And her little hand, defiled with blood, "Well done it were for thy sistèr, No casque shall hide her woman's tear; "But what if she mistook thy mind “Look up—there is a small bright cloud Alone amid the skies! So high, so pure, and so apart, A woman's honour lies." The page looked up-the cloud was sheen- Betwixt it and his eyes. Then dimly dropped his eyes away From welkin unto hill. Ha! who rides there?-the page is 'ware, Though the cry at his heart is still : And the page seeth all and the knight seeth none, Though banner and spear do fleck the sun, And the Saracens ride at will. He speaketh calm, he speaketh low,— "Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way, "Ere night I shall be near to thee,- I shall be at thy side." The knight smiled free at the fantasy, And adown the dell did ride. Had the knight looked up to the page's face, Had the knight looked up to the page's face, Had the knight looked back to the page's geste, I ween he had turned anon, For dread was the woe in the face so young, And wild was the silent geste that flung Casque, sword, to earth, as the boy down-sprung And stood-alone, alone. He clenched his hands as if to hold His soul's great agony "Have I renounced my womanhood For wifehood unto thee, And is this the last, last look of thine That ever I shall see? "Yet God thee save, and may'st thou have A lady to thy mind, More woman-proud and half as true As one thou leav'st behind! And God me take with HIM to dwell— SHE looketh up, in earth's despair, And the tears down either cheek. The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel- "Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep, From pouring wine-cups resting?'-"I keep my master's noble name, For warring, not for feasting! And if that here Sir Hubert were, My master brave, my master dear, Ye would not stay the questing." "Where is thy master, scornful page, That we may slay or bind him?” "Now search the lea and search the wood, "Give smoother answers, lying page, They cursed her deep, they smote her low She felt the scimitar gleam down, With smile more bright in victory Than any sword from sheath,- Ingemisco, ingemisco! The great Altar of St. Mary, And the fifty tapers paling o'er it, And the Lady Abbess stark before it, And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly Beat along their voices saintly Ingemisco, ingemisco! Dirge for Abbess laid in shroud Sweepeth o'er the shroudless Dead, With the dews upon her head, Ingemisco, ingemisco ! By any mourner under sun, Which, ere it endeth, suits but one? RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. To the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun Toll slowly. And the oldest ringer said, “Ours is music for the Dead When the rebecks are all done." Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on the north side in a row Toll slowly. And the shadows of their tops rock across the little slopes Of the grassy graves below. On the south side and the west a small river runs in haste, Toll slowly. And, between the river flowing and the fair green trees a-growing, Do the dead lie at their rest. On the east I sat that day, up against a willow grey : Toll slowly. Through the rain of willow branches I could see the low hill-ranges And the river on its way. |