news of death.
I blinkt my eyes as who
should try
To see what is to fear;
The sun still shone high in the sky,

But no warmth there.
Then far away I saw the sea
A rippling golden sheet,
And courage
flowed again in me--
What foe could break thro' it?
And all about
the fields and hedges,
There when I was born,
The river slipping
through the sedges,
And the growing corn--
A land of quiet tilth and cote,
Of little woods and streams,
Of gentle
skies and clouds afloat,
And swift sun-gleams!
A land where
knee-deep cattle keep,
Chewing as they stand;
Of hillsides
murmurous with sheep--

That is my native land!
They say you never love so dear
As when you are to part;
I know,
to see my land so clear
Cut me to the heart.
What vain regrets to
have lov'd so ill
What was our all!
What idle vows to love her still


Though she should fall!
At stroke of noon my love came in
Sharpset for his food;
To see
him was right sense to win,
And feel safe and good.
I was asham'd
my fears to tell
Lest he should think,
"I thought I knew this woman
well--
But what makes her shrink?"
iii
The summer went her gracious way
Of sun and lingering eves;
I did
my share to win the hay,
The corn stood in sheaves
Ere August
month was fairly come;
And when it was here
I knew I carried in
my womb
The harvest of my dear.
iv
When I was sure I sat down quiet
In the deep shade,
And if my
heart was all in riot
I was not afraid.
I did not think, nor say a pray'r,

But lookt straight before me,
And felt that Someone else stood
there
With hands held o'er me.
I thought His peace blest my increase;
But then, as it seem'd,
A
shadow made my joy to cease,
And the day was dimm'd.
I shiver'd
as if one a knife
Should pull forth of the sheath.
I think just then the
Lord of Life
Gave way to Him of Death.
As one bestead with gossamer-thread
I pluckt at my eyes
To catch
again the glory shed,
The hope, the load, the prize;
But no more
hands invisible
Held like a shade o'er me,
And there seem'd little
enough to tell
My husband momently.
The long forenoon my thought I held,
And yet all thro' it
The wires
all England over shrill'd,
And I never knew it!

In a high muse I
nurst my news
All the forenoon,
While England braced her limbs
and thews
To a marching tune.

v
I serv'd my love, when he came home,
His meal; then on his knee
I
told him what I might become,
And he kiss'd me;
Then said,
"Indeed, there may be need
Of this little one,
For many a woman's
heart must bleed
For wanting of a son.
"Since we awoke, the word is spoke,
And if 'tis still right
That
English folk keep faith unbroke,
Then must England fight."
I could
not look, nor think, nor ask
What himself would do,
But call'd to
task my pride, to bask
In what had warm'd me thro'.
Oh, he was grave and self-possest
Under love's new crown!
He took
me in his arms to rest,
And lay my head down
A moment on his
shoulder; then
Went steady to his work.
I knew what fate soe'er
call'd men
He was none to shirk.
Now I must play the helpful wife,
And my new pride
Be little worth
to ease the strife
That vext me in the side;
For like a green and
aching wound,
Like a throbbing vein
I felt this terror on the ground

Of young men slain.
The swooning summer sun sank low,
And all the dusty air
Held
breathlessly beneath his glow,
So tir'd, so quiet and fair,
I would not
think that men could live
In such glory a minute,
To hate and
grudge, to slay and reive
Poor souls within it.
vi
I heard fond crying in my ears,
Fond and vain regret
For life as it
had been ere tears
Made women's eyes wet;
I saw arise the host of
stars
And listen'd to their song;
"O we have seen a thousand wars

And woe agelong!
"What are you men, what are you women
But a shifting sand?
The

tide of life is overbrimming--
God holds not His hand;
But all the
evil with the good
To His mill is grist;
He serves his mood now
with man's blood
Who serv'd it once with beast."
So sang the stars. That night our love
Burn'd at its holiest;
For aught
we knew the same might prove
Our last in the nest.
But from the
bed my passion pled,
O God, let us be!
If woman's anguish her
bestead,
Then forsake not me!
vii
I dare not trace that watching space
Of days, too short, too long--

Too long to wear a patient face,
Too short to wear a strong.
I us'd to
think I'd have him choose
His duty and begone;
And then, No, no, I
dare not lose
Him ere