ALULVAN

The sun is clear of bird and cloud,

The grass shines windless, grey, and still,

In dusky ruin the owl dreams on,

The cuckoo echoes on the hill;

Yet soft along Alulvan's walks

The ghost at noonday stalks.

His eyes in shadow of his hat

Stare on the ruins of his house;

His cloak, up-fasten'd with a brooch,

Of faded velvet grey as mouse,

Brushes the roses as he goes:

Yet wavers not one rose.

The wild birds in a cloud fly up

From their sweet feeding in the fruit;

The droning of the bees and flies

Rises gradual as a lute;

Is it for fear the birds are flown,

And shrills the insect-drone?

Thick is the ivy o'er Alulvan,

And crisp with summer-heat its turf;

Far, far across its empty pastures

Alulvan's sands are white with surf:

And he himself is grey as sea,

Watching beneath an elder-tree.

All night the fretful, shrill Banshee

Lurks in the chambers' dark festoons,

Calling for ever, o'er garden and river,

Through magpie changing of the moons:

'Alulvan, O, alas! Alulvan,

The doom of lone Alulvan!'

THE PEDLAR

There came a Pedlar to an evening house;

Sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down,

Wondered what man he was, so curious

His black hair dangled on his tattered gown:

Then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes,—

'What will you buy, sweetheart?—Here's honeycomb,

And mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies,

Comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom,

To keep in water for to make night sweet:

All that you want, sweetheart,—come, taste and eat!'

Ev'n with his sugared words, returned to her

The clear remembrance of a gentle voice:—

'And O! my child, should ever a flatterer

Tap with his wares, and promise of all joys

And vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be;

Seal up your ears, sing some old happy song,

Confuse his magic who is all mockery:

His sweets are death.' Yet, still, how she doth long

But just to taste, then shut the lattice tight,

And hide her eyes from the delicious sight!

'What must I pay?' she whispered. 'Pay!' says he,

'Pedlar I am who through this wood do roam,

One lock of hair is gold enough for me,

For apple, peach, comfit, or honeycomb!'

But from her bough a drowsy squirrel cried,

'Trust him not, Lettice, trust, oh trust him not!'

And many another woodland tongue beside

Rose softly in the silence—'Trust him not!'

Then cried the Pedlar in a bitter voice,

'What, in the thicket, is this idle noise?'

A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings,

As through the glade, dark in the dim, she flew;

Yet still the Pedlar his old burden sings,—

'What, pretty sweetheart, shall I show to you?

Here's orange ribands, here's a string of pearls,

Here's silk of buttercup and pansy glove,

A pin of tortoiseshell