Poems (May)/Margaret
For works with similar titles, see Margaret.
MARGARET.
Hills that roll back to mountains, close The holy Tale that shrines St. Rose: The mountain tops let down their shows Into a river that southward flows. The hills that crowd to the water's edge, Sink into the wave through the slimy sedge. When the chapel bell aloft is swinging Ten thousand airy peals keep ringing; Echoes from forest and bluff and dell, Follow the lead of the chapel bell, Along the lonely river sighing, Out of the blue air failing, dying, Like birds down dropped from over flying,Lost in the chiming of waves that flow To a city that's built on the banks below.
When the last glory of day has paled, Out of the valley a mist, exhaled From river and dingle and marish moss, Rises up to the chapel cross, Over the lap of the vale adrift With the chapel cross in the midst uplift.
Nigh to the altar in bride's array, Is one who died on her marriage day. With marble palms together prest She lies in breathless stone exprest; A ripe. rose, bursting on her breast,Strews with its blooms her flowing vest. In sculptured lilies fairly set,Is writ the sweet name, Margaret; And at her feet an angel stands Praying, with uplifted hands.
When yesternoon at the altar rail, A bride drew back her shining veil, And through the door and up the aisle, The daylight followed like a smile, Methought yon marble—pallid now Under the moon's upcreeping tide—From swelling breast to cheek and brow, Blushed crimson with indignant pride,As if the dead that lay below Angered to hear the bridal vow, Her lips grew pale repeating, After the lapse of a single year Breathed in her lord 's forgetful ear. But when I looked again,Above, the August sun kept beating Against the chancel pane,And striking through a martyr's crown, Showered a blood-red glory down.
She, that was heir to a lordly pride, Leant from the arms of her high-born mother To the low fount of a peasant's breast; I was her foster brother. And on one bosom, side by side, Lulled by the same rude song to rest, Our hearts grew early to each other.
No scion of a race out-worn By gilded vice or lordly sloth,By peasants nursed, of warriors born, She drew her glowing life from both. No gentle bower maiden, she,—Trained at her lady-mother's knee, Into the slow-wrought tapestry Weaving her youth,—but wild and free. The shrill cliff-building echoes knew Her voice by height and holt remote, Following fast its silver clue Like birds that mock another's note. And light the mountain paths she trode,And light her blooded palfrey rode, Gladdest when gay winds at sport, Set the green branches all astir, Bowing and bending over her; The bloodhounds chained in the castle court, Welcomed her leaping and harmlessly playing, And her steed in the stable answered by neighing.
Rode she forth—I had leave to follow Close at her bridle; to loiter free By hill-side and wave-side and lone wood hollow, Their high-flown pride would not swoop to me. The slow spring-wind might, passing, bear My peasant's breath across her hair,Nor bid the rose-buds swelling there Put forth one dewy leaf betimes, And so I wooed her but in rhymes, And praised her but as minstrels praise— Spending my soul in courteous lays—I might tilt with keen despair Wooing her all my aimless days. Thus, till drawn nigh to womanhood, Her girlhood, like a Scottish snood, Loose in her dark locks, Margaret stood.
'Twas then my love found voice and breath; Not faint with hope, not meek in prayer, But cold as pride, and stern as death, Defiant in its strong despair. Even was darkening down the day, And soft the vesper call came, blown, Under the arched oaks, vast and gray; We trod the chapel path alone.I faced her on the narrow way.
How to my lips my spirit leaped, Ask not—it was so long ago!If burning heart and brain have kept True record of that time, or no, I will not question. Tears of rage And grief once marred the crowded page; And hourly to my weary soul, Did my sick heart recite it over. 'Twould move me little now—a faded scroll Writ by pale hands that paler marbles cover.
If Margaret met me now at morn In paths where once we wandered free,Her dark eyes, lit at sight of me, Scarce held in leash their eager scorn. Her cheek grew pale at my approach, Grew sudden pale and flushed again. Nor might she long6r bide my touch Upon her flowing bridle rein. Where woods are dark and waters chime, Another's step with hers kept time; And where along the valley glooms My hand had checked her palfrey's pride, Gay cavaliers with floating plumes Came lightly riding at her side.
I waited in the chapel aisle, 'Twixt morning-mass, and noon: The organist in the organ loft Played a sweet piping tune. The noon-lights, crimson-stoled and soft, Went gliding up the sacred pile, From nave to altar solemnly. And the golden cups on the chapel shrine,Seemed brimmed with sacramental wine; And I could almost see God's silence from the blue above, Descending like His holy Dove.
I knew her lightest step, before The bride's train reached the chapel door; Upon their, flowing garments wearing Sunshine that flecked the chapel floor. And she passed on with queenly bearing, Yet, kneeling by the altar rail, Closer drew her bridal veil; Yet, crowding to the altar's foot, Part rose, like one irresolute, And from her lips the marriage vow Slid like a snow wreath, cold and slow. This scarcely spoken, De l'Orme pressed smiling near, but she Motioned him back, and full on me Turned for a moment's flying space The unveiled meaning of her face, Where love had broken Away from pride, with swift auroral bloom Flushing my night of life ere lost in coldest gloom.
Then anger, shame, and cold disdain, Warred on those paling lips again, Till slowly, like a sullen rain, The life-drops, tortured from her heart, Spotted the marble altar stair As if some red rose, burst apart, Had strewed its petals there.And she fell headlong, white and mute, Striking her brow at the altar's foot. They said she died from mere excess Of life and love and happiness!
Be yours the bridal kiss, De l'Orme, That's proffered half, and half denied, But leave to me yon silent form Veiled closely in its marble pride. Reverent as he who guards a shrine, I may not call its beauty mine. All passive though the slumberer be, St. Mary, crowned with charms divine, Is not more safe from love and me.
For passion pales to sorrow where Yon sculptured angel kneels in prayer, And passion's lightest breath would scare The holy calm that watches there; For all love's wealth I may not dare To touch lip, brow, or curlèd hair. But when slow Even disappears Out of the west, and over all, Twilight is hanging like a pall Thick dropped with silver tears; When from lone river and wet marsh moss, The mist climbs up to the chapel cross And over the vale, a spectral sea,Closes its waves on mine and me, In the shadowy aisles, by the marble white I watch till dawn blooms out of night. Not yours yon passive bride, De l'Orme, With pallid cheek and sealed eye; You never loved her living form As I her snow-cold effigy.