*Illustration to Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market by Winifred Knights, 1916
Morning
and evening
Maids
heard the goblins cry:
“Come
buy our orchard fruits,
Come
buy, come buy:
Apples
and quinces,
Lemons
and oranges,
Plump
unpeck’d cherries,
Melons
and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d
peaches,
Swart-headed
mulberries,
Wild
free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples,
dewberries,
Pine-apples,
blackberries,
Apricots,
strawberries;—
All
ripe together
In
summer weather,—
Morns
that pass by,
Fair
eves that fly;
Come
buy, come buy:
Our
grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates
full and fine,
Dates
and sharp bullaces,
Rare
pears and greengages,
Damsons
and bilberries,
Taste
them and try:
Currants
and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like
barberries,
Figs to
fill your mouth,
Citrons
from the South,
Sweet
to tongue and sound to eye;
Come
buy, come buy.”
Evening
by evening
Among
the brookside rushes,
Laura
bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie
veil’d her blushes:
Crouching
close together
In the
cooling weather,
With
clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With
tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie
close,” Laura said,
Pricking
up her golden head:
“We
must not look at goblin men,
We must
not buy their fruits:
Who
knows upon what soil they fed
Their
hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come
buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling
down the glen.
“Oh,”
cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You
should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie
cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d
close lest they should look;
Laura
rear’d her glossy head,
And
whisper’d like the restless brook:
“Look,
Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down
the glen tramp little men.
One
hauls a basket,
One
bears a plate,
One
lugs a golden dish
Of many
pounds weight.
How
fair the vine must grow
Whose
grapes are so luscious;
How
warm the wind must blow
Through
those fruit bushes.”
“No,”
said Lizzie, “No, no, no;
Their
offers should not charm us,
Their
evil gifts would harm us.”
She
thrust a dimpled finger
In each
ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious
Laura chose to linger
Wondering
at each merchant man.
One had
a cat’s face,
One
whisk’d a tail,
One
tramp’d at a rat’s pace,
One
crawl’d like a snail,
One
like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,
One
like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She
heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing
all together:
They
sounded kind and full of loves
In the
pleasant weather.
Laura
stretch’d her gleaming neck
Like a
rush-imbedded swan,
Like a
lily from the beck,
Like a
moonlit poplar branch,
Like a
vessel at the launch
When
its last restraint is gone.
Backwards
up the mossy glen
Turn’d
and troop’d the goblin men,
With
their shrill repeated cry,
“Come
buy, come buy.”
When
they reach’d where Laura was
They
stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering
at each other,
Brother
with queer brother;
Signalling
each other,
Brother
with sly brother.
One set
his basket down,
One
rear’d his plate;
One
began to weave a crown
Of
tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men
sell not such in any town);
One
heav’d the golden weight
Of dish
and fruit to offer her:
“Come
buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
Laura
stared but did not stir,
Long’d
but had no money:
The
whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste
In
tones as smooth as honey,
The
cat-faced purr’d,
The
rat-faced spoke a word
Of
welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One
parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried
“Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—
One
whistled like a bird.
But
sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good
folk, I have no coin;
To take
were to purloin:
I have
no copper in my purse,
I have
no silver either,
And all
my gold is on the furze
That
shakes in windy weather
Above
the rusty heather.”
“You
have much gold upon your head,”
They
answer’d all together:
“Buy
from us with a golden curl.”
She
clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She
dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then
suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter
than honey from the rock,
Stronger
than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer
than water flow’d that juice;
She
never tasted such before,
How
should it cloy with length of use?
She
suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
Fruits
which that unknown orchard bore;
She
suck’d until her lips were sore;
Then
flung the emptied rinds away
But
gather’d up one kernel stone,
And
knew not was it night or day
As she
turn’d home alone.
Lizzie
met her at the gate
Full of
wise upbraidings:
“Dear,
you should not stay so late,
Twilight
is not good for maidens;
Should
not loiter in the glen
In the
haunts of goblin men.
Do you
not remember Jeanie,
How she
met them in the moonlight,
Took
their gifts both choice and many,
Ate
their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck’d
from bowers
Where
summer ripens at all hours?
But
ever in the noonlight
She
pined and pined away;
Sought
them by night and day,
Found
them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then
fell with the first snow,
While
to this day no grass will grow
Where
she lies low:
I
planted daisies there a year ago
That
never blow.
You
should not loiter so.”
“Nay,
hush,” said Laura:
“Nay,
hush, my sister:
I ate
and ate my fill,
Yet my
mouth waters still;
To-morrow
night I will
Buy
more;” and kiss’d her:
“Have
done with sorrow;
I’ll
bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh
on their mother twigs,
Cherries
worth getting;
You
cannot think what figs
My
teeth have met in,
What
melons icy-cold
Piled
on a dish of gold
Too
huge for me to hold,
What
peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid
grapes without one seed:
Odorous
indeed must be the mead
Whereon
they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With
lilies at the brink,
And
sugar-sweet their sap.”
Golden
head by golden head,
Like
two pigeons in one nest
Folded
in each other’s wings,
They
lay down in their curtain’d bed:
Like
two blossoms on one stem,
Like
two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like
two wands of ivory
Tipp’d
with gold for awful kings.
Moon
and stars gaz’d in at them,
Wind
sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering
owls forbore to fly,
Not a
bat flapp’d to and fro
Round
their rest:
Cheek
to cheek and breast to breast
Lock’d
together in one nest.
Early
in the morning
When
the first cock crow’d his warning,
Neat
like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura
rose with Lizzie:
Fetch’d
in honey, milk’d the cows,
Air’d
and set to rights the house,
Kneaded
cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes
for dainty mouths to eat,
Next
churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream,
Fed
their poultry, sat and sew’d;
Talk’d
as modest maidens should:
Lizzie
with an open heart,
Laura
in an absent dream,
One
content, one sick in part;
One
warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One
longing for the night.
At
length slow evening came:
They
went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie
most placid in her look,
Laura
most like a leaping flame.
They
drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie
pluck’d purple and rich golden flags,
Then
turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
Those
furthest loftiest crags;
Come,
Laura, not another maiden lags.
No
wilful squirrel wags,
The
beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But
Laura loiter’d still among the rushes
And
said the bank was steep.
And
said the hour was early still
The dew
not fall’n, the wind not chill;
Listening
ever, but not catching
The
customary cry,
“Come
buy, come buy,”
With
its iterated jingle
Of
sugar-baited words:
Not for
all her watching
Once
discerning even one goblin
Racing,
whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let
alone the herds
That
used to tramp along the glen,
In groups
or single,
Of
brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till
Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;
I hear
the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You
should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come
with me home.
The
stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each
glowworm winks her spark,
Let us
get home before the night grows dark:
For
clouds may gather
Though
this is summer weather,
Put out
the lights and drench us through;
Then if
we lost our way what should we do?”
Laura
turn’d cold as stone
To find
her sister heard that cry alone,
That
goblin cry,
“Come
buy our fruits, come buy.”
Must
she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must
she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone
deaf and blind?
Her
tree of life droop’d from the root:
She
said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
But
peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg’d
home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So
crept to bed, and lay
Silent
till Lizzie slept;
Then
sat up in a passionate yearning,
And
gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept
As if
her heart would break.
Day
after day, night after night,
Laura
kept watch in vain
In
sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She
never caught again the goblin cry:
“Come
buy, come buy;”—
She
never spied the goblin men
Hawking
their fruits along the glen:
But
when the noon wax’d bright
Her
hair grew thin and grey;
She
dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To
swift decay and burn
Her
fire away.
One day
remembering her kernel-stone
She set
it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew’d
it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch’d
for a waxing shoot,
But
there came none;
It
never saw the sun,
It
never felt the trickling moisture run:
While
with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She
dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees
False
waves in desert drouth
With
shade of leaf-crown’d trees,
And
burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no
more swept the house,
Tended
the fowls or cows,
Fetch’d
honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought
water from the brook:
But sat
down listless in the chimney-nook
And
would not eat.
Tender
Lizzie could not bear
To
watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not
to share.
She
night and morning
Caught
the goblins’ cry:
“Come
buy our orchard fruits,
Come
buy, come buy;”—
Beside
the brook, along the glen,
She
heard the tramp of goblin men,
The
yoke and stir
Poor
Laura could not hear;
Long’d
to buy fruit to comfort her,
But
fear’d to pay too dear.
She
thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who
should have been a bride;
But who
for joys brides hope to have
Fell
sick and died
In her
gay prime,
In
earliest winter time
With
the first glazing rime,
With
the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.
Till
Laura dwindling
Seem’d
knocking at Death’s door:
Then
Lizzie weigh’d no more
Better
and worse;
But put
a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss’d
Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze
At
twilight, halted by the brook:
And for
the first time in her life
Began
to listen and look.
Laugh’d
every goblin
When
they spied her peeping:
Came
towards her hobbling,
Flying,
running, leaping,
Puffing
and blowing,
Chuckling,
clapping, crowing,
Clucking
and gobbling,
Mopping
and mowing,
Full of
airs and graces,
Pulling
wry faces,
Demure
grimaces,
Cat-like
and rat-like,
Ratel-
and wombat-like,
Snail-paced
in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced
and whistler,
Helter
skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering
like magpies,
Fluttering
like pigeons,
Gliding
like fishes,—
Hugg’d
her and kiss’d her:
Squeez’d
and caress’d her:
Stretch’d
up their dishes,
Panniers,
and plates:
“Look
at our apples
Russet
and dun,
Bob at
our cherries,
Bite at
our peaches,
Citrons
and dates,
Grapes
for the asking,
Pears
red with basking
Out in
the sun,
Plums
on their twigs;
Pluck
them and suck them,
Pomegranates,
figs.”—
“Good
folk,” said Lizzie,
Mindful
of Jeanie:
“Give
me much and many: —
Held
out her apron,
Toss’d
them her penny.
“Nay,
take a seat with us,
Honour
and eat with us,”
They
answer’d grinning:
“Our feast
is but beginning.
Night
yet is early,
Warm
and dew-pearly,
Wakeful
and starry:
Such
fruits as these
No man
can carry:
Half
their bloom would fly,
Half
their dew would dry,
Half
their flavour would pass by.
Sit
down and feast with us,
Be welcome
guest with us,
Cheer
you and rest with us.”—
“Thank
you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits
At home
alone for me;
So
without further parleying,
If you
will not sell me any
Of your
fruits though much and many,
Give me
back my silver penny
I
toss’d you for a fee.”—
They
began to scratch their pates,
No
longer wagging, purring,
But
visibly demurring,
Grunting
and snarling.
One
call’d her proud,
Cross-grain’d,
uncivil;
Their
tones wax’d loud,
Their
looks were evil.
Lashing
their tails
They
trod and hustled her,
Elbow’d
and jostled her,
Claw’d
with their nails,
Barking,
mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore
her gown and soil’d her stocking,
Twitch’d
her hair out by the roots,
Stamp’d
upon her tender feet,
Held
her hands and squeez’d their fruits
Against
her mouth to make her eat.
White
and golden Lizzie stood
Like a
lily in a flood,—
Like a
rock of blue-vein’d stone
Lash’d
by tides obstreperously,—
Like a
beacon left alone
In a
hoary roaring sea,
Sending
up a golden fire,—
Like a
fruit-crown’d orange-tree
White
with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore
beset by wasp and bee,—
Like a
royal virgin town
Topp’d
with gilded dome and spire
Close
beleaguer’d by a fleet
Mad to
tug her standard down.
One may
lead a horse to water,
Twenty
cannot make him drink.
Though
the goblins cuff’d and caught her,
Coax’d
and fought her,
Bullied
and besought her,
Scratch’d
her, pinch’d her black as ink,
Kick’d
and knock’d her,
Maul’d
and mock’d her,
Lizzie
utter’d not a word;
Would
not open lip from lip
Lest
they should cram a mouthful in:
But
laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
Of
juice that syrupp’d all her face,
And
lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
And
streak’d her neck which quaked like curd.
At last
the evil people,
Worn
out by her resistance,
Flung
back her penny, kick’d their fruit
Along
whichever road they took,
Not
leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some
writh’d into the ground,
Some
div’d into the brook
With
ring and ripple,
Some
scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some
vanish’d in the distance.
In a
smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie
went her way;
Knew
not was it night or day;
Sprang
up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded
copse and dingle,
And
heard her penny jingle
Bouncing
in her purse,—
Its
bounce was music to her ear.
She ran
and ran
As if
she fear’d some goblin man
Dogg’d
her with gibe or curse
Or
something worse:
But not
one goblin scurried after,
Nor was
she prick’d by fear;
The
kind heart made her windy-paced
That
urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And
inward laughter.
She
cried, “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did
you miss me?
Come
and kiss me.
Never
mind my bruises,
Hug me,
kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d
from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin
pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me,
drink me, love me;
Laura,
make much of me;
For
your sake I have braved the glen
And had
to do with goblin merchant men.”
Laura
started from her chair,
Flung
her arms up in the air,
Clutch’d
her hair:
“Lizzie,
Lizzie, have you tasted
For my
sake the fruit forbidden?
Must
your light like mine be hidden,
Your
young life like mine be wasted,
Undone
in mine undoing,
And
ruin’d in my ruin,
Thirsty,
canker’d, goblin-ridden?”—
She
clung about her sister,
Kiss’d
and kiss’d and kiss’d her:
Tears
once again
Refresh’d
her shrunken eyes,
Dropping
like rain
After
long sultry drouth;
Shaking
with aguish fear, and pain,
She
kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.
Her
lips began to scorch,
That
juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She
loath’d the feast:
Writhing
as one possess’d she leap’d and sung,
Rent
all her robe, and wrung
Her
hands in lamentable haste,
And
beat her breast.
Her
locks stream’d like the torch
Borne
by a racer at full speed,
Or like
the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like
an eagle when she stems the light
Straight
toward the sun,
Or like
a caged thing freed,
Or like
a flying flag when armies run.
Swift
fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart,
Met the
fire smouldering there
And
overbore its lesser flame;
She
gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah!
fool, to choose such part
Of
soul-consuming care!
Sense
fail’d in the mortal strife:
Like
the watch-tower of a town
Which
an earthquake shatters down,
Like a
lightning-stricken mast,
Like a
wind-uprooted tree
Spun
about,
Like a
foam-topp’d waterspout
Cast
down headlong in the sea,
She
fell at last;
Pleasure
past and anguish past,
Is it
death or is it life?
Life
out of death.
That
night long Lizzie watch’d by her,
Counted
her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt
for her breath,
Held
water to her lips, and cool’d her face
With
tears and fanning leaves:
But
when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves,
And
early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden
sheaves,
And
dew-wet grass
Bow’d
in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new
buds with new day
Open’d
of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura
awoke as from a dream,
Laugh’d
in the innocent old way,
Hugg’d
Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her
gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey,
Her
breath was sweet as May
And
light danced in her eyes.
Days,
weeks, months, years
Afterwards,
when both were wives
With
children of their own;
Their
mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their
lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura
would call the little ones
And
tell them of her early prime,
Those
pleasant days long gone
Of
not-returning time:
Would
talk about the haunted glen,
The
wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their
fruits like honey to the throat
But
poison in the blood;
(Men
sell not such in any town):
Would
tell them how her sister stood
In
deadly peril to do her good,
And win
the fiery antidote:
Then
joining hands to little hands
Would
bid them cling together,
“For
there is no friend like a sister
In calm
or stormy weather;
To
cheer one on the tedious way,
To
fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift
one if one totters down,
To
strengthen whilst one stands.”
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