The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Volume 2

THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY

FIRST PART

I"Onora, Onora," – her mother is calling,She sits at the lattice and hears the dew fallingDrop after drop from the sycamores ladenWith dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden,"Night cometh, Onora."IIShe looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees,To the limes at the end where the green arbour is —"Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her,While, forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her,Night cometh – Onora!"IIIShe looks up the forest whose alleys shoot onLike the mute minster-aisles when the anthem is doneAnd the choristers sitting with faces aslantFeel the silence to consecrate more than the chant —"Onora, Onora!"IVAnd forward she looketh across the brown heath —"Onora, art coming?" – what is it she seeth?Nought, nought but the grey border-stone that is wistTo dilate and assume a wild shape in the mist —"My daughter!" Then overVThe casement she leaneth, and as she doth soShe is 'ware of her little son playing below:"Now where is Onora?" He hung down his headAnd spake not, then answering blushed scarlet-red, —"At the tryst with her lover."VIBut his mother was wroth: in a sternness quoth she,"As thou play'st at the ball art thou playing with me?When we know that her lover to battle is gone,And the saints know above that she loveth but oneAnd will ne'er wed another?"VIIThen the boy wept aloud; 't was a fair sight yet sadTo see the tears run down the sweet blooms he had:He stamped with his foot, said – "The saints know I liedBecause truth that is wicked is fittest to hide:Must I utter it, mother?"VIIIIn his vehement childhood he hurried withinAnd knelt at her feet as in prayer against sin,But a child at a prayer never sobbeth as he —"Oh! she sits with the nun of the brown rosary,At nights in the ruin —IX"The old convent ruin the ivy rots off,Where the owl hoots by day and the toad is sun-proof,Where no singing-birds build and the trees gaunt and greyAs in stormy sea-coasts appear blasted one way —But is this the wind's doing?X"A nun in the east wall was buried aliveWho mocked at the priest when he called her to shrive,And shrieked such a curse, as the stone took her breath,The old abbess fell backwards and swooned unto deathWith an Ave half-spoken.XI"I tried once to pass it, myself and my hound,Till, as fearing the lash, down he shivered to ground —A brave hound, my mother! a brave hound, ye wot!And the wolf thought the same with his fangs at her throatIn the pass of the Brocken.XII"At dawn and at eve, mother, who sitteth thereWith the brown rosary never used for a prayer?Stoop low, mother, low! If we went there to see,What an ugly great hole in that east wall must beAt dawn and at even!XIII"Who meet there, my mother, at dawn and at even?Who meet by that wall, never looking to heaven?O sweetest my sister, what doeth with theeThe ghost of a nun with a brown rosaryAnd a face turned from heaven?XIV"Saint Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams and erewhileI have felt through mine eyelids the warmth of her smile;But last night, as a sadness like pity came o'er her,She whispered – 'Say two prayers at dawn for Onora:The Tempted is sinning.'"XV"Onora, Onora!" they heard her not coming,Not a step on the grass, not a voice through the gloaming;But her mother looked up, and she stood on the floorFair and still as the moonlight that came there before,And a smile just beginning:XVIIt touches her lips but it dares not ariseTo the height of the mystical sphere of her eyes,And the large musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorrySing on like the angels in separate gloryBetween clouds of amber;XVIIFor the hair droops in clouds amber-coloured till stirredInto gold by the gesture that comes with a word;While – O soft! – her speaking is so interwoundOf the dim and the sweet, 't is a twilight of soundAnd floats through the chamber.XVIII"Since thou shrivest my brother, fair mother," said she"I count on thy priesthood for marrying of me,And I know by the hills that the battle is done.That my lover rides on, will be here with the sun,'Neath the eyes that behold thee."XIXHer mother sat silent – too tender, I wis,Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss:But the boy started up pale with tears, passion-wrought —"O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought!If he cometh, who told thee?"XX"I know by the hills," she resumed calm and clear,"By the beauty upon them, that HE is anear:Did they ever look so since he bade me adieu?Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, is true,As Saint Agnes in sleeping!"XXIHalf-ashamed and half-softened the boy did not speak,And the blush met the lashes which fell on his cheek:She bowed down to kiss him: dear saints, did he seeOr feel on her bosom the BROWN ROSARY,That he shrank away weeping?

SECOND PART

A bed. Onora, sleeping. Angels, but not nearFirst AngelMust we stand so far, and sheSo very fair?Second AngelAs bodies be.First AngelAnd she so mild?Second AngelAs spirits whenThey meeken, not to God, but men.First AngelAnd she so young, that I who bringGood dreams for saintly children, mightMistake that small soft face to-night,And fetch her such a blessèd thingThat at her waking she would weepFor childhood lost anew in sleep.How hath she sinned?Second AngelIn bartering love;God's love for man's.First AngelWe may reproveThe world for this, not only her:Let me approach to breathe awayThis dust o' the heart with holy air.Second AngelStand off! She sleeps, and did not pray.First AngelDid none pray for her?Second AngelAy, a child, —Who never, praying, wept before:While, in a mother undefiled,Prayer goeth on in sleep, as trueAnd pauseless as the pulses do.First AngelThen I approach.Second AngelIt is not WILLED.First AngelOne word: is she redeemed?Second AngelNo more!The place is filled.[Angels vanishEvil Spirit (in a Nun's garb by the bed)Forbear that dream – forbear that dream! too near to heaven it leaned.Onora (in sleep)Nay, leave me this – but only this! 't is but a dream, sweet fiend!Evil SpiritIt is a thought.Onora (in sleep)A sleeping thought – most innocent of good:It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend! it cannot if it would.I say in it no holy hymn, I do no holy work,I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that chimeth from the kirk.Evil SpiritForbear that dream – forbear that dream!Onora (in sleep)Nay, let me dream at least.That far-off bell, it may be took for viol at a feast:I only walk among the fields, beneath the autumn-sun,With my dead father, hand in hand, as I have often done.Evil SpiritForbear that dream – forbear that dream!Onora (in sleep)Nay, sweet fiend, let me go:I never more can walk with him, oh, never more but so!For they have tied my father's feet beneath the kirk-yard stone,Oh, deep and straight! oh, very straight! they move at nights alone:And then he calleth through my dreams, he calleth tenderly,"Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, and walk the fields with me!"Evil SpiritForbear that dream, or else disprove its pureness by a sign.Onora (in sleep)Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied, my word shall answer thine.I heard a bird which used to sing when I a child was praying,I see the poppies in the corn I used to sport away in:What shall I do – tread down the dew and pull the blossoms blowing?Or clap my wicked hands to fright the finches from the rowan?Evil SpiritThou shalt do something harder still. Stand up where thou dost standAmong the fields of Dreamland with thy father hand in hand,And clear and slow repeat the vow, declare its cause and kind,Which not to break, in sleep or wake thou bearest on thy mind.Onora (in sleep)I bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for mournful cause;I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong, the spirits laughed applause:The spirits trailed along the pines low laughter like a breeze,While, high atween their swinging tops, the stars appeared to freeze.Evil SpiritMore calm and free, speak out to me why such a vow was made.Onora (in sleep)Because that God decreed my death and I shrank back afraid.Have patience, O dead father mine! I did not fear to die —I wish I were a young dead child and had thy company!I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried three-year child,And wearing only a kiss of thine upon my lips that smiled!The linden-tree that covers thee might so have shadowed twain,For death itself I did not fear – 't is love that makes the pain:Love feareth death. I was no child, I was betrothed that day;I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away.How could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone,And feel mine own betrothed go by – alas! no more mine own —Go leading by in wedding pomp some lovely lady brave,With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, while mine were white in grave?How could I bear to sit in heaven, on e'er so high a throne,And hear him say to her – to her! that else he loveth none?Though e'er so high I sate above, though e'er so low he spake,As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might take,That hers, forsooth, were heavenly eyes – ah me, while very dimSome heavenly eyes (indeed of heaven!) would darken down to him!Evil SpiritWho told thee thou wast called to death?Onora (in sleep)I sate all night beside thee:The grey owl on the ruined wall shut both his eyes to hide thee,And ever he flapped his heavy wing all brokenly and weak,And the long grass waved against the sky, around his gasping beak.I sate beside thee all the night, while the moonlight lay forlornStrewn round us like a dead world's shroud in ghastly fragments torn:And through the night, and through the hush, and over the flappingwing,We heard beside the Heavenly Gate the angels murmuring:We heard them say, "Put day to day, and count the days to seven,And God will draw Onora up the golden stairs of heaven.And yet the Evil ones have leave that purpose to defer,For if she has no need of Him, He has no need of her."Evil SpiritSpeak out to me, speak bold and free.Onora (in sleep)And then I heard thee say —"I count upon my rosary brown the hours thou hast to stay!Yet God permits us Evil ones to put by that decree,Since if thou hast no need of Him, He has no need of thee:And if thou wilt forgo the sight of angels, verilyThy true love gazing on thy face shall guess what angels be;Nor bride shall pass, save thee" … Alas! – my father's hand's a-cold,The meadows seem …Evil SpiritForbear the dream, or let the vow be told.Onora (in sleep)I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this string of antique beads,By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds,This rosary brown which is thine own, – lost soul of buried nun!Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone, —I vowed upon thy rosary brown, – and, till such vow should break,A pledge always of living days 't was hung around my neck —I vowed to thee on rosary (dead father, look not so!),I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe.Evil SpiritAnd canst thou prove …Onora (in sleep)O love, my love! I felt him near again!I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain!Was this no weal for me to feel? Is greater weal than this?Yet when he came, I wept his name – and the angels heard but his.Evil SpiritWell done, well done!Onora (in sleep)Ah me, the sun! the dreamlight 'gins to pine, —Ah me, how dread can look the Dead! Aroint thee, father mine!She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright,And her breath comes in sobs, while she stares through the night;There is nought; the great willow, her lattice before,Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor:But her hands tremble fast as their pulses and, freeFrom the death-clasp, close over – the BROWN ROSARY.

THIRD PART

I'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bellRings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle,And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride,And the sacristans slyly are jesting asideAt the work shall be doing;IIWhile down through the wood rides that fair company,The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee,Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at onceAll the maids sigh demurely and think for the nonce,"And so endeth a wooing!"IIIAnd the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way,With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say;Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath,And the little quick smiles come and go with her breathWhen she sigheth or speaketh.IVAnd the tender bride-mother breaks off unawareFrom an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair,Till in nearing the chapel and glancing before,She seeth her little son stand at the door:Is it play that he seeketh?VIs it play, when his eyes wander innocent-wildAnd sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child?He trembles not, weeps not; the passion is done,And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sunOn his head like a glory.VI"O fair-featured maids, ye are many!" he cried,"But in fairness and vileness who matcheth the bride?O brave-hearted youths, ye are many! but whom

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For I say unto you that in Heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in Heaven —Matt. xviii, 10.