The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti :: :: University of Virginia Library

When the maiden learn'd assuredly
That by that death she was not to die,
And when she was loosed from the strong bands,
A sore moan made she. With her hands
She rent her hair; and such were her tears
That it seem'd a great wrong had been hers.

“Woe worth the weary time!” she cried;
“There is no pity on any side.
Woe is me! It fades from my view—
The recompense I was chosen to,—

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The magnificent heaven-crown
I hoped with such a hope to put on.
Now it is I am truly dead,—
Now it is I am truly ruinèd.
Oh! shame and sorrowing on me,
And shame and sorrowing on thee,
Who the guerdon from my spirit hast riven,
And by whose hands I am snatch'd from Heaven!
Lo! he chooseth his own calamity,
That so my crown may be reft from me!”

Then with sharp prayer she pray'd them there
That still the death might be given her
For the which she had journey'd many a mile.
But being assured in a brief while
That the thing she sought would be denied,
She gazed with a piteous mien, and cried,
Rebuking her heart-beloved lord—
“Is all then lost that my soul implor'd?
How faint art thou, how little brave,
To load me with this load that I have!
How have I been cheated with lies,
And cozen'd with fair-seeming falsities!
They told me thou wast honest, and good,
And valiant, and full of noble blood,—
The which, so help me God! was false.
Thou art one the world strangely miscalls.
Thou art but a weak timorous man,
Whose soul, affrighted, fails to scan
The strength of a woman's sufferance.
Have I injured thee anyway, perchance?
Say, how didst thou hear, sitting without?
And yet meseems the wall was stout
Betwixt us. Nay, but thou must know
That it is to be—that it will be so.
Take heed—there is no second one
Who yet for thy life will lose her own.
Oh! turn to me and be pitiful,
And grudge not death to my poor soul!”

But though her sueing was hard and hot,
His firmness never fail'd him a jot;
So that at length, against her will,
She needs must end her cries and be still,—
Yielding her to the loath'd decree
That made her life a necessity.
Lord Henry to one will was wrought,
Fast settled in his steadfast thought:
He clothed her again with his own hand,
And again set forth to his native land,
Having given large reward to the leach.
He knew the shame and the evil speech
And the insult he must bear,—yet bow'd
Meekly thereto; knowing that God
Had will'd, in his regard, each thing
That wrought for him weal or suffering.

Thus by the damsel's help indeed
From a foul sickness he was freed,—
Not from his body's sore and smart,
But from hardness and stubbornness of heart.

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Then first was all that pride of his
Quite overthrown; a better bliss
Came to his soul and dwelt with him
Than the bliss he had in the first time,—
To wit, a blithe heart's priceless gain
That looks to God through the tears of pain.

But as they rode, the righteous maid
Mourn'd and might not be comforted.
Her soul was aghast, her heart was waste,
Her wits were all confused and displac'd:
Herseem'd that the leaning on God's might
Was turn'd for her to shame and despite:
So her pure heart ceased not to pray
That the woe she had might be ta'en away.

Thus came the girl and the sick wight
To an hostel at the fall of the night.
Each in a little chamber alone,
They watch'd till many hours were gone.
The nobleman gave thanks to God
Who had turn'd him from the profitless road,
And cleansed him, by care and suffering,
From his loftiness and vain-glorying.
The damsel went down on her knees
And spake to God such words as these,—
Why thus He had put aside, and left
Out of His grace, her and her gift,—
Seeing how she had nothing more
To give but her one life bare and poor.
She prayed: “Am I not good enough,
Thou Holy One, to partake thereof?
Then, O my God! cleanse Thou mine heart;
Let me not thus cease and depart:
Give me a sign, Father of mine,
That the absolving grace divine
By seeking may at length be found
While yet this earth shall hold me round.”

And God, who lifts souls from the dust,
Nor turns from the spirit that hath trust,
The same look'd down with looks unloth
On the troublesome sorrow of them both,
Both whose hearts and whose life-long days
He had won to Him for glory and praise,—
Who had passed through the fire and come forth
And proved themselves salvation-worth.
The Father—He who comforteth
His patient children that have faith—
At length released these steadfast ones
From their manifold tribulations.
In wondrous wise the Earl was stripp'd
Of all his sickness while he slept;
And when, as the sunrise smote his e'en,
He found him once more whole and clean,
He rose from his couch and sought the maid.

On the sight for which she long had pray'd,
She gazed and gazed some speechless space
And then knelt down with lifted face

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And said, “The Lord God hath done this:
His was the deed—the praise be His.
With solemn thinking let me take
The life which He hath given me back.”