The coming of love Rhona Boswell's story and other poems: By Theodore Watts-Dunton |
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| VI. | VI THE NATURE WORSHIPPER AND WOMAN'S WITCHERY |
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| XVIII. |
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| XX. |
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 | The coming of love |  |
VI
THE NATURE WORSHIPPER AND WOMAN'S WITCHERY
(Percy walking along the river-side near Gypsy Dell at break of day.)
Love knows a wrong no tears can ever atone:
A word can break the web of Passion's spell,
And then away the enchanted woof is blown
That made a faery world of wood and dell:
But direr than all direst words are deeds:—
Can I, who saw her body shake and sway
Before a storm of rage, like yonder reeds
When March winds bend them o'er the water-weeds—
Can I forgive that wrong of yesterday?—
A word can break the web of Passion's spell,
And then away the enchanted woof is blown
That made a faery world of wood and dell:
But direr than all direst words are deeds:—
Can I, who saw her body shake and sway
Before a storm of rage, like yonder reeds
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Can I forgive that wrong of yesterday?—
Can I, who saw the lips of this wild girl,
So loving once, shrink back till pearly teeth,
That once seemed lovelier than the morning's pearl,
Flashed bright as that bright blade she dared unsheathe—
Can I, who saw a brow, a throbbing throat
Glassed in the stream beneath the willow tree,
As up she sprang, a tigress, in the boat—
Can I forgive her, though the siren wrote
The loveliest letter in the world to me?
(He comes upon a second letter from Rhona lying on
the grass, and stands looking at it with yearning eyes, but
afraid to pick it up.)
So loving once, shrink back till pearly teeth,
That once seemed lovelier than the morning's pearl,
Flashed bright as that bright blade she dared unsheathe—
Can I, who saw a brow, a throbbing throat
Glassed in the stream beneath the willow tree,
As up she sprang, a tigress, in the boat—
Can I forgive her, though the siren wrote
The loveliest letter in the world to me?
Another letter! Ah, full well I know
Those characters so childish, big, and round:
I think she watches where the hawthorns throw
Those shortening shadows on the dewy ground.
Ah yes! that head which gleams by yonder bush,
Where golden shafts from out the quiver of morn
Pierce the wet leaves and wake the hidden thrush—
That cheek which seems to lend a lovelier blush
To blushing may-buds on the dew-bright thorn!
(He takes up the letter and reads it aloud.)
Those characters so childish, big, and round:
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Those shortening shadows on the dewy ground.
Ah yes! that head which gleams by yonder bush,
Where golden shafts from out the quiver of morn
Pierce the wet leaves and wake the hidden thrush—
That cheek which seems to lend a lovelier blush
To blushing may-buds on the dew-bright thorn!
THE LETTER.
This time you can't forgive me—that I know—
But when I'm dead o' cryin and in the groun,
You'll come, afore my grass has time to grow,
And say, “That's hern; the clods is fresh and brown.
Lord, how I misses her in puv and tan ,”
You'll say, “that gal wot axed me to forgive her!
It druv her mad to see me kis my han
And smile so sweet—pore Rhona's ondly man!—
To that fine rawni rowin on the river.
But when I'm dead o' cryin and in the groun,
You'll come, afore my grass has time to grow,
And say, “That's hern; the clods is fresh and brown.
Lord, how I misses her in puv and tan ,”
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It druv her mad to see me kis my han
And smile so sweet—pore Rhona's ondly man!—
To that fine rawni rowin on the river.
Pore gal,” you'll say, “she never touched her knife,
Leaseways, just touched the handel so,” you'll say;
“She'd never ha' drawed: she wur to bee my wife,
And loved me, loved me, loved me night and day.
What made the chi ,” you'll say, “start from the seat?
What made her flesh goo hot and cold and shiver
Right down her back-like—yis, from hed to feet?
She seed me kis my han and smile so swete
To that fine rawni rowin on the river.
Leaseways, just touched the handel so,” you'll say;
“She'd never ha' drawed: she wur to bee my wife,
And loved me, loved me, loved me night and day.
What made the chi ,” you'll say, “start from the seat?
What made her flesh goo hot and cold and shiver
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She seed me kis my han and smile so swete
To that fine rawni rowin on the river.
The Dell,” you'll say, “do seem that dul and sad;
It dreems o' one wot loved me body and soul,
And loved me most that day I druv her madd
And turned her choori zee to burnin coal;
The chiriklos 'ull chirp ‘He should ha' gien
All them sweet smiles—yis, all he had to give her—
To her we buried with her Romany kin,
And laid wi' clods all round her eyes an' chin,
Through that fine rawni rowin on the river.’”
It dreems o' one wot loved me body and soul,
And loved me most that day I druv her madd
And turned her choori zee to burnin coal;
The chiriklos 'ull chirp ‘He should ha' gien
All them sweet smiles—yis, all he had to give her—
To her we buried with her Romany kin,
And laid wi' clods all round her eyes an' chin,
Through that fine rawni rowin on the river.’”
You'll say, “Instead o' havin Jasper's gal,
So spry at snare and rod and landin net,
This teeny clisson from her korley bal
Is all, and that'll ondly make me frett.
I'd sooner fish wi' her where swallows fan
The brook,” you'll say, “where water creases quiver,
Tryin to hide the trouts, but never can,
Than smile so sweet and look and kis my han
To that fine rawni rowin on the river.
So spry at snare and rod and landin net,
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Is all, and that'll ondly make me frett.
I'd sooner fish wi' her where swallows fan
The brook,” you'll say, “where water creases quiver,
Tryin to hide the trouts, but never can,
Than smile so sweet and look and kis my han
To that fine rawni rowin on the river.
'Twur here,” you'll say, “where many and many a night
We stayed a-settin snares in Gypsy Dell
Beneath the stars, or when the moon wur bright,
Till ‘twitter’ came the arliest chirikel ,
And larks the sunshine turned to specks o' gold
Flew whistlin up, but none as could deliver
A tale o' love like that as then wur told
By that pore Rhona, her wot's dead and cold.”
We stayed a-settin snares in Gypsy Dell
Beneath the stars, or when the moon wur bright,
Till ‘twitter’ came the arliest chirikel ,
And larks the sunshine turned to specks o' gold
Flew whistlin up, but none as could deliver
A tale o' love like that as then wur told
By that pore Rhona, her wot's dead and cold.”
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The witching rogue! But still I can't forgive her.
THE LETTER CONTINUED.
“'Twur here,” you'll say, “'twur here, dooey choons aglal,Out o' her daddy's tan one night there crep'
A gal to meet me—sich a rinkeni gal—
Though well she knowed the watch the Scollard kep':
She stayed wi' me till all the eastern sky
Biled, steamed, and broke to many a fiery slivver
That lit up puv and tan and sooterin grei ”:
You'll seem to feel her lips—
(Advancing from the bush, watching him as he reads, then rushing towards him, covering his eyes with her hands, and pulling down his head and kissing him.)
These lips, my Rye!
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These lips, indeed! Ah! who would not forgive her?
RHONA.
Lips as 'ud turn to clods without you, dear!
PERCY.
But how this loving Rhona tries my love!
RHONA.
And yet she'd walk the world barefoot to hear
Them words o' yourn in tan or vesh or puv —
Yis, walk and never know her feet wur sore
To hear you say, “Ah! who would not forgive her?”
PERCY.
But that young lady?
RHONA.
Her what flicks her oar?
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The same.
RHONA.
You'll never kiss your han no more
To that fine rawni rowin on the river?
(Two gypsies, Herne the “Scollard” and another, rush out from the bushes, and throw themselves upon Percy. The “Scollard” seizes Percy's throat and raises a knife. Rhona leaps forward and plunges her gypsy knife into the “Scollard's” shoulder, which makes him drop his weapon. Another gypsy then runs forward from another bush. Rhona springs in front of Percy, who stands gasping, having been almost choked. The gypsies stop, cowed as much by Rhona's threatening gaze as by the knife, and, eventually seeing that Percy is reviving, slink away.)
| The coming of love | |