 | English Roses |  |
452
THE RED COCK.
The red cock crowed,
Before the day;
And sullenly the river flowed,
But could not wash her sin away.
She stood upon the bitter bank—
Alas, for her!—
And fiercely of its fury drank,
While angry grew the wind and cold
That caught her pretty hair of gold
And gossamer.
But yet she was afraid to die,
And break the last sweet lingering tie.
Before the day;
And sullenly the river flowed,
But could not wash her sin away.
She stood upon the bitter bank—
Alas, for her!—
And fiercely of its fury drank,
While angry grew the wind and cold
That caught her pretty hair of gold
And gossamer.
But yet she was afraid to die,
And break the last sweet lingering tie.
A distant bell,
Declared the hour;
But to a spirit half in hell
It idly spake, and had no power.
The rushing waters charmed her ear—
Alas for love!—
And mingled with a joyous fear
The passion of an evil choice,
That drowned the dim and better voice
From lands above.
And O she was afraid to live,
With crime that man could not forgive.
Declared the hour;
But to a spirit half in hell
It idly spake, and had no power.
The rushing waters charmed her ear—
Alas for love!—
And mingled with a joyous fear
The passion of an evil choice,
That drowned the dim and better voice
From lands above.
And O she was afraid to live,
With crime that man could not forgive.
The red cock crowed,
Before the light;
And dark the debt, that folly owed,
Loomed in the horror of the night.
But all the billows of the sea—
Alas, for sin!—
If they should hearken to her plea,
Could never make her stormy breast
Once more a happy home of rest,
And pure therein.
But was there cleansing in the fire,
To perfect thus a new desire?
Before the light;
And dark the debt, that folly owed,
Loomed in the horror of the night.
But all the billows of the sea—
Alas, for sin!—
If they should hearken to her plea,
Could never make her stormy breast
Once more a happy home of rest,
And pure therein.
But was there cleansing in the fire,
To perfect thus a new desire?
453
A horned owl
Slid slowly by,
The watchdog raised a ghostly howl
And then again, it knew not why.
The purging of the folded flame—
Alas, for her!—
Might heal the sickness of her frame,
Or set in tune each jangled part
And fashion her discordant heart
A dulcimer.
And in the furnace lay a spell,
To save a spirit even from hell.
Slid slowly by,
The watchdog raised a ghostly howl
And then again, it knew not why.
The purging of the folded flame—
Alas, for her!—
Might heal the sickness of her frame,
Or set in tune each jangled part
And fashion her discordant heart
A dulcimer.
And in the furnace lay a spell,
To save a spirit even from hell.
The red cock crowed,
And loud and long;
Stars here and there with promise sowed
The heavens, as if repairing wrong.
They were the wanted sign, that gleamed—
Alas for guilt!—
Down on a soul bemired and seamed;
And, at the sight of rifted cloud,
Her nature rose to stature proud
As though rebuilt.
She was not then afraid to die,
When she had found a fairer tie.
And loud and long;
Stars here and there with promise sowed
The heavens, as if repairing wrong.
They were the wanted sign, that gleamed—
Alas for guilt!—
Down on a soul bemired and seamed;
And, at the sight of rifted cloud,
Her nature rose to stature proud
As though rebuilt.
She was not then afraid to die,
When she had found a fairer tie.
And homeward now,
She turned her feet;
Unearthly light was on her brow,
And tinkled music in her feet.
Unto the old ancestral hall—
Alas, for shame!—
Hearing that secret solemn call,
She went on strange ecstatic wings
To seek in awful communings
Another name.
She was not then afraid to live,
And felt that God could thus forgive.
She turned her feet;
Unearthly light was on her brow,
And tinkled music in her feet.
Unto the old ancestral hall—
Alas, for shame!—
Hearing that secret solemn call,
She went on strange ecstatic wings
To seek in awful communings
Another name.
She was not then afraid to live,
And felt that God could thus forgive.
The red cock crowed,
From tumbling fire;
And in the shadows' tumult showed,
A woman clad in meek attire.
The crested waves were o'er her head—
Alas for her!—
And made a carpet for her tread;
They bathed her breast, and every surge
Was with the scathing of its scourge
Death's minister.
God only knew, if from her mean
And broken life they washed her clean.
From tumbling fire;
454
A woman clad in meek attire.
The crested waves were o'er her head—
Alas for her!—
And made a carpet for her tread;
They bathed her breast, and every surge
Was with the scathing of its scourge
Death's minister.
God only knew, if from her mean
And broken life they washed her clean.
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