{North Coast and other Poems 1868}

[Meg Blane continued]

III.

     Then, with strange trouble in her eyes, Meg Blane
Crept swiftly back unto her hut again,                                                   [1:2]
Like one that fleéth from some fearful thing;                                          [1:3]
Then sat and made a darkness, covering
Her face with apron old, and thought apart;                                          [1:5]
And yet she scarce could think, for ache of heart,
But saw dead women and dead men go by,
And felt the wind, and heard the waters cry,                                           30
And on the waters, as they washed to shore,
Saw one Face float alone and glimmer hoar
Through the green darkness of the breaking brine.

     And Meg was troubled deep, nor could divine
The wherefore of her trouble, since ’twas clear
The face long wishéd for at last was near,                                             [2:3]
Since all her waiting on was at an end.
Ay, Meg was dull, and could not comprehend
How GOD put out His breath that day, and blew
Her sailor to her feet before she knew,                                                 [2:7]
And misted the dull future from her sight;                                              [2:8]
Wherefore she staréd down on her delight                                            [2:9]
As on a dead face washing in from sea.
But when she understood full certainlie                                                [2:11]
The thing had come according to her prayer,
Her strength came back upon her unaware,
And she thanked GOD, albeit the pleasure seemed                               [2:14]
Less absolute a bliss than she had dreamed
When it was a sweet trouble far away;
For she was conscious how her hair was gray,
Her features worn, her flesh’s freshness gone,
Through toiling in the sun and waiting on;
And quietlie she murmured, weeping not,                                        31  [2:20]
‘Perchance—for men forget—he hath forgot.’                                     [2:21]

And two long days she was too dazed and weak
To step across the sands to him, and speak;
But on the third day, pale with her intent,
She took the great hand of her son, and went,
Not heeding while the little-witted one
Mouthed at the sea and muttered in the sun;                                          [3:6]
And firmly stepping on along the shore,
Beheld afar off, at the cottage door,                                                      [3:8]
The figure of her shipwrecked marinere;                                               [3:9]
When, deeply troubled by a nameless fear,
She lingered o’er her footsteps, pale and wan.                                     [3:11]

     Then, coming near, she noted how the man
Sat sickly, holding out his arm to please
A fisher bairn he held between his knees,                                              [4:3]
Whose eyes looked on the mighty arm and bare,
Where ships, strange faces, anchors, pictured were,
Pricked blue into the skin with many a stain;                                          [4:6]
And, sharply marking the man’s face, Meg Blane
Was cheered and holpen, and she trembled less,
Thinking, ‘His heart is full of kindliness.’
And, feeling that the thing if to be done                                                   32
Must be done straight, she hastened with her son,
And, though she saw the man’s shape growing dim,
Came up with feverish smile and spoke to him,                                    [4:13]
Pausing not, though she scarce could hear or see,                                [4:14]
‘Has Angus Macintyre forgotten me?’
And added quickly, ‘I am Maggie Blane!’

     Whereat the man was smit by sudden pain
And wonder—yea, the words he heard her speak
Were like a jet of fire upon his cheek;
And, rising up erect, ‘Meg Blane!’ he cried,
And, white and chilly, thrust the bairn aside,
And peered upon the woman all amazed,
While, pressing hard upon her heart, she gazed
Blankly at the dim mist she knew was he.

     Then for a space both stood confusedlie,                                         [6:1]
In silence; but the man was first to gain
Calmness to think and power to speak again;
And, though his bloodless lips were presséd tight,                                 [6:4]
Into his eyes he forced a feeble light,
And took her shivering hand, and named her name                                [6:6]
In forced kind tones, yet with a secret shame,                                       [6:7]
Nor sought to greet her more with touch or kiss.
But she, who had waited on so long for this,                                           33
Feeling her hand between his fingers rest,
Could bear no more, but fell upon his breast,
Sobbing and moaning like a little bairn.

     Then, while her arms were round him, he looked stern,                    [7:1]
With an unwelcome burden ill at ease,
What time she freed her heart in words like these—                              [7:3]
‘At last! at last! O Angus, let me greet!                                                 [7:4]
GOD’s good! I never hoped that we would meet!                                  [7:5]
Lang, lang hae I been waiting by the sea,                                              [7:6]
Waiting and waiting, praying on my knee;
And GOD said I should look again on you,                                            [7:8]
And, though I daredna hope, GOD’s word comes true,                         [7:9]
And He hath put an end to my distress!’                                              [7:10]
And, as she spoke, her child plucked at her dress,                               [7:11]
Made fierce grimaces at the man, and tried
To draw her from the breast whereon she cried;
But looking up, she pointed to her child,
And gazed full piteous at the man, and smiled.                                     [7:15]
‘GOD help him, Angus! ’Tis the bairn!’ she said;—                              [7:16]
Nor noted how the man grew shamed and red,
With child and mother ill at ease and wroth,
And wishing he were many a mile from both.

     For now Meg’s heart was many a mile away,                              34  [8:1]
And unto her it seemed but yesterday                                                   [8:2]
That, standing inland in a heathery dell,
At dead o’ night, she bade the man farewell,                                         [8:4]
And heard him swear full fondly in her ear
Sooner or late to come with gold and gear,
And marry her in kirk by holy rite;                                                        [8:7]
And at the memory a quiet light,
Rose-like and maiden, came upon her face,
And softened her tall shape to nameless grace,
As low winds blowing on a birk-tree green                                          [8:11]
Make it one rippling trouble of white sheen.                                         [8:12]

     But soon from that remembrance driven again
By the man’s silence and his pallid pain,
She shivered for a moment as with cold,
And left his bosom, looking grieved and old,
Yet smiling, forcing a sweet smile, and seeking                                      [9:5]
For tokens in his face more sweet than speaking.

     But he was dumb, and with a pallid frown,                                      [10:1]
Twitching his fingers quick, was looking down.
‘What ails thee, Angus?’ cried the woman, reading
His face with one sharp look of interceding;
Then, looking downward too, standing apart,                                  35  [10:5]
With blood like water slipping through her heart,
Because she thought, ‘’Tis ill if it should be                                          [10:7]
That Angus cares no more for mine and me,
Since I am old and worn with sharp distress,
And men like pretty looks and daintiness;
And since we parted twenty years have past,
And that, indeed, is long for a man’s heart to last.’                              [10:12]

     But, agonized with looking at her woe,                                           [11:1]
And bent to end her hope with one sharp blow,
The troubled man, uplifting hands, spake thus,
In rapid accents, sharp and tremulous:
‘Too late, Meg Blane! seven years ago I wed
Another woman, thinking you were dead,—                                        [11:6]
And I have bairns!’ And there he paused, for fear.

     As when, with ghostly voices in her ear,
While in her soul, as in a little well,
The dusky silver of the glamour fell,                                                     [12:3]
She had been wont to hark o’ nights alone,                                          [12:4]
So stood she now, not stirring, still as stone,
While in her soul, with desolate refrain,
The words, ‘Too late!’ rang o’er and o’er again;                                [12:7]

And gazéd on his face with chill white stare;                                         [12:8]
Then raising her wild arms into the air,
Pinching her face together in sharp fear,
She quivered to the ground without a tear,
And put her face into her hands, and thrust
Her hair between her teeth, and spat it forth like dust.

And though, with pity in his guilty heart,
The man spake on and sought to heal her smart,
She heard not, but was dumb and deaf in woe;                                       37
But when, in pain to see her grieving so,
Her son put down his hand, and named her name,
And whispered, ‘Mither! mither! let us hame!’
She gript the hand, and smoothed her features wan,                             [13:7]
And rose erect, not looking at the man,
But, gazing down, moved slowly from the spot.

     Over this agony I linger not,                                                           [14:1]
Nor shall I picture how upon that shore                                               [14:2]
They met and spoke and parted yet once more,
So calmly that the woman understood
Her hope indeed had gone away for good.
But ere the man departed from the place
It seemed to Meg, contemplating his face,
Her love for him had ne’er been so intense
As it had seemed when he was far from thence;
And many a thing in him seemed little-hearted
And mean and loveless; so that ere they parted
She seemed unto her sorrow reconciled.
And when he went away, she almost smiled,
But bitterlie, and turned to toil again,                                                  [14:14]
And felt most hard to all the world of men.

 

                                                                                                             38

IV.

               LORD, with how small a thing
Thou canst prop up the heart against the grave!
                    A little glimmering
                         Is all we crave;                                                            [1:4]
                    The coming of a love                                                        [1:5]
                         That hath no being;
          The thin point of a little star above,                                             [1:7]
                    Flashing and fleeing,
                    Contents our seeing.
The house that never will be built; the gold
               That never will be told;
The task we leave undone when we are cold;
The dear face that returns not, but is lying,
     Licked by the leopard, in an Indian cave;                                        [1:14]
The coming rest that cometh not, till, sighing,
     We turn our weary eyes upon the grave.                                         [1:16]
               And, LORD, how should we dare
                    Thither in peace to fall,
          But for a feeble glimmering even there—                               39  [1:19]
                    Falsest, perchance, of all?                                               [1:20]
We are as children in Thy hands indeed,
And Thou hast easy comfort for our need,—
The shining of a lamp, the tinkling of a bell,
                         Content us well.

And even when Thou bringest to our eyes
     A little thing, to show its worthlessness,                                            [2:2]
Anon we see another thing arise,
     And we are comforted in our distress;
And, waiting on, we watch it glittering,
Till in its turn it is a worthless thing;                                                       [2:6]
                    And even as we weep
Another rises, and we smile again;                                                        [2:8]
Till, wearied out with watching on in vain,
                    We fall to sleep.

And often one poor light that looks divine                                             [3:1]
     Is all one soul seeketh along the ground;                                          [3:2]
                    There are no more to shine
               When that one thing is found.
     If it be worthless, then what shall suffice?
The lean hand grips a speck that was a spark,
                    The heart is turned to ice,                                                   40
                         And all the world is dark.
Hard are Thy ways when that one thing is brought                                 [3:9]
     Close, touched, and proven nought.                                               [3:10]
Far off it is a mighty spell, and strong                                                   [3:11]
                    To help a life along.                                                         [3:12]
But, lo! it darkens hitherward, and now                                               [3:13]
     Droppeth, a rayless stone, upon the sod.—
The world is lost: perchance not even Thou
                    Survivest it, LORD GOD!

                    In poverty, in pain,
               For weary years and long,
One hope, one fear, had comforted Meg Blane,                                    [4:3]
               Yea, made her brave and strong;
A hope so faint, it seemed not hope at all,                                             [4:5]
     But a sweet trouble and a dreamy fear,                                            [4:6]
A hearkening for a voice, a soft footfall,                                                [4:7]
     She never hoped in sober heart to hear:
                    This had been all her cheer;                                              [4:9]
                         And with this balm                                                     [4:10]
                         Her soul might have kept calm                                    [4:11]
                    For many another year.
                    In terror and in desolation, she
                         Had been sustained,                                                      41
                    And never felt abandoned utterly
                         While that remained.
LORD, in how small and poor a space can hide
The motives of our terror and our pride,                                              [4:18]
The clue unto the fortunate man’s distress,
The secret of the hero’s fearlessness!
What had sustained this woman on the sea                                          [4:21]
                    When strong men turned to flee?
                         Not courage, not despair,
                         Not pride, not household care,
                    Not faith in Thee!
Nought but a hungry instinct blind and dim—
                    A fear, a nameless pain,                                                  [4:27]
A dreamy wish to gaze again on him
     She never wholly hoped to see again.                                             [4:29]

Nor all at once,—nor in an hour, a day,                                                [5:1]
     Did the strong woman feel her force depart,                                     [5:2]
Or know how utterly had passed away
                    The meaning of her heart;                                                 [5:4]
It was not love she missed, for love was dead,                                      [5:5]
     And surely had been dead long ere she knew;
She did not miss the man’s face when it fled,
                    As passionate women do:                                                  42
She saw him turn into the world again,                                                  [5:9]
                    And had no pain;
She shook him by the hand, and watched him go,
                    And thought it better so.
She turnéd to her task-work as of old,                                                [5:13]
Kissed her bearded child with love tenfold,                                          [5:14]
Hoisted the sails and plied the oar,
                    And wandered out from shore,                                        [5:16]
                         And for a little space
                         Wore an unruffled face,
Though wind and water helped her heart no more.
But, mark: she knelt less often on her knees,
                    For, labour as she might,
                         By day or night,
She could not work enough to give her ease;                                       [5:23]
And presently her tongue, with sharper chimes,
                         Chided at times.
And she who had endured such sharp distress
Grew peevish, flushing at her peevishness;                                           [5:27]
                    And though she did not weep,
     Her features seemed with tears disfiguréd,                                      [5:29]
And in the night, when bitterest mourners sleep,
     She feverishly tossed upon her bed.

Slowly the trouble grew, and soon she found                                          43
     Less pleasure in the loud unrestful sea;                                             [6:2]
The wind and water had a duller sound,                                                [6:3]
     The moon and stars were sick as corpse-lights be;
Then more and more strange voices filled her ear,
                    And ghostly feet came near,
And strange fire blew her eyelids down, and then
                    Dead women and dead men,
Dripping with phosphor, rose, and, ere she wist,
                    Went by in a cold mist;
Nor left her strengthenéd at heart and bold,                                         [6:11]
                    As they had done of old;
     But ever after they had gone away                                                  [6:13]
               She had no heart to pray.
                    Bitter and dull and cold,
     She shivered back into the common day.                                        [6:16]

                    Out of the east by night                                                    [7:1]
                         Drifted the black storm-cloud;                                     [7:2]
The air was hushed with snow-flakes falling white,                                [7:3]
                         But the seas below were loud;
          And out upon the reef the piteous light                                        [7:5]
                    Rose from a shipwrecked bark
                              Into the dark.                                                         [7:7]
Pale stood the fishers, watching for the close,                                   44  [7:8]
Till suddenly the fearless cry arose,                                                       [7:9]
And forth into the foam the black boat flew,
And fearless to their places leapt the crew.
Then one called out, ‘Meg Blane!’                                                      [7:12]
     But Meg stood by, and trembled and was dumb,
Till, smit unto the heart by sudden pain,
     Into her hair she thrust her fingers numb,
                    And fell upon the sands,
And spake not while the wondering fishers called,                                [7:17]
     And tore the slippery seaweed with her hands,                               [7:18]
                    And screamed, and was appalled.

And in that hour the woman’s fearless strength                                      [8:1]
                    Snapt like a thread at length,
And tears, ev’n such as suffering women cry,
                    Fell from her eyes anon;
And she knew well, although she knew not why,                                   [8:5]
     The charm she had against the deep was gone.                                [8:6]
                    And after that dark hour,
                         She as a feeble shadow anguishéd.                              [8:8]
                    All terrible things of power
                         Turned into things of dread,
          And all the peace of all the world had fled.

Then only in still weather did she dare
     To seek her bread on ocean, as of old,                                           [8:13]
And in the stormy time her shelf was bare,                                           [8:14]
     And her hearth black and cold;                                                  46  [8:15]
Then very bitterly, with heart gone wild,
                    She clung about her child,
And hated all the earth beneath the skies,
Because she saw the hunger in his eyes.

For on his mother’s strength the witless wight                                        [9:1]
                    Had leant for guide and light,
And food had ever come unto his hand,                                                [9:3]
     And he had known no thought of suffering;
Yea, all his life and breath on sea and land
                    Had been an easy thing.
And now there was a change in his sole friend
                    He could not comprehend.
But, lo! unto the shade of her distress                                                    [9:9]
His nature shaped itself in gentleness;                                                   [9:10]
And when he found her weeping, he too wept,
     And if she laughed, laughed out in company;
And often to the fisher-huts he crept,                                                   [9:13]
     And begged her bread, and brought it tenderly,
And held it to her mouth, and till she ate                                               [9:15]
     Would touch no piece, although he hungered sore.                          [9:16]
And these things were a solace to her fate,
     But wrung her heart the more.

     Yea, to the bitter dolour of her days,                                          47  [10:1]
In witless mimicry he shaped his ways.                                                 [10:2]
He fared but seldom now upon the sea,                                               [10:3]
     But wandered with his mother hand in hand,                                  [10:4]

Hunting for faggots on the inland lea,
     Or picking dulse for food upon the strand.
Something had made the world more sad and strange,
But easily he changéd with the change.
For in the very trick of woe he clad                                                       48
His features, and was sad since she was sad,
And leant his chin upon his hands like her,                                          [10:11]
     And looked at vacancy; and when the deep                                  [10:12]
     Was troublous, and she started up from sleep,
He too awoke, with fearful heart astir;
And aye the more her bitter tears she shed                                         [10:15]
     Upon his neck, in woe to mark his woe,                                        [10:16]
The more in blind, deep love he fashionéd
     His grief to hers, and was contented so.

And as a tree inclineth, weak and bare,                                               [11:1]
Under an unseen weight of wintry air,
Beneath her load the weary woman bent,                                            [11:3]
And, stooping double, trembled as she went;                                       [11:4]
And the days snowed their snows upon her head                                 [11:5]
                         As they went by,
                    And ere a year had fled
                         She felt that she must die.

Then like a thing whom very witlessness
     Maketh indifferent, she lingered on,
Not caring to abide with her distress,
                    Not caring to be gone;
But gazing with a dull and fixéd eye,                                                49  [12:5]
                    And seeing dreams pass by;                                            [12:6]
Not speculating whither she would go,
But feeling there was nought she cared to know,
                    And melting even as snow.
Save when the man’s hand slipped into her own,
                    And fluttered fondly there,                                             [12:11]
And she would feel her life again, and groan,
‘My GOD! when I am gone, how will he fare?’                                   [12:13]
          And for a little time, for Angus’ sake,
                    Her bruiséd heart would ache,                                       [12:15]
          And all life’s stir and anguish once again
                    Would swoon across her brain.

                    ‘O bairn, when I am dead,
                         How shall ye keep frae harm?
                    What hand will gie ye bread?
                         What fire will keep ye warm?
          How shall ye dwell on earth awa’ frae me?’—
                         ‘O mither, dinna dee!’                                                [13:6]

                    ‘O bairn, by night or day
                         I hear nae sounds ava’,
                         But voices o’ winds that blaw,                                    [14:3]
                    And the voices o’ ghaists that say                               50  [14:4]
                              I must awa’.                                                         [14:5]
     The LORD that made the wind, and made the sea,                           [14:6]
                    Is hard on my bairn and me,                                            [14:7]
               And I melt in His breath like snaw,’—
                         ‘O mither, dinna dee!’

          ‘O bairn, it is but closing up the een,
               And lying down never to rise again.
          Many a strong man’s sleeping hae I seen,—
                              There is nae pain!
          I’m weary, weary, and I kenna why;                                         [15:5]
                         My summer has gone by,
     And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o’ thee.’—
                         ‘O mither, dinna dee!’

But when sweet summer scents were on the sea,                                 [16:1]
     And ’neath the moon the waves plashed bright and cool,                [16:2]
     Outside the hut she sat upon a stool,
While Angus leant his head against her knee,                                       [16:4]
And with thin fingers fashioned carefully                                               [16:5]
          A long white dress of wool.
‘O mither,’ cried the man, ‘what make ye there?’                                [16:7]
          ‘A blanket for our bed!’                                                              51
‘O mither, it is like the sark folk wear                                                  [16:9]
          When they are drowned and dead!’                                         [16:10]

And Meg said nought, but kissed him on the lips,
     And looked with dull eye seaward, where the moon
Silvered the white sails of the passing ships,                                        [16:13]
     Into the land where she was going so soon.                                    [16:14]

     And in the reaping-time she lay abed,                                                 52
And by her side the dress unfinishéd,
And with dull eyes that knew not even her child
She gazed at vacancy, and sometimes smiled;
And ever her fingers worked, for in her thought,                                   [17:5]
Stitching and stitching, still the dress she wrought;
And then a beldame old, with blearéd ee,                                             [17:7]
Came to the hut for CHRIST and charitie,                                             [17:8]
And stilly sewed the woollen shroud herself,
And set the salt and candle on a shelf.
And like a dumb thing crouching moveless there,
                    Gripping the fingers wan,
Marking the face with wild and wandering stare,                                 [17:13]
     And whining beast-like, watched the witless man.                          [17:14]

     Then like a light upon a headland set,
In winds that came from far-off waters blowing,                                   [18:2]
     The faint life glimmered—fainter—fainter yet;                                  [18:3]
But suddenly it brightened at its going;                                                  [18:4]
And Meg sat up, and, lo! her features wore
The fearless sweetness they had known of yore;                                   [18:6]
And delicate lines were round her mouth; sweet rest                             [18:7]
     Was in her eyes, though they were waxing dim;
And when the man crept close unto her breast,
                    She calmly kisséd him.                                               53  [18:10]
                         And it was clear
She had heard tidings it was sweet to hear,
And had no longer any care or fear.
‘I gang, my bairnie, and ye will come to me!’                                      [18:14]
                    ‘O mither, dinna dee!’
But as he spake she dropped upon the bed,                                        [18:16]
And darkened, while the breath came thick and fleet:                          [18:17]
‘O Jessie, see they mind my bairn!’ she said,                                      [18:18]
     And quivered,—and was sleeping at GOD’s feet.                           [18:19]

When on her breast the plate of salt was laid,
     And the corpse-candle burnt with sick blue light,                             [19:2]
The man crouched, fascinated and afraid,                                             [19:3]
     Beside her, whining through the night;                                              [19:4]
And answered not the women who stole near,
                    And would not see nor hear;
And when a day and night had come and gone,
Ate at the crusts they brought, and gazéd on;                                       [19:8]
And when they took her out upon a bier,
He followed quietlie without a tear;                                                     [19:10]
And when upon the kist fell dust and stone,                                         [19:11]
     He murmured a thin answer to the sound,                                      [19:12]
And at the end he sat, with a dull moan,                                              [19:13]
                    Upon the new-made mound.                                              54

And as a dog that mourns a master dead,                                             [20:1]
     The man did haunt the grave in dull dumb pain;                                [20:2]
Creeping away to beg a little bread,
                    Then stealing back again;
And he was held accursed who did not give                                         [20:5]
The gift of bread or meal, that he might live;—
                 &nbs