Poems (May)/Rosabelle
ROSABELLE.
"The night is blind with a double dark, And rain and hail come down together—'Tis well to sit by the fire and hark To the stormy weather.
"The beggar lies down in the misty dell, And the peasant faces the eddying storm; But you that weep, fair Rosabelle, Sit housed and warm."
"Better be out on the barren hills With the wild night blowing my sorrow blind, Than listening here to my heart that thrills Like a bell that's tolled by the passing wind."
"You may wander all day with a page at your rein, Greyhounds to follow, and hawks for your wrist,East and west, through your lord's domain, Whither you list.
"When you ride through the town in the even light, Pacing your steed 'neath the elms tall and shady,Each village girl all the summer night Dreams she's a lady."
"Would I were hearing the evening hymn My mother sings to the babe on her knee, Or floating by dawn o'er the waters dim Roland, my brother, alone with thee!
My step is faint in your bannered halls, Where the bright armour flashes, the windows high—Slit through the rock of the massive walls— Frame in a strip of the fair blue sky.
By the long lance windows, the deep arched door Shadows stand fighting the golden light, And the leap of a hound on the oaken floor Rings like the tread of an armèd knight.
In the niches arched over pale figures of stone, There are voices that mimic my bursting sighs; And the jewels that tremble around my zone Mock me with scorn in their flashing eyes.
My sleek greyhound and my merlin bold Chafe at restraining; the steed I rein Wantonly bears on the curb of gold— Slighting my will with a high disdain.
How goes the night in the fisher's cot? Is the boat safe moored? Does the hearth shine clear? Are they jesting together while I, forgot, Link every thought to a falling tear?
If Roland is out in his fisher's bark, My mother sings low to the child on her knee, My father stops mending his nets to mark How the wind with the sea-birds is skimming the sea.
With ray sad eyes and my rich attire, Lifting the latch, should I enter there,Old Raoul, the bloodhound, that dreams by the fire, Would rouse him to threaten my pale despair.
Early in March, ere the spring winds blow, Ere the hill-snows melt or the skies look bland, On the lone white shore where the tide is low They shall hollow my grave in the sloping sand.