The coming of love :: :: University of Virginia Library

(Percy, on the anniversary of the mysterious disappearance of Rhona, stands in the mouth of his solitary tent in Gypsy Dell. He looks towards the spire of Rington Church in the distance, over which the dawn is gradually brightening into a gorgeous sunrise.)

Death's year has passed: again the new-mown hay,
As on that night, perfumes the Dell—that night

Whose darkness seemed more dear than Eden-light—
Fragrant of Love's warm wings and Love's warm breath—
Where here I left her doomed to treacherous death
By Romany guile that lured me far away;
'Twas here—where petals of the morn are cast
'Mid Night's wild phantoms from the spectral past—
'Twas here she made the vow I smiled at then
To show her face some morn when hill and glen
Took the first kiss of Day.

But now—not all the starry Virtues seven
Seem strong as she, nor Time, nor Death, nor Night.

And morning says, “Love hath such godlike might
That if the sun, the moon, and all the stars,
Nay, all the spheral spirits who guide their cars,
Were quelled by Doom, Love's high-creative leaven
Could light new worlds.” If, then, this Lord of Fate,
When Death calls in the stars, can re-create,
Is it a madman's dream that Love can show
Rhona, my Rhona, in yon ruby glow,
And build again my heaven?

“The birds,” she said, “they knows us Romany chies

Gypsy girls.

—
Leaseways the gypsy-magpie

Water-wagtail.

an the jay—
They knows the Romany tongue—yis, all we say:

So, if the Hernes should do away wi' me
'Cause o' the Scollard's death, the birds will see
An' tell the flowers where Rhona's body lies.
The Scollard's strong to strive wi' now he's dead:
Outside the tent o' nights I hear his tread.
You mind them stars a-shinin in the river
That seemed a snake o' fire? I see'd you shiver:
It had the Scollard's eyes!

But when I'm dead, the Golden Hand o' Love
Will shine some day where mists o' mornin swim;
Me too you'll see, dear, when the sun's red rim
Peeps through the Rookery boughs by Rington spire,

And makes the wet leaves wink like stars o' fire;
Then, when the skylark wakes the thrush and dove,
An' squrrels jump, an' rabbits scrabble roun',
An' hares cock up their ears a-shinin brown,
An' grass an' blossoms mix their mornin smells
Wi' Dingle songs from all the chirikels

Birds.

,
You'll see me there above.”

I think 'twas here—though now I know not whether
Dead joy or living sorrow be the dream—
In this same tent—round which the branches seem
To stir their whispering leaves as if to tell
The morn the dreadful secret of the Dell—
I think 'twas here we lived that life together.

(A shape that at one moment seems like a hand, and then a feather of gold, appears in the eastern clouds near the brightening wings of the Spirit of the Sunrise.)

My senses mock me: these mad eyes behold
What seems a hand, a mystic hand of gold,
Traced on the steaming canvas of the mist,
Gilding the woof of pearl and amethyst—
A hand or golden feather.

(Beside the Golden Hand Rhona's face appears.)

Is that a picture in a madman's eye?
Or is it Memory, like a mocking elf,
Weaving Hope's tapestry to cheat herself?
Or does great Nature, she who garners all
The fleeting pictures Time can limn, recall
The face of her the Romanies doomed to die?
Or is there glowing a face from brow to chin
Where yonder wings of morn are widening thin,

Her very face, her throat, her dimpling cheek,
Her mouth—the mouth that love first taught to speak—
Smiling, “'Tis I, 'tis I”?

THE LARK RISING FROM THE HAY-FIELD.

Birds of the Dell, the veils of morn are shaking!
And see the face of her, ye loving birds,
Who knew your songs—who gave them human words
In those sweet mornings when her breath would mingle
With breath of flowers, and all the dewy Dingle
Greeted the Spirit of the Sunrise waking;
Ye birds who saw her buried—ye who know
But cannot utter where she lies below—
Can never tell yon mourner, for the spell

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The monstrous deed hath cast about the Dell—
The man whose heart is breaking!

THE BIRDS OF THE DINGLE.

She keeps her promise, she who made the vow
No Romany law, no Romany guile, should ever
Divide their lives, nor Death's fell malice sever
The chain the sunrise forged 'twixt her and him;
She keeps her promise: see, through mists that swim,
Those eyes are hers—that brow is Rhona's brow—
Rhona's, who vowed to show the dukkeripen

Symbol.

Of Hope, the Golden Hand of promise, when

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Fate should fulfil the prophet-river's warning—
Vowed she would gaze from ruby domes of morning;
She keeps her promise now.

THE SPIRIT OF THE SUNRISE.

Though Love be mocked by Death's obscene derision,
Love still is Nature's truth and Death her lie;
Yet hard it is to see the dear flesh die,
To taste the fell destroyer's crowning spite
That blasts the soul with life's most cruel sight,
Corruption's hand at work in Life's transition:
This sight was spared thee: thou shalt still retain
Her body's image pictured in thy brain;

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The flowers above her weave the only shroud
Thine eye shall see: no stain of Death shall cloud
Rhona! Behold the vision!
PERCY.
As on that morn when round our bridal pillow
The sunrise came and you cried: “Smell the whin!”
And oped the tent to let the fragrance in,
Yon clouds—like molten metal, boiling brass,
Brightening to gold—are crested as they pass
With Love's own fire!—And while each gleaming billow
Rolls o'er the Dell, 'tis Love's own hand that launches
The self-same promise through the self-same branches—

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The promise of the Sunrise!—Oak and ash
And birch and elm and thorn pass on the flash
Down to the river-willow!