That seems kneeling to pray on the tomb of a knight,
With a look taken up to each iris of stone
From the greatness and death where he kneeleth, but none
From the face of a mother.
XIII.
“In your chapel, O priest, ye have wedded and shriven
Fair wives for the hearth, and fair sinners for heaven;
But this fairest my sister, ye think now to wed,
Bid her kneel where she standeth, and shrive her instead:
O shrive her and wed not!”
XIV.
In tears, the bride’s mother,— “Sir priest, unto thee
Would he lie, as he lied to this fair company.”
In wrath, the bride’s lover,— “The lie shall be clear!
Speak it out, boy! the saints in their niches shall hear:
Be the charge proved or said not!”
XV.
Then serene in his childhood he lifted his face,
And his voice sounded holy and fit for the place, —
“Look down from your niches, ye still saints, and see
How she wears on her bosom a BROWN ROSARY!
Is it used for the praying?”
XVI.
The youths looked aside — to laugh there were a sin —
And the maidens’ lips trembled from smiles shut within.
Quoth the priest, “Thou art wild, pretty boy! Blessed she
Who prefers at her bridal a brown rosary
To a worldly arraying.”
XVII.
The bridegroom spake low and led onward the bride
And before the high altar they stood side by side:
The rite-book is opened, the rite is begun,
They have knelt down together to rise up as one.
Who laughed by the altar?
XVIII.
The maidens looked forward, the youths looked around,
The bridegroom’s eye flashed from his prayer at the sound;
And each saw the bride, as if no bride she were,
Gazing cold at the priest without gesture of prayer,
As he read from the psalter.
XIX.
The priest never knew that she did so, but still
He felt a power on him too strong for his will:
And whenever the Great Name was there to be read,
His voice sank to silence — THAT could not be said,
Or the air could not hold it.
XX.
“I have sinned,” quoth he, “I have sinned, I wot” —
And the tears ran adown his old cheeks at the thought:
They dropped fast on the book, but he read on the same,
And aye was the silence where should be the NAME, —
As the choristers told it.
XXI.
The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done
They, who knelt down together, arise up as one:
Fair riseth the bride — Oh, a fair bride is she,
But, for all (think the maidens) that brown rosary,
No saint at her praying!
XXII.
What aileth the bridegroom? He glares blank and wide;
Then suddenly turning he kisseth the bride;
His lips stung her with cold; she glanced upwardly mute:
“Mine own wife,” he said, and fell stark at her foot
In the word he was saying.
XXIII.
They have lifted him up, but his head sinks away,
And his face showeth bleak in the sunshine and grey.
Leave him now where he lieth — for oh, never more
Will he kneel at an altar or stand on a floor!
Let his bride gaze upon him.
XXIV.
Long and still was her gaze while they chafed him there
And breathed in the mouth whose last life had kissed her,
But when they stood up — only they! with a start
The shriek from her soul struck her pale lips apart:
She has lived, and forgone him!
XXV.
And low on his body she droppeth adown —
“Didst call me thine own wife, beloved — thine own?
Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warm
To the world’s cold without thee! Come, keep me from harm
In a calm of thy teaching!”
XXVI.
She looked in his face earnest-long, as in sooth
There were hope of an answer, and then kissed his mouth,
And with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly, —
“Now, O God, take pity — take pity on me!
God, hear my beseeching!”
XXVII.
She was ‘ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay,
She was ‘ware of a presence that withered the day:
Wild she sprang to her feet,— “I surrender to thee
The broken vow’s pledge, the accursed rosary, —
I am ready for dying!”
XXVIII.
She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground
Where it fell mute as snow, and a weird music-sound
Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim, —
As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers’ hymn
And moaned in the trying.
FOURTH PART.
Onora looketh listlessly adown the garden walk:
“I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk.
I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro,
Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks below.
All things are the same, but I, — only I am dreary,
And, mother, of my dreariness behold me very weary.
“Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the spring
And smiled to think I should smile more upon their gathering:
The bees will find out other flowers — oh, pull them, dearest mine,
And carry them and carry me before Saint Agnes’ shrine.”
— Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted in the spring,
And her and them all mournfully to Agnes’ shrine did bring.
She looked up to the pictured saint and gently shook her head —
“The picture is too calm for me — too calm for me,” she said:
“The little flowers we brought with us, before it we may lay,
For those are used to look at heaven, — but I must turn away,
Because no sinner under sun can dare or bear to gaze
On God’s or angel’s holiness, except in Jesu’s face.”
She spoke with passion after pause— “And were it wisely done
If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?
If we whose virtue is so weak should have a will so strong,
And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path from the wrong?
To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and heaven, —
A single rose, for a rose-tree which beareth seven times seven?
A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast, —
Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!”
Then breaking into tears,— “Dear God,” she cried, “and must we see
All blissful things depart from us or ere we go to THEE?
We cannot guess Thee in the wood or hear Thee in the wind?
Our cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind?
Ay sooth, we feel too strong, in weal, to need thee on that road,
But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on ‘God.’”
Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever mused thus,
“The bees will find out other flowers, — but what is left for us?”
But her young brother stayed his sobs and knelt beside her knee,
— “Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?”
She passed her h
and across his face, she pressed it on his cheek,
So tenderly, so tenderly — she needed not to speak.
The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more.
The woman fair who placed it there had died an hour before.
Both perished mute for lack of root, earth’s nourishment to reach.
O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out of each!
A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES.
I.
Seven maidens ‘neath the midnight
Stand near the river-sea
Whose water sweepeth white around
The shadow of the tree;
The moon and earth are face to face,
And earth is slumbering deep;
The wave-voice seems the voice of dreams
That wander through her sleep:
The river floweth on.
II.
What bring they ‘neath the midnight,
Beside the river-sea?
They bring the human heart wherein
No nightly calm can be, —
That droppeth never with the wind,
Nor drieth with the dew:
Oh, calm in God! thy calm is broad
To cover spirits too.
The river floweth on.
III.
The maidens lean them over
The waters, side by side,
And shun each other’s deepening eyes,
And gaze adown the tide;
For each within a little boat
A little lamp hath put,
And heaped for freight some lily’s weight
Or scarlet rose half shut.
The river floweth on.
IV.
Of shell of cocoa carven
Each little boat is made;
Each carries a lamp, and carries a flower,
And carries a hope unsaid;
And when the boat hath carried the lamp
Unquenched till out of sight,
The maiden is sure that love will endure;
But love will fail with light.
The river floweth on.
V.
Why, all the stars are ready
To symbolize the soul,
The stars untroubled by the wind,
Unwearied as they roll;
And yet the soul by instinct sad
Reverts to symbols low —
To that small flame, whose very name
Breathed o’er it, shakes it so!
The river floweth on.
VI.
Six boats are on the river,
Seven maidens on the shore,
While still above them steadfastly
The stars shine evermore.
Go, little boats, go soft and safe,
And guard the symbol spark!
The boats aright go safe and bright
Across the waters dark.
The river floweth on.
VII.
The maiden Luti watcheth
Where onwardly they float:
That look in her dilating eyes
Might seem to drive her boat:
Her eyes still mark the constant fire,
And kindling unawares
That hopeful while, she lets a smile
Creep silent through her prayers.
The river floweth on.
VIII.
The smile — where hath it wandered?
She riseth from her knee,
She holds her dark, wet locks away —
There is no light to see!
She cries a quick and bitter cry —
“Nuleeni, launch me thine!
We must have light abroad to-night,
For all the wreck of mine.”
The river floweth on.
IX.
“I do remember watching
Beside this river-bed
When on my childish knee was leaned
My dying father’s head;
I turned mine own to keep the tears
From falling on his face:
What doth it prove when Death and Love
Choose out the self-same place?”
The river floweth on.
X.
“They say the dead are joyful
The death-change here receiving:
Who say — ah me! who dare to say
Where joy comes to the living?
Thy boat, Nuleeni! look not sad —
Light up the waters rather!
I weep no faithless lover where
I wept a loving father.”
The river floweth on.
XI.
“My heart foretold his falsehood
Ere my little boat grew dim;
And though I closed mine eyes to dream
That one last dream of him,
They shall not now be wet to see
The shining vision go:
From earth’s cold love I look above
To the holy house of snow.”[2]
The river floweth on.
XII.
“Come thou — thou never knewest
A grief, that thou shouldst fear one!
Thou wearest still the happy look
That shines beneath a dear one:
Thy humming-bird is in the sun,[3]
Thy cuckoo in the grove,
And all the three broad worlds, for thee
Are full of wandering love.”
The river floweth on.
XIII.
“Why, maiden, dost thou loiter?
What secret wouldst thou cover?
That peepul cannot hide thy boat,
And I can guess thy lover;
I heard thee sob his name in sleep,
It was a name I knew:
Come, little maid, be not afraid,
But let us prove him true!”
The river floweth on.
XIV.
The little maiden cometh,
She cometh shy and slow;
I ween she seeth through her lids
They drop adown so low:
Her tresses meet her small bare feet,
She stands and speaketh nought,
Yet blusheth red as if she said
The name she only thought.
The river floweth on.
XV.
She knelt beside the water,
She lighted up the flame,
And o’er her youthful forehead’s calm
The fitful radiance came: —
“Go, little boat, go soft and safe,
And guard the symbol spark!”
Soft, safe doth float the little boat
Across the waters dark.
The river floweth on.
XVI.
Glad tears her eyes have blinded,
The light they cannot reach;
She turneth with that sudden smile
She learnt before her speech —
“I do not hear his voice, the tears
Have dimmed my light away,
But the symbol light will last to-night,
The love will last for aye!”
The river floweth on.
XVII.
Then Luti spake behind her,
Outspake she bitterly —
“By the symbol light that lasts to-night,
Wilt vow a vow to me?”
Nuleeni gazeth up her face,
Soft answer maketh she —
“By loves that last when lights are past,
I vow that vow to thee!”
The river floweth on.
XVIII.
An earthly look had Luti
Though her voice was deep as prayer —
“The rice is gathered from the plains
To cast upon thine hair:[4]
But when he comes his marriage-band
Around thy neck to throw,
Thy bride-smile raise to meet his gaze,
And whisper, — There is one betrays,
While Luti suffers woe.”
The river fl
oweth on.
XIX.
“And when in seasons after,
Thy little bright-faced son
Shall lean against thy knee and ask
What deeds his sire hath done, —
Press deeper down thy mother-smile
His glossy curls among,
View deep his pretty childish eyes,
And whisper, — There is none denies,
While Luti speaks of wrong.”
The river floweth on.
XX.
Nuleeni looked in wonder,
Yet softly answered she —
“By loves that last when lights are past,
I vowed that vow to thee:
But why glads it thee that a bride-day be
By a word of woe defiled?
That a word of wrong take the cradle-song
From the ear of a sinless child?”
“Why?” Luti said, and her laugh was dread,
And her eyes dilated wild —
“That the fair new love may her bridegroom prove,
And the father shame the child!”
The river floweth on.
XXI.
“Thou flowest still, O river,
Thou flowest ‘neath the moon;
Thy lily hath not changed a leaf,[5]
Thy charmed lute a tune:
He mixed his voice with thine and his
Was all I heard around;
But now, beside his chosen bride,
I hear the river’s sound.”
The river floweth on.
XXII.
“I gaze upon her beauty
Through the tresses that enwreathe it;
The light above thy wave, is hers —
My rest, alone beneath it:
Oh, give me back the dying look
My father gave thy water!
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 45