LORD RONALD'S WIFE.
I.
Last night I toss'd upon my bed,
Because I knew that she was dead:
The curtains were white, the pane was blue,
The moon peep'd through,
And its eye was red—
‘I would that my love were awake!’ I said.
II.
Then I rose and the lamp of silver lit,
And over the rushes lightly stept,
Crept to the door and open'd it,
And enter'd the room where my lady slept;
And the silver lamp threw a feeble ray
Over the bed on which she lay,
And sparkled on her golden hair,
Smiled on her lip and melted there,
And I shudder'd because she look'd so fair;—
For the curtains were white and the pane was blue,
And the moon look'd through,
And its eye was red:
‘I will hold her hand, and think,’ I said.
III.
And at first I could not think at all,
Because her hand was so thin and cold;
The gray light flicker'd along the wall,
And I seem'd to be growing old;
I look'd in her face and could not weep,
I hated the sound of mine own deep breath,
Lest it should startle her from the sleep
That seem'd too sweet and mild for death.
I heard the far-off clock intone
So slowly, so slowly—
Afar across the courts of stone,
The black hound shook his chain with a moan,
As the village clock chimed slowly, slowly, slowly.
I pray'd that she might rise in bed,
And smile and say one little word,
‘I long to see her eyes!’ I said . .
I should have shriek'd if she had stirr'd.
IV.
I never sinn'd against thee, Sweet!
And yet last night, when none could see . .
I know not . . but from head to feet,
I seem'd one scar of infamy:
Perhaps because the fingers light
I held had grown so worn and white,
Perhaps because you look'd so fair,
With the thin gray light on your golden hair!
V.
You were warm, and I was cold,
Yet you loved me, little one, I knew—
I could not trifle—I was old—
I was wiser, carefuller, than you;
I liked my horse, I liked my hound,
I liked to hear the trumpet sound,
Over my wine I liked to chat,
But soberly, for I had mind:
You wanted that, and only that,
You were as light as is the wind.
At times, I know, it fretted me—
I chid thee mildly now and then—
No fault of mine—no blame to thee—
Women are women, men are men.
At first you smiled to see me frown,
And laughing leapt upon my knee,
And kiss'd the chiding shadow down,
And smooth'd my great beard merrily;
But then a change came o'er you, Sweet!
You walk'd about with pensive head;
You tried to read, and as you read
Patted your small impatient feet:—
‘She is wiser now!’ I smiling said . .
And ere I doubted—you were dead.
VI.
All this came back upon my brain
While I sat alone at your white bedside,
And I remember'd in my pain
Those words you spoke before you died—
For around my neck your arms you flung,
And smiled so sweet though death was near—
‘I was so foolish and so young!
And yet I loved thee!—kiss me, dear!’
I put aside your golden hair,
And kiss'd you, and you went to sleep
And when I saw that death was there,
My grief was cold, I could not weep;
And late last night, when you were dead,
I did not weep beside your bed,
For the curtains were white, and the pane was blue,
And the moon look'd through,
And its eye was red—
‘How coldly she lies!’ I said.
VII.
Then loud, so loud, before I knew,
The gray and black cock scream'd and crew,
And I heard the far-off bells intone
So slowly, so slowly,
The black hound bark'd, and I rose with a groan,
As the village bells chimed slowly, slowly, slowly.
I dropp'd the hand so cold and thin,
I gazed, and your face seem'd still and wise,
And I saw the damp dull dawn stare in
Like a dim drown'd face with oozy eyes;
And I open'd the lattice quietly,
And the cold wet air came in on me,
And I pluck'd two roses with fingers chill
From the roses that grew at your window-sill,
I pluck'd two roses, a white and a red,
Stole again to the side of your bed,
Raised the edge of your winding fold,
Dropp'd the roses upon your breast,
Cover'd them up in the balmy cold,
That none might know—and there they rest!
And out at the castle-gate I crept
Into the woods, and then . . I wept!
But to-day they carried you from here,
And I follow'd your coffin with tearless cheek—
They knew not about the roses, dear!—
I would not have them think me weak.
VIII.
And I am weary on my bed
Because I know you are cold and dead;
And I see you lie in darkness, Sweet!
With the roses under your winding-sheet;
The days and nights are dreary and cold,
And I am foolish, and weak, and old.
