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 a more than friend Across the mountains dim: No other's voice is soft to me, Margret, Margret. XXII. "Though louder beats mine heart, I know his tread again— And his far 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 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 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- But the men at sea did that night agree With the green trees waving overhead, Margret, Margret. XXVI. 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 the cold: And alone, yet proudly, in his hall, 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. To rest the weary nurse has gone; 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. The night-lamp's flare across her face, The seven tall poplars on the hill, His rays dropped from him, pined and still And he waned and he 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 IV. And more and more smiled Isobel She knew not that she smiled. And more and more smiled Isobel As one at the sorest, And riseth upward to its tops, Dilating with a tempest-soul Of gathered sound, the trees that break Through their own outline with dark hands, and roll A shadow, massive as a cloud in heaven, Across the castle lake. And more and more smiled Isobel She knew not that the storm was wild. She heard the low, light breathing of her child. |