by Dinah Roe
Grew her affection, as the child increased
In wisdom and in stature with his years,
That many mothers wondered, saying: ‘These
20 Our little ones claim in our hearts a place
The next to God; but Mary’s tenderness
Grows almost into reverence for her child.
Is he not of herself? I’ the temple when
Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes,
25 As though God only heard her prayer through him.
Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know
That out of Galilee no prophet comes.’
But all their children made the boy their friend.
Three cottages that overlooked the sea
30 Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth.
Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs,
Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red,
Layer upon layer built up against the sky.
In front a row of sloping meadows lay,
35 Parted by narrow streams, that rose above,
Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below
Into deep channels widening to the sea.
Within the humblest of these three abodes
Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child.
40 A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew,
With many blossoms, on their cottage front;
And o’er the gable warmed by the South
A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves
Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung
45 Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit.
And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows
Which the sun spreads from some old oriel
Upon the marble Altar and the gold
Of God’s own Tabernacle, where he dwells
50 For ever, so the blossoms and the vine,
On Jesus’ home climbing above the roof,
Traced intricate their windings all about
The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests
Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen.
55 And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed
Between the gable-window and the eaves,
Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love
From Mary’s kinsman Zachary to her child)
Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear
60 The ever dying sound of falling waves.
And so it came to pass, one Summer morn,
The mother dove first brought her fledgeling out
To see the sun. It was her only one,
And she had breasted it through three long weeks
65 With patient instinct till it broke the shell;
And she had nursed it with all tender care,
Another three, and watched the white down grow
Into full feather, till it left her nest.
And now it stood outside its narrow home,
70 With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes;
While, hovering near, the old dove often tried
By many lures to tempt it to the ground,
That they might feed from Jesus’ hand, who stood
Watching them from below. The timid bird
75 At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings,
Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down.
Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice
Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop
On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled
80 About the sunken talons as it died.
Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child
Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped
His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft
I’ the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey.
85 And Jesus heard the mother’s anguished cry,
Weak like the distant sob of some lost child,
Who in his terror runs from path to path,
Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove,
As though death-stricken, beat about the air;
90 Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head
Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there,
Brooding upon her loss, and did not move
All through that day.
And the child Jesus wept,
95 And, sitting by her, covered up his face:
Until a cloud, alone between the earth
And sun, passed with its shadow over him.
Then Jesus for a moment looked above;
And a few drops of rain fell on his brow,
100 Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream,
Or dim foreboding of some future ill.
Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl
Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers,
Which in her lap she sorted orderly,
105 As little children do at Easter-time
To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise.
Then Jesus’ covered face she gently raised,
Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek,
And tried with soothing words to comfort him;
110 He from his eyes spoke thanks.
But still the tears,
Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop,
Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not
Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o’er his woe.
THOMAS WOOLNER
My Beautiful Lady
I love my lady; she is very fair;
Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair:
Her spirit sits aloof, and high,
Altho’ it looks thro’ her soft eye
5 Sweetly and tenderly.
As a young forest, when the wind drives thro’,
My life is stirred when she breaks on my view.
Altho’ her beauty has such power,
Her soul is like the simple flower
10 Trembling beneath a shower.
As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings,
The bloom around her fancied presence flings,
I feast and wile her absence, by
Pressing her choice hand passionately –
15 Imagining her sigh.
My lady’s voice, altho’ so very mild,
Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child;
My lady’s touch, however slight,
Moves all my senses with its might,
20 Like to a sudden flight.
A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips
Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips, –
In vigilance, not more intense
Than I; when her word’s gentle sense
25 Makes full-eyed my suspense.
Her mention of a thing – august or poor,
Makes it seem nobler than it was before:
As where the sun strikes, life will gush,
And what is pale receive a flush,
30 Rich hues – a richer blush.
My lady’s name, if I hear strangers use, –
Not meaning her – seems like a lax misuse.
I love none but my lady’s name;
Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same,
35 So blank, so very tame.
My lady walks as I have seen a swan
Swim thro’ the water just where the sun shone.
There ends of willow branches ride,
Quivering with the current’s glide,
40 By the deep river-side.
Whene’er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred;
As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird
At each pant shows some fiery hue,
Burns gold, intensest green or blue:
45 The same, yet ever new.
What time she walketh under flowering May,
I am quite sure the scented blossoms say,
‘O lady with the sunlit hair!
; ‘Stay, and drink our odorous air –
50 ‘The incense that we bear:
‘Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade;
‘Being near you, our sweetness might not fade.’
If trees could be broken-hearted,
I am sure that the green sap smarted,
55 When my lady parted.
This is why I thought weeds were beautiful; –
Because one day I saw my lady pull
Some weeds up near a little brook,
Which home most carefully she took,
60 Then shut them in a book.
A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce, –
A bird escaping from the falcon’s trounce,
Feels his heart swell as mine, when she
Stands statelier, expecting me,
65 Than tall white lilies be.
The first white flutter of her robe to trace,
Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace,
Expands my gaze triumphantly:
Even such his gaze, who sees on high
70 His flag, for victory.
We wander forth unconsciously, because
The azure beauty of the evening draws:
When sober hues pervade the ground,
And life in one vast hush seems drowned,
75 Air stirs so little sound.
We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray
With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray,
(Forcing sweet pauses on our walk):
I’ll lift one with my foot, and talk
80 About its leaves and stalk.
Or may be that the prickles of some stem
Will hold a prisoner her long garment’s hem;
To disentangle it I kneel,
Oft wounding more than I can heal;
85 It makes her laugh, my zeal.
Then on before a thin-legged robin hops,
Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops,
Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh
We draw, when quickly he will fly
90 Into a bush close by.
A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight,
And wheeling round a birchen tree alight
Deep in its glittering leaves, until
They see us, when their swift rise will
95 Startle a sudden thrill.
I recollect my lady in a wood,
Keeping her breath and peering – (firm she stood
Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe –)
Into a nest which lay below,
100 Leaves shadowing her brow.
I recollect my lady asking me,
What that sharp tapping in the wood might be?
I told her blackbirds made it, which,
For slimy morsels they count rich,
105 Cracked the snail’s curling niche:
She made no answer. When we reached the stone
Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn,
Close to the margin of a rill;
‘The air,’ she said, ‘seems damp and chill,
110 ‘We’ll go home if you will.’
‘Make not my pathway dull so,’ I cried,
‘See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed,
‘Roll out their splendour: while the breeze
‘Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these
115 ‘Ash saplings move at ease.’
Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird
Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred
The covert birds that startled, sent
Their music thro’ the air; leaves lent
120 Their rustling and blent,
Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled
So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled.
She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day’s
Glory: altho’ she spoke no praise,
125 I saw much in her gaze.
Then, flushed with resolution, I told all; –
The mighty love I bore her, – how would pall
My very breath of life, if she
For ever breathed not hers with me; –
130 Could I a cherub be,
How, idly hoping to enrich her grace,
I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space; –
Then back thro’ the vague distance beat,
Glowing with joy her smile to meet,
135 And heap them round her feet.
Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head,
Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened:
(Just then we both heard a church bell)
O God! It is not right to tell:
140 But I remember well
Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole
Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll
Of new sensations dimmed her eyes,
Half closing them in ecstacies,
145 Turned full against the skies.
The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round –
No pressure of my feet upon the ground:
But even when parted from her, bright
Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight
150 The dark was starred with light.
Of My Lady in Death
All seems a painted show. I look
Up thro’ the bloom that’s shed
By leaves above my head,
And feel the earnest life forsook
5 All being, when she died: –
My heart halts, hot and dried
As the parched course where once a brook
Thro’ fresh growth used to flow, –
Because her past is now
10 No more than stories in a printed book.
The grass has grown above that breast,
Now cold and sadly still,
My happy face felt thrill: –
Her mouth’s mere tones so much expressed!
15 Those lips are now close set, –
Lips which my own have met;
Her eyelids by the earth are pressed;
Damp earth weighs on her eyes;
Damp earth shuts out the skies.
20 My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.
To see her slim perfection sweep,
Trembling impatiently,
With eager gaze at me!
Her feet spared little things that creep: –
25 ‘We’ve no more right,’ she’d say,
‘In this the earth than they.’
Some remember it but to weep.
Her hand’s slight weight was such,
Care lightened with its touch;
30 My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.
My day-dreams hovered round her brow;
Now o’er its perfect forms
Go softly real worms.
Stern death, it was a cruel blow,
35 To cut that sweet girl’s life
Sharply, as with a knife.
Cursed life that lets me live and grow,
Just as a poisonous root,
From which rank blossoms shoot;
40 My lady’s laid so very, very low.
Dread power, grief cries aloud, ‘unjust,’ –
To let her young life play
Its easy, natural way;
Then, with an unexpected thrust,
45 Strike out the life you lent,
Just when her feelings blent
With those around whom she saw trust
Her willing power to bless,
For their whole happiness;
50 My lady moulders into common dust.
Small birds twitter and peck the weeds
That wave above her head,
Shading her lowly bed:
Their brisk wings burst light globes of seeds,
55 Scattering the downy pride
Of dandelions, wide:
Speargrass stoops with watery beads:
The weight from its fine tips
Occasionally drips:
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sp; 60 The bee drops in the mallow-bloom, and feeds.
About her window, at the dawn,
From the vine’s crooked boughs
Birds chirruped an arouse:
Flies, buzzing, strengthened with the morn; –
65 She’ll not hear them again
At random strike the pane:
No more upon the close-cut lawn,
Her garment’s sun-white hem
Bend the prim daisy’s stem,
70 In walking forth to view what flowers are born.
No more she’ll watch the dark-green rings
Stained quaintly on the lea,
To image fairy glee;
While thro’ dry grass a faint breeze sings,
75 And swarms of insects revel
Along the sultry level: –
No more will watch their brilliant wings,
Now lightly dip, now soar,
Then sink, and rise once more.
80 My lady’s death makes dear these trivial things.
Within a huge tree’s steady shade,
When resting from our walk,
How pleasant was her talk!
Elegant deer leaped o’er the glade,
85 Or stood with wide bright eyes,
Staring a short surprise:
Outside the shadow cows were laid,
Chewing with drowsy eye
Their cuds complacently:
90 Dim for sunshine drew near a milking-maid.
Rooks cawed and laboured thro’ the heat;
Each wing-flap seemed to make
Their weary bodies ache:
The swallows, tho’ so very fleet,
95 Made breathless pauses there
At something in the air: –
All disappeared: our pulses beat
Distincter throbs: then each
Turned and kissed, without speech, –
100 She trembling, from her mouth down to her feet.
My head sank on her bosom’s heave,
So close to the soft skin
I heard the life within.
My forehead felt her coolly breathe,
105 As with her breath it rose:
To perfect my repose
Her two arms clasped my neck. The eve
Spread silently around,