The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti Edited with Preface and Notes by William M. Rossetti: Revised and Enlarged Edition |
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 | The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti |  |
520
III. PART III
All trembling had the parents heard
Death by their daughter thus preferr'd
With a language so very marvellous
(Surely no child reasoneth thus),
Whose words between her lips made stir,
As though the Spirit were poured on her
Which giveth knowledge of tongues unknown.
So strange was every word and tone,
They knew not how they might answer it,
Except by striving to submit
To Him Who had made the child's heart rife
With the love of death and the scorn of life.
Therefore they said, silently still,
“All-perfect One, it is Thy will.”
With fear and doubt's most bitter ban
They were a-cold; so the poor man
And the poor woman sat alway
In their bed, without yea or nay.
Ever alack! they had no speech
The new dawn of their thought to reach.
With a wild sorrow unrepress'd
The mother caught the child to her breast;
But the father after long interval
Said, though his soul smote him withal,
“Daughter, if God is in thine heart,
Heed not our grieving, but depart.”
Death by their daughter thus preferr'd
With a language so very marvellous
(Surely no child reasoneth thus),
Whose words between her lips made stir,
As though the Spirit were poured on her
Which giveth knowledge of tongues unknown.
So strange was every word and tone,
They knew not how they might answer it,
Except by striving to submit
To Him Who had made the child's heart rife
With the love of death and the scorn of life.
Therefore they said, silently still,
“All-perfect One, it is Thy will.”
With fear and doubt's most bitter ban
They were a-cold; so the poor man
And the poor woman sat alway
In their bed, without yea or nay.
Ever alack! they had no speech
The new dawn of their thought to reach.
With a wild sorrow unrepress'd
The mother caught the child to her breast;
But the father after long interval
Said, though his soul smote him withal,
“Daughter, if God is in thine heart,
Heed not our grieving, but depart.”
Then the sweet maid smiled quietly;
And soon i'the morning hastened she
To the room where the sick man slept.
Up to his bed she softly stepp'd,
Saying, “Do you sleep, my dear lord?”
And soon i'the morning hastened she
To the room where the sick man slept.
Up to his bed she softly stepp'd,
Saying, “Do you sleep, my dear lord?”
“No, little wife,” was his first word,
“But why art thou so early to-day?”
“But why art thou so early to-day?”
“Grief made that I could not keep away—
The great grief that I have for you.”
The great grief that I have for you.”
“God be with thee, faithful and true!
Often to ease my suffering
Thou hast done many a gracious thing.
But it lasteth; it shall be always so.”
Often to ease my suffering
Thou hast done many a gracious thing.
But it lasteth; it shall be always so.”
Then said the girl: “On my troth, no!
Take courage and comfort; it will turn,
The fire that in your flesh doth burn
One means, you know, would quench at once.
My mind climbs to conclusions.
Not a day will I make delay,
Now I am 'ware of the one way.
Dear lord, I have heard yourself expound
How, if only a maiden could be found
To lose her life for you willingly,
From all your pains you might yet be free.
God He knoweth, I will do this:
My worth is not as yours, I wis.”
Wondering and sore astonièd,
The poor sick man looked at the maid,
Whose face smiled down unto his face,
While the tears gave each other chase
Over his cheeks from his weary eyes,
Till he made answer in this wise:—
“Trust me, this death is not, my child,
So tender a trouble and so mild
As thou, in thy reckoning, reckonest.
Thou didst keep madness from my breast,
And help me when other help was none:
I thank thee for all that thou hast done.
(May God unto thee be merciful
For thy tenderness in the day of dule!)
I know thy mind, childlike and chaste,
And the innocent spirit that thou hast;
But nothing more will I ask of thee
Than thou without wrong mayst do for me.
Long ago have I given up
The strife for deliverance and the hope;
So that now in thy faithfulness
I pleasure me with a soul at peace,
Wishing not thy sweet life withdrawn
Sith my own life I have foregone.
Too suddenly, little wife, beside,
Like a child's, doth thine heart decide
On this which hath enter'd into it,—
Unsure if thou shalt have benefit.
In little space sore were thy case
If once with Death thou wert face to face;
And heavy and dark would the thing seem
Which thou hast desirèd in thy dream.
Therefore, good child, go in again:
Soon, I know, thou wilt count as vain
This thing to which thy mind is wrought,
When once thou hast ponder'd in thy thought
How hard a thing it is to remove
From the world and from the home of one's love.
And think too what a grievous smart
Hereby must come to thy parents' heart,
And how bitter to them would be the stroke.
Shall I bring this thing on the honest folk
By whose pity my woes have been beguiled?
To thy parents' counselling, my child,
For evermore look that thou incline:
So sorrow of heart shall not be thine.”
Take courage and comfort; it will turn,
The fire that in your flesh doth burn
One means, you know, would quench at once.
My mind climbs to conclusions.
Not a day will I make delay,
Now I am 'ware of the one way.
Dear lord, I have heard yourself expound
How, if only a maiden could be found
To lose her life for you willingly,
From all your pains you might yet be free.
God He knoweth, I will do this:
My worth is not as yours, I wis.”
521
The poor sick man looked at the maid,
Whose face smiled down unto his face,
While the tears gave each other chase
Over his cheeks from his weary eyes,
Till he made answer in this wise:—
“Trust me, this death is not, my child,
So tender a trouble and so mild
As thou, in thy reckoning, reckonest.
Thou didst keep madness from my breast,
And help me when other help was none:
I thank thee for all that thou hast done.
(May God unto thee be merciful
For thy tenderness in the day of dule!)
I know thy mind, childlike and chaste,
And the innocent spirit that thou hast;
But nothing more will I ask of thee
Than thou without wrong mayst do for me.
Long ago have I given up
The strife for deliverance and the hope;
So that now in thy faithfulness
I pleasure me with a soul at peace,
Wishing not thy sweet life withdrawn
Sith my own life I have foregone.
Too suddenly, little wife, beside,
Like a child's, doth thine heart decide
On this which hath enter'd into it,—
Unsure if thou shalt have benefit.
In little space sore were thy case
If once with Death thou wert face to face;
And heavy and dark would the thing seem
Which thou hast desirèd in thy dream.
Therefore, good child, go in again:
Soon, I know, thou wilt count as vain
This thing to which thy mind is wrought,
When once thou hast ponder'd in thy thought
How hard a thing it is to remove
From the world and from the home of one's love.
And think too what a grievous smart
Hereby must come to thy parents' heart,
And how bitter to them would be the stroke.
Shall I bring this thing on the honest folk
By whose pity my woes have been beguiled?
To thy parents' counselling, my child,
For evermore look that thou incline:
So sorrow of heart shall not be thine.”
When thus he had answer'd tenderly,
Forth came the parents, who hard by
Had hearken'd to the speech that he spake.
Forth came the parents, who hard by
Had hearken'd to the speech that he spake.
Albeit his heart was nigh to break
With the load under which it bow'd,
The father spake these words aloud:
“God knows,” said he, “we do willingly,
Dear master, aught that may vantage thee
Who hast been so good to us and so kind.
If God have in very truth design'd
That this young child should for thee atone,—
Then, being God's will, let it be done.
Yea, through His power she hath been brought
To count the years of her youth for nought;
And by no childish whim is she led
To her grave, as thou hast imaginèd.
To-day, alack! is the third day
That with prayers we might not put away
She hath sorely entreated us that we
Would grant her the grace to die for thee.
By her words exceeding wonderful,
Our sharp resistance hath waxed dull,
Till now we may no longer dare
To pause from the granting of her prayer.”
With the load under which it bow'd,
The father spake these words aloud:
“God knows,” said he, “we do willingly,
Dear master, aught that may vantage thee
Who hast been so good to us and so kind.
If God have in very truth design'd
That this young child should for thee atone,—
Then, being God's will, let it be done.
522
To count the years of her youth for nought;
And by no childish whim is she led
To her grave, as thou hast imaginèd.
To-day, alack! is the third day
That with prayers we might not put away
She hath sorely entreated us that we
Would grant her the grace to die for thee.
By her words exceeding wonderful,
Our sharp resistance hath waxed dull,
Till now we may no longer dare
To pause from the granting of her prayer.”
When the sick man thus found that each
Spoke with good faith the selfsame speech,
And that in earnest the young maid
Proffered her life for his body's aid,—
There rose, the little room within,
Of sobbing and sorrow a great din,
And a strange dispute, that side and this,
In manner as there seldom is.
The Earl, at length winning unto
The means of health, raised much ado,
Loudly lamenting that his cure
From sickness should be thus made sure.
The parents grieved with a bitter woe
That their dear child should leave them so,
While yet they pray'd of him constantly
To grant her prayer that she should die.
And she meanwhile whose life-long years
It was to cost, shed sorrowful tears
For dread lest he whom she would save
Should deny to her the boon of the grave.
Spoke with good faith the selfsame speech,
And that in earnest the young maid
Proffered her life for his body's aid,—
There rose, the little room within,
Of sobbing and sorrow a great din,
And a strange dispute, that side and this,
In manner as there seldom is.
The Earl, at length winning unto
The means of health, raised much ado,
Loudly lamenting that his cure
From sickness should be thus made sure.
The parents grieved with a bitter woe
That their dear child should leave them so,
While yet they pray'd of him constantly
To grant her prayer that she should die.
And she meanwhile whose life-long years
It was to cost, shed sorrowful tears
For dread lest he whom she would save
Should deny to her the boon of the grave.
Thus they who, in pure faith's control
And in the strength of a godly soul,
Vied one with the other, sat there now,
Their eyes all wet with the bitter flow,
Each urging of what he had to say,
None yielding at all, nor giving way.
The sick man sat in thought a space,
Between his hands bowing his face,
While the others, with supplicating tone,
Softly besought him one by one.
Then his head at last he lifted up,
And let his tears fall without stop,
And said finally: “So let it be.
Shall I, who am one, stand against three?
Now know I surely that God's word,
Which speaks in silence, ye have heard;
And that this thing must be very fit,
And even as God hath appointed it.
He, seeing my heart, doth read thereon
That I yield but to Him alone,—
Not to the wish that for my sake
Her grave this gracious child should make.”
And in the strength of a godly soul,
Vied one with the other, sat there now,
Their eyes all wet with the bitter flow,
Each urging of what he had to say,
None yielding at all, nor giving way.
The sick man sat in thought a space,
Between his hands bowing his face,
While the others, with supplicating tone,
Softly besought him one by one.
Then his head at last he lifted up,
And let his tears fall without stop,
And said finally: “So let it be.
Shall I, who am one, stand against three?
Now know I surely that God's word,
Which speaks in silence, ye have heard;
And that this thing must be very fit,
And even as God hath appointed it.
He, seeing my heart, doth read thereon
That I yield but to Him alone,—
Not to the wish that for my sake
Her grave this gracious child should make.”
Then the maid sprang to him full fain,
As though she had gotten a great gain;
And both his feet clasp'd and would kiss,—
Not for sorrow sobbing now, but for bliss:
The while her sorrowing parents went
Forth from that room to make lament,
And weep apart for the heavy load
Which yet they knew was the will of God.
As though she had gotten a great gain;
523
Not for sorrow sobbing now, but for bliss:
The while her sorrowing parents went
Forth from that room to make lament,
And weep apart for the heavy load
Which yet they knew was the will of God.
Then a kirtle was given unto the maid,
Broider'd all with the silken braid,
Such as never before she had put on;
With sables the border was bedone,
And with jewels bound about and around:
On her so fair they were fairer found
Than song of mine can make discourse.
And they mounted her on a goodly horse:
That horse was to carry her very far,—
Even to the place where the dead are.
Broider'd all with the silken braid,
Such as never before she had put on;
With sables the border was bedone,
And with jewels bound about and around:
On her so fair they were fairer found
Than song of mine can make discourse.
And they mounted her on a goodly horse:
That horse was to carry her very far,—
Even to the place where the dead are.
In the taking of these gifts she smil'd.
Not any longer a silly child
She seemed, but a worshipful damozel,
Well begotten and nurtured well.
And her face had a quiet earnestness;
And while she made ready, none the less
Did she comfort the trouble-stricken pair,
Who in awestruck wise looked on her there,
As a saintly being superior
And no daughter unto them any more.
Not any longer a silly child
She seemed, but a worshipful damozel,
Well begotten and nurtured well.
And her face had a quiet earnestness;
And while she made ready, none the less
Did she comfort the trouble-stricken pair,
Who in awestruck wise looked on her there,
As a saintly being superior
And no daughter unto them any more.
Yet when the bitter moment came
Wherein their child must depart from them,
In sooth it was hard to separate.
The mother's grief was heavy and great,
Seeing that child lost to her, whom,
Years since, she had carried in her womb.
And the father was sorely shaken too,
Now nought remained but to bid adieu
To that young life, full of the spring,
Which must wither before the blossoming.
Wherein their child must depart from them,
In sooth it was hard to separate.
The mother's grief was heavy and great,
Seeing that child lost to her, whom,
Years since, she had carried in her womb.
And the father was sorely shaken too,
Now nought remained but to bid adieu
To that young life, full of the spring,
Which must wither before the blossoming.
What made the twain more strong at length
Was the young girl's wonderful strength,
Whose calm look and whose gentle word
Blunted the sharp point of the sword.
With her mouth she was eloquent,
As if to her ear an angel bent,
Whispering her that she might say
The word which wipes all tears away.
Thus, with her parents' benison
Upon her head, forth is she gone:—
She is gone forth like to a bride,
Lifted and inwardly glorified;
She seemed not as one that journeyeth
To the door of the house of death.
Was the young girl's wonderful strength,
Whose calm look and whose gentle word
Blunted the sharp point of the sword.
With her mouth she was eloquent,
As if to her ear an angel bent,
Whispering her that she might say
The word which wipes all tears away.
Thus, with her parents' benison
Upon her head, forth is she gone:—
She is gone forth like to a bride,
Lifted and inwardly glorified;
She seemed not as one that journeyeth
To the door of the house of death.
So they rode without stop or turn
By the paths that take unto Salerne.
Lo! he is riding to new life
Whose countenance is laden and rife
With sorrow and care and great dismay.
But for her who rides the charnel-way—
Oh! up in her eyes sits the bright look
Which tells of a joy without rebuke.
With friendly speech, with cheerful jest,
She toils to give his sorrow rest,
To lighten the heavy time for him,
And shorten the road that was long and grim.
By the paths that take unto Salerne.
Lo! he is riding to new life
Whose countenance is laden and rife
With sorrow and care and great dismay.
But for her who rides the charnel-way—
524
Which tells of a joy without rebuke.
With friendly speech, with cheerful jest,
She toils to give his sorrow rest,
To lighten the heavy time for him,
And shorten the road that was long and grim.
Thus on their way they still did wend
Till they were come to their journey's end.
Then prayed she of him that they might reach
That day the dwelling of the wise leach
Who had shown how his ill might be allay'd.
Till they were come to their journey's end.
Then prayed she of him that they might reach
That day the dwelling of the wise leach
Who had shown how his ill might be allay'd.
And it was done even as she said.
His arm in hers, went the sick man
Unto the great physician,
And brought again to his mind the thing
Whereof they had erst made questioning.
“This maid,” he said, “holds purpose now
To work my cure, as thy speech did show.”
His arm in hers, went the sick man
Unto the great physician,
And brought again to his mind the thing
Whereof they had erst made questioning.
“This maid,” he said, “holds purpose now
To work my cure, as thy speech did show.”
But the leach held silence, as one doth
Whose heart to believe is well-nigh loth,
Even though his eyes witness a thing.
At length he said: “By whose counselling
Comes this, my child? Hast thou thought well
On that whereof this lord doth tell,
Or art thou led perforce thereto?”
Whose heart to believe is well-nigh loth,
Even though his eyes witness a thing.
At length he said: “By whose counselling
Comes this, my child? Hast thou thought well
On that whereof this lord doth tell,
Or art thou led perforce thereto?”
“Nay,” quoth the maid, “that which I do,
I do willingly; none persuadeth me;
It is, because I choose it should be.”
I do willingly; none persuadeth me;
It is, because I choose it should be.”
He took her hand, silently all,
And led her through a door in the wall
Into another room that was there,
Wherein he was quite alone with her.
Then thus: “Thou poor ill-guided child,
What is it that maketh thee so wild,
Thy short life and thy little breath
Suddenly to yield up to death?
An thou art constrain'd, e'en say 'tis so,
And I swear to thee thou art free to go.
Remember this—how that thy blood
Unto the Earl can bring no good
If thou sheddest it with an inward strife.
Vain it were to bleed out thy life,
If still, when the whole hath come to pass,
Thy lord should be even as he was.
Bethink thee—and consider thereof—
How the pains thou tempt'st are hard and rough.
First, with thy limbs naked and bare
Before mine eyes thou must appear,—
So needs shall thy maiden shame be sore:
Yet still must the woe be more and more,
What time thou art bound by heel and arm,
And with sharp hurt and with grievous harm
I cut from out thy breast the part
That is most alive—even thine heart.
With thine eyes thou shalt surely see
The knife ere it enter into thee,—
Thou shalt feel worse than death's worst sting
Ere the heart be drawn forth quivering.
How deemest thou? Canst thou suffer this?
Alack, poor wretch! there is dreadfulness
Even in the thought. If only once
Thou do blench or shrink when the blood runs—
If thou do repent but by an hair,—
It is bootless all,—in vain the care,
In vain the scathe, in vain the death.
Now what is the word thy free choice saith?”
And led her through a door in the wall
Into another room that was there,
Wherein he was quite alone with her.
Then thus: “Thou poor ill-guided child,
What is it that maketh thee so wild,
Thy short life and thy little breath
Suddenly to yield up to death?
An thou art constrain'd, e'en say 'tis so,
And I swear to thee thou art free to go.
Remember this—how that thy blood
Unto the Earl can bring no good
If thou sheddest it with an inward strife.
Vain it were to bleed out thy life,
If still, when the whole hath come to pass,
Thy lord should be even as he was.
Bethink thee—and consider thereof—
How the pains thou tempt'st are hard and rough.
First, with thy limbs naked and bare
Before mine eyes thou must appear,—
So needs shall thy maiden shame be sore:
Yet still must the woe be more and more,
What time thou art bound by heel and arm,
And with sharp hurt and with grievous harm
I cut from out thy breast the part
That is most alive—even thine heart.
525
The knife ere it enter into thee,—
Thou shalt feel worse than death's worst sting
Ere the heart be drawn forth quivering.
How deemest thou? Canst thou suffer this?
Alack, poor wretch! there is dreadfulness
Even in the thought. If only once
Thou do blench or shrink when the blood runs—
If thou do repent but by an hair,—
It is bootless all,—in vain the care,
In vain the scathe, in vain the death.
Now what is the word thy free choice saith?”
She look'd at him as at a friend,
And answer'd: “Sir, unto that end—
To wit, my choice—I had ponder'd hard
Long ere I was borne hitherward.
I thank you, sir, that of your heart's ruth
You have warn'd me thus; and of a truth,
By all the words that you have said
I well might feel dispirited,—
The more that even yourself, meseems,
Are frightened by these idle dreams
From the work you should perform for the Earl.
Oh! it might hardly grace a girl
Such cowardly reasoning to use!
Pardon me, sir; I cannot choose
But laugh, that you, with your mastership,
Should have a courage less firm and deep
Than a pitiful maiden without lore
Whose life even now ends and is o'er.
The part that is yours dare but to do,—
As for me, I have trust to undergo.
Methinks the dule and the drearihead
You tell me of, must be sharp indeed,
Sith the mere thought is so troublesome.
Believe me, I never should have come,
Had I not known of myself alone
What the thing was to be undergone,—
Were I not sure that, abash'd no whit,
This soul of mine could be through with it.
Yea, verily, by your sorrowing,
My poor heart's courage you can bring
Just to such sorrowful circumstance
As though I were going to the dance.
Worshipful sir, there nothing is
That can last alway without cease,—
Nought that one day's remitted doom
Can save the feeble body from.
Thus then, you see, it is cheerfully
That I do all this; and that while he
My lord, you willing, shall not die,
The endless life shall be mine thereby.
Resolve you, and so it shall be said
That the fame you have is well merited.
This brings me joy that I undertake,
Even for my dear kind master's sake,
And for what we two shall gain also,—
I, there above,—and you, here below.
Sir, inasmuch as the work is hard,
So much the more is our great reward.”
And answer'd: “Sir, unto that end—
To wit, my choice—I had ponder'd hard
Long ere I was borne hitherward.
I thank you, sir, that of your heart's ruth
You have warn'd me thus; and of a truth,
By all the words that you have said
I well might feel dispirited,—
The more that even yourself, meseems,
Are frightened by these idle dreams
From the work you should perform for the Earl.
Oh! it might hardly grace a girl
Such cowardly reasoning to use!
Pardon me, sir; I cannot choose
But laugh, that you, with your mastership,
Should have a courage less firm and deep
Than a pitiful maiden without lore
Whose life even now ends and is o'er.
The part that is yours dare but to do,—
As for me, I have trust to undergo.
Methinks the dule and the drearihead
You tell me of, must be sharp indeed,
Sith the mere thought is so troublesome.
Believe me, I never should have come,
Had I not known of myself alone
What the thing was to be undergone,—
Were I not sure that, abash'd no whit,
This soul of mine could be through with it.
Yea, verily, by your sorrowing,
My poor heart's courage you can bring
Just to such sorrowful circumstance
As though I were going to the dance.
Worshipful sir, there nothing is
That can last alway without cease,—
Nought that one day's remitted doom
Can save the feeble body from.
Thus then, you see, it is cheerfully
That I do all this; and that while he
My lord, you willing, shall not die,
The endless life shall be mine thereby.
Resolve you, and so it shall be said
That the fame you have is well merited.
This brings me joy that I undertake,
Even for my dear kind master's sake,
And for what we two shall gain also,—
I, there above,—and you, here below.
Sir, inasmuch as the work is hard,
So much the more is our great reward.”
526
Then the leach said nothing, but was dumb;
And, marvelling much, he sought the room
Where the sick man sat in expectancy.
And, marvelling much, he sought the room
Where the sick man sat in expectancy.
“New courage may be yours,” quoth he;
“For your sake she casts her life behind,
Not from empty fantasy of the mind;
And the parting of her body and soul
Shall cleanse your limbs and make you whole.”
But Henry was full of troublous thought;
Peradventure he hearken'd not,
For he answer'd not that which was sain.
So the leach turn'd, and went out again.
“For your sake she casts her life behind,
Not from empty fantasy of the mind;
And the parting of her body and soul
Shall cleanse your limbs and make you whole.”
But Henry was full of troublous thought;
Peradventure he hearken'd not,
For he answer'd not that which was sain.
So the leach turn'd, and went out again.
Again to the maid did he repair,
And straightway lock'd the doors with care,
That Henry might not see or know
What she for his sake must undergo.
And the leach said, “Take thy raiment off.”
Then was her heart joyous enough,
And she obey'd, and in little space
Stood up before the old man's face
As naked as God had fashion'd her:
Only her innocence clothèd her:
She fear'd not, and was not asham'd,
In the sight of God standing unblamed,
To whom her dear life without price
She offered up for a sacrifice.
And straightway lock'd the doors with care,
That Henry might not see or know
What she for his sake must undergo.
And the leach said, “Take thy raiment off.”
Then was her heart joyous enough,
And she obey'd, and in little space
Stood up before the old man's face
As naked as God had fashion'd her:
Only her innocence clothèd her:
She fear'd not, and was not asham'd,
In the sight of God standing unblamed,
To whom her dear life without price
She offered up for a sacrifice.
When thus she was beheld of the leach,
His soul spake with an inward speech,
Saying that beauty so excellent
Had scarce been known since the world went.
And he conceived for the poor thing
Such an unspeakable pitying,
And such a fear on his purpose lit,
That he scarce dared to accomplish it.
Slowly he gave her his command
To lie down on a table hard at hand,
To the which he bound her with strong cords:
Then he reach'd his hand forth afterwards,
And took a broad long knife, and tried
The edge of the same on either side.
It was sharp, yet not as it should be
(He looked to its sharpness heedfully,—
Having sore grief for the piteous scathe,
And desiring to shorten her death).
Therefore it was he took a stone,
And ground the knife finely thereon.
His soul spake with an inward speech,
Saying that beauty so excellent
Had scarce been known since the world went.
And he conceived for the poor thing
Such an unspeakable pitying,
And such a fear on his purpose lit,
That he scarce dared to accomplish it.
Slowly he gave her his command
To lie down on a table hard at hand,
To the which he bound her with strong cords:
Then he reach'd his hand forth afterwards,
And took a broad long knife, and tried
The edge of the same on either side.
It was sharp, yet not as it should be
(He looked to its sharpness heedfully,—
Having sore grief for the piteous scathe,
And desiring to shorten her death).
Therefore it was he took a stone,
And ground the knife finely thereon.
Earl Henry heard in bitterest woe
The blade, a-whetting, come and go.
Forward he sprang; a sudden start
Of grief for the maid struck to his heart.
He thought what a peerless soul she bore,—
And made a great haste unto the door,
And would have gone in, but it was shut.
Then his eyes burn'd, as he stood without,
In scalding tears; transfigurèd
He felt himself; and in the stead
Of his feebleness there was mightiness.
“Shall she,” he thought, “who my life doth bless,—
The gracious, righteous, virtuous maid,—
To this end be thrust down to the shade?
Wilt thou, thou fool, force the Most High,
That thy desire may come thereby?
Deem'st thou that any, for good or ill,
Can live but a day against His will?
And if by His will thou yet shalt live,
What more of help can her dying give?
Sith all then is as God ordereth,
Rest evermore in the hand of faith.
As in past time, anger not now
The All-powerful; seeing that thou
Canst anger Him only. 'Tis the ways
Of penitence lead unto grace.”
The blade, a-whetting, come and go.
Forward he sprang; a sudden start
Of grief for the maid struck to his heart.
He thought what a peerless soul she bore,—
And made a great haste unto the door,
And would have gone in, but it was shut.
Then his eyes burn'd, as he stood without,
In scalding tears; transfigurèd
He felt himself; and in the stead
527
“Shall she,” he thought, “who my life doth bless,—
The gracious, righteous, virtuous maid,—
To this end be thrust down to the shade?
Wilt thou, thou fool, force the Most High,
That thy desire may come thereby?
Deem'st thou that any, for good or ill,
Can live but a day against His will?
And if by His will thou yet shalt live,
What more of help can her dying give?
Sith all then is as God ordereth,
Rest evermore in the hand of faith.
As in past time, anger not now
The All-powerful; seeing that thou
Canst anger Him only. 'Tis the ways
Of penitence lead unto grace.”
He was determined immediately,
And smote on the door powerfully,
And cried to the leach, “Open to me!”
And smote on the door powerfully,
And cried to the leach, “Open to me!”
But the leach answer'd, “It may not be:
I have something of weight that I must do.”
I have something of weight that I must do.”
Then Henry urged back upon him, “No!
Come quickly, and open, and give o'er.”
Come quickly, and open, and give o'er.”
Quoth the other, “Say your say through the door.”
“Not so, not so; let me enter in:
It is my soul's rest I would win.”
It is my soul's rest I would win.”
Then the door drew back, widely and well;
And Henry look'd on the damozel,
Where she lay bound, body and limb,
Waiting Death's stroke, to conquer him.
And Henry look'd on the damozel,
Where she lay bound, body and limb,
Waiting Death's stroke, to conquer him.
“Hear me,” said he, “worshipful sir;
It is horrible thus to look on her:
Rather the burthen of God's might
I choose to suffer, than this sight.
What I have said, that will I give;
But let thou the brave maiden live.”
It is horrible thus to look on her:
Rather the burthen of God's might
I choose to suffer, than this sight.
What I have said, that will I give;
But let thou the brave maiden live.”
| The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti | |