’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,
Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti Page 17
