by Dinah Roe
Like this, and people standing by,
55 And laughing, while my weak hands try
To recollect how strong men swim.
All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last,
Would God that this next hour were past!’
60 He answer’d not, but cried his cry,
‘St George for Marny!’ cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
65 And, while for rage his thumb beat fast
Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.
Then they went along
To Godmar; who said: ‘Now, Jehane,
70 Your lover’s life is on the wane
So fast, that, if this very hour
You yield not as my paramour,
He will not see the rain leave off –
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff,
75 Sir Robert, or I slay you now.’
She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and – ‘No.’
She said, and turn’d her head away,
80 As there were nothing else to say,
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar’s face from chin to head:
‘Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands:
85 What hinders me from taking you,
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?’
A wicked smile
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,
90 A long way out she thrust her chin:
‘You know that I should strangle you
While you were sleeping; or bite through
Your throat, by God’s help – ah!’ she said,
‘Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!
95 For in such wise they hem me in,
I cannot choose but sin and sin,
Whatever happens: yet I think
They could not make me eat or drink,
And so should I just reach my rest.’
100 ‘Nay, if you do not my behest,
O Jehane! though I love you well,’
Said Godmar, ‘would I fail to tell
All that I know,’ ‘Foul lies,’ she said.
‘Eh? lies my Jehane? by God’s head,
105 At Paris folks would deem them true!
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you,
“Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to burn or drown!” –
Eh – gag me, Robert! – sweet my friend,
110 This were indeed a piteous end
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it – So, an hour yet:
115 Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!’
So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards: with her face
Turn’d upward to the sky she lay,
120 Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh’d quietly,
125 And strangely childlike came, and said:
‘I will not.’ Straightway Godmar’s head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn’d
Most sharply round, and his’ face burn’d.
For Robert – both his eyes were dry,
130 He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem’d to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reach’d out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
135 The poor grey lips, and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush’d them.
With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert’s throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
140 Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw,
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar’s sheath, his hand
In Robert’s hair; she saw him bend
Back Robert’s head; she saw him send
145 The thin steel down; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moan’d as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem: so then
Godmar turn’d grinning to his men,
150 Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.
Then Godmar turn’d again and said:
‘So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!
Take note, my lady, that your way
155 Lies backward to the Chatelet!’
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.
This was the parting that they had
160 Beside the haystack in the floods.
Two Red Roses Across the Moon
There was a lady lived in a hall,
Large in the eyes, and slim and tall;
And ever she sung from noon to noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
5 There was a knight came riding by
In early spring, when the roads were dry;
And he heard that lady sing at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
Yet none the more he stopp’d at all,
10 But he rode a-gallop past the hall;
And left that lady singing at noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
Because, forsooth, the battle was set,
And the scarlet and blue had got to be met,
15 He rode on the spur till the next warm noon; –
Two red roses across the moon.
But the battle was scatter’d from hill to hill,
From the windmill to the watermill;
And he said to himself, as it near’d the noon,
20 Two red roses across the moon.
You scarce could see for the scarlet and blue,
A golden helm or a golden shoe:
So he cried, as the fight grew thick at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon!
25 Verily then the gold bore through
The huddled spears of the scarlet and blue;
And they cried, as they cut them down at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon!
I trow he stopp’d when he rode again
30 By the hall, though draggled sore with the rain:
And his lips were pinch’d to kiss at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
Under the may she stoop’d to the crown,
All was gold, there was nothing of brown;
35 And the horns blew up in the hall at noon,
Two red roses across the moon.
Near Avalon
A ship with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,
A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.
5 The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies’ heads most fair,
And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.
A ship with sails before the wind,
10 And round the helm six knights,
Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,
They pass by many sig
hts,
The tatter’d scarlet banners there,
Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.
15 Those six knights sorrowfully bear,
In all their heaumes some yellow hair.
Praise of My Lady
My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollow’d a little mournfully.
Beata mea Domina!
5 Her forehead, overshadow’d much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
Beata mea Domina!
Not greatly long my lady’s hair,
10 Not yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crisped wonderfully:
Beata mea Domina!
Heavy to make the pale face sad,
And dark, but dead as though it had
15 Been forged by God most wonderfully
– Beata mea Domina! –
Of some strange metal, thread by thread,
To stand out from my lady’s head,
Not moving much to tangle me.
20 Beata mea Domina!
Beneath her brows the lids fall slow,
The lashes a clear shadow throw
Where I would wish my lips to be.
Beata mea Domina!
25 Her great eyes, standing far apart,
Draw up some memory from her heart,
And gaze out very mournfully;
– Beata mea Domina! –
So beautiful and kind they are,
30 But most times looking out afar,
Waiting for something, not for me.
Beata mea Domina!
I wonder if the lashes long
Are those that do her bright eyes wrong,
35 For always half tears seem to be
– Beata mea Domina! –
Lurking below the underlid,
Darkening the place where they lie hid –
If they should rise and flow for me!
40 Beata mea Domina!
Her full lips being made to kiss,
Curl’d up and pensive each one is;
This makes me faint to stand and see.
Beata mea Domina!
45 Her lips are not contented now,
Because the hours pass so slow
Towards a sweet time: (pray for me),
– Beata mea Domina! –
Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell;
50 But this at least I know full well,
Her lips are parted longingly,
– Beata mea Domina! –
So passionate and swift to move,
To pluck at any flying love,
55 That I grow faint to stand and see.
Beata mea Domina!
Yea! there beneath them is her chin,
So fine and round, it were a sin
To feel no weaker when I see
60 – Beata mea Domina! –
God’s dealings; for with so much care
And troublous, faint lines wrought in there,
He finishes her face for me.
Beata mea Domina!
65 Of her long neck what shall I say?
What things about her body’s sway,
Like a knight’s pennon or slim tree
– Beata mea Domina! –
Set gently waving in the wind;
70 Or her long hands that I may find
On some day sweet to move o’er me?
Beata mea Domina!
God pity me though, if I miss’d
The telling, how along her wrist
75 The veins creep, dying languidly
– Beata mea Domina! –
Inside her tender palm and thin.
Now give me pardon, dear, wherein
My voice is weak and vexes thee.
80 Beata mea Domina!
All men that see her any time,
I charge you straightly in this rhyme,
What, and wherever you may be,
– Beata mea Domina! –
85 To kneel before her; as for me,
I choke and grow quite faint to see
My lady moving graciously.
Beata mea Domina!
Summer Dawn
Pray but one prayer for me ’twixt thy closed lips,
Think but one thought of me up in the stars.
The summer night waneth, the morning light slips,
Faint and grey ’twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars,
5 That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:
Patient and colourless, though Heaven’s gold
Waits to float through them along with the sun.
Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,
The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold
10 The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;
Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn,
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn.
Speak but one word to me over the corn,
Over the tender, bow’d locks of the corn.
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISe
An Apology
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
5 Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.
But rather, when aweary of your mirth,
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
10 And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet days die –
– Remember me a little then I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.
15 The heavy trouble, the bewildering care
That weighs us down who live and earn our bread,
These idle verses have no power to bear;
So let me sing of names remembered,
Because they, living not, can ne’er be dead,
20 Or long time take their memory quite away
From us poor singers of an empty day.
Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
25 Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.
Folk say, a wizard to a northern king
30 At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,
35 Piped the drear wind of that December day.
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,
40 Where tossed about all hearts of men must be;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.
The Wanderers
Forget six counties overhung with smoke,
Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke,
Forget the spreading of the hideous town;
Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,
5 And dream of London, small, and white, and clean,
The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green;
Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves
Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves,
Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill,
10 And
pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill,
And treasured scanty spice from some far sea,
Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery,
And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne;
While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer’s pen
15 Moves over bills of lading – mid such times
Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.
May
O Love, this morn when the sweet nightingale
Had so long finished all he had to say,
That thou hadst slept, and sleep had told his tale;
And midst a peaceful dream had stolen away
5 In fragrant dawning of the first of May,
Didst thou see aught? didst thou hear voices sing
Ere to the risen sun the bells ’gan ring?
For then methought the Lord of Love went by
To take possession of his flowery throne,
10 Ringed round with maids, and youths, and minstrelsy;
A little while I sighed to find him gone,
A little while the dawning was alone,
And the light gathered; then I held my breath,
And shuddered at the sight of Eld and Death.
15 Alas! Love passed me in the twilight dun,
His music hushed the wakening ousel’s song;
But on these twain shone out the golden sun,
And o’er their heads the brown bird’s tune was strong,
As shivering, twixt the trees they stole along;
20 None noted aught their noiseless passing by,
The world had quite forgotten it must die.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
A Ballad of Life
I found in dreams a place of wind and flowers,
Full of sweet trees and colour of glad grass,
In midst whereof there was
A lady clothed like summer with sweet hours.
5 Her beauty, fervent as a fiery moon,
Made my blood burn and swoon
Like a flame rained upon.
Sorrow had filled her shaken eyelids’ blue,
And her mouth’s sad red heavy rose all through
10 Seemed sad with glad things gone.
She held a little cithern by the strings,
Shaped heartwise, strung with subtle-coloured hair
Of some dead lute-player