We heard the lion roaring from his den; We saw the large white stars rise one by one, Or, from the darken'd glen, "Saw God divide the night with flying flame, I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became "When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire! "It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, "Moreover it is written that my race Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face Glow'd, as I look'd at her. She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood: "Glory to God,” she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively, As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead. “Alas! alas !” a low voice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me: "Turn and look on me: I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be. "Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor! O me, that I should ever see the light! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust: To whom the Egyptian: "O, you tamely died! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust The dagger thro' her side." With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, Her Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labours longer from the deep That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, MARGARET. O I. SWEET pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. Of dainty sorrow without sound, You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lull'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light 3. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? The last wild thought of Chatelet, 4. A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Keeps real sorrow far away. Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, But ever trembling thro' the dew 5. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn |