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.