Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  ’Twas the good father tended me,

  Having returned. Still, I did see

  The youth I spoke of constandy. 315

  ‘For he would with my brothers come

  To stay beside my couch,

  And fix my eyes against his own,

  Noting my pulse; or else alone,

  To sit at gaze while I made moan. 320

  (Some nights I knew he kept the watch,

  Because my women laid

  The rushes thick for his steel shoes.)

  Through many days this pain did use

  The life God would not let me lose. 325

  ‘At length, with my good nurse to aid,

  I could walk forth again:

  And still, as one who broods or grieves,

  At noons I’d meet him and at eves,

  With idle feet that drove the leaves. 330

  ‘The day when I first walked alone

  Was thinned in grass and leaf,

  And yet a goodly day o’ the year:

  The last bird’s cry upon mine ear

  Left my brain weak, it was so clear. 335

  ‘The tears were sharp within mine eyes.

  I sat down, being glad,

  And wept; but stayed the sudden flow

  Anon, for footsteps that fell slow;

  ’Twas that youth passed me, bowing low. 340

  ‘He passed me without speech; but when,

  At least an hour gone by,

  Rethreading the same covert, he

  Saw I was still beneath the tree,

  He spoke and sat him down with me. 345

  ‘Little we said; nor one heart heard

  Even what was said within;

  And, faltering some farewell, I soon

  Rose up; but then i’ the autumn noon

  My feeble brain whirled like a swoon. 350

  ‘He made me sit. “Cousin, I grieve

  Your sickness stays by you.”

  “I would,” said I, “that you did err

  So grieving. I am wearier

  Than death, of the sickening dying year.” 355

  ‘He answered: “If your weariness

  Accepts a remedy,

  I hold one and can give it you.”

  I gazed: “What ministers thereto,

  Be sure,” I said, “that I will do.” 360

  ‘He went on quickly: -’Twas a cure

  He had not ever named

  Unto our kin lest they should stint

  Their favour, for some foolish hint

  Of wizardry or magic in’t: 365

  ‘But that if he were let to come

  Within my bower that night,

  (My women still attending me,

  He said, while he remain’d there,) he

  Could teach me the cure privily. 370

  ‘I bade him come that night. He came;

  But little in his speech

  Was cure or sickness spoken of,

  Only a passionate fierce love

  That clamoured upon God above. 375

  ‘My women wondered, leaning close

  Aloof. At mine own heart

  I think great wonder was not stirr’d.

  I dared not listen, yet I heard

  His tangled speech, word within word. 380

  ‘He craved my pardon first, - all else

  Wild tumult. In the end

  He remained silent at my feet

  Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat

  Made all the blood of my life meet. 385

  ‘And lo! I loved him. I but said,

  If he would leave me then,

  His hope some future might forecast.

  His hot lips stung my hand: at last

  My damsels led him forth in haste.’ 390

  The bride took breath to pause; and turned

  Her gaze where Amelotte

  Knelt, - the gold hair upon her back

  Quite still in all its threads, - the track

  Of her still shadow sharp and black. 395

  That listening without sight had grown

  To stealthy dread; and now

  That the one sound she had to mark

  Left her alone too, she was stark

  Afraid, as children in the dark. 400

  Her fingers felt her temples beat;

  Then came that brain-sickness

  Which thinks to scream, and murmureth;

  And pent between her hands, the breath

  Was damp against her face like death. 405

  Her arms both fell at once; but when

  She gasped upon the light,

  Her sense returned. She would have pray’d

  To change whatever words still stay’d

  Behind, but felt there was no aid. 410

  So she rose up, and having gone

  Within the window’s arch

  Once more, she sat there, all intent

  On torturing doubts, and once more bent

  To hear, in mute bewilderment. 415

  But Aloÿse still paused. Thereon

  Amelotte gathered voice

  In somewise from the torpid fear

  Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear

  She said: ‘Speak, sister; for I hear. 420

  But Aloÿse threw up her neck

  And called the name of God: -

  ‘Judge, God, ‘twixt her and me to-day!

  She knows how hard this is to say,

  Yet will not have one word away. 425

  Her sister was quite silent. Then

  Afresh: - ‘Not she, dear Lord!

  Thou be my judge, on Thee I call!’

  She ceased, - her forehead smote the wall

  ‘Is there a God,’ she said, ‘at all? 430

  Amelotte shuddered at the soul,

  But did not speak. The pause

  Was long this time. At length the bride

  Pressed her hand hard against her side,

  And trembling between shame and pride 435

  Said by fierce effort: ‘From that night

  Often at nights we met:

  That night, his passion could but rave:

  The next, what grace his lips did crave

  I knew not, but I know I gave. 440

  Where Amelotte was sitting, all

  The light and warmth of day

  Were so upon her without shade

  That the thing seemed by sunshine made

  Most foul and wanton to be said. 445

  She would have questioned more, and known

  The whole truth at its worst,

  But held her silent, in mere shame

  Of day. ’Twas only these words came: -

  ‘Sister, thou hast not said his name. 450

  ‘Sister,’ quoth Aloÿse, ‘thou know’st

  His name. I said that he

  Was in a manner of our kin.

  Waiting the title he might win,

  They called him the Lord Urscelyn. 455

  The bridegroom’s name, to Amelotte

  Daily familiar, - heard

  Thus in this dreadful history, -

  Was dreadful to her; as might be

  Thine own voice speaking unto thee. 460

  The day’s mid-hour was almost full;

  Upon the dial-plate

  The angel’s sword stood near at One.

  An hour’s remaining yet; the sun

  Will not decrease till all be done. 465

  Through the bride’s lattice there crept in

  At whiles (from where the train

  Of minstrels, till the marriage-call,

  Loitered at windows of the wall,)

  Stray lute-notes, sweet and musical. 470

  They clung in the green growths and moss

  Against the outside stone;

  Low like dirge-wail or requiem

  They murmured, lost ‘twixt leaf and stem:

  There was no wind to carry them. 475

  Amelotte gathered herself back

  Into the wide recess

  Th
at the sun flooded: it o’erspread

  Like flame the hair upon her head

  And fringed her face with burning red. 480

  All things seemed shaken and at change:

  A silent place o’ the hills

  She knew, into her spirit came:

  Within herself she said its name

  And wondered was it still the same. 485

  The bride (whom silence goaded) now

  Said strongly, - her despair

  By stubborn will kept underneath: -

  ‘Sister, ‘twere well thou didst not breathe

  That curse of thine. Give me my wreath. 490

  ‘Sister,’ said Amelotte, ‘abide

  In peace. Be God thy judge,

  As thou hast said - not I. For me,

  I merely will thank God that he

  Whom thou hast lovèd loveth thee. 495

  Then Aloÿse lay back, and laughed

  With wan lips bitterly,

  Saying, ‘Nay, thank thou God for this, -

  That never any soul like his

  Shall have its portion where love is.’ 500

  Weary of wonder, Amelotte

  Sat silent: she would ask

  No more, though all was unexplained:

  She was too weak; the ache still pained

  Her eyes, - her forehead’s pulse remained. 505

  The silence lengthened. Aloÿse

  Was fain to turn her face

  Apart, to where the arras told

  Two Testaments, the New and Old,

  In shapes and meanings manifold. 510

  One solace that was gained, she hid.

  Her sister, from whose curse

  Her heart recoiled, had blessed instead:

  Yet would not her pride have it said

  How much the blessing comforted. 515

  Only, on looking round again

  After some while, the face

  Which from the arras turned away

  Was more at peace and less at bay

  With shame than it had been that day. 520

  She spoke right on, as if no pause

  Had come between her speech:

  ‘That year from warmth grew bleak and pass’d,’

  She said; ‘the days from first to last

  How slow, - woe’s me! the nights how fast! 525

  ‘From first to last it was not known:

  My nurse, and of my train

  Some four or five, alone could tell

  What terror kept inscrutable:

  There was good need to guard it well. 530

  ‘Not the guilt only made the shame,

  But he was without land

  And born amiss. He had but come

  To train his youth here at our home,

  And, being man, depart therefrom. 535

  Of the whole time each single day

  Brought fear and great unrest:

  It seemed that all would not avail

  Some once, - that my close watch would fail,

  And some sign, somehow, tell the tale. 540

  ‘The noble maidens that I knew,

  My fellows, oftentimes

  Midway in talk or sport, would look

  A wonder which my fears mistook,

  To see how I turned faint and shook. 545

  ‘They had a game of cards, where each

  By painted arms might find

  What knight she should be given to.

  Ever with trembling hand I threw

  Lest I should learn the thing I knew. 550

  ‘And once it came. And Aure d’Honvaulx

  Held up the bended shield

  And laughed: “Gramercy for our share! -

  If to our bridal we but fare

  To smutch the blazon that we bear!” 555

  ‘But proud Denise de Villenbois

  Kissed me, and gave her wench

  The card, and said: “If in these bowers

  You women play at paramours,

  You must not mix your game with ours.’ 560

  ‘And one upcast it from her hand:

  “Lo! see how high he’ll soar!”

  But then their laugh was bitterest;

  For the wind veered at fate’s behest

  And blew it back into my breast. 565

  Oh! if I met him in the day

  Or heard his voice, - at meals

  Or at the Mass or through the hall, -

  A look turned towards me would appal

  My heart by seeming to know all. 570

  ‘Yet I grew curious of my shame,

  And sometimes in the church,

  On hearing such a sin rebuked,

  Have held my girdle-glass unhooked

  To see how such a woman looked. 575

  ‘But if at night he did not come,

  I lay all deadly cold

  To think they might have smitten sore

  And slain him, and as the night wore,

  His corpse be lying at my door. 580

  ‘And entering or going forth,

  Our proud shield o’er the gate

  Seemed to arraign my shrinking eyes.

  With tremors and unspoken lies

  The year went past me in this wise. 585

  ‘About the spring of the next year

  An ailing fell on me;

  (I had been stronger till the spring;)

  ’Twas mine old sickness gathering,

  I thought; but ’twas another thing. 590

  ‘I had such yearnings as brought tears,

  And a wan dizziness:

  Motion, like feeling, grew intense;

  Sight was a haunting evidence

  And sound a pang that snatched the sense. 595

  ‘It now was hard on that great ill

  Which lost our wealth from us

  And all our lands. Accursed be

  The peevish fools of liberty

  Who will not let themselves be free! 600

  ‘The Prince was fled into the west:

  A price was on his blood,

  But he was safe. To us his friends

  He left that ruin which attends

  The strife against God’s secret ends. 605

  ‘The league dropped all asunder, - lord,

  Gentle and serf. Our house

  Was marked to fall. And a day came

  When half the wealth that propped our name

  Went from us in a wind of flame. 610

  ‘Six hours I lay upon the wall

  And saw it burn. But when

  It clogged the day in a black bed

  Of louring vapour, I was led

  Down to the postern, and we fled. 615

  ‘But ere we fled, there was a voice

  Which I heard speak, and say

  That many of our friends, to shun

  Our fate, had left us and were gone,

  And that Lord Urscelyn was one. 620

  ‘That name, as was its wont, made sight

  And hearing whirl. I gave

  No heed but only to the name:

  I held my senses, dreading them,

  And was at strife to look the same. 625

  ‘We rode and rode. As the speed grew,

  The growth of some vague curse

  Swarmed in my brain. It seemed to me

  Numbed by the swiftness, but would be-

  That still - clear knowledge certainly. 630

  ‘Night lapsed. At dawn the sea was there

  And the sea-wind: afar

  The ravening surge was hoarse and loud

  And underneath the dim dawn-cloud

  Each stalking wave shook like a shroud. 635

  ‘From my drawn litter I looked out

  Unto the swarthy sea,

  And knew. That voice, which late had cross’d

  Mine ears, seemed with the foam uptoss’d:

  I knew that Urscelyn was lost. 640

  ‘Then I spake all: I turned on one

  And on the other, and spake:

  My curse laughed in me to behold<
br />
  Their eyes: I sat up, stricken cold,

  Mad of my voice till all was told. 645

  Oh! of my brothers, Hugues was mute,

  And Gilles was wild and loud,

  And Raoul strained abroad his face,

  As if his gnashing wrath could trace

  Even there the prey that it must chase. 650

  ‘And round me murmured all our train,

  Hoarse as the hoarse-tongued sea;

  Till Hugues from silence louring woke,

  And cried: “What ails the foolish folk?

  Know ye not frenzy’s lightning stroke?” 655

  ‘But my stern father came to them

  And quelled them with his look,

  Silent and deadly pale. Anon

  I knew that we were hastening on,

  My litter closed and the light gone. 660

  ‘And I remember all that day

  The barren bitter wind

  Without, and the sea’s moaning there

  That I first moaned with unaware,

  And when I knew, shook down my hair. 665

  ‘Few followed us or faced our flight:

  Once only I could hear,

  Far in the front, loud scornful words,

  And cries I knew of hostile lords,

  And crash of spears and grind of swords. 670

  ‘It was soon ended. On that day

  Before the light had changed

  We reached our refuge; miles of rock

  Bulwarked for war; whose strength might mock

  Sky, sea, or man, to storm or shock. 675

  ‘Listless and feebly conscious, I

  Lay far within the night

  Awake. The many pains incurred

  That day, - the whole, said, seen or heard, -

  Stayed by in me as things deferred. 680

  ‘Not long. At dawn I slept. In dreams

  All was passed through afresh

  From end to end. As the morn heaved

  Towards noon, I, waking sore aggrieved,

  That I might die, cursed God, and lived. 685

  ‘Many days went, and I saw none

  Except my women. They

  Calmed their wan faces, loving me;

  And when they wept, lest I should see,

  Would chaunt a desolate melody. 690

  ‘Panic unthreatened shook my blood

  Each sunset, all the slow

  Subsiding of the turbid light.

  I would rise, sister, as I might,

  And bathe my forehead through the night 695

  ‘To elude madness. The stark wall

  Made chill the mirk: and when

  We oped our curtains, to resume

  Sun-sickness after long sick gloom,

  The withering sea-wind walked the room. 700

  ‘Through the gaunt windows the great gales

  Bore in the tattered clumps

  Of waif-weed and the tamarisk-boughs;

  And sea-mews, ‘mid the storm’s carouse,

  Were flung, wild-clamouring, in the house. 705

  ‘My hounds I had not; and my hawk,

  Which they had saved for me,