University of Virginia Library

Long wandered she about the London streets,
And seeming strange, was ever followed close
By curious crowds. To these she strove in vain
How to be understood; two words alone
She knew and could repeat “London” the one,
The other “Gilbert.” London she had found,
But still the jewel of all London sought.
Then said she to herself: “How know I then
That he far in the East hath perished not?
How know I then that he has reached the shore?
Perchance by armèd men was he waylaid
And murdered in the dark of forests far.
Perchance by wild beasts was asunder torn,
Or furious winds have driven him upon rocks,
Or cliffs perhaps of desert islands; there
To languish solitary by the sea,
To starve beside a barren ocean; or
Seized by the barbarous habitants and slain.
Who knows but I, the weaker, may have 'scaped
That he, the stronger, hath encountered? So
Fruitless my voyage all! A fruitless love,
And expedition vain across the world!
Here now in London where his life began,
The city which he murmured in his dreams,
I wander, but I find not what I seek.
Ah, Gilbert, if in the great city thou
Still dwellest, if thy father's hearth at last
Thou hast attained; then pity me, beloved,
Who wander and roam and yearn but for thy face.
O art thou not aware of me, although
Thou seest me not, nor ever word is changed
Between us two; still art thou not aware
That I am breathing air not far from thee?
O thou must know! The greetings to thy sire,
The expected kiss upon thy mother's lips,
These if thou livest long ago were given.
Now hast thou leisure to remember me,
And all those hot nights of the Eastern moon,
When to and fro I ministered to thee,
And with a soft strange song thy pain assuaged.
Think—ah but think—of all those miles of earth
And sea that I have traversed for thy sake,
And turn thy thoughts a little way to me.
Gilbert, I faint, I die apart from thee!”
So would she rhapsodise to her lone soul
And commune with herself for half the night.
Her jewels sleep and nourishment procured,
Room in a tavern tranquil, where she dwelt
All unmolested though in London's heart.
At last it so fell out that on an eve
Of glorious sunset burning after rain
She saw and stood and knew the man she sought.
But he, remembering her in other guise
And in a different land, pierced not the garb
Which had so well disguised her on her quest.
Then came she to him and thus murmured she:
“Sir, am I all forgotten? Is it past
The happy time upon that Eastern shore?
Ah but you know me not! Am I a boy
Think you, though many so would guess at me?
No, but a very woman and your own.
Lo, the great seas, the sands, the blackening winds,
All have I dared; the perils of the road,
The midnight ambush, and the leap of beast,
These and much more I lightly overpast.
See what a great love can accomplish! See
How it is capable of stern resolve
And not of sweetness only: for it means
To dare, to fight, for ever to endure.
Thus have I proved that love is not a thing
Of brief and burning kisses and an end.
Steadfast it is as wild and strong and sure.
The love in me disdained the rising seas,
Made light of mountains, and of heat and cold;
And safe have I come even to thy arms;
Dost thou not know me, Gilbert? Gaze and gaze
Until at last some far familiar way
Will strike upon thy recollection sweet,
And thou wilt spring and take me in thy arms.
But think not that I come to harass thee,
To be a daily burden in thy life;
There needs but from thy eyes a lonely look,
A little sad dissuasion of thy brows,
And I am gone from thee for evermore.
A little, a very little is enough
To send me back over the mighty seas,
Forgiving, yet not once forgetting thee.
O not a word is needed for that end,
A slightest motion of thee shall suffice.”
But he, now growing used to the idea;
For at the first he heard as in a dream;
In a slow rapture took her to his breast,
And kissed her here, now there, and many times.
“Hath ever,” said he, “such a feat of love
Been known in this dull world as this of thine?
Was ever so much risked or so much dared?
Now to my mother will I make you known
And through the long night shall your tale be told.
And if as far away thou didst agree
To turn to Christ, we then will married be,
And all the bells of London shall be rung.”

And so it came to pass, and that ere long,
These two were wedded while the spires acclaimed.