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LORD RONALD.
I. [PART I.]
Now must you think of me as One
That in a castle hall,
While ruddy glows the blazing hearth
In spite of curfew-call,
And the broad fire-light flickers free
Upon the shield-hung wall,
Sits harping there, to steel-clad knights
And ladies fair and gay;
While further back stand yeomen tall
And old retainers, gray,
With grave and listening faces, all
Intent upon his lay;
For of the noble Ronald
I sing, and now my rhyme
Tells of far other days than these,
And of the olden time.
The good old time, the brave old time
Men call it, but I ween
That better times than these of ours
Or braver, have not been;
With stainless souls among us yet
That wear the Ermine's white,
Where strength and gentleness are met
As once in faithful Knight
With many a heart that yet can feel
As Ronald's did, the Love
That sets the loved one's wish and weal
Its proper joy above;
Yet needs the human mind to look
Unto a Golden Age,
And further back in Life's great Book
Will ever turn the page,
In haste to breathe a fresher air,
An atmosphere serene,
Remembering only present care,
Forgetting what hath been,
Forgetting all its childish tears
And all its after sighs,
How swift across the gulf of years
The time-worn spirit flies!
So fondly to the World's first Youth
As to those earlier days,
For tales of lealty and truth
It turns with love and praise.
That in a castle hall,
While ruddy glows the blazing hearth
In spite of curfew-call,
And the broad fire-light flickers free
Upon the shield-hung wall,
Sits harping there, to steel-clad knights
And ladies fair and gay;
While further back stand yeomen tall
And old retainers, gray,
With grave and listening faces, all
Intent upon his lay;
For of the noble Ronald
I sing, and now my rhyme
Tells of far other days than these,
And of the olden time.
The good old time, the brave old time
Men call it, but I ween
That better times than these of ours
Or braver, have not been;
With stainless souls among us yet
That wear the Ermine's white,
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As once in faithful Knight
With many a heart that yet can feel
As Ronald's did, the Love
That sets the loved one's wish and weal
Its proper joy above;
Yet needs the human mind to look
Unto a Golden Age,
And further back in Life's great Book
Will ever turn the page,
In haste to breathe a fresher air,
An atmosphere serene,
Remembering only present care,
Forgetting what hath been,
Forgetting all its childish tears
And all its after sighs,
How swift across the gulf of years
The time-worn spirit flies!
So fondly to the World's first Youth
As to those earlier days,
For tales of lealty and truth
It turns with love and praise.
“Fair fall Lord Ronald”
The warder sung out loud,
As Ronald passed beneath the gate
Upon his charger proud;
And greeting him upon his way,
Let him ride north or south,
“Fair fall Lord Ronald”
Was heard from every mouth;
Old men that dozed before the fire
Came hobbling to the door,
And women held their children higher
To have one look the more,
And the stout smith left the blazing brand
And flung his hammer down,
As Ronald of the Open Hand
Rode slowly up the town.
“Fair fall the noble Ronald,”
Let him ride east or west,
How fast unto his slightest beck
The thronging vassals prest;
Some for Lord Ronald's gifts the while
Were fain to be his thrall,
And some that thought Lord Ronald's smile
Was a better gift than all;
But were it for his noble heart,
Or were it for his purse,
There was none e'er followed Ronald
That ever was the worse;
And still the more he flung away,
The more was his to fling;
Above his fields a summer's day
The bird might tire its wing;
There was no Lord in all the land
So great or rich as he,
Still may the free and open hand
Be filled as full and free!
Some said it was the widow's prayer
That followed him with peace,
And the blessing of the fatherless
That wrought him such increase;
For Ronald's hand so strong in fight
(And this was in the time—
The wild old time when might made right)
Was never stained with crime;
And men around were wont to say,
When friends were cold and slow,
That better worth than such as they
Were Ronald as a foe;
He had but one word for his foes,
“Strike not the fallen, spare;”
But one word for his friends at close
Of fight, and that was “share.”
“But what hast thou, Lord Ronald?”
They spake to him one day,
“What hast thou kept unto thyself,
That thou givest all away?”
The warder sung out loud,
As Ronald passed beneath the gate
Upon his charger proud;
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Let him ride north or south,
“Fair fall Lord Ronald”
Was heard from every mouth;
Old men that dozed before the fire
Came hobbling to the door,
And women held their children higher
To have one look the more,
And the stout smith left the blazing brand
And flung his hammer down,
As Ronald of the Open Hand
Rode slowly up the town.
“Fair fall the noble Ronald,”
Let him ride east or west,
How fast unto his slightest beck
The thronging vassals prest;
Some for Lord Ronald's gifts the while
Were fain to be his thrall,
And some that thought Lord Ronald's smile
Was a better gift than all;
But were it for his noble heart,
Or were it for his purse,
There was none e'er followed Ronald
That ever was the worse;
And still the more he flung away,
The more was his to fling;
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The bird might tire its wing;
There was no Lord in all the land
So great or rich as he,
Still may the free and open hand
Be filled as full and free!
Some said it was the widow's prayer
That followed him with peace,
And the blessing of the fatherless
That wrought him such increase;
For Ronald's hand so strong in fight
(And this was in the time—
The wild old time when might made right)
Was never stained with crime;
And men around were wont to say,
When friends were cold and slow,
That better worth than such as they
Were Ronald as a foe;
He had but one word for his foes,
“Strike not the fallen, spare;”
But one word for his friends at close
Of fight, and that was “share.”
“But what hast thou, Lord Ronald?”
They spake to him one day,
“What hast thou kept unto thyself,
That thou givest all away?”
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Then he made answer with a smile
And with a merry jest,
“Nay! ill it were I should outshare
Myself, among the rest;
Free hand can still hold close enough
The thing it prizes best.”
But what doth Ronald prize the best?
He gave his golden chain
For a minstrel's crying “Largesse,”
And singing of a strain;
He gave his cloak, with miniver
Set round with many a fold
Unto a beggar by the way,
To keep him from the cold;
To friend or follower he gave
His gallant red roan steed,
His true and tried Toledo blade
That hath served him well at need;
His merlin with the silver bells
That took the boldest flight,
And the good shirt of Milan steel
That saved him once in fight;
And none dared look on aught of his
And call it brave or fine,
For the next word that Ronald spoke
Was ever “it is thine;”
What was it then Lord Ronald prized
So far above the rest,
That still unto himself he kept
The thing he loved the best?
And with a merry jest,
“Nay! ill it were I should outshare
Myself, among the rest;
Free hand can still hold close enough
The thing it prizes best.”
But what doth Ronald prize the best?
He gave his golden chain
For a minstrel's crying “Largesse,”
And singing of a strain;
He gave his cloak, with miniver
Set round with many a fold
Unto a beggar by the way,
To keep him from the cold;
To friend or follower he gave
His gallant red roan steed,
His true and tried Toledo blade
That hath served him well at need;
His merlin with the silver bells
That took the boldest flight,
And the good shirt of Milan steel
That saved him once in fight;
And none dared look on aught of his
And call it brave or fine,
For the next word that Ronald spoke
Was ever “it is thine;”
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So far above the rest,
That still unto himself he kept
The thing he loved the best?
II. PART II.
An ancient woman sat alone
At nightfall, with her look
Fixed on the fire, as if she read
Its embers like a book;
Her hands were folded on her knee,
Long had they ceased to twine
The filmy flax-threads from the reel
With finger sure and fine;
Her face was set; an ice-bound lake
Wears not a stiller look,
Unstirred by current from beneath,
By passing breeze unshook,
So passionless, it seemed a mould
By Death already cast,
When sudden over it a gleam
Of wintry sunshine past,
And o'er her faded features spread
A flush of joy and pride,
To hear Lord Ronald's stately tread
And see him at her side.
“Welcome unto these failing eyes!
Thy first looks were on me—
Thy nurse, that stilled thy infant cries,
And soothed thee on my knee.
And may mine, Lord Ronald, ere I die,
Be turned the last on thee:
Then she arose and kissed his hand,
And laid it reverently
Upon her heart, “what seeks my son
At such an hour with me?”
At nightfall, with her look
Fixed on the fire, as if she read
Its embers like a book;
Her hands were folded on her knee,
Long had they ceased to twine
The filmy flax-threads from the reel
With finger sure and fine;
Her face was set; an ice-bound lake
Wears not a stiller look,
Unstirred by current from beneath,
By passing breeze unshook,
So passionless, it seemed a mould
By Death already cast,
When sudden over it a gleam
Of wintry sunshine past,
And o'er her faded features spread
A flush of joy and pride,
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And see him at her side.
“Welcome unto these failing eyes!
Thy first looks were on me—
Thy nurse, that stilled thy infant cries,
And soothed thee on my knee.
And may mine, Lord Ronald, ere I die,
Be turned the last on thee:
Then she arose and kissed his hand,
And laid it reverently
Upon her heart, “what seeks my son
At such an hour with me?”
Then Ronald leant his thoughtful brow
Upon his hand; his eyes
Were fixed on hers; “I know that thou
Art true, and count thee wise;
Yet hold not with the churls” he said
And smiled, “that thou hast riven
From spirits of the air or deep
The hidden things of Heaven;
And yet I seek thee, for I deem
Thou hast a surer key
Of things on earth, that are or seem
To pierce the mystery.”
She smiled, but sadly; “true, my son,
No wizard page I turn,
But one whose deep and hidden lore
Is full as hard to learn;
They that with spirits in their hour
Have striven, still with pain
Have paid for mastery and power,
With loss for every gain;
Even so, my son, a heavy weird
Lies on them, that through strife,
And weariness, and loss, have wrung
The secret out of Life!”
Upon his hand; his eyes
Were fixed on hers; “I know that thou
Art true, and count thee wise;
Yet hold not with the churls” he said
And smiled, “that thou hast riven
From spirits of the air or deep
The hidden things of Heaven;
And yet I seek thee, for I deem
Thou hast a surer key
Of things on earth, that are or seem
To pierce the mystery.”
She smiled, but sadly; “true, my son,
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But one whose deep and hidden lore
Is full as hard to learn;
They that with spirits in their hour
Have striven, still with pain
Have paid for mastery and power,
With loss for every gain;
Even so, my son, a heavy weird
Lies on them, that through strife,
And weariness, and loss, have wrung
The secret out of Life!”
Lord Ronald mused again, then spoke,
“Thou knowest me, the rest
Deem still, that with all else I share
The heart within my breast;
Because I was not born to look
On woe or weal unmoved,
And many are there I have served—
Yet two that I have loved,
Henry and Sybil; nay, perchance
They also have not guessed
That they alone of all the world
Are folded in my breast,
And also deem of me as one
Who loveth none the best;
For all too seldom doth the heart
Win back its measure just,
Too seldom wins the perfect love,
The free and perfect trust;
All is not as it used to be
With Sybil; she doth fold
Her thoughts from me; I read them not,
But feel that still untold
Hath something come between us two,
That never was of old;
I ever thought she loved me well;
Nay! she doth love me! still
The heart can love but to its power,
And not unto its will;
Its wealth is not for prizing set,
Its gifts must still be free,
Well saith the Maker,
“Never, yet,
Bent Love to Mastery.”
Mother! my speech is but my thought,
And both are rude and plain,
I cannot sing to ladies' eyes
In Minnesinger's strain;
But this I know, it is not Love
That strives not to its best,
All other earthly aims above
To make the loved one blest.
Ye need but give a beggar gold
If ye would see him gay,
Or give a child its toy to hold,
Ye cannot miss the way;
But with the heart 'tis not like these,
And ye must let it chuse,
(If ye would give it joy or ease)
To have or to refuse;
What skills it all that mine could give
For Sybil, when, perchance,
More power to gladden her's may live
Within a stranger's glance!”
“Thou knowest me, the rest
Deem still, that with all else I share
The heart within my breast;
Because I was not born to look
On woe or weal unmoved,
And many are there I have served—
Yet two that I have loved,
Henry and Sybil; nay, perchance
They also have not guessed
That they alone of all the world
Are folded in my breast,
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Who loveth none the best;
For all too seldom doth the heart
Win back its measure just,
Too seldom wins the perfect love,
The free and perfect trust;
All is not as it used to be
With Sybil; she doth fold
Her thoughts from me; I read them not,
But feel that still untold
Hath something come between us two,
That never was of old;
I ever thought she loved me well;
Nay! she doth love me! still
The heart can love but to its power,
And not unto its will;
Its wealth is not for prizing set,
Its gifts must still be free,
Well saith the Maker,
“Never, yet,
Bent Love to Mastery.”
Mother! my speech is but my thought,
And both are rude and plain,
I cannot sing to ladies' eyes
In Minnesinger's strain;
But this I know, it is not Love
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All other earthly aims above
To make the loved one blest.
Ye need but give a beggar gold
If ye would see him gay,
Or give a child its toy to hold,
Ye cannot miss the way;
But with the heart 'tis not like these,
And ye must let it chuse,
(If ye would give it joy or ease)
To have or to refuse;
What skills it all that mine could give
For Sybil, when, perchance,
More power to gladden her's may live
Within a stranger's glance!”
He fixed upon that aged face
A troubled eye, that sought
E'en while it dreaded, there to trace
The answer to his thought;
Her pale lips trembled; to herself
She muttered low and weak,
“Nay! never yet hath Truth wrought ill,
Though it were hard to speak,”
Then spreading forth her withered hands,
She spake full solemnly,
“It has been thine through life, my son,
To draw Love after thee!
May the best blessing thou hast won,
And may the truest prayer
That ever rose for thee to Heaven,
And met together there,
Be with thee now, and come betwixt
Thy spirit and Despair.”
Then with a feeble step and slow
She rose, and in his ear,
She whispered for a moment low,
Though none were by to hear;
Lord Ronald covered up his face;
He spoke no word, I trow,
But one that from his heaving breast
Burst “Thou, and even Thou.”
And when he raised his brow a mark
That was not there before
Was set, and something from his look
Was gone, that came no more;
And at his heart there was a thought
That left it not; I wis;
“Would it had been an enemy,
Whose hand had wrought me this!”
A troubled eye, that sought
E'en while it dreaded, there to trace
The answer to his thought;
Her pale lips trembled; to herself
She muttered low and weak,
“Nay! never yet hath Truth wrought ill,
Though it were hard to speak,”
Then spreading forth her withered hands,
She spake full solemnly,
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To draw Love after thee!
May the best blessing thou hast won,
And may the truest prayer
That ever rose for thee to Heaven,
And met together there,
Be with thee now, and come betwixt
Thy spirit and Despair.”
Then with a feeble step and slow
She rose, and in his ear,
She whispered for a moment low,
Though none were by to hear;
Lord Ronald covered up his face;
He spoke no word, I trow,
But one that from his heaving breast
Burst “Thou, and even Thou.”
And when he raised his brow a mark
That was not there before
Was set, and something from his look
Was gone, that came no more;
And at his heart there was a thought
That left it not; I wis;
“Would it had been an enemy,
Whose hand had wrought me this!”
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III. PART III.
Within the tangled wood-walks deep,The flowers are drenched with dew
So thick, and overweighed with sleep
So heavily, that few
As slowly, gorgeously the sun
Breaks through a golden mist,
Have held as yet their drooping heads
Up to him to be kissed;
Oh! sweet the breath of summer morn,
Let it meet us where it will,
Sweet as the silence of a Thought
That words may never fill,
The freshness of its unworn smile
So joyous, yet so still!
Lord Ronald from his castle wall
Gazed down the grassy steep,
And saw beneath him smooth and wide
The level Champaign sweep;
On the broad river here and there
Flung like a silver snake,
On many a farm and homestead fair
He marked the sunrise break;
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To tell them o'er, yet sighed,
As if some thought awoke within
That was not kin to pride:
And, pausing suddenly, he called
To one that passed below,
“Ha Brother! thou art early forth
With dawn, to track the roe!
Come up, for I would speak with thee;
Trust me, thou shalt not rue,
Though I should keep thee till the sun
Drinks from the grass the dew.”
Then lightly Henry climbed the steep,
And answered gay and free,
“Fair brother, little worth were I
To grudge an hour to thee,
From the best quarry that e'er yet
Spread out a lure for me.”
“Brother,” said Ronald, as he looked
On Henry's beaming brow,
“Stand here with me awhile, and gaze
Where I am gazing now;
All, all is thine by lea and wold,
All is thine own, for me
(So aid me Heaven) from Paynim hold
The blessed shrine to free
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A vow upon me lies;”
For Henry broke upon his speech
With passion and surprise,
“Let them go to the Holy Wars,
The hard of heart, that leave
No soul of all that call them Lord,
That after them will grieve;
The fierce of hand, for whose red sins
Stern penance may retrieve;
But far be such a thought from thee,
Whom all men love and bless,
Foul wrong it were that thou shouldst go
And leave them fatherless,
That wait and follow on thy hand
For succour and redress.”
“Brother, I treasure up thy love,
Although thy words are lost;
Bethink thee, well my soul ere this
Hath reckoned up the cost;
Still have I striven for right, yet now
The times are wild and rude—
Hard for a man at every hour
To do the thing he would;
Hard, hard, to keep the spirit pure,
The hand unstained with blood!
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(As Holy Gospels tell)
Heaven's boon and mercy more than they
Of whom all men speak well;
For there are thoughts that in the heart
Awake as if from sleep,
Unknown to any but the Eye
That looks upon that Deep.
Enough—rule thou for me, and be
Still to the vassals kind,
That they may never bring their Lord
Too sadly unto mind;
And let the ancient feuds die out;
Trust me, enough of strife,
Enough, without our own unrest
Is laid upon our Life;
Keep up the House's ancient name
And live in bounty free,
Keep all, dear brother, till I come
And ask it back of thee!”
But quick spoke Henry, “Gladly now
I share in what is thine,
But little joy if thou wert gone
To have it all for mine;
I love not gifts so well, for them
The Giver to resign!
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That ever wert so kind,
That thou canst turn from all things loved,
And shake them from thy mind,
As lightly as the thistle's down
Is lifted by the wind;
If all the old love waxes cold
For brother or for thrall,
Yet is there one that used of old
To be more dear than all.
And Sybil—doubtest thou my love
For Sybil? since the hour
When the good knight, her father, fell,
And from the leagured tower
I bore her in these arms through flame
And sword, from foeman's power,
Safe have I shielded her from harm
And nursed her as a flower,
But not to wander far away
And leave her at the last,
Had I not known her horoscope
'Mid happier stars was cast;
Soon in its brighter lines will merge
All traces of the past!
I think she loves thee well, and thou—
Nay! strive not yet to keep
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Like Murder, e'en in Sleep.
Thyself must woo and win—for me
I cannot aid, though fain,”
He said and smiled, “on maiden's heart
Small hold hath Suzerain!”
But Henry's dark eye flashed; he stood
Uncertain; seldom given
To mortal heart to hear the gates
Roll back that bar its Heaven,
And still it pauses o'er their sound
As doubtful of its bliss;
At length he bent his knee to ground
His brother's hand to kiss,
“For much my soul to thine was bound
But ne'er for aught like this!”
IV. PART IV.
Ring softly out, sweet chapel bells,
Upon the summer air,
Ring softly, for the bridal dawn
O'er Heaven is breaking fair,
The bride is blushing like a rose
And the wedding guests are there;
And in Lord Ronald's castle
Is feasting high and free,
Thrice welcome all that will to share
Its cheer and revelry:
“There is no hand like Ronald's,”
So sang the minstrels all,
“There is no eye like Ronald's
To light up bower or hall;
There is no smile like Ronald's
Though now it is not gay,
The sunshine will be off our souls
When once it is away;
Strike high the merry harps; let none
Undrained the wine-cup leave;
Speed, Ronald, speed! when Thou art gone
Is time enough to grieve!”
Upon the summer air,
Ring softly, for the bridal dawn
O'er Heaven is breaking fair,
The bride is blushing like a rose
And the wedding guests are there;
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Is feasting high and free,
Thrice welcome all that will to share
Its cheer and revelry:
“There is no hand like Ronald's,”
So sang the minstrels all,
“There is no eye like Ronald's
To light up bower or hall;
There is no smile like Ronald's
Though now it is not gay,
The sunshine will be off our souls
When once it is away;
Strike high the merry harps; let none
Undrained the wine-cup leave;
Speed, Ronald, speed! when Thou art gone
Is time enough to grieve!”
“There is no smile like Ronald's,”
The truest, tenderest heart
That keenest feels the wound, can still
The best abide the smart;
There is no smile like Ronald's,
Although his lip be wan,—
Slow spake the Priest, “Who giveth now
This woman to this man?”
“I,” said Lord Ronald, in his own
Her lily hand he took
But let it fall again, it seemed
As then his spirit shook
'Twixt life and death, so wild his eye,
So ashen grew his look;
“Look to the noble Ronald,
He falls;” but swift and fain
The quick blood mustered to his cheek,
“'Twas but a sudden pain”
He said, and slowly raised his hand
To take the Bride's again;
But in the set, stern tones, that none
May hear and disallow,
Broke Henry in “Forbear, let all
Withdraw—sweet bride and thou—
This is no place for thee! look well
Unto her;” with a sign
He bade them hence; “Now, Brother, none
Betwixt my soul and thine
Shall come but God! the dead beneath,
The holy Heavens above,
These will not come to trouble truth
Or stand between our Love;
Take back thy fatal gift! for me
All joy in it is lost;
The price of blood is on it, now
That I have learnt its cost!
I would not seek to build my bower
With wrecks of ocean wave,
Or wear upon my breast the flower
That grew upon a grave;
Take back thy fatal gift; for me
More cold than spectre-kiss
Would ever come the thought of thee
Betwixt me and my bliss;
Would, brother, that thy soul had dealt
More true with mine in this!
I never sought for Sybil's love,
My own was still unspoken,
It asked not, gave not, ever sign
In word, or outward token,
Until thou saidest “She is thine.”
Then all at once the strife
Was over, and at last it breathed
The happy breath of life;
My heart was fond and credulous,
Thy light words made it err,
Fool, fool, to deem that any thus
Unmoved, could part with her!
Still “Ronald of the open hand”
Thy vassals cry with pride,
Let them not say, “He gave away
All, even to his Bride.”
Let me go to the wars, if thus
I may my spirit shrive
Of having pained the noblest heart,
The truest one alive!”
The truest, tenderest heart
That keenest feels the wound, can still
The best abide the smart;
There is no smile like Ronald's,
Although his lip be wan,—
Slow spake the Priest, “Who giveth now
This woman to this man?”
“I,” said Lord Ronald, in his own
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But let it fall again, it seemed
As then his spirit shook
'Twixt life and death, so wild his eye,
So ashen grew his look;
“Look to the noble Ronald,
He falls;” but swift and fain
The quick blood mustered to his cheek,
“'Twas but a sudden pain”
He said, and slowly raised his hand
To take the Bride's again;
But in the set, stern tones, that none
May hear and disallow,
Broke Henry in “Forbear, let all
Withdraw—sweet bride and thou—
This is no place for thee! look well
Unto her;” with a sign
He bade them hence; “Now, Brother, none
Betwixt my soul and thine
Shall come but God! the dead beneath,
The holy Heavens above,
These will not come to trouble truth
Or stand between our Love;
Take back thy fatal gift! for me
All joy in it is lost;
The price of blood is on it, now
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I would not seek to build my bower
With wrecks of ocean wave,
Or wear upon my breast the flower
That grew upon a grave;
Take back thy fatal gift; for me
More cold than spectre-kiss
Would ever come the thought of thee
Betwixt me and my bliss;
Would, brother, that thy soul had dealt
More true with mine in this!
I never sought for Sybil's love,
My own was still unspoken,
It asked not, gave not, ever sign
In word, or outward token,
Until thou saidest “She is thine.”
Then all at once the strife
Was over, and at last it breathed
The happy breath of life;
My heart was fond and credulous,
Thy light words made it err,
Fool, fool, to deem that any thus
Unmoved, could part with her!
Still “Ronald of the open hand”
Thy vassals cry with pride,
Let them not say, “He gave away
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Let me go to the wars, if thus
I may my spirit shrive
Of having pained the noblest heart,
The truest one alive!”
Then Ronald strained him to his breast,
And from his clear blue eye
There looked a light that told of rest
That comes through mastery;
And on his lip there was a smile,
And in his voice a tone
That was not joy, yet something more
Than it hath ever known;
“Grieve not for me, dear brother, would
That now my lip could drain
For ever from thy earthly cup
The lingering taste of pain;
Yet weak is mortal power to bless,
Though strong is human love;
The gifts that have no bitterness
Are only from above!
Grieve not for hurt of mine; I find
Thy brother-heart was true,
The poison now is drawn, the wound
Will not bleed forth anew;
Two are there I have loved on earth,
They love me, they are blest;
Still, still unto myself I keep
The thing I prize the best!”
And from his clear blue eye
There looked a light that told of rest
That comes through mastery;
And on his lip there was a smile,
And in his voice a tone
That was not joy, yet something more
Than it hath ever known;
“Grieve not for me, dear brother, would
That now my lip could drain
For ever from thy earthly cup
The lingering taste of pain;
Yet weak is mortal power to bless,
Though strong is human love;
The gifts that have no bitterness
Are only from above!
Grieve not for hurt of mine; I find
Thy brother-heart was true,
The poison now is drawn, the wound
Will not bleed forth anew;
164
They love me, they are blest;
Still, still unto myself I keep
The thing I prize the best!”
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