The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Volume 2

Browning Elizabeth Barrett

The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Volume 2

THE ROMAUNT OF MARGRET

Can my affections find out nothing best,But still and still remove?Quarles.II plant a tree whose leafThe yew-tree leaf will suit:But when its shade is o'er you laid,Turn round and pluck the fruit.Now reach my harp from off the wallWhere shines the sun aslant;The sun may shine and we be cold!O hearken, loving hearts and bold,Unto my wild romaunt.Margret, Margret.IISitteth the fair ladyeClose to the river sideWhich runneth on with a merry toneHer merry thoughts to guide:It runneth through the trees,It runneth by the hill,Nathless the lady's thoughts have foundA way more pleasant stillMargret, Margret.IIIThe night is in her hairAnd giveth shade to shade,And the pale moonlight on her forehead whiteLike a spirit's hand is laid;Her lips part with a smileInstead of speakings done:I ween, she thinketh of a voice,Albeit uttering none.Margret, Margret.IVAll little birds do sitWith heads beneath their wings:Nature doth seem in a mystic dream,Absorbed from her living things:That dream by that ladyeIs certes unpartook,For she looketh to the high cold starsWith a tender human lookMargret, Margret.VThe lady's shadow liesUpon the running river;It lieth no less in its quietness,For that which resteth never:Most like a trusting heartUpon a passing faith,Or as upon the course of lifeThe steadfast doom of death.Margret, Margret.VIThe lady doth not move,The lady doth not dream,Yet she seeth her shade no longer laidIn rest upon the stream:It shaketh without wind,It parteth from the tide,It standeth upright in the cleft moonlight,It sitteth at her side.Margret, Margret.VIILook in its face, ladye,And keep thee from thy swound;With a spirit bold thy pulses holdAnd hear its voice's sound:For so will sound thy voiceWhen thy face is to the wall,And such will be thy face, ladye,When the maidens work thy pall.Margret, Margret.VIII"Am I not like to thee?"The voice was calm and low,And between each word you might have heardThe silent forests grow;"The like may sway the like;"By which mysterious lawMine eyes from thine and my lips from thineThe light and breath may draw.Margret, Margret.IX"My lips do need thy breath,My lips do need thy smile,And my pallid eyne, that light in thineWhich met the stars erewhile:Yet go with light and lifeIf that thou lovest oneIn all the earth who loveth theeAs truly as the sun,Margret, Margret."XHer cheek had waxèd whiteLike cloud at fall of snow;Then like to one at set of sun,It waxèd red alsò;For love's name maketh boldAs if the loved were near:And then she sighed the deep long sighWhich cometh after fear.Margret, Margret.XI"Now, sooth, I fear thee not —Shall never fear thee now!"(And a noble sight was the sudden lightWhich lit her lifted brow.)"Can earth be dry of streams,Or hearts of love?" she said;"Who doubteth love, can know not love:He is already dead."Margret, Margret.XII"I have" … and here her lipsSome word in pause did keep,And gave the while a quiet smileAs if they paused in sleep, —"I have … a brother dear,A knight of knightly fame!I broidered him a knightly scarfWith letters of my nameMargret, Margret.XIII"I fed his grey goshawk,I kissed his fierce bloodhoùnd,I sate at home when he might comeAnd caught his horn's far sound:I sang him hunter's songs,I poured him the red wine,He looked across the cup and said,I love thee, sister mine."Margret, Margret.XIVIT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;The sounding river which rolled, for everStood dumb and stagnant after:"Brave knight thy brother is!But better loveth heThy chaliced wine than thy chaunted song,And better both than thee,Margret, Margret."XVThe lady did not heedThe river's silence whileHer own thoughts still ran at their will,And calm was still her smile."My little sister wearsThe look our mother wore:I smooth her locks with a golden comb,I bless her evermore."Margret, Margret.XVI"I gave her my first birdWhen first my voice it knew;I made her share my posies rareAnd told her where they grew:I taught her God's dear nameWith prayer and praise to tell,She looked from heaven into my faceAnd said, I love thee well."Margret, Margret.XVIIIT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;You could see each bird as it woke and staredThrough the shrivelled foliage after."Fair child thy sister is!But better loveth sheThy golden comb than thy gathered flowers,And better both than thee,Margret, Margret."XVIIIThy lady did not heedThe withering on the bough;Still calm her smile albeit the whileA little pale her brow:"I have a father old,The lord of ancient halls;An hundred friends are in his courtYet only me he calls.Margret, Margret.XIX"An hundred knights are in his courtYet read I by his knee;And when forth they go to the tourney-showI rise not up to see:'T is a weary book to read,My tryst's at set of sun,But loving and dear beneath the starsIs his blessing when I've done."Margret, Margret.XXIT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;And moon and star though bright and farDid shrink and darken after."High lord thy father is!But better loveth heHis ancient halls than his hundred friends,His ancient halls, than thee,Margret, Margret."XXIThe lady did not heedThat the far stars did fail;Still calm her smile, albeit the while …Nay, but she is not pale!"I have more than a friendAcross the mountains dim:No other's voice is soft to me,Unless it nameth him."Margret, Margret.XXII"Though louder beats my heart,I know his tread again,And his fair plume aye, unless turned away,For the tears do blind me then:We brake no gold, a signOf stronger faith to be,But I wear his last look in my soul,Which said, I love but thee!"Margret, Margret.XXIIIIT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;And the wind did toll, as a passing soulWere sped by church-bell after;And shadows, 'stead of light,Fell from the stars above,In flakes of darkness on her faceStill bright with trusting love.Margret, Margret.XXIV"He loved but only thee!That love is transient too.The wild hawk's bill doth dabble stillI' the mouth that vowed thee true:Will he open his dull eyesWhen tears fall on his brow?Behold, the death-worm to his heartIs a nearer thing than thou,Margret, Margret."XXVHer face was on the ground —None saw the agony;But the men at sea did that night agreeThey heard a drowning cry:And when the morning brake,Fast rolled the river's tide,With the green trees waving overheadAnd a white corse laid beside.Margret, Margret.XXVIA knight's bloodhound and heThe funeral watch did keep;With a thought o' the chase he stroked its faceAs it howled to see him weep.A fair child kissed the dead,But shrank before its cold.And alone yet proudly in his hallDid stand a baron old.Margret, Margret.XXVIIHang up my harp again!I have no voice for song.Not song but wail, and mourners pale,Not bards, to love belong.O failing human love!O light, by darkness known!O false, the while thou treadest earth!O deaf beneath the stone!Margret, Margret.

ISOBEL'S CHILD

– so find we profit,By losing of our prayers.Shakespeare.ITo rest the weary nurse has gone:An eight-day watch had watchèd she,Still rocking beneath sun and moonThe baby on her knee,Till Isobel its mother said"The fever waneth – wend to bed,For now the watch comes round to me."IIThen wearily the nurse did throwHer pallet in the darkest placeOf that sick room, and slept and dreamed:For, as the gusty wind did blowThe night-lamp's flare across her face,She saw or seemed to see, but dreamed,That the poplars tall on the opposite hill,The seven tall poplars on the hill,Did clasp the setting sun untilHis rays dropped from him, pined and stillAs blossoms in frost,Till he waned and paled, so weirdly crossed,To the colour of moonlight which doth passOver the dank ridged churchyard grass.The poplars held the sun, and heThe eyes of the nurse that they should not see– Not for a moment, the babe on her knee,Though she shuddered to feel that it grew to beToo chill, and lay too heavily.IIIShe only dreamed; for all the while'T was Lady Isobel that keptThe little baby: and it sleptFast, warm, as if its mother's smile,Laden with love's dewy weight,And red as rose of HarpocrateDropt upon its eyelids, pressedLashes to cheek in a sealèd rest.IVAnd more and more smiled IsobelTo see the baby sleep so well —She knew not that she smiled.Against the lattice, dull and wildDrive the heavy droning drops,Drop by drop, the sound being one;As momently time's segments fallOn the ear of God, who hears through allEternity's unbroken monotone:And more and more smiled IsobelTo see the baby sleep so well —She knew not that she smiled.The wind in intermission stopsDown in the beechen forest,Then cries aloudAs one at the sorest,Self-stung, self-driven,And rises up to its very tops,Stiffening erect the branches bowed,Dilating with a tempest-soulThe trees that with their dark hands breakThrough their own outline, and heavy rollShadows as massive as clouds in heavenAcross the castle lakeAnd more and more smiled IsobelTo see the baby sleep so well;She knew not that she smiled;She knew not that the storm was wild;Through the uproar drear she could not hearThe castle clock which struck anear —She heard the low, light breathing of her child.VO sight for wondering look!While the external nature brokeInto such abandonment,While the very mist, heart-rentBy the lightning, seemed to eddyAgainst nature, with a din, —A sense of silence and of steadyNatural calm appeared to comeFrom things without, and enter inThe human creature's room.VISo motionless she sate,The babe asleep upon her knees,You might have dreamed their souls had goneAway to things inanimate,In such to live, in such to moan;And that their bodies had ta'en back,In mystic change, all silencesThat cross the sky in cloudy rack,Or dwell beneath the reedy groundIn waters safe from their own sound:Only she woreThe deepening smile I named before,And that a deepening love expressed;And who at once can love and rest?VIIIn sooth the smile that then was keepingWatch upon the baby sleeping,Floated with its tender lightDownward, from the drooping eyes,Upward, from the lips apart,Over cheeks which had grown whiteWith an eight-day weeping:All smiles come in such a wiseWhere tears shall fall or have of old —Like northern lights that fill the heartOf heaven in sign of cold.VIIIMotionless she sate.Her hair had fallen by its weightOn each side of her smile and layVery blackly on the armWhere the baby nestled warm,Pale as baby carved in stoneSeen by glimpses of the moonUp a dark cathedral aisle:But, through the storm, no moonbeam fellUpon the child of Isobel —Perhaps you saw it by the rayAlone of her still smile.IXA solemn thing it is to meTo look upon a babe that sleepsWearing in its spirit-deepsThe undeveloped mysteryOf our Adam's taint and woe,Which, when they developed be,Will not let it slumber so;Lying new in life beneathThe shadow of the coming death,With that soft, low, quiet breath,As if it felt the sun;Knowing all things by their blooms,Not their roots, yea, sun and skyOnly by the warmth that comesOut of each, earth only byThe pleasant hues that o'er it run,And human love by drops of sweetWhite nourishment still hanging roundThe little mouth so slumber-bound:All which broken sentiencyAnd conclusion incomplete,Will gather and unite and climbTo an immortalityGood or evil, each sublime,Through life and death to life again.O little lids, now folded fast,Must ye learn to drop at lastOur large and burning tears?O warm quick body, must thou lie,When the time comes round to die,Still from all the whirl of years,Bare of all the joy and pain?O small frail being, wilt thou standAt God's right hand,Lifting up those sleeping eyesDilated by great destinies,To an endless waking? thrones and seraphim.Through the long ranks of their solemnities,Sunning thee with calm looks of Heaven's surprise,But thine alone on Him?Or else, self-willed, to tread the Godless place,(God keep thy will!) feel thine own energiesCold, strong, objèctless, like a dead man's clasp,The sleepless deathless life within thee grasp, —While myriad faces, like one changeless face,With woe not love's, shall glass thee everywhereAnd overcome thee with thine own despair?XMore soft, less solemn imagesDrifted o'er the lady's heartSilently as snow.She had seen eight days departHour by hour, on bended knees,With pale-wrung hands and prayings lowAnd broken, through which came the soundOf tears that fell against the ground,Making sad stops. – "Dear Lord, dear Lord!"She still had prayed, (the heavenly wordBroken by an earthly sigh)– "Thou who didst not erst denyThe mother-joy to Mary mild,Blessèd in the blessèd childWhich hearkened in meek babyhoodHer cradle-hymn, albeit usedTo all that music interfusedIn breasts of angels high and good!Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away —Oh, take not to thy songful heavenThe pretty baby thou hast given,Or ere that I have seen him playAround his father's knees and knownThat he knew how my love has goneFrom all the world to him.Think, God among the cherubim,How I shall shiver every dayIn thy June sunshine, knowing whereThe grave-grass keeps it from his fairStill cheeks: and feel, at every tread,His little body, which is deadAnd hidden in thy turfy fold,Doth make thy whole warm earth a-cold!O God, I am so young, so young —I am not used to tears at nightsInstead of slumber – not to prayerWith sobbing lips and hands out-wrung!Thou knowest all my prayings were'I bless thee, God, for past delights —Thank God!' I am not used to bearHard thoughts of death; the earth doth coverNo face from me of friend or lover:And must the first who teaches meThe form of shrouds and funerals, beMine own first-born belovèd? heWho taught me first this mother-love?Dear Lord who spreadest out aboveThy loving, transpierced hands to meetAll lifted hearts with blessing sweet, —Pierce not my heart, my tender heartThou madest tender! Thou who artSo happy in thy heaven alway,Take not mine only bliss away!"XIShe so had prayed: and God, who hearsThrough seraph-songs the sound of tearsFrom that belovèd babe had ta'enThe fever and the beating pain.And more and more smiled IsobelTo see the baby sleep so well,(She knew not that she smiled, I wis)Until the pleasant gradual thoughtWhich near her heart the smile enwrought,Now soft and slow, itself did seemTo float along a happy dream,Beyond it into speech like this.XII"I prayed for thee, my little child,And God has heard my prayer!And when thy babyhood is gone,We two together undefiledBy men's repinings, will kneel downUpon His earth which will be fair(Not covering thee, sweet!) to us twain,And give Him thankful praise."XIIIDully and wildly drives the rain:Against the lattices drives the rain.XIV"I thank Him now, that I can thinkOf those same future days,Nor from the harmless image shrinkOf what I there might see —Strange babies on their mothers' knee,Whose innocent soft faces mightFrom off mine eyelids strike the light,With looks not meant for me!"XVGustily blows the wind through the rain,As against the lattices drives the rain.XVI"But now, O baby mine, together,We turn this hope of ours againTo many an hour of summer weather,When we shall sit and intertwineOur spirits, and instruct each otherIn the pure loves of child and mother!Two human loves make one divine."XVIIThe thunder tears through the wind and the rain,As full on the lattices drives the rain.XVIII"My little child, what wilt thou choose?Now let me look at thee and ponder.What gladness, from the gladnessesFuturity is spreading underThy gladsome sight? Beneath the treesWilt thou lean all day, and loseThy spirit with the river seenIntermittently betweenThe winding beechen alleys, —Half in labour, half repose,Like a shepherd keeping sheep,Thou, with only thoughts to keepWhich never a bound will overpass,And which are innocent as thoseThat feed among Arcadian valleysUpon the dewy grass?"XIXThe large white owl that with age is blind,That hath sate for years in the old tree hollow,Is carried away in a gust of wind;His wings could beat him not as fastAs he goeth now the lattice past;He is borne by the winds, the rains do followHis white wings to the blast outflowing,He hooteth in going,And still, in the lightnings, coldly glitterHis round unblinking eyesXX"Or, baby, wilt thou think it fitterTo be eloquent and wise,One upon whose lips the airTurns to solemn veritiesFor men to breathe anew, and winA deeper-seated life within?Wilt be a philosopher,By whose voice the earth and skiesShall speak to the unborn?Or a poet, broadly spreadingThe golden immortalitiesOf thy soul on natures lornAnd poor of such, them all to guardFrom their decay, – beneath thy treading,Earth's flowers recovering hues of Eden, —And stars, drawn downward by thy looks,To shine ascendant in thy books?"XXIThe tame hawk in the castle-yard,How it screams to the lightning, with its wetJagged plumes overhanging the parapet!And at the lady's door the houndScratches with a crying sound.XXII"But, O my babe, thy lids are laidClose, fast upon thy cheek,And not a dream of power and sheenCan make a passage up between;Thy heart is of thy mother's made,Thy looks are very meek,And it will be their chosen placeTo rest on some beloved face,As these on thine, and let the noiseOf the whole world go on nor drownThe tender silence of thy joys:Or when that silence shall have grownToo tender for itself, the sameYearning for sound, – to look aboveAnd utter its one meaning, LOVE,That He may hear His name."XXIIINo wind, no rain, no thunder!The waters had trickled not slowly,The thunder was not spentNor the wind near finishing;Who would have said that the storm was diminishing?No wind, no rain, no thunder!Their noises dropped asunderFrom the earth and the firmament,From the towers and the lattices,Abrupt and echolessAs ripe fruits on the ground unshaken whollyAs life in death.And sudden and solemn the silence fell,Startling the heart of IsobelAs the tempest could not:Against the door went panting the breathOf the lady's hound whose cry was still,And she, constrained howe'er she would not,Lifted her eyes and saw the moonLooking out of heaven aloneUpon the poplared hill, —A calm of God, made visibleThat men might bless it at their will.XXIVThe moonshine on the baby's faceFalleth clear and cold:The mother's looks have fallen backTo the same place:Because no moon with silver rack,Nor broad sunrise in jasper skiesHas power to holdOur loving eyes,Which still revert, as ever mustWonder and Hope, to gaze on the dust.XXVThe moonshine on the baby's faceCold and clear remaineth;The mother's looks do shrink away, —The mother's looks return to stay,As charmèd by what paineth:Is any glamour in the case?Is it dream, or is it sight?Hath the change upon the wildElements that sign the night,Passed upon the child?It is not dream, but sight.XXVIThe babe has awakened from sleepAnd unto the gaze of its mother,Bent over it, lifted another —Not the baby-looks that goUnaimingly to and fro,But an earnest gazing deepSuch as soul gives soul at lengthWhen by work and wail of yearsIt winneth a solemn strengthAnd mourneth as it wears.A strong man could not brook,With pulse unhurried by fears,To meet that baby's lookO'erglazed by manhood's tears,The tears of a man full grown,With a power to wring our own,In the eyes all undefiledOf a little three-months' child —To see that babe-brow wroughtBy the witnessing of thoughtTo judgment's prodigy,And the small soft mouth unweaned,By mother's kiss o'erleaned,(Putting the sound of lovingWhere no sound else was movingExcept the speechless cry)Quickened to mind's expression,Shaped to articulation,Yea, uttering words, yea, naming woe,In tones that with it strangely wentBecause so baby-innocent,As the child spake out to the mother, so: —XXVII"O mother, mother, loose thy prayer!Christ's name hath made it strong.It bindeth me, it holdeth meWith its most loving cruelty,From floating my new soul alongThe happy heavenly air.It bindeth me, it holdeth meIn all this dark, upon this dullLow earth, by only weepers trod.It bindeth me, it holdeth me!Mine angel looketh sorrowfulUpon the face of God.1XXVIII"Mother, mother, can I dreamBeneath your earthly trees?I had a vision and a gleam,I heard a sound more sweet than theseWhen rippled by the wind:Did you see the Dove with wingsBathed in golden glisteringsFrom a sunless light behind,Dropping on me from the sky,Soft as mother's kiss, untilI seemed to leap and yet was still?Saw you how His love-large eyeLooked upon me mystic calms,Till the power of His divineVision was indrawn to mine?XXIX"Oh, the dream within the dream!I saw celestial places even.Oh, the vistas of high palmsMaking finites of delightThrough the heavenly infinite,Lifting up their green still topsTo the heaven of heaven!Oh, the sweet life-tree that dropsShade like light across the riverGlorified in its for-everFlowing from the Throne!Oh, the shining holinessesOf the thousand, thousand facesGod-sunned by the thronèd One,And made intense with such a loveThat, though I saw them turned above,Each loving seemed for also me!And, oh, the Unspeakable, the He,The manifest in secreciesYet of mine own heart partakerWith the overcoming lookOf One who hath been once forsookAnd blesseth the forsaker!Mother, mother, let me goToward the Face that looketh so!Through the mystic wingèd FourWhose are inward, outward eyesDark with light of mysteriesAnd the restless evermore'Holy, holy, holy,' – throughThe sevenfold Lamps that burn in viewOf cherubim and seraphim, —Through the four-and-twenty crownedStately elders white around,Suffer me to go to Him!XXX"Is your wisdom very wise,Mother, on the narrow earth,Very happy, very worthThat I should stay to learn?Are these air-corrupting sighsFashioned by unlearnèd breath?Do the students' lamps that burnAll night, illumine death?Mother, albeit this be so,Loose thy prayer and let me goWhere that bright chief angel standsApart from all his brother bands,Too glad for smiling, having bentIn angelic wildermentO'er the depths of God, and broughtReeling thence one only thoughtTo fill his own eternity.He the teacher is for me —He can teach what I would know —Mother, mother, let me go!XXXI"Can your poet make an EdenNo winter will undo,And light a starry fire while heedingHis hearth's is burning too?Drown in music the earth's din,And keep his own wild soul withinThe law of his own harmony?Mother, albeit this be so,Let me to my heaven go!A little harp me waits thereby,A harp whose strings are golden allAnd tuned to music spherical,Hanging on the green life-treeWhere no willows ever be.Shall I miss that harp of mine?Mother, no! – the Eye divineTurned upon it, makes it shine;And when I touch it, poems sweetLike separate souls shall fly from it,Each to the immortal fytte.We shall all be poets there,Gazing on the chiefest Fair.XXXII"Love! earth's love! and can we loveFixedly where all things move?Can the sinning love each other?Mother, mother,I tremble in thy close embrace,I feel thy tears adown my face,Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss —O dreary earthly love!Loose thy prayer and let me goTo the place which loving isYet not sad; and when is givenEscape to thee from this below,Thou shalt behold me that I waitFor thee beside the happy Gate,And silence shall be up in heavenTo hear our greeting kiss."XXXIIIThe nurse awakes in the morning sun,And starts to see beside her bedThe lady with a grandeur spreadLike pathos o'er her face, as oneGod-satisfied and earth-undone;The babe upon her arm was dead:And the nurse could utter forth no cry, —She was awed by the calm in the mother's eye.XXXIV"Wake, nurse!" the lady said;"We are waking – he and I —I, on earth, and he, in sky:And thou must help me to o'erlayWith garment white this little clayWhich needs no more our lullaby.XXXV"I changed the cruel prayer I made,And bowed my meekened face, and prayedThat God would do His will; and thusHe did it, nurse! He parted us:And His sun shows victoriousThe dead calm face, – and I am calm,And Heaven is hearkening a new psalm.XXXVI"This earthly noise is too anear,Too loud, and will not let me hearThe little harp. My death will soonMake silence."And a sense of tune,A satisfied love meanwhileWhich nothing earthly could despoil,Sang on within her soul.XXXVIIOh you,Earth's tender and impassioned few,Take courage to entrust your loveTo Him so named who guards aboveIts ends and shall fulfil!Breaking the narrow prayers that mayBefit your narrow hearts, awayIn His broad, loving will.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE

IA knight of gallant deedsAnd a young page at his side,From the holy war in PalestineDid slow and thoughtful ride,As each were a palmer and told for beadsThe dews of the eventide.II"O young page," said the knight,"A noble page art thou!Thou fearest not to steep in bloodThe curls upon thy brow;And once in the tent, and twice in the fight,Didst ward me a mortal blow."III"O brave knight," said the page,"Or ere we hither came,We talked in tent, we talked in field,Of the bloody battle-game;But here, below this greenwood bough,I cannot speak the same.IV"Our troop is far behind,The woodland calm is new;Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs,Tread deep the shadows through;And, in my mind, some blessing kindIs dropping with the dew.V"The woodland calm is pure —I cannot choose but haveA thought from these, o' the beechen-trees,Which in our England wave,And of the little finches fineWhich sang there while in PalestineThe warrior-hilt we drave.VI"Methinks, a moment gone,I heard my mother pray!I heard, sir knight, the prayer for meWherein she passed away;And I know the heavens are leaning downTo hear what I shall say."VIIThe page spake calm and high,As of no mean degree;Perhaps he felt in nature's broadFull heart, his own was free:And the knight looked up to his lifted eye,Then answered smilingly —VIII"Sir page, I pray your grace!Certes, I meant not soTo cross your pastoral mood, sir page,With the crook of the battle-bow;But a knight may speak of a lady's face,I ween, in any mood or place,If the grasses die or grow.IX"And this I meant to say —My lady's face shall shineAs ladies' faces use, to greetMy page from Palestine;Or, speak she fair or prank she gay,She is no lady of mine.X"And this I meant to fear —Her bower may suit thee ill;For, sooth, in that same field and tent,Thy talk was somewhat still:And fitter thy hand for my knightly spearThan thy tongue for my lady's will!"XISlowly and thankfullyThe young page bowed his head;His large eyes seemed to muse a smile,Until he blushed instead,And no lady in her bower, pardiè,Could blush more sudden red:"Sir Knight, – thy lady's bower to meIs suited well," he said.XIIBeati, beati, mortui!From the convent on the sea,One mile off, or scarce so nigh,Swells the dirge as clear and highAs if that, over brake and lea,Bodily the wind did carryThe great altar of Saint Mary,And the fifty tapers burning o'er it,And the lady Abbess dead before it,And the chanting nuns whom yesterweekHer voice did charge and bless, —Chanting steady, chanting meek,Chanting with a solemn breath,Because that they are thinking lessUpon the dead than upon death.Beati, beati, mortui!Now the vision in the soundWheeleth on the wind around;Now it sweepeth back, away —The uplands will not let it stayTo dark the western sun:Mortui!– away at last, —Or ere the page's blush is past!And the knight heard all, and the page heard none.XIII"A boon, thou noble knight,If ever I servèd thee!Though thou art a knight and I am a page,Now grant a boon to me;And tell me sooth, if dark or bright,If little loved or loved arightBe the face of thy ladye."XIVGloomily looked the knight —"As a son thou hast servèd me,And would to none I had granted boonExcept to only thee!For haply then I should love aright,For then I should know if dark or brightWere the face of my ladye.XV"Yet it ill suits my knightly tongueTo grudge that granted boon,That heavy price from heart and lifeI paid in silence down;The hand that claimed it, cleared in fineMy father's fame: I swear by mine,That price was nobly won!XVI"Earl Walter was a brave old earl,He was my father's friend,And while I rode the lists at courtAnd little guessed the end,My noble father in his shroudAgainst a slanderer lying loud,He rose up to defend.XVII"Oh, calm below the marble greyMy father's dust was strown!Oh, meek above the marble greyHis image prayed alone!The slanderer lied: the wretch was brave —For, looking up the minster-nave,He saw my father's knightly glaiveWas changed from steel to stone.XVIII"Earl Walter's glaive was steel,With a brave old hand to wear it,And dashed the lie back in the mouthWhich lied against the godly truthAnd against the knightly meritThe slanderer, 'neath the avenger's heel,Struck up the dagger in appealFrom stealthy lie to brutal force —And out upon the traitor's corseWas yielded the true spirit.XIX"I would mine hand had fought that fightAnd justified my father!I would mine heart had caught that woundAnd slept beside him rather!I think it were a better thingThan murdered friend and marriage-ringForced on my life together.XX"Wail shook Earl Walter's house;His true wife shed no tear;She lay upon her bed as muteAs the earl did on his bier:Till – 'Ride, ride fast,' she said at last,'And bring the avengèd's son anear!Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee,For white of blee with waiting for meIs the corse in the next chambère.'XXI"I came, I knelt beside her bed;Her calm was worse than strife:'My husband, for thy father dear,Gave freely when thou wast not hereHis own and eke my life.A boon! Of that sweet child we makeAn orphan for thy father's sake,Make thou, for ours, a wife.'XXII"I said, 'My steed neighs in the court,My bark rocks on the brine,And the warrior's vow I am under nowTo free the pilgrim's shrine;But fetch the ring and fetch the priestAnd call that daughter of thine,And rule she wide from my castle on NydeWhile I am in Palestine.'XXIII"In the dark chambère, if the bride was fair,Ye wis, I could not see,But the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed,And wedded fast were we.Her mother smiled upon her bedAs at its side we knelt to wed,And the bride rose from her kneeAnd kissed the smile of her mother dead,Or ever she kissed me.XXIV"My page, my page, what grieves thee so,That the tears run down thy face?" —"Alas, alas! mine own sistèrWas in thy lady's case:But she laid down the silks she woreAnd followed him she wed before,Disguised as his true servitor,To the very battle-place."XXVAnd wept the page, but laughed the knight,A careless laugh laughed he:"Well done it were for thy sistèr,But not for my ladye!My love, so please you, shall requiteNo woman, whether dark or bright,Unwomaned if she be."XXVIThe page stopped weeping and smiled cold —"Your wisdom may declareThat womanhood is proved the bestBy golden brooch and glossy vestThe mincing ladies wear;Yet is it proved, and was of old,Anear as well, I dare to hold,By truth, or by despair."XXVIIHe smiled no more, he wept no more,But passionate he spake —"Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,When none beside did wake!Oh, womanly she paled in fight,For one belovèd's sake! —And her little hand, defiled with blood,Her tender tears of womanhoodMost woman-pure did make!"XXVIII– "Well done it were for thy sistèr,Thou tellest well her tale!But for my lady, she shall prayI' the kirk of Nydesdale.Not dread for me but love for meShall make my lady pale;No casque shall hide her woman's tear —It shall have room to trickle clearBehind her woman's veil."XXIX– "But what if she mistook thy mindAnd followed thee to strife,Then kneeling did entreat thy loveAs Paynims ask for life?"– "I would forgive, and evermoreWould love her as my servitor,But little as my wife.XXX"Look up – there is a small bright cloudAlone amid the skies!So high, so pure, and so apart,A woman's honour lies."The page looked up – the cloud was sheen —A sadder cloud did rush, I ween,Betwixt it and his eyes.XXXIThen dimly dropped his eyes awayFrom welkin unto hill —Ha! who rides there? – the page is 'ware,Though the cry at his heart is still:And the page seeth all and the knight seeth none,Though banner and spear do fleck the sun,And the Saracens ride at will.XXXIIHe speaketh calm, he speaketh low, —"Ride fast, my master, ride,Or ere within the broadening darkThe narrow shadows hide.""Yea, fast, my page, I will do so,And keep thou at my side."XXXIII"Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way,Thy faithful page precede.For I must loose on saddle-bowMy battle-casque that galls, I trow,The shoulder of my steed;And I must pray, as I did vow,For one in bitter need.XXXIV"Ere night I shall be near to thee, —Now ride, my master, ride!Ere night, as parted spirits cleaveTo mortals too beloved to leave,I shall be at thy side."The knight smiled free at the fantasy,And adown the dell did ride.XXXVHad the knight looked up to the page's face,No smile the word had won;Had the knight looked up to the page's face,I ween he had never gone:Had the knight looked back to the page's geste,I ween he had turned anon,For dread was the woe in the face so young,And wild was the silent geste that flungCasque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprungAnd stood – alone, alone.XXXVIHe clenched his hands as if to holdHis soul's great agony —"Have I renounced my womanhood,For wifehood unto thee,And is this the last, last look of thineThat ever I shall see?XXXVII"Yet God thee save, and mayst thou haveA lady to thy mind,More woman-proud and half as trueAs one thou leav'st behind!And God me take with Him to dwell —For Him I cannot love too well,As I have loved my kind."XXXVIIIShe looketh up, in earth's despair,The hopeful heavens to seek;That little cloud still floateth there,Whereof her loved did speak:How bright the little cloud appears!Her eyelids fall upon the tears,And the tears down either cheek.XXXIXThe tramp of hoof, the flash of steel —The Paynims round her coming!The sound and sight have made her calm, —False page, but truthful woman;She stands amid them all unmoved:A heart once broken by the lovedIs strong to meet the foeman.XL"Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep,From pouring wine-cups resting?" —"I keep my master's noble name,For warring, not for feasting;And if that here Sir Hubert were,My master brave, my master dear,Ye would not stay the questing."XLI"Where is thy master, scornful page,That we may slay or bind him?" —"Now search the lea and search the wood,And see if ye can find him!Nathless, as hath been often tried,Your Paynim heroes faster rideBefore him than behind him."XLII"Give smoother answers, lying page,Or perish in the lying!" —"I trow that if the warrior brandBeside my foot, were in my hand,'T were better at replying!"They cursed her deep, they smote her low,They cleft her golden ringlets through;The Loving is the Dying.XLIIIShe felt the scimitar gleam down,And met it from beneathWith smile more bright in victoryThan any sword from sheath, —Which flashed across her lip serene,Most like the spirit-light betweenThe darks of life and death.XLIVIngemisco, ingemisco!From the convent on the sea,Now it sweepeth solemnly,As over wood and over leaBodily the wind did carryThe great altar of St. Mary,And the fifty tapers paling o'er it,And the Lady Abbess stark before it,And the weary nuns with hearts that faintlyBeat along their voices saintly —Ingemisco, ingemisco!Dirge for abbess laid in shroudSweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,Page or lady, as we said,With the dews upon her head,All as sad if not as loud.Ingemisco, ingemisco!Is ever a lament begunBy any mourner under sun,Which, ere it endeth, suits but one?