The Three Graves

Lyrics

[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.