Poems (Probyn)/City chimes
CITY CHIMES.
Nurse, are you there?—how dark it grows!'Tis after sunset, I suppose?Or have I dreamed it?—what's the time?I thought I heard a quarter chime. I dream so often that I hearThe sound of those old city chimes,That came across the garden limes——Why need you weep, Nurse Margaret?— The old, old tune they play—so clear!And then I wake, and I forget,And fancy they are playing yet.
It all comes back as I lie here—The rippled water running near,The current where the sunlights quiver,The barges dropping down the river,— The hornbeam walks and terraced lawn,And yews grotesquely clipt and shorn,With breath of roses on the breeze,And linnets' song in all the trees,And lavender and hum of bees.
Inside, a scent of pot-pourri, And sandal faint and cedar wood,—Dim oriel windows, framed in three, Where painted boar and griffin stood,—And shelves of strange old china ware,You taught me how to dust with care.And I, that in a gown of chintz, Sat playing at the cracked spinet,Or sewing, with a thousand tints, The quilt that is not finished yet,—And you, that called me too sedate, And half commended, half reproved me,—And he, that came a trifle late, And lingered long as though he loved me,—And through it all I hear the chimesBorne faintly in across the limes.
Oh, nurse—how short a time they tarried,Those early days before we married! It seems a lifetime since to me, And yet 'tis but a year or so— The lavender was out, I know,And roses on that tallest tree Which all the summer through would blow.
I think I saw him first in June— Was it not June, Nurse Margaret?—I tinkled out some quavering tune, That faltered on the old spinet—And in he walked the while I played,And I rose up and stood dismayed,And blushed and curtsied all afraid,And knew not if to go or stay— Dared neither speak nor turn away. What was there in the merchant's daughter
Of wit or grace, that he should court her?Or beauty, Nurse? or ought of merit,Save in the wealth she would inherit?But in those days I thought, you know— Oh, Nurse!—oh, Nurse!—I thought he loved me—And I would muse and marvel so Why first he sought me and approved me,— Would stand and stare into the glass— A small, pale thing, with solemn eyes,And little curled-up mouth—alas! Less given to laughter than to sighs—A kerchief crossed and pinned with care,And cap that hid the curly hair.
Discreet enough—not wise, nor witty;Demure and quaint—but, ah! not pretty—Not like your rouged and scented dames,With powdered heads and modish names, Your Lady Babs and Lady Bettys, But only "little Mistress Lettice,"With sober mien, and speech constrained, Who learned long since her thoughts to smother,And grew up grave and self-contained, As maids will do that have no mother.
A mound beneath a cypress tree—No more—my mother was to me,—Where I might wander forth alone,And climb upon the dial stone, And watch the shadow tell the hour,And hear the jackdaw in the tower,—With, overhead, the blossomed limes,The swallows, and the changing chimes.
And then I grew too old to playAnd gather grasses all the day—I learned to sew, and learned to darn,To spin and knit a hank of yarn;You taught me how to brew and bake,And healing drink of herbs to make,And gooseberry wine, and damson cheese,And how to take a swarm of bees.And so I learned, and dreamed, and grew To eighteen years and something over—And pondered greater things to do— And woke one day and found a lover.
He came but seldom—well I wotMy silent shyness pleased him not—I watched him, mute and overawed; And felt so homely and so plain,Beside his diamond-hilted sword, And gold-laced coat and clouded cane. In courtly posture he would stand,And stroke his chin, and tell the news,With diamond buckles to his shoes, And diamonds on his languid hand;Complain it was a thousand pitiesI knew no gay Italian ditties— Or eye askance my small, brown fingers,Laid, for mere custom, in his palm, And murmur, " How this sunburn lingers,To spoil the whiteness of your arm!" Ah, no—he never loved me, Nurse! But still, he might have used me worse.
And August's over now, you say—Strange how the days have slipped away!Nurse, I shall never see again The leaves turn yellow on the limes,Nor wealth of roses on the wane, Nor hear again the city chimes,And only watch within my dreamThe barges gliding down the stream.
I used to think that if, once more,I could have seen the river shore, Could wander through the garden door,And smell the roses as of yore, And pace again those alleys green— I might forget the tears between.
But when the baby died, I knewThat they would dig its grave for two—Ah, do not sigh and shake your head,And say I shall get well instead!When the physician came to-day,And touched my wrist, and turned away, You did not know it—but I heard The ending of his whispered word.Nay, Nurse, you need not tell a lie— I heard him say that I am worse—I heard him say that I shall die— And I am glad—so glad—dear Nurse!
THE END.
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, BREAD STREET HILL.