A half-disdain Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips : And Walter nodded at me; "He began, The rest would follow, each in turn; and so We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what kind? "Kill him now, The tyrant kill him in the summer too," Said Lilia; "Why not now?" the maiden Aunt. "Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? A tale for summer as befits the time, And something it should be to suit the place Grave, solemn !” Walter warp'd his mouth at this To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt (A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face With colour) turn'd to me with "As you will 1; Heroic if you will, or what you will, Or be yourself your hero if you will." “Take Lilia, then, for heroine” clamour'd he, "And make her some great Princess, six feet high, Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you The Prince to win her!" "Then follow me, the Prince,” I answer'd, "each be hero in his turn! Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream.— A talk of college and of ladies' rights, A feudal knight in silken masquerade, And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all— No matter we will say whatever comes. From time to time, some ballad or a song So I began, And the rest follow'd: and the women sang I. A PRINCE I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, There lived an ancient legend in our house. Dying, that none of all our blood should know And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less, Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven knows what: On a sudden in the midst of men and day, Now it chanced that I had been, At eight years old; and still from time to time And one dark tress; and all around them both queen. But when the days drew nigh that I should wed, My father sent ambassadors with furs And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought back And therewithal an answer vague as wind: That morning in the presence room I stood And almost my half-self, for still we moved Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, Inflamed with wrath: he started on his feet, Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof From skirt to skirt; and at the last he sware That he would send a hundred thousand men, And bring her in a whirlwind: then he chew'd The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen. |