The Three Graves

[Part I—From MS.]



Beneath this thorn when I was young,

       &nbspThis thorn that blooms so sweet,

We loved to stretch our lazy limbs

       &nbspIn summer's noon-tide heat.



And hither too the old man came,

       &nbspThe maiden and her feer,

'Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why

       &nbspThe toad has harbour here.



'The Thorn is neither dry nor dead,

       &nbspBut still it blossoms sweet;

Then tell me why all round its roots

       &nbspThe dock and nettle meet.



'Why here the hemlock, &c. [sic in MS.]



'Why these three graves all side by side,

       &nbspBeneath the flow'ry thorn,

Stretch out so green and dark a length,

       &nbspBy any foot unworn.'



There, there a ruthless mother lies

       &nbspBeneath the flowery thorn;

And there a barren wife is laid,

       &nbspAnd there a maid forlorn.



The barren wife and maid forlorn

       &nbspDid love each other dear;

The ruthless mother wrought the woe,

       &nbspAnd cost them many a tear.



Fair Ellen was of serious mind,

       &nbspHer temper mild and even,

And Mary, graceful as the fir

       &nbspThat points the spire to heaven.



Young Edward he to Mary said,

       &nbsp'I would you were my bride,'

And she was scarlet as he spoke,

       &nbspAnd turned her face to hide.



'You know my mother she is rich,

       &nbspAnd you have little gear;

And go and if she say not Nay,

       &nbspThen I will be your fere.'



Young Edward to the mother went.

       &nbspTo him the mother said:

'In truth you are a comely man;

       &nbspYou shall my daughter wed.'



[In Mary's joy fair Eleanor

       &nbspDid bear a sister's part;

For why, though not akin in blood,

       &nbspThey sisters were in heart.]



Small need to tell to any man

       &nbspThat ever shed a tear

What passed within the lover's heart

       &nbspThe happy day so near.



The mother, more than mothers use,

       &nbspRejoiced when they were by;

And all the 'course of wooing' passed

       &nbspBeneath the mother's eye.



And here within the flowering thorn

       &nbspHow deep they drank of joy:

The mother fed upon the sight,

       &nbspNor . . . [sic in MS.]



[Part II—From MS.]



And now the wedding day was fix'd,

       &nbspThe wedding-ring was bought;

The wedding-cake with her own hand

       &nbspThe ruthless mother brought.



'And when to-morrow's sun shines forth

       &nbspThe maid shall be a bride';

Thus Edward to the mother spake

       &nbspWhile she sate by his side.



Alone they sate within the bower:

       &nbspThe mother's colour fled,

For Mary's foot was heard above—

       &nbspShe decked the bridal bed.



And when her foot was on the stairs

       &nbspTo meet her at the door,

With steady step the mother rose,

       &nbspAnd silent left the bower.





She stood, her back against the door,

       &nbspAnd when her child drew near—

'Away! away!' the mother cried,

       &nbsp'Ye shall not enter here.



'Would ye come here, ye maiden vile,

       &nbspAnd rob me of my mate?'

And on her child the mother scowled

       &nbspA deadly leer of hate.



Fast rooted to the spot, you guess,

       &nbspThe wretched maiden stood,

As pale as any ghost of night

       &nbspThat wanteth flesh and blood.



She did not groan, she did not fall,

       &nbspShe did not shed a tear,

Nor did she cry, 'Oh! mother, why

       &nbspMay I not enter here?'



But wildly up the stairs she ran,

       &nbspAs if her sense was fled,

And then her trembling limbs she threw

       &nbspUpon the bridal bed.



The mother she to Edward went

       &nbspWhere he sate in the bower,

And said, 'That woman is not fit

       &nbspTo be your paramour.



'She is my child—it makes my heart

       &nbspWith grief and trouble swell;

I rue the hour that gave her birth,

       &nbspFor never worse befel.



'For she is fierce and she is proud,

       &nbspAnd of an envious mind;

A wily hypocrite she is,

       &nbspAnd giddy as the wind.



'And if you go to church with her,

       &nbspYou'll rue the bitter smart;

For she will wrong your marriage-bed,

       &nbspAnd she will break your heart.



'Oh God, to think that I have shared

       &nbspHer deadly sin so long;

She is my child, and therefore I

       &nbspAs mother held my tongue.



'She is my child, I've risked for her

       &nbspMy living soul's estate:

I cannot say my daily prayers,

       &nbspThe burthen is so great.



'And she would scatter gold about

       &nbspUntil her back was bare;

And should you swing for lust of hers

       &nbspIn truth she'd little care.'



Then in a softer tone she said,

       &nbspAnd took him by the hand:

'Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's

       &nbspI'd give my house and land.



'And if you'll go to church with me,

       &nbspAnd take me for your bride,

I'll make you heir of all I have—

       &nbspNothing shall be denied.'



Then Edward started from his seat,

       &nbspAnd he laughed loud and long—

'In truth, good mother, you are mad,

       &nbspOr drunk with liquor strong.'



To him no word the mother said,

       &nbspBut on her knees she fell,

And fetched her breath while thrice your hand

       &nbspMight toll the passing-bell.



'Thou daughter now above my head,

       &nbspWhom in my womb I bore,

May every drop of thy heart's blood

       &nbspBe curst for ever more.



'And curséd be the hour when first

       &nbspI heard thee wawl and cry;

And in the Church-yard curséd be

       &nbspThe grave where thou shalt lie!'





And Mary on the bridal-bed

       &nbspHer mother's curse had heard;

And while the cruel mother spake

       &nbspThe bed beneath her stirred.



In wrath young Edward left the hall,

       &nbspAnd turning round he sees

The mother looking up to God

       &nbspAnd still upon her knees.



Young Edward he to Mary went

       &nbspWhen on the bed she lay:

'Sweet love, this is a wicked house—

       &nbspSweet love, we must away.'



He raised her from the bridal-bed,

       &nbspAll pale and wan with fear;

'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine,

       &nbspNo Dog would kennel here.'



He led her from the bridal-bed,

       &nbspHe led her from the stairs.

[Had sense been hers she had not dar'd

       &nbspTo venture on her prayers. MS. erased.]



The mother still was in the bower,

       &nbspAnd with a greedy heart

She drank perdition on her knees,

       &nbspWhich never may depart.



But when their steps were heard below

       &nbspOn God she did not call;

She did forget the God of Heaven,

       &nbspFor they were in the hall.



She started up—the servant maid

       &nbspDid see her when she rose;

And she has oft declared to me

       &nbspThe blood within her froze.



As Edward led his bride away

       &nbspAnd hurried to the door,

The ruthless mother springing forth

       &nbspStopped midway on the floor.



What did she mean? What did she mean?

       &nbspFor with a smile she cried:

'Unblest ye shall not pass my door,

       &nbspThe bride-groom and his bride.



'Be blithe as lambs in April are,

       &nbspAs flies when fruits are red;

May God forbid that thought of me

       &nbspShould haunt your marriage-bed.



'And let the night be given to bliss,

       &nbspThe day be given to glee:

I am a woman weak and old,

       &nbspWhy turn a thought on me?



'What can an agéd mother do,

       &nbspAnd what have ye to dread?

A curse is wind, it hath no shape

       &nbspTo haunt your marriage-bed.'



When they were gone and out of sight

       &nbspShe rent her hoary hair,

And foamed like any Dog of June

       &nbspWhen sultry sun-beams glare.



* * * * *



Now ask you why the barren wife,

       &nbspAnd why the maid forlorn,

And why the ruthless mother lies

       &nbspBeneath the flowery thorn?



Three times, three times this spade of mine,

       &nbspIn spite of bolt or bar,

Did from beneath the belfry come,

       &nbspWhen spirits wandering are.



And when the mother's soul to Hell

       &nbspBy howling fiends was borne,

This spade was seen to mark her grave

       &nbspBeneath the flowery thorn.



And when the death-knock at the door

       &nbspCalled home the maid forlorn,

This spade was seen to mark her grave

       &nbspBeneath the flowery thorn.



And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree;

       &nbspThe ghosts that round it meet,

'Tis they that cut the rind at night,

       &nbspYet still it blossoms sweet.



* * * * *



[End of MS.]





Part III



The grapes upon the Vicar's wall

       &nbspWere ripe as ripe could be;

And yellow leaves in sun and wind

       &nbspWere falling from the tree.



On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane

       &nbspStill swung the spikes of corn:

Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday—

       &nbspYoung Edward's marriage-morn.



Up through that wood behind the church,

       &nbspThere leads from Edward's door

A mossy track, all over boughed,

       &nbspFor half a mile or more.



And from their house-door by that track

       &nbspThe bride and bridegroom went;

Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,

       &nbspSeemed cheerful and content.



But when they to the church-yard came,

       &nbspI've heard poor Mary say,

As soon as she stepped into the sun,

       &nbspHer heart it died away.



And when the Vicar join'd their hands,

       &nbspHer limbs did creep and freeze:

But when they prayed, she thought she saw

       &nbspHer mother on her knees.



And o'er the church-path they returned—

       &nbspI saw poor Mary's back,

Just as she stepped beneath the boughs

       &nbspInto the mossy track.



Her feet upon the mossy track

       &nbspThe married maiden set:

That moment—I have heard her say—

       &nbspShe wished she could forget.



The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat—

       &nbspThen came a chill like death:

And when the merry bells rang out,

       &nbspThey seemed to stop her breath.



Beneath the foulest mother's curse

       &nbspNo child could ever thrive:

A mother is a mother still,

       &nbspThe holiest thing alive.



So five months passed: the mother still

       &nbspWould never heal the strife;

But Edward was a loving man

       &nbspAnd Mary a fond wife.



'My sister may not visit us,

       &nbspMy mother says her nay:

O Edward! you are all to me,

       &nbspI wish for your sake I could be

More lifesome and more gay.



'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed

       &nbspI know I have no reason!

Perhaps I am not well in health,

       &nbspAnd 'tis a gloomy season.'



'Twas a drizzly time—no ice, no snow!

       &nbspAnd on the few fine days

She stirred not out, lest she might meet

       &nbspHer mother in the ways.



But Ellen, spite of miry ways

       &nbspAnd weather dark and dreary,

Trudged every day to Edward's house,

       &nbspAnd made them all more cheery.





Oh! Ellen was a faithful friend.

       &nbspMore dear than any sister!

As cheerful too as singing lark;

       &nbspAnd she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,

And then they always missed her.



And now Ash-Wednesday came—that day

       &nbspBut few to church repair:

For on that day you know we read

       &nbspThe Commination prayer.



Our late old Vicar, a kind man,

       &nbspOnce, Sir, he said to me,

He wished that service was clean out

       &nbspOf our good Liturgy.



The mother walked into the church—

       &nbspTo Ellen's seat she went:

Though Ellen always kept her church

       &nbspAll church-days during Lent.



And gentle Ellen welcomed her

       &nbspWith courteous looks and mild:

Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt,

       &nbspAnd all be reconciled!'



The day was scarcely like a day—

       &nbspThe clouds were black outright:

And many a night, with half a moon,

       &nbspI've seen the church more light.



The wind was wild; against the glass

       &nbspThe rain did beat and bicker;

The church-tower swinging over head,

       &nbspYou scarce could hear the Vicar!



And then and there the mother knelt,

       &nbspAnd audibly she cried—

'Oh! may a clinging curse consume

       &nbspThis woman by my side!



'O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven.

       &nbspAlthough you take my life—

O curse this woman, at whose house

       &nbspYoung Edward woo'd his wife.



'By night and day, in bed and bower,

       &nbspO let her curséd be!!!'

So having prayed, steady and slow,

       &nbspShe rose up from her knee!

And left the church, nor e'er again

       &nbspThe church-door entered she.



I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,

       &nbspSo pale! I guessed not why:

When she stood up, there plainly was

       &nbspA trouble in her eye.



And when the prayers were done, we all

       &nbspCame round and asked her why:

Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was

       &nbspA trouble in her eye.



But ere she from the church-door stepped

       &nbspShe smiled and told us why:

'It was a wicked woman's curse,'

       &nbspQuoth she, 'and what care I?'



She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off

       &nbspEre from the door she stept—

But all agree it would have been

       &nbspMuch better had she wept.



And if her heart was not at ease,

       &nbspThis was her constant cry—

'It was a wicked woman's curse—

       &nbspGod's good, and what care I?'



There was a hurry in her looks,

       &nbspHer struggles she redoubled:

'It was a wicked woman's curse,

       &nbspAnd why should I be troubled?'



These tears will come—I dandled her

       &nbspWhen 'twas the merest fairy—

Good creature! and she hid it all:

       &nbspShe told it not to Mary.



But Mary heard the tale: her arms

       &nbspRound Ellen's neck she threw;

'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,

       &nbspAnd now she hath cursed you!'





I saw young Edward by himself

       &nbspStalk fast adown the lee,

He snatched a stick from every fence,

       &nbspA twig from every tree.



He snapped them still with hand or knee,

       &nbspAnd then away they flew!

As if with his uneasy limbs

       &nbspHe knew not what to do!



You see, good sir! that single hill?

       &nbspHis farm lies underneath:

He heard it there, he heard it all,

       &nbspAnd only gnashed his teeth.



Now Ellen was a darling love

       &nbspIn all his joys and cares:

And Ellen's name and Mary's name

       &nbspFast-linked they both together came,

Whene'er he said his prayers.



And in the moment of his prayers

       &nbspHe loved them both alike:

Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy

       &nbspUpon his heart did strike!



He reach'd his home, and by his looks

       &nbspThey saw his inward strife:

And they clung round him with their arms,

       &nbspBoth Ellen and his wife.



And Mary could not check her tears,

       &nbspSo on his breast she bowed;

Then frenzy melted into grief,

       &nbspAnd Edward wept aloud.



Dear Ellen did not weep at all,

       &nbspBut closelier did she cling,

And turned her face and looked as if

       &nbspShe saw some frightful thing.





Part IV

       &nbspTo see a man tread over graves

I hold it no good mark;

       &nbsp'Tis wicked in the sun and moon,

And bad luck in the dark!



You see that grave? The Lord he gives,

       &nbspThe Lord, he takes away:

O Sir! the child of my old age

       &nbspLies there as cold as clay.



Except that grave, you scarce see one

       &nbspThat was not dug by me;

I'd rather dance upon 'em all

       &nbspThan tread upon these three!



'Aye, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale.'

       &nbspYou, Sir! are but a lad;

This month I'm in my seventieth year,

       &nbspAnd still it makes me sad.



And Mary's sister told it me,

       &nbspFor three good hours and more;

Though I had heard it, in the main,

       &nbspFrom Edward's self, before.



Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen

       &nbspDid well nigh dote on Mary;

And she went oftener than before,

       &nbspAnd Mary loved her more and more:

She managed all the dairy.



To market she on market-days,

       &nbspTo church on Sundays came;

All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!

       &nbspBut all was not the same!



Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!

       &nbspBut she was seldom cheerful;

And Edward looked as if he thought

       &nbspThat Ellen's mirth was fearful.



When by herself, she to herself

       &nbspMust sing some merry rhyme;

She could not now be glad for hours,

       &nbspYet silent all the time.



And when she soothed her friend, through all

       &nbspHer soothing words 'twas plain

She had a sore grief of her own,

       &nbspA haunting in her brain.





And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!

       &nbspAnd then her wrist she spanned;

And once when Mary was down-cast,

       &nbspShe took her by the hand,

And gazed upon her, and at first

       &nbspShe gently pressed her hand;



Then harder, till her grasp at length

       &nbspDid gripe like a convulsion!

'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be

       &nbspMade happy by compulsion!'



And once her both arms suddenly

       &nbspRound Mary's neck she flung,

And her heart panted, and she felt

       &nbspThe words upon her tongue.



She felt them coming, but no power

       &nbspHad she the words to smother:

And with a kind of shriek she cried,

       &nbsp'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!'



So gentle Ellen now no more

       &nbspCould make this sad house cheery;

And Mary's melancholy ways

       &nbspDrove Edward wild and weary.



Lingering he raised his latch at eve,

       &nbspThough tired in heart and limb:

He loved no other place, and yet

       &nbspHome was no home to him.



One evening he took up a book,

       &nbspAnd nothing in it read;

Then flung it down, and groaning cried,

       &nbsp'O! Heaven! that I were dead.'



Mary looked up into his face,

       &nbspAnd nothing to him said;

She tried to smile, and on his arm

       &nbspMournfully leaned her head.



And he burst into tears, and fell

       &nbspUpon his knees in prayer:

'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,

       &nbspIt is too great to bear!'





'Twas such a foggy time as makes

       &nbspOld sextons, Sir! like me,

Rest on their spades to cough; the spring

       &nbspWas late uncommonly.



And then the hot days, all at once,

       &nbspThey came, we knew not how:

You looked about for shade, when scarce

       &nbspA leaf was on a bough.



It happened then ('twas in the bower,

       &nbspA furlong up the wood:

Perhaps you know the place, and yet

       &nbspI scarce know how you should,)



No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh

       &nbspTo any pasture-plot;

But clustered near the chattering brook,

       &nbspLone hollies marked the spot.



Those hollies of themselves a shape

       &nbspAs of an arbour took,

A close, round arbour; and it stands

       &nbspNot three strides from a brook.



Within this arbour, which was still

       &nbspWith scarlet berries hung,

Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,

       &nbspJust as the first bell rung.



'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet

       &nbspTo hear the Sabbath-bell,

'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,

       &nbspDeep in a woody dell.



His limbs along the moss, his head

       &nbspUpon a mossy heap,

With shut-up senses, Edward lay:

       &nbspThat brook e'en on a working day

Might chatter one to sleep.



And he had passed a restless night.

       &nbspAnd was not well in health;

The women sat down by his side,

       &nbspAnd talked as 'twere by stealth.





'The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

       &nbspSee, dearest Ellen! see!

'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,

       &nbspNo bigger than your ee;



'A tiny sun, and it has got

       &nbspA perfect glory too;

Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,

       &nbspMake up a glory gay and bright

Round that small orb, so blue.'



And then they argued of those rays,

       &nbspWhat colour they might be;

Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that,

       &nbsp'They're amber-like to me.'



So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts

       &nbspWere troubling Edward's rest;

But soon they heard his hard quick pants,

       &nbspAnd the thumping in his breast.



'A mother too!' these self-same words

       &nbspDid Edward mutter plain;

His face was drawn back on itself,

       &nbspWith horror and huge pain.



Both groaned at once, for both knew well

       &nbspWhat thoughts were in his mind;

When he waked up, and stared like one

       &nbspThat hath been just struck blind.



He sat upright; and ere the dream

Had had time to depart,

       &nbsp'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed)

       &nbsp'I have torn out her heart.'



Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst

       &nbspInto ungentle laughter;

And Mary shivered, where she sat,

       &nbspAnd never she smiled after.