Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.

A Northern Vigil

Bliss Carman (1861–1929)

HERE by the grey north sea,

In the wintry heart of the wild,

Comes the old dream of thee,

Guendolen, mistress and child.

The heart of the forest grieves

In the drift against my door;

A voice is under the eaves,

A footfall on the floor.

Threshold, mirror, and hall,

Vacant and strangely aware,

Wait for their soul’s recall

With the dumb expectant air.

Here when the smouldering west

Burns down into the sea,

I take no heed of rest

And keep the watch for thee.

I sit by the fire and hear

The restless wind go by,

On the long dirge and drear,

Under the low bleak sky.

When day puts out to sea

And night makes in for land,

There is no lock for thee,

Each door awaits thy hand!

When night goes over the hill

And dawn comes down the dale,

It ’s O for the wild sweet will

That shall no more prevail!

When the zenith moon is round,

And snow-wraiths gather and run,

And there is set no bound

To love beneath the sun,

O wayward will, come near

The old mad wilful way,

The soft mouth at my ear

With words too sweet to say!

Come, for the night is cold,

The ghostly moonlight fills

Hollow and rift and fold

Of the eerie Ardise hills!

The windows of my room

Are dark with bitter frost,

The stillness aches with doom

Of something loved and lost.

Outside, the great blue star

Burns in the ghostland pale,

Where giant Algebar

Holds on the endless trail.

Come, for the years are long

And silence keeps the door,

Where shapes with the shadows throng

The firelit chamber floor.

Come, for thy kiss was warm,

With the red embers’ glare

Across thy folding arm

And dark tumultuous hair!

And though thy coming rouse

The sleep-cry of no bird,

The keepers of the house

Shall tremble at thy word.

Come, for the soul is free!

In all the vast dreamland

There is no lock for thee,

Each door awaits thy hand.

Ah, not in dreams at all,

Fleering, perishing, dim,

But thy old self, supple and tall,

Mistress and child of whim!

The proud imperious guise,

Impetuous and serene,

The sad mysterious eyes,

And dignity of mien!

Yea, wilt thou not return,

When the late hill-winds veer,

And the bright hill-flowers burn

With the reviving year?

When April comes, and the sea

Sparkles as if it smiled,

Will they restore to me

My dark Love, empress and child?

The curtains seem to part;

A sound is on the stair,

As if at the last … I start;

Only the wind is there.

Lo, now far on the hills

The crimson fumes uncurl’d,

Where the caldron mantles and spills

Another dawn on the world!