 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
43
MARGARET.
It was wild and winter night, cold the wind was blowing;
Not as yet i' the lonely farm was the red cock crowing;
Only from the reedy fen came the bittern's booming,
Long before the misty morn in the east was glooming:
Not as yet i' the lonely farm was the red cock crowing;
Only from the reedy fen came the bittern's booming,
Long before the misty morn in the east was glooming:
Long before the misty morn in the east was breaking;
Only on the moorland dun was the hill-fox waking;
Only from the ivied holt sad the owls were hooting;
And the gusty skies along falling-stars were shooting:
Only on the moorland dun was the hill-fox waking;
Only from the ivied holt sad the owls were hooting;
And the gusty skies along falling-stars were shooting:
Only from the gusty skies falling-stars were gleaming,
Not a light from lordly tower or lowly hut was beaming;
Only o'er the green morass meteors pale were creeping:—
Yet was Margaret awake, all awake and weeping.
Not a light from lordly tower or lowly hut was beaming;
Only o'er the green morass meteors pale were creeping:—
Yet was Margaret awake, all awake and weeping.
Early Margaret was awake, early awake and sighing,
For how could she lie warm asleep, when he lay cold and dying?
There was a terror in her ear, as of a bell slow ringing,
A deep, dull toll, though toll was none, upon the night-wind swinging;
For how could she lie warm asleep, when he lay cold and dying?
There was a terror in her ear, as of a bell slow ringing,
A deep, dull toll, though toll was none, upon the night-wind swinging;
A heavy terror at her heart, strange shapes around her wheeling,
A steed all blood, a saddle bare, a dark rout blindly reeling.
Sad Margaret, she only heard that bell's unearthly tolling;
Pale Margaret, she only saw that red tide round her rolling.
A steed all blood, a saddle bare, a dark rout blindly reeling.
Sad Margaret, she only heard that bell's unearthly tolling;
Pale Margaret, she only saw that red tide round her rolling.
44
Yet now there came, when lulled the wind, a sound of war-steeds stamping
Adown the hill, along the fen, across the bridge slow tramping;
And now there came, amid the gloom, the flash of torches glancing,
And harness bright, and lance-heads light, and plumes and pennons dancing.
Adown the hill, along the fen, across the bridge slow tramping;
And now there came, amid the gloom, the flash of torches glancing,
And harness bright, and lance-heads light, and plumes and pennons dancing.
It was wild and winter night, cold the wind was blowing;
Not as yet i' the lonely farm was the red cock crowing;
It was wild and winter night, all but she were sleeping,
When the war-cry broke above them, changed their rest to weeping.
Not as yet i' the lonely farm was the red cock crowing;
It was wild and winter night, all but she were sleeping,
When the war-cry broke above them, changed their rest to weeping.
Only from the reedy fen came the bittern's booming,
Long before the misty morn in the east was glooming;
When the sullen cloud of smoke, o'er the roof-tree sailing,
Changed their brief and bootless strife into endless wailing.
Long before the misty morn in the east was glooming;
When the sullen cloud of smoke, o'er the roof-tree sailing,
Changed their brief and bootless strife into endless wailing.
Sad Margaret, she only waked when all the rest were sleeping;
Pale Margaret, she only smiled when all the rest were weeping;
True Margaret, she only said, “I care not though ye slay me.”
She only said, “I care not; but near his cold corpse lay me.”
Pale Margaret, she only smiled when all the rest were weeping;
True Margaret, she only said, “I care not though ye slay me.”
She only said, “I care not; but near his cold corpse lay me.”
Brave Margaret, she only said, when flashed the broadsword o'er her,
She only said, “I care not,” when her life-blood streamed before her;
She only said, as ebbed her life, “This is the end of sorrow;
For I shall be with him,” she said, “with him and my God, to-morrow.”
She only said, “I care not,” when her life-blood streamed before her;
She only said, as ebbed her life, “This is the end of sorrow;
For I shall be with him,” she said, “with him and my God, to-morrow.”
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |