It shaketh without wind,
It parteth from the tide,
It standeth upright in the cleft moonlight,
It sitteth at her side.
Margret, Margret.
VII.
Look in its face, ladye,
And keep thee from thy swound;
With a spirit bold thy pulses hold
And hear its voice’s sound:
For so will sound thy voice
When thy face is to the wall,
And such will be thy face, ladye,
When the maidens work thy pall.
Margret, Margret.
VIII.
“Am I not like to thee?”
The voice was calm and low,
And between each word you might have heard
The silent forests grow;
“The like may sway the like;”
By which mysterious law
Mine eyes from thine and my lips from thine
The light and breath may draw.
Margret, Margret.
IX.
“My lips do need thy breath,
My lips do need thy smile,
And my pallid eyne, that light in thine
Which met the stars erewhile:
Yet go with light and life
If that thou lovest one
In all the earth who loveth thee
As truly as the sun,
Margret, Margret.”
X.
Her cheek had waxed white
Like cloud at fall of snow;
Then like to one at set of sun,
It waxed red also;
For love’s name maketh bold
As if the loved were near:
And then she sighed the deep long sigh
Which cometh after fear.
Margret, Margret.
XI.
“Now, sooth, I fear thee not —
Shall never fear thee now!”
(And a noble sight was the sudden light
Which lit her lifted brow.)
“Can earth be dry of streams,
Or hearts of love?” she said;
“Who doubteth love, can know not love:
He is already dead.”
Margret, Margret.
XII.
“I have” ... and here her lips
Some word in pause did keep,
And gave the while a quiet smile
As if they paused in sleep, —
“I have ... a brother dear,
A knight of knightly fame!
I broidered him a knightly scarf
With letters of my name
Margret, Margret.
XIII.
“I fed his grey goshawk,
I kissed his fierce bloodhound,
I sate at home when he might come
And caught his horn’s far sound:
I sang him hunter’s songs,
I poured him the red wine,
He looked across the cup and said,
I love thee, sister mine.”
Margret, Margret.
XIV.
IT trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter;
The sounding river which rolled, for ever
Stood dumb and stagnant after:
“Brave knight thy brother is!
But better loveth he
Thy chaliced wine than thy chaunted song,
And better both than thee,
Margret, Margret.”
XV.
The lady did not heed
The river’s silence while
Her own thoughts still ran at their will,
And calm was still her smile.
“My little sister wears
The look our mother wore:
I smooth her locks with a golden comb,
I bless her evermore.”
Margret, Margret.
XVI.
“I gave her my first bird
When first my voice it knew;
I made her share my posies rare
And told her where they grew:
I taught her God’s dear name
With prayer and praise to tell,
She looked from heaven into my face
And said, I love thee well.”
Margret, Margret.
XVII.
IT trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter;
You could see each bird as it woke and stared
Through the shrivelled foliage after.
“Fair child thy sister is!
But better loveth she
Thy golden comb than thy gathered flowers,
And better both than thee,
Margret, Margret.”
XVIII.
Thy lady did not heed
The withering on the bough;
Still calm her smile albeit the while
A little pale her brow:
“I have a father old,
The lord of ancient halls;
An hundred friends are in his court
Yet only me he calls.
Margret, Margret.
XIX.
“An hundred knights are in his court
Yet read I by his knee;
And when forth they go to the tourney-show
I rise not up to see:
‘T is a weary book to read,
My tryst’s at set of sun,
But loving and dear beneath the stars
Is his blessing when I’ve done.”
Margret, Margret.
XX.
IT trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter;
And moon and star though bright and far
Did shrink and darken after.
“High lord thy father is!
But better loveth he
His ancient halls than his hundred friends,
His ancient halls, than thee,
Margret, Margret.”
XXI.
The lady did not heed
That the far stars did fail;
Still calm her smile, albeit the while ...
Nay, but she is not pale!
“I have more than a friend
Across the mountains dim:
No other’s voice is soft to me,
Unless it nameth him.”
Margret, Margret.
XXII.
“Though louder beats my heart,
I know his tread again,
And his fair plume aye, unless turned away,
For the tears do blind me then:
We brake no gold, a sign
Of stronger faith to be,
But I wear his last look in my soul,
Which said, I love but thee!”
Margret, Margret.
XXIII.
IT trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter;
And the wind did toll, as a passing soul
Were sped by church-bell after;
And shadows, ‘stead of light,
Fell from the stars above,
In flakes of darkness on her face
Still bright with trusting love.
Margret, Margret.
XXIV.
“He loved but only thee!
That love is transient too.
The wild hawk’s bill doth dabble still
I’ the mouth that vowed thee true:
Will he open his dull eyes
When tears fall on his brow?
Behold, the death-worm to his heart
Is a nearer thing than thou,
Margret, Margret.”
XXV.
Her face was on the ground —
None saw the agony;
But the men at sea did that night agree
They heard a drowning cry:
And when the morning brake,
Fast rolled the river’s tide,
With the green trees waving overhead
And a white corse laid beside.
Margret, Margret.
XXV
I.
A knight’s bloodhound and he
The funeral watch did keep;
With a thought o’ the chase he stroked its face
As it howled to see him weep.
A fair child kissed the dead,
But shrank before its cold.
And alone yet proudly in his hall
Did stand a baron old.
Margret, Margret.
XXVII.
Hang up my harp again!
I have no voice for song.
Not song but wail, and mourners pale,
Not bards, to love belong.
O failing human love!
O light, by darkness known!
O false, the while thou treadest earth!
O deaf beneath the stone!
Margret, Margret.
ISOBEL’S CHILD.
—— so find we profit,
By losing of our prayers.
SHAKESPEARE.
I.
To rest the weary nurse has gone:
An eight-day watch had watched she,
Still rocking beneath sun and moon
The baby on her knee,
Till Isobel its mother said
“The fever waneth — wend to bed,
For now the watch comes round to me.”
II.
Then wearily the nurse did throw
Her pallet in the darkest place
Of that sick room, and slept and dreamed:
For, as the gusty wind did blow
The night-lamp’s flare across her face,
She saw or seemed to see, but dreamed,
That the poplars tall on the opposite hill,
The seven tall poplars on the hill,
Did clasp the setting sun until
His rays dropped from him, pined and still
As blossoms in frost,
Till he waned and paled, so weirdly crossed,
To the colour of moonlight which doth pass
Over the dank ridged churchyard grass.
The poplars held the sun, and he
The eyes of the nurse that they should not see
— Not for a moment, the babe on her knee,
Though she shuddered to feel that it grew to be
Too chill, and lay too heavily.
III.
She only dreamed; for all the while
‘T was Lady Isobel that kept
The little baby: and it slept
Fast, warm, as if its mother’s smile,
Laden with love’s dewy weight,
And red as rose of Harpocrate
Dropt upon its eyelids, pressed
Lashes to cheek in a sealed rest.
IV.
And more and more smiled Isobel
To see the baby sleep so well —
She knew not that she smiled.
Against the lattice, dull and wild
Drive the heavy droning drops,
Drop by drop, the sound being one;
As momently time’s segments fall
On the ear of God, who hears through all
Eternity’s unbroken monotone:
And more and more smiled Isobel
To see the baby sleep so well —
She knew not that she smiled.
The wind in intermission stops
Down in the beechen forest,
Then cries aloud
As one at the sorest,
Self-stung, self-driven,
And rises up to its very tops,
Stiffening erect the branches bowed,
Dilating with a tempest-soul
The trees that with their dark hands break
Through their own outline, and heavy roll
Shadows as massive as clouds in heaven
Across the castle lake
And more and more smiled Isobel
To see the baby sleep so well;
She knew not that she smiled;
She knew not that the storm was wild;
Through the uproar drear she could not hear
The castle clock which struck anear —
She heard the low, light breathing of her child.
V.
O sight for wondering look!
While the external nature broke
Into such abandonment,
While the very mist, heart-rent
By the lightning, seemed to eddy
Against nature, with a din, —
A sense of silence and of steady
Natural calm appeared to come
From things without, and enter in
The human creature’s room.
VI.
So motionless she sate,
The babe asleep upon her knees,
You might have dreamed their souls had gone
Away to things inanimate,
In such to live, in such to moan;
And that their bodies had ta’en back,
In mystic change, all silences
That cross the sky in cloudy rack,
Or dwell beneath the reedy ground
In waters safe from their own sound:
Only she wore
The deepening smile I named before,
And that a deepening love expressed;
And who at once can love and rest?
VII.
In sooth the smile that then was keeping
Watch upon the baby sleeping,
Floated with its tender light
Downward, from the drooping eyes,
Upward, from the lips apart,
Over cheeks which had grown white
With an eight-day weeping:
All smiles come in such a wise
Where tears shall fall or have of old —
Like northern lights that fill the heart
Of heaven in sign of cold.
VIII.
Motionless she sate.
Her hair had fallen by its weight
On each side of her smile and lay
Very blackly on the arm
Where the baby nestled warm,
Pale as baby carved in stone
Seen by glimpses of the moon
Up a dark cathedral aisle:
But, through the storm, no moonbeam fell
Upon the child of Isobel —
Perhaps you saw it by the ray
Alone of her still smile.
IX.
A solemn thing it is to me
To look upon a babe that sleeps
Wearing in its spirit-deeps
The undeveloped mystery
Of our Adam’s taint and woe,
Which, when they developed be,
Will not let it slumber so;
Lying new in life beneath
The shadow of the coming death,
With that soft, low, quiet breath,
As if it felt the sun;
Knowing all things by their blooms,
Not their roots, yea, sun and sky
Only by the warmth that comes
Out of each, earth only by
The pleasant hues that o’er it run,
And human love by drops of sweet
White nourishment still hanging round
The little mouth so slumber-bound:
All which broken sentiency
And conclusion incomplete,
Will gather and unite and climb
To an immortality
Good or evil, each sublime,
Through life and death to life again.
O little lids, now folded fast,
Must ye learn to drop at last
Our large and burning tears?
O warm quick body, must thou lie,
When the time comes round to die,
Still from all the whirl of years,
Bare of all the joy and pain?
O small frail being, wilt thou stand
At God’s right hand,
Lifting up those sleeping eyes
Dilated by great destinies,
To an endless waking? thrones and seraphim.
Thro
ugh the long ranks of their solemnities,
Sunning thee with calm looks of Heaven’s surprise,
But thine alone on Him?
Or else, self-willed, to tread the Godless place,
(God keep thy will!) feel thine own energies
Cold, strong, objectless, like a dead man’s clasp,
The sleepless deathless life within thee grasp, —
While myriad faces, like one changeless face,
With woe not love’s, shall glass thee everywhere
And overcome thee with thine own despair?
X.
More soft, less solemn images
Drifted o’er the lady’s heart
Silently as snow.
She had seen eight days depart
Hour by hour, on bended knees,
With pale-wrung hands and prayings low
And broken, through which came the sound
Of tears that fell against the ground,
Making sad stops.— “Dear Lord, dear Lord!”
She still had prayed, (the heavenly word
Broken by an earthly sigh)
— “Thou who didst not erst deny
The mother-joy to Mary mild,
Blessed in the blessed child
Which hearkened in meek babyhood
Her cradle-hymn, albeit used
To all that music interfused
In breasts of angels high and good!
Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away —
Oh, take not to thy songful heaven
The pretty baby thou hast given,
Or ere that I have seen him play
Around his father’s knees and known
That he knew how my love has gone
From all the world to him.
Think, God among the cherubim,
How I shall shiver every day
In thy June sunshine, knowing where
The grave-grass keeps it from his fair
Still cheeks: and feel, at every tread,
His little body, which is dead
And hidden in thy turfy fold,
Doth make thy whole warm earth a-cold!
O God, I am so young, so young —
I am not used to tears at nights
Instead of slumber — not to prayer
With sobbing lips and hands out-wrung!
Thou knowest all my prayings were
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 41