THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY
127
Onora in sleep.
I vowed upon thy rosarie brown, this string of antique beads,
By charnal lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds—
This rosarie brown which is thine own,—lost soul of buried nun,—
Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone;
I vowed upon thy rosarie brown,—and, till such vow should break,
A pledge always of living days, 'twas hung around my neck—
I vowed to thee on rosarie (Dead father, look not so!),
I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe.
Evil Spirit.
And canst thou prove . . .
Onora in sleep.
O love—my love! I felt him near again!
I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain!
Was this no weal for me to feel?—is greater weal than this?
Yet when he came, I wept his name—and the angels heard but his.
Evil Spirit.
Well done, well done!
Onora in sleep.
Ay me! the sun . . . the dreamlight 'gins to pine,—
Ay me! how dread can look the Dead!—Aroint thee, father mine!
I vowed upon thy rosarie brown, this string of antique beads,
By charnal lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds—
This rosarie brown which is thine own,—lost soul of buried nun,—
Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone;
I vowed upon thy rosarie brown,—and, till such vow should break,
A pledge always of living days, 'twas hung around my neck—
I vowed to thee on rosarie (Dead father, look not so!),
I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe.
Evil Spirit.
And canst thou prove . . .
Onora in sleep.
O love—my love! I felt him near again!
I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain!
Was this no weal for me to feel?—is greater weal than this?
Yet when he came, I wept his name—and the angels heard but his.
Evil Spirit.
Well done, well done!
Onora in sleep.
Ay me! the sun . . . the dreamlight 'gins to pine,—
Ay me! how dread can look the Dead!—Aroint thee, father mine!
She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright,
And her breath comes in sobs while she stares through the night!
There is nought! The great willow, her lattice before,
Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor;
But her hands tremble fast as their pulses, and free
From the death-clasp, close over—the brown rosarie.
And her breath comes in sobs while she stares through the night!
There is nought! The great willow, her lattice before,
Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor;
But her hands tremble fast as their pulses, and free
From the death-clasp, close over—the brown rosarie.
