A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings Edited by Edward Harston |
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| THE TWO MARGARETS. |
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 | A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings |  |
27
THE TWO MARGARETS.
No. I.—MARGARET IN THE XEBEC.
“Now, concerning this man (Robert del Angelo) little further is known, than that he served in the King's army, and was wounded in the battle of Marston Moor.
“After the battle of Naseby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted the country, taking with him the child whom he had adopted, she being then about three years of age; and he made many voyages between the different parts of the Mediterranean and Levant.”
Resting within his tent at close of day
A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset:
He started up—it did not flee away—
'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret
And pine into his heart “Ah me—ah me!”
Broken with heaving sobs most mournfully.
A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset:
He started up—it did not flee away—
'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret
And pine into his heart “Ah me—ah me!”
Broken with heaving sobs most mournfully.
Then he arose, and greatly wondering,
All wearily towards the sound he went,
Much doubting whence those grieving sobs might spring,—
Shortly he came before a soldier's tent,
Where, the tears falling through her hands, he found
A little maiden weeping on the ground.
All wearily towards the sound he went,
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Shortly he came before a soldier's tent,
Where, the tears falling through her hands, he found
A little maiden weeping on the ground.
And backward in the tent, an aged crone
Upbraided her unkindly more and more,
But sunk her chiding to an undertone
When she beheld who stood before the door,
And calm'd her voice, and dropp'd her lifted hand,
And answer'd him with accent soft and bland.
Upbraided her unkindly more and more,
But sunk her chiding to an undertone
When she beheld who stood before the door,
And calm'd her voice, and dropp'd her lifted hand,
And answer'd him with accent soft and bland.
No, the young child was none of hers, she said,
But she had found her near the ashes white
Of a yet smouldering tent, her infant head
All shelterless, she through the dewy night
Had slumber'd on the field—ungentle fate
For a lone child, so soft and delicate!
But she had found her near the ashes white
Of a yet smouldering tent, her infant head
All shelterless, she through the dewy night
Had slumber'd on the field—ungentle fate
For a lone child, so soft and delicate!
“And I,” quoth she, “have tended her with care,
And thought to be rewarded of her kin,
For by her rich attire and features fair
I know her birth is gentle; yet within
The tent unclaim'd she rests, to pine and weep,
A burden I would fain no longer keep.”
And thought to be rewarded of her kin,
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I know her birth is gentle; yet within
The tent unclaim'd she rests, to pine and weep,
A burden I would fain no longer keep.”
Still, while she spoke the little creature wept;
Till yearning pity touch'd him for the flow
Of those sad tears, and to his heart there crept
A wish to have her for his own, and so
He, his kind arms outstretching tenderly
Said—“Little Madam, wilt thou come with me?”
Till yearning pity touch'd him for the flow
Of those sad tears, and to his heart there crept
A wish to have her for his own, and so
He, his kind arms outstretching tenderly
Said—“Little Madam, wilt thou come with me?”
Then she left off her crying, and a look
Of doubtful wonder stole into her eyes;
The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook;
She let him take her, and forgot her sighs,
Contented in the stranger's arms to rest,
And lay her baby head upon his breast.
Of doubtful wonder stole into her eyes;
The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook;
She let him take her, and forgot her sighs,
Contented in the stranger's arms to rest,
And lay her baby head upon his breast.
And thus he took her for his own, and brought
Into his tent the orphan to remain;
But surely stranger plaything ne'er was sought
By roving bachelor on battle-plain
Than his, the prattling child that on the floor
Play'd at his feet within the tented door.
Into his tent the orphan to remain;
But surely stranger plaything ne'er was sought
By roving bachelor on battle-plain
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Play'd at his feet within the tented door.
Of race, of country, or of parentage,
Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;—
No questioning could win to read the page
Of her short life—she left her tale untold,
And home and kin thus early to forget,
She only knew,—her name was—Margaret.
Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;—
No questioning could win to read the page
Of her short life—she left her tale untold,
And home and kin thus early to forget,
She only knew,—her name was—Margaret.
Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanc'd
That night that suddenly she fell asleep;
And he look'd down on her like one entranc'd,
And listen'd to her breathing still and deep,
As if a little child, when daylight clos'd,
With half-shut lids had ne'er before repos'd.
That night that suddenly she fell asleep;
And he look'd down on her like one entranc'd,
And listen'd to her breathing still and deep,
As if a little child, when daylight clos'd,
With half-shut lids had ne'er before repos'd.
Softly he laid her down from off his arm,
With earnest care and new-born tenderness:
Her infancy, like wonder-working charm,
Laid hold upon his love; he staid to bless
Her slumbering head; and going forth that night,
He sought a nurse to tend his young delight.
With earnest care and new-born tenderness:
Her infancy, like wonder-working charm,
Laid hold upon his love; he staid to bless
Her slumbering head; and going forth that night,
He sought a nurse to tend his young delight.
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And day by day his heart she wrought upon,
And won her way into its inmost fold—
A heart which, but for lack of that whereon
To fix itself, would never have been cold;
And opening wide, now let her come to dwell
Within its strong unguarded citadel.
And won her way into its inmost fold—
A heart which, but for lack of that whereon
To fix itself, would never have been cold;
And opening wide, now let her come to dwell
Within its strong unguarded citadel.
She, like a dream, unlock'd the hidden springs
Of his past life, and set their current free
To talk with him of long-forgotten things,
Wrought in his childhood and his infancy;
Yet inly to repeat with mournful tone,
“Hopes of my childhood, whither have ye flown?”
Of his past life, and set their current free
To talk with him of long-forgotten things,
Wrought in his childhood and his infancy;
Yet inly to repeat with mournful tone,
“Hopes of my childhood, whither have ye flown?”
Long may thy childhood last, and late depart,
Long dwell with thee, young blue-ey'd Margaret!
Thou baby mistress of a soldier's heart
That wonders it should love thee so—and yet
Pondering thy friendless state, is well content
To deem thee solely for his solace sent.
Long dwell with thee, young blue-ey'd Margaret!
Thou baby mistress of a soldier's heart
That wonders it should love thee so—and yet
Pondering thy friendless state, is well content
To deem thee solely for his solace sent.
A gleam of light upon a rainy day,
A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon;
At sunrise brought within his tent to play,
And hurried from the battle-field at noon;
While face to face in hostile ranks they stood,
Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood.
A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon;
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And hurried from the battle-field at noon;
While face to face in hostile ranks they stood,
Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood.
But in the morning e'er the fight began,
While yet were distant far the rebel bands,
She heard at intervals a booming gun;
And she was pleas'd, and, laughing, clapp'd her hands,
Till he came in with troubled look and tone,
Who chose her desolate to be his own.
While yet were distant far the rebel bands,
She heard at intervals a booming gun;
And she was pleas'd, and, laughing, clapp'd her hands,
Till he came in with troubled look and tone,
Who chose her desolate to be his own.
And he said, “Little Madam, now farewell,
For there will be a battle fought ere night.
God be thy shield, for He alone can tell,
Which way may fall the fortune of the fight.
To fitter hands the care of thee pertain,
My dear, if we two never meet again.”
For there will be a battle fought ere night.
God be thy shield, for He alone can tell,
Which way may fall the fortune of the fight.
To fitter hands the care of thee pertain,
My dear, if we two never meet again.”
Then he gave money shortly to her nurse,
And charg'd her that she should depart in haste,
And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse
Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste,
And all the ills that must its presence blight,
E'en if proud victory should bless the right.
And charg'd her that she should depart in haste,
And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse
Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste,
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E'en if proud victory should bless the right.
“But if the rebel cause should prosper, then
It were not good among the hills to wend;
But journey through to Boston in the fen,
And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send;
And if my life is spared, I will essay,”
Quoth he, “to join you there as best I may.”
It were not good among the hills to wend;
But journey through to Boston in the fen,
And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send;
And if my life is spared, I will essay,”
Quoth he, “to join you there as best I may.”
So then he kiss'd the child, and went his way;
But many troubles roll'd above his head;
The sun arose on many an evil day,
And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed;
And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain
In dust to hide,—ere they two met again.
But many troubles roll'd above his head;
The sun arose on many an evil day,
And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed;
And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain
In dust to hide,—ere they two met again.
He found her after many days, when care
And grief had been at work upon his soul,
And for a while half dispossess'd her there,
With their exacting sway and stern control—
And with her dimples was again beguil'd,
As on her nurse's knee she sat and smil'd.
And grief had been at work upon his soul,
And for a while half dispossess'd her there,
With their exacting sway and stern control—
And with her dimples was again beguil'd,
As on her nurse's knee she sat and smil'd.
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And he became a voyager by sea,
And took the child to share his wandering state;
Since from his native land compell'd to flee,
And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate;
For all was lost that might have made him pause,
And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause.
And took the child to share his wandering state;
Since from his native land compell'd to flee,
And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate;
For all was lost that might have made him pause,
And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause.
And thus roll'd on long days, and months, and years,
And Margaret within the Xebec sail'd;
The lulling winds made music to her ears,
The bright sea hues her gentle eyes regal'd,
And much she lov'd to see the dolphin spring,
Where deep the water bows were glittering.
And Margaret within the Xebec sail'd;
The lulling winds made music to her ears,
The bright sea hues her gentle eyes regal'd,
And much she lov'd to see the dolphin spring,
Where deep the water bows were glittering.
The gay sea plants familiar were to her,
As daisies to the children of the land;
Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner
Rais'd from its bed to glisten in her hand;
The vessel and the sea were her life's stage—
Her house, her garden, and her hermitage.
As daisies to the children of the land;
Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner
Rais'd from its bed to glisten in her hand;
The vessel and the sea were her life's stage—
Her house, her garden, and her hermitage.
And there she had a cabin of her own,
For beauty like an elfin palace bright,
Adorn'd with Venice glass, like crystal stone,
That cast around a many-colour'd light;
And there with two caged ringdoves she did play,
And feed them carefully from day to day.
For beauty like an elfin palace bright,
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That cast around a many-colour'd light;
And there with two caged ringdoves she did play,
And feed them carefully from day to day.
Her bed with silken curtains was enclos'd,
White as the snowy rose of Guelderland;
On Turkish pillows her young head repos'd,
And love had gather'd with a careful hand
Fair playthings to the little maiden's side,
From distant ports, and cities parted wide.
White as the snowy rose of Guelderland;
On Turkish pillows her young head repos'd,
And love had gather'd with a careful hand
Fair playthings to the little maiden's side,
From distant ports, and cities parted wide.
She had two myrtle plants that she did tend,
And think all trees were like to them that grew;
For things on land she did confuse and blend,
And chiefly from the deck the land she knew,
And in her heart she pitied more and more
The stedfast dwellers on the changeless shore.
And think all trees were like to them that grew;
For things on land she did confuse and blend,
And chiefly from the deck the land she knew,
And in her heart she pitied more and more
The stedfast dwellers on the changeless shore.
Green fields and inland meadows faded out
Of mind, or with sea images were link'd;
And yet she had her childish thoughts about
The country she had left—though indistinct
And faint as mist the mountain head that shrouds,
Dim in the distance, as Magellan's clouds.
Of mind, or with sea images were link'd;
And yet she had her childish thoughts about
The country she had left—though indistinct
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Dim in the distance, as Magellan's clouds.
And when to frame a forest scene she tried,
The ever-present sea would still intrude,
And all her towns were by the water's side,
The background of all scenes that memory view'd;
And rocks and yellow sand would intervene,
And waves surround her fancied village green.
The ever-present sea would still intrude,
And all her towns were by the water's side,
The background of all scenes that memory view'd;
And rocks and yellow sand would intervene,
And waves surround her fancied village green.
And she would dream and ponder more and more,
When the land sounds reach'd her in dying swells;
And when in harbour, lying off the shore,
She heard the chiming of cathedral bells,
She lov'd to think them Angels' hymns, although
Deep in her inmost heart she knew it was not so.
When the land sounds reach'd her in dying swells;
And when in harbour, lying off the shore,
She heard the chiming of cathedral bells,
She lov'd to think them Angels' hymns, although
Deep in her inmost heart she knew it was not so.
Her soul was like unto an ocean shell,
That ever yields the key-note of its home;
Whether her fancy to a shaded dell,
Or quiet slope, or leafy glade, would roam,
Or sun itself upon an upland hill,
The voices of the sea would haunt her still.
That ever yields the key-note of its home;
Whether her fancy to a shaded dell,
Or quiet slope, or leafy glade, would roam,
Or sun itself upon an upland hill,
The voices of the sea would haunt her still.
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So she grew on, the idol of one heart,
And the delight of many—and her face,
Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart,
Was touch'd with a most deep and tender grace—
A look that never aught but nature gave,
Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave.
And the delight of many—and her face,
Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart,
Was touch'd with a most deep and tender grace—
A look that never aught but nature gave,
Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave.
Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent:
A golden net confin'd her nut-brown hair;
Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent,
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care;
Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet,
Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet.
A golden net confin'd her nut-brown hair;
Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent,
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care;
Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet,
Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet.
She, like a queen among her vassals seem'd,
Who thought good fortune follow'd in her wake;
And, counting her their guardian angel, deem'd
That prospering winds were sent them for her sake;
And strange, rough prayers and vows they nightly made
For the fair child that in the Xebec stay'd.
Who thought good fortune follow'd in her wake;
And, counting her their guardian angel, deem'd
That prospering winds were sent them for her sake;
And strange, rough prayers and vows they nightly made
For the fair child that in the Xebec stay'd.
Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea,
Sweet, when uplifted to her ancient nurse,
She sat, and commun'd what the world could be;
And rambling stories caus'd her to rehearse,
How yule was kept, how maidens toss'd the hay,
And how bells rang upon a wedding day.
Sweet, when uplifted to her ancient nurse,
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And rambling stories caus'd her to rehearse,
How yule was kept, how maidens toss'd the hay,
And how bells rang upon a wedding day.
But they grew brighter when the evening star,
First trembled over the still glowing wave,
That bath'd in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar;
For then, reclin'd in rest that twilight gave,
With him who served for father, friend, and guide,
She sat upon the deck at evening tide.
First trembled over the still glowing wave,
That bath'd in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar;
For then, reclin'd in rest that twilight gave,
With him who served for father, friend, and guide,
She sat upon the deck at evening tide.
Then turn'd towards the west that on her hair
And her young cheek shed down its tender glow,
He taught her many things with earnest care,
That he thought fitting a young maid should know,
Till stars came out, and rais'd in twilight dim,
Fell on the sea, the sailors' vesper hymn.
And her young cheek shed down its tender glow,
He taught her many things with earnest care,
That he thought fitting a young maid should know,
Till stars came out, and rais'd in twilight dim,
Fell on the sea, the sailors' vesper hymn.
Then many psalms he caus'd her to repeat,
And sing them at his knees, reclin'd the while,
And told her of the sabbath evenings sweet,
And the pure worship of her native Isle:
Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead,
With prayers devout by holy martyrs said.
And sing them at his knees, reclin'd the while,
And told her of the sabbath evenings sweet,
And the pure worship of her native Isle:
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With prayers devout by holy martyrs said.
Withdrawn, and heedless of the passing time,
She heard the story of her native land,
With many a legend grac'd and ancient rhyme
Of wild adventures on a hostile strand;
Till at the end he made her tears to flow,
With telling of his royal master's woe.
She heard the story of her native land,
With many a legend grac'd and ancient rhyme
Of wild adventures on a hostile strand;
Till at the end he made her tears to flow,
With telling of his royal master's woe.
And of the stars he taught her, and their names,
And how the chartless mariner they guide;
Of quivering light that in the zenith plays,
Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide;
Then chang'd the theme to fairy records wild,
Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child.
And how the chartless mariner they guide;
Of quivering light that in the zenith plays,
Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide;
Then chang'd the theme to fairy records wild,
Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child.
But blooming childhood will not always last,
And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea:
His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast,
And he began to think how sad 'twould be
If he should die, and pirate hordes should get,
By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret.
And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea:
His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast,
And he began to think how sad 'twould be
If he should die, and pirate hordes should get,
By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret.
40
It was a sudden thought; but he gave way,
For it assail'd him with unwonted force;
And with no more than one short week's delay,
For English shores he shap'd the vessel's course;
And ten years absent saw her landed now,
With thirteen summers on her maiden brow.
For it assail'd him with unwonted force;
And with no more than one short week's delay,
For English shores he shap'd the vessel's course;
And ten years absent saw her landed now,
With thirteen summers on her maiden brow.
And so he journey'd with her, far inland,
Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemm'd with dew,
Where wonders met her eye on every hand,
And all was strange and beautiful and new—
All, from the forest trees in stately ranks,
To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks.
Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemm'd with dew,
Where wonders met her eye on every hand,
And all was strange and beautiful and new—
All, from the forest trees in stately ranks,
To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks.
All new,—the clear still heat, the evening shades,
The ruddy glow through cottage casement bright,
The white-hair'd children, and the rustic maids,
The hinds returning in the failing light,
The streamlet dimly in the dusk espied,
And gipsies camping on the broad road-side.
The ruddy glow through cottage casement bright,
The white-hair'd children, and the rustic maids,
The hinds returning in the failing light,
The streamlet dimly in the dusk espied,
And gipsies camping on the broad road-side.
And far he took them on, and farther still,
The maiden and her nurse; till journeying,
They saw an ancient city on a hill,
And heard at intervals its clear bells ring:
And its tall spires stood out against the sky,
With mossy walls enclos'd, and portals high.
The maiden and her nurse; till journeying,
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And heard at intervals its clear bells ring:
And its tall spires stood out against the sky,
With mossy walls enclos'd, and portals high.
There, dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew,
To whom he did good service in the war;
Shielding her household from the plundering crew,
When neither worth could save, nor age nor law;
And to her house he brought his care and pride,
Aweary with the way, and dull and sleepy-ey'd.
To whom he did good service in the war;
Shielding her household from the plundering crew,
When neither worth could save, nor age nor law;
And to her house he brought his care and pride,
Aweary with the way, and dull and sleepy-ey'd.
And he, the man whom she was fain to serve,
Delay'd not shortly his request to make,
Which was, if aught of her he did deserve,
To take the maid, and rear her for his sake,
To guard her youth, and let her breeding be
In womanly reserve and modesty.
Delay'd not shortly his request to make,
Which was, if aught of her he did deserve,
To take the maid, and rear her for his sake,
To guard her youth, and let her breeding be
In womanly reserve and modesty.
And that same night into the house he brought
The costly fruits of all his voyages—
Rich gleaming stones, by wandering merchants bought
In Turkish mosques and Persian palaces,
With ingots pure, and coins of Venice mould,
And silver bars, and bags of Spanish gold;
The costly fruits of all his voyages—
Rich gleaming stones, by wandering merchants bought
In Turkish mosques and Persian palaces,
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And silver bars, and bags of Spanish gold;
And costly merchandize of foreign lands,
With golden stuffs, and shawls of Eastern dye;
He gave them over to the matron's hands,
With jewell'd gauds, and toys of ivory,
To be her dower on whom his love was set,—
His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret.
With golden stuffs, and shawls of Eastern dye;
He gave them over to the matron's hands,
With jewell'd gauds, and toys of ivory,
To be her dower on whom his love was set,—
His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret.
Then he entreated, that if he should die,
She would not cease her guardian mission mild.
Awhile, as undecided, linger'd nigh,
Beside the pillow of the sleeping child,
Sever'd one wandering lock of wavy hair,
Took horse that night, and left her unaware.
She would not cease her guardian mission mild.
Awhile, as undecided, linger'd nigh,
Beside the pillow of the sleeping child,
Sever'd one wandering lock of wavy hair,
Took horse that night, and left her unaware.
And it was long before he came again—
So long that Margaret was woman grown;
And oft she wish'd for his return in vain,
Calling him softly in an undertone;
Repeating words that he had said the while,
And striving to recal his look and smile.
So long that Margaret was woman grown;
And oft she wish'd for his return in vain,
Calling him softly in an undertone;
Repeating words that he had said the while,
And striving to recal his look and smile.
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If she had known—Oh, if she could have known—
The toils, the hardships of those absent years—
How bitter thraldom forc'd the unwilling groan—
How slavery wrung out subduing tears,
Not calmly had she pass'd her years away,
Chiding half pettishly the long delay.
The toils, the hardships of those absent years—
How bitter thraldom forc'd the unwilling groan—
How slavery wrung out subduing tears,
Not calmly had she pass'd her years away,
Chiding half pettishly the long delay.
But she was spar'd that knowledge; she was calm,
While the red flames ascended from the deck;
Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm;
Mourn'd not the scatter'd spars, the blacken'd wreck:
She did not dream, and there was none to tell
That fetters bound the hands she lov'd so well.
While the red flames ascended from the deck;
Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm;
Mourn'd not the scatter'd spars, the blacken'd wreck:
She did not dream, and there was none to tell
That fetters bound the hands she lov'd so well.
Sweet Margaret—withdrawn from human view,
She spent long hours beneath the lime-tree's shade,
The stately trees that in the garden grew,
And overtwin'd, a towering shelter made;
She mus'd among the flowers, and birds, and bees,
In winding walks, and bowering canopies.
She spent long hours beneath the lime-tree's shade,
The stately trees that in the garden grew,
And overtwin'd, a towering shelter made;
She mus'd among the flowers, and birds, and bees,
In winding walks, and bowering canopies.
Or wander'd slowly through the ancient rooms,
Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams;
Where tapestried hangings, work'd in Flemish looms,
Display'd the story of king Pharaoh's dreams;
Of tedious robe by Grecian matron wrought,
Of clustering grapes the spies from Eshcol brought.
Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams;
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Display'd the story of king Pharaoh's dreams;
Of tedious robe by Grecian matron wrought,
Of clustering grapes the spies from Eshcol brought.
At last she reach'd the bloom of womanhood,
After five summers spent in growing fair;
Her face betoken'd all things dear and good,
And softly floated her descending hair;
Young feeling gave her eyes their glances meek,
And richness of musk roses to her cheek.
After five summers spent in growing fair;
Her face betoken'd all things dear and good,
And softly floated her descending hair;
Young feeling gave her eyes their glances meek,
And richness of musk roses to her cheek.
Be not too hasty in your flow, ye rhymes,
For Margaret is in her garden bower;
Delay to ring, ye soft cathedral chimes,
And tell not out too soon the noonday hour;
For one is drawing near the portals wide
Of the old city by the green hill's side.
For Margaret is in her garden bower;
Delay to ring, ye soft cathedral chimes,
And tell not out too soon the noonday hour;
For one is drawing near the portals wide
Of the old city by the green hill's side.
He journey'd on, and as he near'd the gate,
He met with one to whom he nam'd the maid,
Inquiring of her welfare, and her state,
And of the matron in whose house she stay'd.
“The maiden dwelt there still,” the townsman said;
“But, for the ancient lady,—she was dead.”
He met with one to whom he nam'd the maid,
Inquiring of her welfare, and her state,
And of the matron in whose house she stay'd.
45
“But, for the ancient lady,—she was dead.”
He further said, she was but little known,
Although reputed to be very fair,
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone)
But with her nurse at stated evening prayer;
So seldom pass'd her sheltering garden wall,
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall.
Although reputed to be very fair,
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone)
But with her nurse at stated evening prayer;
So seldom pass'd her sheltering garden wall,
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall.
Flow softly, rhymes—his hand is on the door;
Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming—
“He went out rich, but he returneth poor;”
And strong—now something bow'd with suffering.
And on his brow are trac'd long furrow'd lines,
Earn'd in the fight with pirate Algerines.
Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming—
“He went out rich, but he returneth poor;”
And strong—now something bow'd with suffering.
And on his brow are trac'd long furrow'd lines,
Earn'd in the fight with pirate Algerines.
Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call;
Lifts up her wither'd hand in dull surprise,
And, tottering, leads him through the pillar'd hall;
“What! come at last, to bless my lady's eyes!
Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid—
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade.”
Lifts up her wither'd hand in dull surprise,
And, tottering, leads him through the pillar'd hall;
“What! come at last, to bless my lady's eyes!
Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid—
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade.”
46
The noonday chime had ceas'd—she did not know
Who watch'd her, while her ringdoves flutter'd near;
While, under the green boughs in accents low,
She sang unto herself, she did not hear
His footstep till she turn'd, then rose to meet
Her guest, with guileless blush and wonder sweet.
Who watch'd her, while her ringdoves flutter'd near;
While, under the green boughs in accents low,
She sang unto herself, she did not hear
His footstep till she turn'd, then rose to meet
Her guest, with guileless blush and wonder sweet.
But soon she knew him,—ran with quicken'd pace,
And threw her gentle arms around his neck,
Leaning her fair cheek to his sunburnt face,
As long ago upon the vessel's deck;
As long ago she did in twilight deep,
While heaving waters lull'd her infant sleep.
And threw her gentle arms around his neck,
Leaning her fair cheek to his sunburnt face,
As long ago upon the vessel's deck;
As long ago she did in twilight deep,
While heaving waters lull'd her infant sleep.
So then he kiss'd her, and in fondest tone,
While proudly parting her unbraided hair,
He said: “I did not think to see thee grown
So fair a woman,”—but a touch of care
The deep-ton'd voice through its caressing kept,
And, hearing it, she turn'd away and wept.
While proudly parting her unbraided hair,
He said: “I did not think to see thee grown
So fair a woman,”—but a touch of care
The deep-ton'd voice through its caressing kept,
And, hearing it, she turn'd away and wept.
Wept,—for an impress on the face she view'd—
The stamp of feelings she remember'd not;
His voice was calmer far, but more subdued,
Not like the voice long lov'd and unforgot!
She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain—
Grief for the change, joy that he came again.
The stamp of feelings she remember'd not;
47
Not like the voice long lov'd and unforgot!
She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain—
Grief for the change, joy that he came again.
O pleasant days, that follow'd his return,
That made his captive years pass out of mind;
But Margaret, a scholar apt to learn,
He taught one lesson more than he design'd.
And two full weeks he stay'd with her; content
To find her beautiful and innocent.
That made his captive years pass out of mind;
But Margaret, a scholar apt to learn,
He taught one lesson more than he design'd.
And two full weeks he stay'd with her; content
To find her beautiful and innocent.
And then, he told her that he must depart
Upon the morrow with the earliest light;
And it displeas'd and pain'd her at the heart:
And she went out, to hide her from his sight.
And in a garden alley shelter'd deep
She threw herself among dusk leaves to weep.
Upon the morrow with the earliest light;
And it displeas'd and pain'd her at the heart:
And she went out, to hide her from his sight.
And in a garden alley shelter'd deep
She threw herself among dusk leaves to weep.
And she bemoan'd herself,—till suddenly
She heard a step, and, starting up to flee,
She met him face to face,—and tenderly
He question'd with her what her grief could be?
Till at the last, all blushing red for shame,
She said it was because she had no name.
She heard a step, and, starting up to flee,
She met him face to face,—and tenderly
He question'd with her what her grief could be?
48
She said it was because she had no name.
And he replied, “Dear child, I do not know
Thy father's race, but none thy tears can blame.
Wouldst thou possess the thing for which they flow?
Get thee an husband then, and bear his name.
Is there none here who thy kind thoughts hath won?”
And, faltering, she answer'd, “Truly none.”
Thy father's race, but none thy tears can blame.
Wouldst thou possess the thing for which they flow?
Get thee an husband then, and bear his name.
Is there none here who thy kind thoughts hath won?”
And, faltering, she answer'd, “Truly none.”
But he, in fatherly and kindly mood,
Said, “Lady, daughter, it would please me well
To see thee wed; for know, it is not good
That a fair woman thus alone should dwell.”
She said, “I am content it should be so,
If when you journey, I may with you go.”
Said, “Lady, daughter, it would please me well
To see thee wed; for know, it is not good
That a fair woman thus alone should dwell.”
She said, “I am content it should be so,
If when you journey, I may with you go.”
And when he heard, he fell into a pause,
A long, half-doubting pause of deep content;
Then thought he—“It were wronging nature's laws
That this should be.” In troubled wonderment,
He stood. He ne'er had ask'd a boon so high;
Though offer'd, it was hard to put it by.
A long, half-doubting pause of deep content;
Then thought he—“It were wronging nature's laws
That this should be.” In troubled wonderment,
49
Though offer'd, it was hard to put it by.
Then he said, “Lady, look into my face;
Consider well this scar upon my brow;
I have had all misfortunes but disgrace,
And shall I seek so great a blessing now?
Be not of gratitude deceiv'd—I know
Thou think'st it is thy duty—I will go.
Consider well this scar upon my brow;
I have had all misfortunes but disgrace,
And shall I seek so great a blessing now?
Be not of gratitude deceiv'd—I know
Thou think'st it is thy duty—I will go.
I read thy meaning, and I go from hence,
Skill'd in thy reasons, though my heart be rude;
I will not wrong thy gentle innocence,
Nor take advantage of thy gratitude.”
Then she said, “Go, but few of womankind
Shall be more sad than she you leave behind.”
Skill'd in thy reasons, though my heart be rude;
I will not wrong thy gentle innocence,
Nor take advantage of thy gratitude.”
Then she said, “Go, but few of womankind
Shall be more sad than she you leave behind.”
“Still wouldst thou speak? Ah, lady, thou art young;
Shall this rough voice, this face, thy bright dreams dim?
Some fairy over me a spell hath flung,
And it beguiles thee.” But she answer'd him—
“The face is fair to me, without a spell;
And for the voice, I love its accents well.”
Shall this rough voice, this face, thy bright dreams dim?
Some fairy over me a spell hath flung,
And it beguiles thee.” But she answer'd him—
50
And for the voice, I love its accents well.”
So softly she drew nearer to his side,
Beseeching him, and saying, “Do not go;”
Till, but in tones that falter'd, he replied,
“Truly, I love thee well; but dost thou know
That I shall soon grow old?” She said, “In truth,
Your age will better shield my helpless youth.”
Beseeching him, and saying, “Do not go;”
Till, but in tones that falter'd, he replied,
“Truly, I love thee well; but dost thou know
That I shall soon grow old?” She said, “In truth,
Your age will better shield my helpless youth.”
Then, from her earnest words her heart he knew,
And lean'd towards her in the dusky shade;
Saying, “Forgive me, if it seem'd untrue;
It was so like a dream, beloved maid—
A flattering dream, with morning light to flee—
A dream of happiness not meant for me.”
And lean'd towards her in the dusky shade;
Saying, “Forgive me, if it seem'd untrue;
It was so like a dream, beloved maid—
A flattering dream, with morning light to flee—
A dream of happiness not meant for me.”
And soft, as ringdoves cooing with spread wings,
She murmur'd to him, underneath the trees,
“And do you think there are no other things
Than morning dreams that go by contraries?
'Twas surely strange to doubt the voice that woo'd,
And call a young maid's love cold gratitude.”
She murmur'd to him, underneath the trees,
“And do you think there are no other things
Than morning dreams that go by contraries?
'Twas surely strange to doubt the voice that woo'd,
And call a young maid's love cold gratitude.”
51
And so she won a name that eventide,
Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak,
And she became the rough sea-captain's bride,
Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek;
And chasing from his voice the touch of care,
That made her weep when first she heard it there.
Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak,
And she became the rough sea-captain's bride,
Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek;
And chasing from his voice the touch of care,
That made her weep when first she heard it there.
One year—one long, bright year of happiness,
That glided like a quiet stream away—
Then came her hour of trouble and distress:
It was the evening of a sultry day:
There was not air the thread-hung flowers to stir;
Or float abroad the filmy gossamer.
That glided like a quiet stream away—
Then came her hour of trouble and distress:
It was the evening of a sultry day:
There was not air the thread-hung flowers to stir;
Or float abroad the filmy gossamer.
Towards the trees his steps, her husband bent;
Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet:
And he recall'd, and ponder'd as he went,
All her most duteous love and converse sweet,
Till summer darkness settled deep and dim;
And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him.
Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet:
And he recall'd, and ponder'd as he went,
All her most duteous love and converse sweet,
Till summer darkness settled deep and dim;
And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him.
The flowers sent forth their nightly odours faint—
Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead;
While he told over, as by strong constraint
Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led,
And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there,
With folded hands, she lisp'd her evening prayer.
Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead;
52
Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led,
And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there,
With folded hands, she lisp'd her evening prayer.
Then he remember'd how, beneath the shade,
She woo'd him to her with her lovely words,
While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight play'd,
And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds.
So ponder'd he that night in twilight dim;
While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him.
She woo'd him to her with her lovely words,
While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight play'd,
And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds.
So ponder'd he that night in twilight dim;
While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him.
The flowers sent forth their nightly odours faint—
When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one
To whom he said—“How fareth my sweet saint?”
Who answer'd—“She hath borne to you a son;”
Then, turning, left him,—and the father said,
“God rain down blessings on his welcome head!”
When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one
To whom he said—“How fareth my sweet saint?”
Who answer'd—“She hath borne to you a son;”
Then, turning, left him,—and the father said,
“God rain down blessings on his welcome head!”
But Margaret!—she never saw the child;
Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails;
But to the last, with ocean dreams beguil'd,
Murmur'd of troubled seas and swelling sails—
Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen,
And distant hills in sight, all calm and green. . . .
Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails;
But to the last, with ocean dreams beguil'd,
Murmur'd of troubled seas and swelling sails—
53
And distant hills in sight, all calm and green. . . .
Woe and alas!—the times of sorrow come,
And make us doubt if we were ever glad!
So utterly that inner voice is dumb,
Whose music through our happy days we had!
So, at the touch of grief, without our will,
The deep heart's melody is mute and still.
And make us doubt if we were ever glad!
So utterly that inner voice is dumb,
Whose music through our happy days we had!
So, at the touch of grief, without our will,
The deep heart's melody is mute and still.
Woe and alas! for the sea-captain's wife—
That Margaret who in the Xebec play'd—
She spent upon his knee her baby life;
Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid.
How shall he learn alone his years to pass?
How in the empty house?—woe and alas!
That Margaret who in the Xebec play'd—
She spent upon his knee her baby life;
Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid.
How shall he learn alone his years to pass?
How in the empty house?—woe and alas!
She died.—And in the dim Cathedral aisle
They made her grave,—and there, with fond intent,
Her husband rais'd, his sorrow to beguile,
A very fair and stately monument—
A tomb that still the careless vergers show—
The tomb of—Margaret Del Angelo.
They made her grave,—and there, with fond intent,
Her husband rais'd, his sorrow to beguile,
A very fair and stately monument—
A tomb that still the careless vergers show—
The tomb of—Margaret Del Angelo.
54
A woman's figure, with the eyelids clos'd,
And the calm head declin'd in slumber sweet—
One hand upon a sculptur'd ship repos'd,
An anchor and an ensign at her feet.
And, carv'd upon the borders of her vest,
The motto of her house,—“He giveth rest.”
And the calm head declin'd in slumber sweet—
One hand upon a sculptur'd ship repos'd,
An anchor and an ensign at her feet.
And, carv'd upon the borders of her vest,
The motto of her house,—“He giveth rest.”
There is an ancient window, richly fraught,
And fretted with all hues, most deep and bright;
And in its upper tracery is wrought
An olive branch, and dove with feathers white—
An emblem meet for her, the tender dove,—
Her heavenly peace and duteous earthly love.
And fretted with all hues, most deep and bright;
And in its upper tracery is wrought
An olive branch, and dove with feathers white—
An emblem meet for her, the tender dove,—
Her heavenly peace and duteous earthly love.
Crimson, and green, and gold, and violet,
In twisted knots, and wildly tangled bands,
Amid heraldic shields and banners set,
Fall softly on the snowy, sculptur'd hands;
And, ev'ry sunny day reflected, rest
The dove and olive branch upon her breast.
In twisted knots, and wildly tangled bands,
Amid heraldic shields and banners set,
Fall softly on the snowy, sculptur'd hands;
And, ev'ry sunny day reflected, rest
The dove and olive branch upon her breast.
55
No. II.—MARGARET BY THE MERESIDE.
Lying imbedded in the green champaign
That gives no shadows to thy silvery face,
Set in the middle of a verdant plain,
Only the clouds their forms upon thee trace;
No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest,
Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast.
That gives no shadows to thy silvery face,
Set in the middle of a verdant plain,
Only the clouds their forms upon thee trace;
No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest,
Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast.
O, silent Mere! about whose marges spring
Thick bulrushes, to hide the reed-bird's nest;
Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing,
And, balanc'd in the water, takes her rest:
While, under bending leaves, all gem-array'd,
Bright dragon-flies lie panting in the shade.
Thick bulrushes, to hide the reed-bird's nest;
Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing,
And, balanc'd in the water, takes her rest:
While, under bending leaves, all gem-array'd,
Bright dragon-flies lie panting in the shade.
Warm, stilly place,—the sun-dew loves thee well,
And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink;
And poor-man's-weather-glass, and pimpernel,
Lean down to thee their perfum'd heads, to drink;
And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend
White clover, and beneath thy wave descend.
And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink;
And poor-man's-weather-glass, and pimpernel,
Lean down to thee their perfum'd heads, to drink;
56
White clover, and beneath thy wave descend.
Where does the scent of beanfields float so wide,
At intervals returning on the air,
As over mead and fen to thy lone side,
To lose itself among thy zephyrs rare,
With scents from hawthorn copse, and new-cut hay,
And blooming orchards lying far away?
At intervals returning on the air,
As over mead and fen to thy lone side,
To lose itself among thy zephyrs rare,
With scents from hawthorn copse, and new-cut hay,
And blooming orchards lying far away?
Thou hast thy sabbaths, when a deeper calm
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere! and then
The sound of ringing bells, thy peace to charm,
From grey church towers comes far across the fen:
And the light sigh, where grass and waters meet,
Seems thy meek welcome to their visits sweet.
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere! and then
The sound of ringing bells, thy peace to charm,
From grey church towers comes far across the fen:
And the light sigh, where grass and waters meet,
Seems thy meek welcome to their visits sweet.
Thou hast thy lovers, though the angler's rod
Dimples thy surface seldom; and the oar
Fills not with silvery globes thy fringing sod,
Nor sends long ripples to thine osier'd shore;
And few would care with mimic art to trace
The lights and shadows on thy changing face.
Dimples thy surface seldom; and the oar
Fills not with silvery globes thy fringing sod,
Nor sends long ripples to thine osier'd shore;
And few would care with mimic art to trace
The lights and shadows on thy changing face.
57
Thou hast thy lovers truly; 'mid the cold
Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee,
And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold,
And shape their course, high soaring, till they see
Down in the world, like molten silver, rest
Their goal; and, screaming, plunge them in thy breast.
Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee,
And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold,
And shape their course, high soaring, till they see
Down in the world, like molten silver, rest
Their goal; and, screaming, plunge them in thy breast.
Fair Margaret,—who sittest all day long
On the grey stone beneath the sycamore,
The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong,
The only one to grace the level shore—
Why dost thou wait? for whom, with patient cheer,
Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere?
On the grey stone beneath the sycamore,
The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong,
The only one to grace the level shore—
Why dost thou wait? for whom, with patient cheer,
Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere?
Thou canst not tell—thou dost not know—alas!
Long watchings leave behind them little trace;
And yet, how sweetly must the mornings pass
That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face;
How quickly must the evenings come, that find
Thee still regret, to leave the Mere behind.
Long watchings leave behind them little trace;
And yet, how sweetly must the mornings pass
That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face;
How quickly must the evenings come, that find
Thee still regret, to leave the Mere behind.
Thy cheek is resting on thy hand;—thine eyes
Are like twin violets, but half unclos'd;
Calm as the azure stillness of the skies:
Never more peacefully in love repos'd
A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear,
Than thine, upon the long, far-stretching Mere.
Are like twin violets, but half unclos'd;
58
Never more peacefully in love repos'd
A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear,
Than thine, upon the long, far-stretching Mere.
Sweet innocent! Thy yellow hair floats low
In rippling undulations on thy breast;
Then stealing down, the parted love-locks flow,
Bath'd in the sunbeams, on thy knees to rest;
And touch those idle hands, that folded lie,
Having, from toil and sport, alike immunity.
In rippling undulations on thy breast;
Then stealing down, the parted love-locks flow,
Bath'd in the sunbeams, on thy knees to rest;
And touch those idle hands, that folded lie,
Having, from toil and sport, alike immunity.
O silent Being! with what touching grace
Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown;
Her dimples linger yet upon thy face,
Like dew upon a rose, but newly blown;
And thy long tender sighs, upheaving, seem
Calm as an infant's sighing in a dream.
Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown;
Her dimples linger yet upon thy face,
Like dew upon a rose, but newly blown;
And thy long tender sighs, upheaving, seem
Calm as an infant's sighing in a dream.
What are thy thoughts made up of? Do they stray
Abroad with wand'ring swallows in the air,
Or sport themselves with circling flies, that play
Under thy sycamore;—then here and there,
Float idly, turn'd aside by roving bee,
Or by a wand'ring cloud led easily?
Abroad with wand'ring swallows in the air,
Or sport themselves with circling flies, that play
Under thy sycamore;—then here and there,
59
Or by a wand'ring cloud led easily?
No, down the Mere, as far as eye can see,
Where its long reaches fade into the sky,
Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly;
But neither thou, nor any, can descry
Aught but the osier banks and rustling sedge,
And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge.
Where its long reaches fade into the sky,
Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly;
But neither thou, nor any, can descry
Aught but the osier banks and rustling sedge,
And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge.
And yet 'tis not in expectation hush'd,
That thy mute rosy lips, half-pouting, close;
No flutt'ring hope to thy young heart e'er rush'd,
Nor disappointment troubled its repose—
All satisfied with gazing evermore
Along the open Mere and reedy shore.
That thy mute rosy lips, half-pouting, close;
No flutt'ring hope to thy young heart e'er rush'd,
Nor disappointment troubled its repose—
All satisfied with gazing evermore
Along the open Mere and reedy shore.
The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat;
Thou wilt not move, to mark her glancing wing.
The timid sheep browse close before thy feet;
And heedless at thy side the thrushes sing;—
So long among them thou hast spent thy days,
They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise.
Thou wilt not move, to mark her glancing wing.
The timid sheep browse close before thy feet;
And heedless at thy side the thrushes sing;—
So long among them thou hast spent thy days,
They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise.
60
Thou wilt not lift it up—not e'en to take
The foxglove bells that flourish in the shade,
And put them in thy bosom; not to make
A posy of wild hyacinths, inlaid
Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass,
With freckled orchis, and pale sassafras.
The foxglove bells that flourish in the shade,
And put them in thy bosom; not to make
A posy of wild hyacinths, inlaid
Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass,
With freckled orchis, and pale sassafras.
Gaze on;—take in, the voices of the Mere,—
The break of shallow water at thy feet,
Its splash among long weeds, and grasses sere,
And its low sobbing;—hollow music, meet
For ears like thine; listen and take thy fill,
And dream of it by night, when all is still.
The break of shallow water at thy feet,
Its splash among long weeds, and grasses sere,
And its low sobbing;—hollow music, meet
For ears like thine; listen and take thy fill,
And dream of it by night, when all is still.
Full sixteen years have slowly pass'd away,
Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here
Came down, a six months' wife, one April day,
To see her husband's boat go down the Mere,
And track its course, till, lost in distance blue,
In mellow light it faded from her view.
Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here
Came down, a six months' wife, one April day,
To see her husband's boat go down the Mere,
And track its course, till, lost in distance blue,
In mellow light it faded from her view.
It faded, and she never saw it more;—
Nor any human eye;—oh, grief! oh, woe!
It faded,—and return'd not to the shore;
But far above it still the waters flow—
And none beheld it sink, and none could tell
Where coldly slept the form she lov'd so well!
Nor any human eye;—oh, grief! oh, woe!
61
But far above it still the waters flow—
And none beheld it sink, and none could tell
Where coldly slept the form she lov'd so well!
But that sad day, unknowing of her fate,
She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet;
And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late,
The evening fell;—the time when they should meet;—
Till the stars pal'd that at deep midnight burn'd—
And morning dawn'd, and he was not return'd.
She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet;
And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late,
The evening fell;—the time when they should meet;—
Till the stars pal'd that at deep midnight burn'd—
And morning dawn'd, and he was not return'd.
And the bright sun came up—she thought too soon,
And shed his ruddy light along the Mere;
And day wore on too quickly, and at noon
She came, and wept beside the waters clear.
“How could he be so late?”—and then hope fled;
And disappointment darken'd into dread.
And shed his ruddy light along the Mere;
And day wore on too quickly, and at noon
She came, and wept beside the waters clear.
“How could he be so late?”—and then hope fled;
And disappointment darken'd into dread.
He never came; and she, with weeping sore,
Peer'd in the water-flags unceasingly,
Through all the undulations of the shore,
Searching for that which most she fear'd to see,
At length she took home sorrow to her heart;
And brooded over its cold, cruel smart!
Peer'd in the water-flags unceasingly,
Through all the undulations of the shore,
Searching for that which most she fear'd to see,
62
And brooded over its cold, cruel smart!
And then all hopelessly she sat alone,
And mourn'd, refusing to be comforted,
On the grey stone—the moss-embroider'd stone,
With the tall sycamore above her head.
Till, after many days, a broken oar,
Hard by her seat, was left upon the shore.
And mourn'd, refusing to be comforted,
On the grey stone—the moss-embroider'd stone,
With the tall sycamore above her head.
Till, after many days, a broken oar,
Hard by her seat, was left upon the shore.
It came, a token of his fate—the whole,
The sum of her misfortunes, to reveal—
As if sent up in pity to her soul,
The tidings of her widowhood to seal;
And put away the pining hope forlorn,
That made her grief more bitter to be borne.
The sum of her misfortunes, to reveal—
As if sent up in pity to her soul,
The tidings of her widowhood to seal;
And put away the pining hope forlorn,
That made her grief more bitter to be borne.
And she was patient,—through the weary day
She toil'd, though none was there her work to bless;
And did not wear the sullen months away,
Nor call on Death to end her wretchedness;
But, lest her grief should overflow her breast,
She toil'd as heretofore, and would not rest.
She toil'd, though none was there her work to bless;
And did not wear the sullen months away,
Nor call on Death to end her wretchedness;
But, lest her grief should overflow her breast,
She toil'd as heretofore, and would not rest.
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But her work done, what time the evening star
Rose over the cool water, then she came
To the grey stone, and saw its light from far,
Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame;
And wonder'd whether there might be the place
Where the soft ripple wander'd o'er his face.
Rose over the cool water, then she came
To the grey stone, and saw its light from far,
Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame;
And wonder'd whether there might be the place
Where the soft ripple wander'd o'er his face.
Unfortunate—in solitude forlorn
She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave;
Till, when the days grew short, a child was born
To the dead father underneath the wave:
And it brought back a remnant of delight—
A little sunshine to its mother's sight. . . .
She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave;
Till, when the days grew short, a child was born
To the dead father underneath the wave:
And it brought back a remnant of delight—
A little sunshine to its mother's sight. . . .
Across the pastur'd lea, across the wold,
There stands a mansion grey. At early dawn,
Beneath its lofty roof, its turrets old,
On that same day another child was born;
And, with a father's welcome, laid to rest,
Cradled in down, from its young mother's breast.
There stands a mansion grey. At early dawn,
Beneath its lofty roof, its turrets old,
On that same day another child was born;
And, with a father's welcome, laid to rest,
Cradled in down, from its young mother's breast.
Cradled in down, and canopied with plumes,
As helpless as the orphan babe he slept,
Though rob'd in lace, and lull'd in stately rooms,
While hireling nurses watch about him kept.
And on the new-born heir his father's eyes
Dwelt often, with a strange and sweet surprise.
As helpless as the orphan babe he slept,
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While hireling nurses watch about him kept.
And on the new-born heir his father's eyes
Dwelt often, with a strange and sweet surprise.
Far different was their birth, and such should be
The tenor of their lives. The early years
Of one pass'd on with laughter, and with glee;
The other, nurtur'd amid sighs and tears,
Grew, like a young plant in a quiet glade,
Nourish'd with dew, and budding in the shade.
The tenor of their lives. The early years
Of one pass'd on with laughter, and with glee;
The other, nurtur'd amid sighs and tears,
Grew, like a young plant in a quiet glade,
Nourish'd with dew, and budding in the shade.
But not like careless childhood's were her ways,
Deep quiet dwelt upon her forehead fair:
And oft abroad she fix'd her tender gaze,
As if she saw a face that was not there—
Would turn, as if a voice had touch'd her ear,
A tone that other mortals could not hear.
Deep quiet dwelt upon her forehead fair:
And oft abroad she fix'd her tender gaze,
As if she saw a face that was not there—
Would turn, as if a voice had touch'd her ear,
A tone that other mortals could not hear.
And years flew on —and she was still the same;
Nor human language she had learn'd to speak;
Her lips were mute; but seasons went and came,
And brought fresh beauties to her maiden cheek.
And all the day upon the sunny shore
She sat and mus'd beneath the sycamore.
Nor human language she had learn'd to speak;
Her lips were mute; but seasons went and came,
And brought fresh beauties to her maiden cheek.
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She sat and mus'd beneath the sycamore.
Strange sympathy! she watch'd and wearied not;
Haply unconscious what it was she sought:
Her mother's tale she easily forgot;
And if she listen'd, no warm tears it brought.
Though surely in the yearnings of her heart
The unknown voyager must have had his part.
Haply unconscious what it was she sought:
Her mother's tale she easily forgot;
And if she listen'd, no warm tears it brought.
Though surely in the yearnings of her heart
The unknown voyager must have had his part.
Unknown to her;—like all she saw, unknown;
All sights were fresh, as when they first began;
All sounds were new, each murmur, and each tone,
And cause and consequence she could not scan:
Forgot that night brought darkness in its train,
Nor reason'd that the day would come again. . . .
All sights were fresh, as when they first began;
All sounds were new, each murmur, and each tone,
And cause and consequence she could not scan:
Forgot that night brought darkness in its train,
Nor reason'd that the day would come again. . . .
There is a happiness in past regret,
As echoes of the harshest sounds are sweet.
The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet,
Repeated in the child's, 'twas not unmeet,
That echo-like, that grief a tone should take,
Painless, but always pensive, for her sake.
As echoes of the harshest sounds are sweet.
The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet,
Repeated in the child's, 'twas not unmeet,
That echo-like, that grief a tone should take,
Painless, but always pensive, for her sake.
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For her dear sake, whose patient soul was link'd
By ties so many to the babe unborn—
Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct,
For evermore had left her child forlorn,
Yet left no consciousness of want or woe;
Nor vague regret that these things should be so.
By ties so many to the babe unborn—
Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct,
For evermore had left her child forlorn,
Yet left no consciousness of want or woe;
Nor vague regret that these things should be so.
It was a dream, this world—an endless dream,
To which all sounds and senses minister'd;
Mingling things true with things that did but seem,—
She held mute converse, without sign or word,
With sighs of whispering grass, wind-lifted flowers,
Slight voices that pass by dull ears like ours.
To which all sounds and senses minister'd;
Mingling things true with things that did but seem,—
She held mute converse, without sign or word,
With sighs of whispering grass, wind-lifted flowers,
Slight voices that pass by dull ears like ours.
Truly her joys were limited and few;
She watch'd in shade the summer day glide on;
She had fond thoughts about the glittering dew,
And saw fantastic shapes at even-song—
Unreal delights! the restless spirit deems;
Pity her not.—Her griefs?—they too were dreams!
She watch'd in shade the summer day glide on;
She had fond thoughts about the glittering dew,
And saw fantastic shapes at even-song—
Unreal delights! the restless spirit deems;
Pity her not.—Her griefs?—they too were dreams!
So sat she always underneath her tree,
The fairest thing the country round had seen,
With her small hand dropp'd idly on her knee,
Clad in her russet-hat and gown of green—
Through the spring mornings, gemm'd with melted rime,
All through hay-harvest, and through gleaning time.
The fairest thing the country round had seen,
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Clad in her russet-hat and gown of green—
Through the spring mornings, gemm'd with melted rime,
All through hay-harvest, and through gleaning time.
And oft the lady from the mansion old,
With her young son, the silent child would seek,
Teach him his arms around her to enfold,
With prattling words to kiss her dimpled cheek;
Till from her side he lightly broke away,
Busied with floating straws or leaves at play.
With her young son, the silent child would seek,
Teach him his arms around her to enfold,
With prattling words to kiss her dimpled cheek;
Till from her side he lightly broke away,
Busied with floating straws or leaves at play.
And oft, grown older, to the Mere he stray'd,
And sported on its shores the whole day long;
When that kind lady in her grave was laid,
With all her tender thoughts so deep and strong—
Having pass'd lightly from her husband's mind;
Lost there,—but for the child she left behind.
And sported on its shores the whole day long;
When that kind lady in her grave was laid,
With all her tender thoughts so deep and strong—
Having pass'd lightly from her husband's mind;
Lost there,—but for the child she left behind.
Oh, pleasure for itself that boyhood makes!
Oh, happiness about the fields to roam!
He watch'd, down crouching in the hawthorn brakes,
While the small white-throats built their hanging home;
Follow'd with cautious oar the wild duck's track,
And trac'd the landrail to her nestlings back.
Oh, happiness about the fields to roam!
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While the small white-throats built their hanging home;
Follow'd with cautious oar the wild duck's track,
And trac'd the landrail to her nestlings back.
And yet they took him from his fenny wold,
The reedy Mere, and all his pastimes there—
The place where he was born, and should grow old,
If God his life so many years should spare—
From the lov'd haunts of childhood, and the plain,
And pasture lands of his own broad domain.
The reedy Mere, and all his pastimes there—
The place where he was born, and should grow old,
If God his life so many years should spare—
From the lov'd haunts of childhood, and the plain,
And pasture lands of his own broad domain.
And so he came when wheat was in the sheaf;
And ripen'd hazel nuts were dropping down;
While whirling slowly, fell the yellow leaf;
And standing beans were turning sere and brown;
He came from his grey turrets to the shore,
And sought the maid beneath the sycamore.
And ripen'd hazel nuts were dropping down;
While whirling slowly, fell the yellow leaf;
And standing beans were turning sere and brown;
He came from his grey turrets to the shore,
And sought the maid beneath the sycamore.
He sought her, not because her tender eyes
Would brighten at his coming; for he knew
No thought of him within her heart would rise,
When once he had departed from her view;
Though he had link'd affections pure and mild
With the sweet image of the silent child.
Would brighten at his coming; for he knew
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When once he had departed from her view;
Though he had link'd affections pure and mild
With the sweet image of the silent child.
For boyhood, like maturity, is prone
To reverence what it cannot understand;
And he had thought, while thus she mus'd alone,
Some saintly reason kept her on the strand.
Some dream of heaven within her heart must glow,
Who took so little heed of aught below.
To reverence what it cannot understand;
And he had thought, while thus she mus'd alone,
Some saintly reason kept her on the strand.
Some dream of heaven within her heart must glow,
Who took so little heed of aught below.
A fishing wallet from his shoulders slung,
With bounding foot he reach'd the mossy place;
A little moment gently o'er her hung,
Put back her hair, and look'd into her face;
Heav'd a short boyish sigh of kind regret,
And call'd her “Margaret, sweet Margaret.”
With bounding foot he reach'd the mossy place;
A little moment gently o'er her hung,
Put back her hair, and look'd into her face;
Heav'd a short boyish sigh of kind regret,
And call'd her “Margaret, sweet Margaret.”
And he said “Listen,—hear what I shall say;
Only this once thy dreamy eyes withdraw;
To-morrow I am going far away,—
Ah! look at me before I leave the shore.
But why should I say this? You'll soon forget:
Farewell, till I return, sweet Margaret!”
Only this once thy dreamy eyes withdraw;
To-morrow I am going far away,—
Ah! look at me before I leave the shore.
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Farewell, till I return, sweet Margaret!”
And wilt thou think on him when he is gone?
No—thou wilt gaze, though thy young eyes grow dim,
And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan;
Still thou wilt gaze; and spend no thought on him:
There is no sweetness in his voice for thee,
Nor beauty in his young heart's gaiety!
No—thou wilt gaze, though thy young eyes grow dim,
And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan;
Still thou wilt gaze; and spend no thought on him:
There is no sweetness in his voice for thee,
Nor beauty in his young heart's gaiety!
But wherefore linger in deserted haunts?
Why of the past, as if yet present, sing?
The yellow Iris on the margin flaunts,
The shore is gay with Hyacinths in spring,
And dappled skies are mirror'd in the wave,
Where stooping swallows dip their wings to lave.
Why of the past, as if yet present, sing?
The yellow Iris on the margin flaunts,
The shore is gay with Hyacinths in spring,
And dappled skies are mirror'd in the wave,
Where stooping swallows dip their wings to lave.
But, Margaret—Ah! thou art there no more—
And thick dank moss creeps over thy grey stone;
Thy path is lost, that skirted the low shore
With willow grass, and speedwell overgrown;
Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear
Drinks in no more the music of the Mere!
And thick dank moss creeps over thy grey stone;
Thy path is lost, that skirted the low shore
With willow grass, and speedwell overgrown;
Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear
Drinks in no more the music of the Mere!
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The Baron's son shall come again in Spring,
Well pleas'd to angle in the waters clear;
And some kind offering in his hand will bring,
To cast into thy lap, O maiden dear!
Some silver brooch, some clasp to bind thy vest,
And heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast.
Well pleas'd to angle in the waters clear;
And some kind offering in his hand will bring,
To cast into thy lap, O maiden dear!
Some silver brooch, some clasp to bind thy vest,
And heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast.
And he shall wonder why thou art not here,
The solitude “with smiles to entertain;”
And gaze along the reaches of the Mere;
But he shall never see thy face again;
Shall never see upon the reedy shore
Pale Margaret beneath her sycamore!
The solitude “with smiles to entertain;”
And gaze along the reaches of the Mere;
But he shall never see thy face again;
Shall never see upon the reedy shore
Pale Margaret beneath her sycamore!
| A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings | |