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92 pages

English

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Lays and Legends is a 1886 collection of poetry by poet and author Edith Nesbit (1858 – 1924). Nesbit was a prolific and popular writer of children's literature, publishing more than 60 such books under the name E. Nesbit. She was also a political activist and co-founded the Fabian Society, which had a significant influence on the Labour Party and British politics in general. This vintage volume will appeal to poetry lovers of all ages and constitutes a must-have for the discerning collector. Other notable works by this author include: “The Prophet's Mantle” (1885), “Something Wrong” (1886), and “The Marden Mystery” (1896). Contents include: “Bridal Ballard”, “The Ghost”, “The Soul of the Ideal”, “The Modern Judas”, “A Death-Bed”, “At the Prison Gate”, “The Devil's Due”, “Love in June”, “The Garden”, “Prayer Under Gray Skies”, “A Great Industrial Centre”, “London's Voices”, “The Sick Journalist”, “Two Lullabies”, “Baby Song”, “Lullaby”, “An East-End Tragedy”, etc. Many vintage books such as this are becoming increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially-commissioned new biography of the author.

Sujets

Women Authors

Poetry

Informations

Publié par	Read Books Ltd.
Date de parution	17 juin 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528787635
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

LAYS AND LEGENDS
Second Series
By
E. NESBIT

First published in 1886

This edition published by Read Books Ltd. Copyright © 2019 Read Books Ltd. This book is copyright and may not be
reproduced or copied in any way without
the express permission of the publisher in writing
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

To Alice Hoatson, Helen Macklin, and Charlotte Wilson,
In Token Of Indebtment.

Contents
E. Nesbit
BR IDAL BALLAD.
THE GHOST.
THE M ODERN JUDAS.
THE SOUL T O THE IDEAL.
A DEATH-BED.
THE LOST SOUL AN D THE SAVED.
AT THE PRISON GATE.
THE DEVIL'S DUE.
L OVE IN JUNE.
THE GARDEN.
PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES.
A GREAT INDUST RIAL CENTRE.
LON DON'S VOICES
THE SICK JOURNALIST.
TW O LULLABIES.
BABY SONG.
LULLABY.
AN EAST- END TRAGEDY.
HER E AND THERE.
MOTHER.
A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY.
MORNING.
THE PRAYER.
THE RI VER MAIDENS.
ON THE MEDWAY.
TH E BETROTHAL.
A TRAGEDY.
LOVE.
LOVE SONG.
THE QUARREL.
CHANGE.
THE MILL.
RONDEAU.
A MÉSALLIANCE.
THE L AST THOUGHT.
APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ.
AT THE P RIVATE VIEW.
A DI RGE IN GRAY.
THE WO MAN'S WORLD.
THE LIGHTHOUSE.
TO A YOUNG POET.
THE TEMPTATION.
THE BALLAD OF SIR HUGH.
FEBRUARY.
APRIL.
JUNE.
JULY.
NOVEMBER.
ROCHE STER CASTLE.
RUCK INGE CHURCH.
RYE.
THE BALLAD OF THE TWO SPELLS.
IN MEMORIAM
RONDEAU.
RONDEAU.
TO WAL TER SICKERT.
OLD AGE.

E. Nesbit
Edith Nesbit was born in Kennington, Surrey in 1858. Her family moved around constantly during her youth, living variously in Brighton, Buckinghamshire, France, Spain and Germany, before settling for three years in Halstead in north-west Kent, a location which later inspired her well-known novel, The Railway Children. In 1880, Nesbit married Hubert Bland, and her writing talents – which had been in evidence during her teens – were quickly needed to bring in e xtra money.
Over the course of her life, Nesbit would go on to publish approximately 40 books for children, including novels, collections of stories and picture books. Among her best-known works are The Story of the Treasure Seekers (1898), The Wouldbegoods (1899) and The Railway Children (1906). Nesbit is regarded by many critics as the first truly 'modern' children's writer, in that she replaced the fantastical worlds utilised by authors such as Lewis Carroll with real-life settings marked by the occasional intrusion of magic. In this, Nesbit is seen as a precursor to writers such as J. K. Rowling and C. S. Lewis. Nesbit was also a lifelong socialist; in 1884 she was among the founding members of the influential Fabian Society. For much of her adult life she was an active lecturer and prolific writer on socialism.
Having suffered from lung cancer for some years, Nesbit died in 1924 at New Romney, Ke nt, aged 65.

My thanks are due to the Editors and Publishers who have kindly allowed me to use here verses written for them.

BRIDAL BALLAD.
"Come, fill me flagons full and fair Of red wine and of white, And, maidens mine, my bower prepare— It is my wedding night.
"And braid my hair with jewels bright, And make me fair and fine— This is the day that brings the night When my desire is mine."
They decked her bower with roses blown, With rushes strewed the floor, And sewed more jewels on her gown Than ever she wore before.
She wore two roses in her face, Two jewels in her e'en, Her hair was crowned with sunset rays, Her brows shone white between.
"T apers at the bed's foot," she saith, "Two tapers at the head!" It seemed more like the bed of death Than like a bridal bed.
He came; he took her hands in his, He kissed her on the face; "There is more heaven in thy kiss Than in our Lady's grace".
He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, He kissed her three times o'er; He kissed her brow, he kissed her eyes, He kissed her mouth's red flower.
"O Love, what is it ails thy knight? I sicken and I pine; Is it the red wine or the white, Or that sweet kiss of thine?"
"No kiss, no wine or white or red, Can make such sickness be, Lie down and die on thy bride-bed For I have poisoned thee.
"A nd though the curse of saints and men Upon me for it be, I would it were to do again Since thou wert false to me.
"Thou shouldst have loved or one or none, Nor she nor I loved twain, But we are twain thou hast undone, And therefore art thou slain.
"And when before my God I stand With no base flesh between, I shall hold up this guilty hand And He shall judge it clean."
He fell across the bridal bed Between the tapers pale: "I first shall see our God," he said, "And I will tell thy tale.
"And if God judge thee as I do, Then art thou justified. I loved thee and I was not true, And that was why I died.
"I f I could judge thee, thou shouldst be First of the saints on high; But ah, I fear God loveth thee Not half so dear as I!"

THE GHOST.
The year fades, as the west wind sighs, And droops in many-coloured ways, But your soft presence never dies From out the pathway of my days.
The spring is where you are, but still You from your heaven to me can bring Sweet dreams and flowers enough to fill A thousand empty worlds with Spring.
I walk the wet and leafless woods; Your shadow ever goes before And paints the russet solitudes With colours Summer never wore.
I sit beside my lonely fire; The ghostly twilight brings your face And lights with memory and desire My desolated dwelling-place.
Amo ng my books I feel your hand That turns the page just past my sight, Sometimes behind my chair you stand And read the foolish rhymes I write.
The old piano's keys I press In random chords until I hear Your voice, your rustling silken dress, And smell the violets that you wear.
I do not weep now any more, I think I hardly even sigh; I would not have you think I bore The kind of wound of which men die.
Believe that smooth content has grown Over the ghastly grave of pain— "Content!" ... O lips, that were my own, That I shall never kiss again!

THE MODERN JUDAS.
For what wilt thou sell thy Lord? "For certain pieces of silver, since wealth buys the world's good word." But the world's word, how canst thou hear it, while thy brothers cry scorn on thy name? And how shall thy bargain content thee, when thy brothers shall clothe thee with shame?
For what shall thy brother be sold? "For the rosy garland of pleasure, and the coveted crown of gold." But thy soul will turn them to thorns, and to heaviness binding thy head, While women are dying of shame, and children are crying for bread.
For what wilt thou sell thy soul? "For the world." And what shall it profit, when thou shalt have gained the whole? What profit the things thou hast, if the thing thou art be so mean? Wilt thou fill, with the husks of having, the void of the might-have-been?
"But, when my soul shall be gone, No more shall I fail to profit by all the deeds I have done! And wealth and the world and pleasure shall sing sweet songs in my ear When the stupid soul is silenced, which never would let me hear.
"And if a void there should be I shall not feel it or know it; it will be nothing to me!" It will be nothing to thee, and thou shalt be nothing to men But a ghost whose treasure is lost, and who shall not find it again.
"But I shall have pleasure and praise!" Praise shall not pleasure thee then, nor pleasure laugh in thy days: For a s colour is not, without light, so happiness is not, without Thy Brother, the Lord whom thou soldest—and the soul that thou hast cast out!

THE SOUL TO THE IDEAL.
I will not hear thy music sweet! If I should listen, then I know I should no more know friend from foe, But follow thy capricious feet— Thy wings, than mine so much more fleet— I will not go!
I will not go away! Away From reeds and pool why should I go To where sun burns, and hot winds blow? Here sleeps cool twilight all the day; Do I not love thy tune? No, no! I will not say!
I will not say I love thy tune; I do not know if so it be; It surely is enough for me To know I love cool rest at noon, Spread t hy bright wings—ah, go—go soon! I will not see!
I will not see thy gleaming wings, I will not hear thy music clear. It is not love I feel, but fear; I love the song the marsh-frog sings, But thine, which after-sorrow brings, I will not hear!

A DEATH-B ED.
A man of like passions with ourselves.
It is too late, too late! The wine is spilled, the altar violate; Now all the foolish virtues of the past— Its joys that could not last, Its flowers that had to fade, Its bliss so long delayed, Its sun so soon o'ercast, Its faith so soon betrayed, Its prayers so madly prayed, Its wildly-fought-for right, Its dear renounced delight, Its passions and its pain— All these stand gray about My bed, like ghosts