 | Shamrocks |  |
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THE SICK PRINCESS.
She sickened first three years ago and more,
The Northland's Princess, whiter than its snows,
Lost peace and rest, and still the sickness grows;
Her hungry heart grows hungrier yet and sore.
Now she is walking up and down her bower,
With the unresting step her women fear,
And her unbound hair shimmering soft and clear,
Like sunset through a shower.
The Northland's Princess, whiter than its snows,
Lost peace and rest, and still the sickness grows;
Her hungry heart grows hungrier yet and sore.
Now she is walking up and down her bower,
With the unresting step her women fear,
And her unbound hair shimmering soft and clear,
Like sunset through a shower.
Outside the peacocks on the terraces
Flash to the sun their green and purple eyes,
And doves are wheeling, and the dragon-flies;
The garden all one bower of beauty is—
So still, so still, the sun dreams in the blue—
A midday silence brooding over all;
The city's bells sound faint and musical;
The leaves thirst for the dew
Flash to the sun their green and purple eyes,
And doves are wheeling, and the dragon-flies;
The garden all one bower of beauty is—
So still, so still, the sun dreams in the blue—
A midday silence brooding over all;
The city's bells sound faint and musical;
The leaves thirst for the dew
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The Roman de la Rose lies on the ground,
Face downward, as she cast it yesterday;
Her palfrey calls with far, impatient neigh;
Her hawk goes with his jesses still unbound,
Though kites fly low, and trembling doves are mute.
Her needle rusts in her embroidery;
Her half-done missal fades, her paints are dry;
The strings snap of her lute.
Face downward, as she cast it yesterday;
Her palfrey calls with far, impatient neigh;
Her hawk goes with his jesses still unbound,
Though kites fly low, and trembling doves are mute.
Her needle rusts in her embroidery;
Her half-done missal fades, her paints are dry;
The strings snap of her lute.
Her women whisper of her grief apart;
And Roland, her tall hound, with heavy sigh,
Licks her unheeding hand as she goes by;
She answers not; her eyes are with her heart
In distant lands. “O tarrying love,” she saith,
“O love, that only dreams have given to me,
Ride on, ride fast, lest one should outstrip thee,
Whose stately name is Death.”
And Roland, her tall hound, with heavy sigh,
Licks her unheeding hand as she goes by;
She answers not; her eyes are with her heart
In distant lands. “O tarrying love,” she saith,
“O love, that only dreams have given to me,
Ride on, ride fast, lest one should outstrip thee,
Whose stately name is Death.”
At eve, when Hesper dawns, she will go down
White as a folded lily in the cold,
Yet soft and smiling in her gown of gold,
Although her brows are weary 'neath her crown;
And at the banquet look so fair and young,
That hearts will leap and laughter ripple there,
Forgetting how, above her golden hair,
Death's night-black wings are hung.
White as a folded lily in the cold,
Yet soft and smiling in her gown of gold,
Although her brows are weary 'neath her crown;
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That hearts will leap and laughter ripple there,
Forgetting how, above her golden hair,
Death's night-black wings are hung.
And must she die? I think not, for some morn
She will steal out in peasant maid's disguise,
With new life stirring in her heart and eyes,
And only Roland following through the corn;
Warned of a dream, she will lay down her state,
And crown, and kingdom for love's blessed sake,
And travel with bare feet through bush and brake,
By wood, and thorpe, and town,
She will steal out in peasant maid's disguise,
With new life stirring in her heart and eyes,
And only Roland following through the corn;
Warned of a dream, she will lay down her state,
And crown, and kingdom for love's blessed sake,
And travel with bare feet through bush and brake,
By wood, and thorpe, and town,
And beg her bread like any beggar-maid,
And drink at streams that gather heaven's blue,
And make of them her bath and mirror, too;
Her bed the moss within the greenwood's shade;
Till the birds know her, and the hares are fain
To nestle to her with their coats of fur,
And the old sickness is forgot of her,
So glad and strong again.
And drink at streams that gather heaven's blue,
And make of them her bath and mirror, too;
Her bed the moss within the greenwood's shade;
Till the birds know her, and the hares are fain
To nestle to her with their coats of fur,
And the old sickness is forgot of her,
So glad and strong again.
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And so in some rich dawning she shall hear
One singing like God's wingèd heavenly folk,
And see one coming clad in russet cloak,
And know fulfilled her dream of many a year:
A Trouvère with a dusky southern face—
Nay, but a king's son in a Trouvère's guise—
And each shall know the other's heart and eyes,
For each a resting-place.
One singing like God's wingèd heavenly folk,
And see one coming clad in russet cloak,
And know fulfilled her dream of many a year:
A Trouvère with a dusky southern face—
Nay, but a king's son in a Trouvère's guise—
And each shall know the other's heart and eyes,
For each a resting-place.
Oh, I can see them—she with yellow hair
Still jewelled with the diamonds from the spring,
Her eyes afraid with joy or some sweet thing,
Her hands clasped softly, as in suppliant prayer;
And he who sought her over seas and lands,
Coming with all his bearded face aflame,
And his lips murmuring still her lovely name,
And eager outstretched hands.
Still jewelled with the diamonds from the spring,
Her eyes afraid with joy or some sweet thing,
Her hands clasped softly, as in suppliant prayer;
And he who sought her over seas and lands,
Coming with all his bearded face aflame,
And his lips murmuring still her lovely name,
And eager outstretched hands.
In the enchanted forest let them stay,
Where the bright birds flash by like living flowers,
And the ripe fruit hangs ruddy in the bowers,
And the years go like one delicious day;
Where summer lives and nightingales sing long,
A fairy palace waits with open door,
And a green sea beats on a golden shore
With low monotonous song.
Where the bright birds flash by like living flowers,
And the ripe fruit hangs ruddy in the bowers,
And the years go like one delicious day;
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A fairy palace waits with open door,
And a green sea beats on a golden shore
With low monotonous song.
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