Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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SAINT MARGARET.
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35
SAINT MARGARET.
The wan lights freeze on the dark cold floor,
Witch lights and green the high windows adorn;
The cresset is gone out the altar before,
She knows her long hour of life's nigh worn,
And she kneels here waiting to be re-born,
On the stones of the chancel.
Witch lights and green the high windows adorn;
The cresset is gone out the altar before,
She knows her long hour of life's nigh worn,
And she kneels here waiting to be re-born,
On the stones of the chancel.
‘That door darkly golden, that noiseless door,
Through which I can see sometimes,’ said she,
‘Will it ever be opened to close no more;
Will those wet clouds cease pressing on me;
Shall I cease to hear the sound of the sea?’
Her handmaids miss her and rise.
Through which I can see sometimes,’ said she,
‘Will it ever be opened to close no more;
Will those wet clouds cease pressing on me;
Shall I cease to hear the sound of the sea?’
Her handmaids miss her and rise.
‘I've served in life's prison-house long,’ she said,
‘Where silver and gold are heavy and bright,
Where children wail and where maidens wed,
Where the day is wearier than the night,
And each would be master if he might.’
Margaret! they seek thee.
‘Where silver and gold are heavy and bright,
Where children wail and where maidens wed,
Where the day is wearier than the night,
And each would be master if he might.’
Margaret! they seek thee.
36
The night waxed darker than before;
Scarce could the windows be traced at all,
Only the sharp rain was heard rushing o'er;
A sick sleeper moaned through the cloister wall,
And a horse neighed shrill from a distant stall,
And the sea sounded on.
Scarce could the windows be traced at all,
Only the sharp rain was heard rushing o'er;
A sick sleeper moaned through the cloister wall,
And a horse neighed shrill from a distant stall,
And the sea sounded on.
‘Are all the dear holy ones shut within,
That none descend in my strait?’ said she;
‘Their songs are afar off, far off and thin,
The terrible sounds of the prison-house flee
About me, and the sound of the sea.’
Lights gleam from room to room.
That none descend in my strait?’ said she;
‘Their songs are afar off, far off and thin,
The terrible sounds of the prison-house flee
About me, and the sound of the sea.’
Lights gleam from room to room.
Slowly a moonshine breaks over the glass,
The black and green witchcraft is there no more;
It spreads and it brightens, and out of it pass
Four angels with glorified hair,—all four
With lutes; and our Lord is in heaven's door.
Margaret! they hail thee.
The black and green witchcraft is there no more;
It spreads and it brightens, and out of it pass
Four angels with glorified hair,—all four
With lutes; and our Lord is in heaven's door.
Margaret! they hail thee.
Her eyes are a-wide to the hallowèd light,
Her head is cast backward, her bosom is clad
With the flickering moonlight pale purple and white;
Away to the angels her spirit hath fled,
While her body still kneels,—but is it not dead?
She is safe, she is well!
Her head is cast backward, her bosom is clad
With the flickering moonlight pale purple and white;
Away to the angels her spirit hath fled,
While her body still kneels,—but is it not dead?
She is safe, she is well!
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