English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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THE BRIDE OF THE SNOW. |
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 | English Roses |  |
THE BRIDE OF THE SNOW.
She went across the purple hills,
Amongst the haunted rocks and rills
Her playmates from of old;
She trod the dear familiar track
By toppling stone and tumbled wrack,
To call the sheep she tended back
Safe to the sheltering fold.
Amongst the haunted rocks and rills
Her playmates from of old;
She trod the dear familiar track
By toppling stone and tumbled wrack,
467
Safe to the sheltering fold.
Then dimly from the chambered air,
A ghostly form of dark despair
Slid out of awful caves;
The grim gray death came wrinkling down
Upon her like a corpse's frown,
As if it dared again to drown
The world in greedy waves.
A ghostly form of dark despair
Slid out of awful caves;
The grim gray death came wrinkling down
Upon her like a corpse's frown,
As if it dared again to drown
The world in greedy waves.
The shapeless mist a shadow grew,
And forth on wings of horror flew
That challenged to the strife;
The earth and sky no longer twain
Mixed in a common pulse and pain,
And with the bondage of one chain
Bound every breath of life.
And forth on wings of horror flew
That challenged to the strife;
The earth and sky no longer twain
Mixed in a common pulse and pain,
And with the bondage of one chain
Bound every breath of life.
She lay upon the pall-clad hills
Dressed out with pure white fairy frills,
As in her wedding gown;
While yet on upturned virgin face
And on each tender gift and grace,
Where love had throned its dwelling-place,
The gray death wrinkled down.
Dressed out with pure white fairy frills,
As in her wedding gown;
While yet on upturned virgin face
And on each tender gift and grace,
Where love had throned its dwelling-place,
The gray death wrinkled down.
The laugh was frozen on her lip,
By the remorseless iron whip
That stung the very blood;
The light was clouded in the eye,
That stared right through the veilèd sky
As into dumb eternity;
And grimmer rose the flood.
By the remorseless iron whip
That stung the very blood;
The light was clouded in the eye,
That stared right through the veilèd sky
As into dumb eternity;
And grimmer rose the flood.
She never fetched the lost sheep home,
But under that great leaden dome
The tempest tucked her in;
As on her marriage bed she lay,
Her golden head as chill as clay,
Her little feet no more at play
And snowflakes kist her chin.
But under that great leaden dome
The tempest tucked her in;
As on her marriage bed she lay,
Her golden head as chill as clay,
Her little feet no more at play
And snowflakes kist her chin.
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