Poems (May)/The heir of Rookwood
THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD.
Down sunny till-sides sloping to the west,
From Rookwood's towers the morning shadows fall
In long-drawn lines. A wooded eminence
Lifts o'er the walls and from its shoulders drops
A mantle of close tree-tops, right and left
Far trailing through the valleys. To the brink
Of a broad willowy stream the lawn descends,
Halved by an avenue of elms that winds
Up to gray Rookwood's portals. Here the roofs
Are thatched with moss, the massive stones worn smooth.
The windows blind with parasites. Whole miles—
Hill, vale, and river—are fenced in around.
We call it Rookwood, for the rooks all day
Caw from its dim old forests.
Bluff Sir Hugh,
The people named my father. Carven from life,
In Rookwood's chapel lies an effigy
That seems a giant's, with a couchant hound
Laid at its feet, and on the monument,
Writ in strange letters, framed to imitate
Some uncouth ancient character, a name,
Hugh Perceval. As one who kept old things
With such a reverent love, that in his house
Not even the fashion of a cup was changed;
As a bold hunter and a loyal knight,
The county knew him. So they shaped his tomb
After the custom of his ancestors,
And placed thereon a likeness of the hound
That whined beside his death-bed. I had scarce
Told eighteen summers when my father died.
From Rookwood's towers the morning shadows fall
In long-drawn lines. A wooded eminence
Lifts o'er the walls and from its shoulders drops
A mantle of close tree-tops, right and left
Far trailing through the valleys. To the brink
Of a broad willowy stream the lawn descends,
Halved by an avenue of elms that winds
Up to gray Rookwood's portals. Here the roofs
Are thatched with moss, the massive stones worn smooth.
The windows blind with parasites. Whole miles—
Hill, vale, and river—are fenced in around.
We call it Rookwood, for the rooks all day
Caw from its dim old forests.
Bluff Sir Hugh,
The people named my father. Carven from life,
In Rookwood's chapel lies an effigy
That seems a giant's, with a couchant hound
Laid at its feet, and on the monument,
Writ in strange letters, framed to imitate
Some uncouth ancient character, a name,
Hugh Perceval. As one who kept old things
With such a reverent love, that in his house
Not even the fashion of a cup was changed;
As a bold hunter and a loyal knight,
The county knew him. So they shaped his tomb
After the custom of his ancestors,
And placed thereon a likeness of the hound
That whined beside his death-bed. I had scarce
Told eighteen summers when my father died.
My mother was unlike him, marble calm
As he was boisterous, and her daughters all
Grew to be youthful copies of herself.
Save that Maud sat within the oriel window
Broidering in gold; that Marian with her mother
On the old oaken settle, wrought for ever
The self-same tapestries—or so it seemed—
That Ernestine liked best the little footstool,
And sat there winding many-coloured wools,
Or weaving them through canvas: to my eye
They ever looked alike. They were all fair,
Grave, gentle, unimpassioned. I did weary
To see them at their broideries day on day.
As he was boisterous, and her daughters all
Grew to be youthful copies of herself.
Save that Maud sat within the oriel window
Broidering in gold; that Marian with her mother
On the old oaken settle, wrought for ever
The self-same tapestries—or so it seemed—
That Ernestine liked best the little footstool,
And sat there winding many-coloured wools,
Or weaving them through canvas: to my eye
They ever looked alike. They were all fair,
Grave, gentle, unimpassioned. I did weary
To see them at their broideries day on day.
For me—I had no pulse that, fast or slow,
Kept time with theirs. My sadness and my joy
Alike outstrode them. At my wilder moods
My father stared and swore; my mother's eyes
Filled with calm wonder, and my sisters three
Copied her, life-like. Was it strange I grew
Petulant, rude, morose—my urgent need
Of love, caresses and sustaining words
Left unsupplied? For I, fair Rookwood's heir,
Could scarcely drag my shapeless limbs the length
Of her broad halls.
I filled the weary days
Creeping from room to room, like some wild thing
Crippled and caged. My nature was athirst.
I had Sir Hugh's deep love of space and freedom,
His passion for brute beauty. Him I feared
And worshipped. From the oriels, sometimes,
I watched him with his dogs. One stood upright,
Steadying his paws upon his master's breast;
One crouched against his feet, and one had thrust
His muzzle through the hollowed hand. Ere long,
My cousin Arthur with his gun and pointers
Came up the lawn. Away together went
The uncle and boy nephew, leaving me
All passionate sorrow. Then I stole to watch
Ernestine at her broidery; else I heard
My sister Marian reading from those bards
Who flung the glittering lance of prophecy
Down the long future. When Sir Hugh returned,
Perhaps he bore me through the lawns awhile
On his broad breast; perhaps, when twilight came,
I nestled to his feet and heard him tell
His field exploits—and Arthur's—then break off
With a short sigh. His eye was like a hound's,
Earnest and steady, and for ever seemed
Hunting my maimed form.
But with childhood went
Part of my sickness. I might wander free
Through the green valleys, lawns and woods that graced
My fair inheritance. The garden chair
That had been wont to draw me, day by day,
Through dull familiar paths, reserved its aid
For weary moments, till my halting step
On the firm sod grew firmer, till my lips
Drank the bright air like wine.
The love that found
No peers to share its wealth, looked' lower now.
A full heart asks not if the cup it crowns
Be gold or clay. I turned to brutes, to birds,
Even to flowers. The high-bred hound that paced
Grave at my side, the merlin that I tamed,
The dove I carried in my breast, the rose
With white wax buds, that from my window sill
Swung outward to the light—all these I kept
With a girl's care.
Through Rookwood's fair domain
Wanders a stream whose silent course is led
By mead and grove until its thread, abrupt,
Breaks on the sharp edge of a precipice.
Betwixt two hill-sides, o'er a deep ravine,
There with white shuddering feet, the waters seem
Fearfully pausing. But with one bold leap
They clear the rent rocks, shouting as they fall
Into a round clear pool, whose crystal sheen
Only the lilies break. Hither I came,
The timed waves harping to my sullen moods,
The banks my couch, my hound stretched near, a book
Of rhymes or romance in my listless hand.
No curious eyes, no cold looks following here
Jarred on my secret thoughts. The blossoms grew
No paler for my loving, the fresh turf
Pillowed most gently my uncourtly form.
Kept time with theirs. My sadness and my joy
Alike outstrode them. At my wilder moods
My father stared and swore; my mother's eyes
Filled with calm wonder, and my sisters three
Copied her, life-like. Was it strange I grew
Petulant, rude, morose—my urgent need
Of love, caresses and sustaining words
Left unsupplied? For I, fair Rookwood's heir,
Could scarcely drag my shapeless limbs the length
Of her broad halls.
I filled the weary days
Creeping from room to room, like some wild thing
Crippled and caged. My nature was athirst.
I had Sir Hugh's deep love of space and freedom,
His passion for brute beauty. Him I feared
And worshipped. From the oriels, sometimes,
I watched him with his dogs. One stood upright,
Steadying his paws upon his master's breast;
One crouched against his feet, and one had thrust
His muzzle through the hollowed hand. Ere long,
My cousin Arthur with his gun and pointers
Came up the lawn. Away together went
The uncle and boy nephew, leaving me
All passionate sorrow. Then I stole to watch
Ernestine at her broidery; else I heard
My sister Marian reading from those bards
Who flung the glittering lance of prophecy
Down the long future. When Sir Hugh returned,
Perhaps he bore me through the lawns awhile
On his broad breast; perhaps, when twilight came,
I nestled to his feet and heard him tell
His field exploits—and Arthur's—then break off
With a short sigh. His eye was like a hound's,
Earnest and steady, and for ever seemed
Hunting my maimed form.
But with childhood went
Part of my sickness. I might wander free
Through the green valleys, lawns and woods that graced
My fair inheritance. The garden chair
That had been wont to draw me, day by day,
Through dull familiar paths, reserved its aid
For weary moments, till my halting step
On the firm sod grew firmer, till my lips
Drank the bright air like wine.
The love that found
No peers to share its wealth, looked' lower now.
A full heart asks not if the cup it crowns
Be gold or clay. I turned to brutes, to birds,
Even to flowers. The high-bred hound that paced
Grave at my side, the merlin that I tamed,
The dove I carried in my breast, the rose
With white wax buds, that from my window sill
Swung outward to the light—all these I kept
With a girl's care.
Through Rookwood's fair domain
Wanders a stream whose silent course is led
By mead and grove until its thread, abrupt,
Breaks on the sharp edge of a precipice.
Betwixt two hill-sides, o'er a deep ravine,
There with white shuddering feet, the waters seem
Fearfully pausing. But with one bold leap
They clear the rent rocks, shouting as they fall
Into a round clear pool, whose crystal sheen
Only the lilies break. Hither I came,
The timed waves harping to my sullen moods,
The banks my couch, my hound stretched near, a book
Of rhymes or romance in my listless hand.
No curious eyes, no cold looks following here
Jarred on my secret thoughts. The blossoms grew
No paler for my loving, the fresh turf
Pillowed most gently my uncourtly form.
I had gone forth one mellow autumn morn
Earlier than my wont. The night had passed
Rent by fierce storms. Torn boughs and drifted leaves
Cumbered the path I trod. The sun shone warm.
I lingered by the way until my hound,
That had gone first and reached the lilied pool,
Set up a sharp cry. Through the opening wood,
I saw him crouch, as if in pain or fear,
And with quick step pressed on. My first keen glance
Took in the mantling lilies, with a web
Of white wet film meshed in them, and the next,
Brown shreds of curled hair and a face the waves
Flowed over.
Grasping at the floating robes
That drifted shoreward, steadying my feet
Upon the smooth sloped rocks, I drew her forth,
A woman fair and young. Her long loose hair
Curled round the lily stems, and held them fast
In its wet tangles. Jutting from the shore,
A rock whose sharp points caught her fluttering dress,
Upheld her as she lay. From this, 'tis like,
She sprang, and staid perforce, all night had borne
Tempest and beating rain. A scarlet wreath
Crowned her cold temples, and around her throat
Hung rows of coral buds. Strangest of all,
Bound to her bosom by a silken scarf,
And sheltered in its folds, an infant lay,
Faint but yet breathing.
When some days had passed
And no one claimed her, nigh the chapel grounds
We laid the mother, guessing at the wrongs
That had bewildered her. To me, the child,
As 'twere a toy, was given when I asked.
Earlier than my wont. The night had passed
Rent by fierce storms. Torn boughs and drifted leaves
Cumbered the path I trod. The sun shone warm.
I lingered by the way until my hound,
That had gone first and reached the lilied pool,
Set up a sharp cry. Through the opening wood,
I saw him crouch, as if in pain or fear,
And with quick step pressed on. My first keen glance
Took in the mantling lilies, with a web
Of white wet film meshed in them, and the next,
Brown shreds of curled hair and a face the waves
Flowed over.
Grasping at the floating robes
That drifted shoreward, steadying my feet
Upon the smooth sloped rocks, I drew her forth,
A woman fair and young. Her long loose hair
Curled round the lily stems, and held them fast
In its wet tangles. Jutting from the shore,
A rock whose sharp points caught her fluttering dress,
Upheld her as she lay. From this, 'tis like,
She sprang, and staid perforce, all night had borne
Tempest and beating rain. A scarlet wreath
Crowned her cold temples, and around her throat
Hung rows of coral buds. Strangest of all,
Bound to her bosom by a silken scarf,
And sheltered in its folds, an infant lay,
Faint but yet breathing.
When some days had passed
And no one claimed her, nigh the chapel grounds
We laid the mother, guessing at the wrongs
That had bewildered her. To me, the child,
As 'twere a toy, was given when I asked.
'Twas a strange whim, but on my birth-day morn,
And to my favourite shores, some fate had brought
What seemed a gift, and I, accepting it,
Thought to please Heaven. A nature to be trained
Which way I would, or twined round any prop—
Even my own rude self—a page whereon
To write the latent poem of my life.
These thoughts were merely audible, as the notes
Of birds that stir betimes upon the nest.
And to my favourite shores, some fate had brought
What seemed a gift, and I, accepting it,
Thought to please Heaven. A nature to be trained
Which way I would, or twined round any prop—
Even my own rude self—a page whereon
To write the latent poem of my life.
These thoughts were merely audible, as the notes
Of birds that stir betimes upon the nest.
Wild stories were afloat—'twas said that she
Who slept in the green vale had cast a spell
Over the heir of Rookwood; that her babe
Was elf or water-sprite; and whispering gossips
Told how the infant at her baptism
Made the old chapel ring with saucy laughter,
While that which answered from the niches dim,
Was wilder than an echo. Be it so.
She was Christ's child, signed with His holy cross,
On brow and breast.
It was my fanciful thought
To call her Lilia; she whom we had plucked
Out of the lily leaves.
Oh pleasant times!
Only a patron's golden alms, at first,
I gave my pensioner, in boyish pride
Masking my heart; but as the child grew strong,
The little seed of tenderness that lay
Hid in my bosom, thrust into the light
The embryo of a tree with buds and blooms
Shut in its folded being.
Infancy
Lay like a wreath of spring flowers on her brow;
But the rude breast whereon I grafted her,
Shot through the pale veins of my elfin charge
Its own abounding life. 'Twas I who trained
Her feet upon the level lawns, and taught
Her lips their blossom language. Then, betimes,
Lest the coarse peasant earth should clog its roots,
For gentler nurture my fair foreign plant
To Rookwood I conveyed.
To those dim halls,
Where the blithe common sunshine of the fields
Put on grave splendour; to those druid shades,
Came the fresh nature of the untrained child
Like an opposing element. Her voice
Broke the long silence of the morning hours.
Either she went forth through the lawns with me,
Or at my mother's footstool strewed her playthings,
Prattling aloud, and at the rare rebuke,
Reading her face with unabashed grave eyes,
Till Maud glanced sidelong with a stately smile,
And fair calm Marian, with a woman's impulse,
Bent down and took the lone child to her heart.
Even Ernestine, who o'er her broidery needle
Secretly dreamed of tournaments and masques,
And cavaliers be-plumed, whose very dolls
Had been court ladies in brocade and velvet,
Put by her rainbow paroquets and roses
To fashion garments for the elf child Lilia;
And even my lady mother deigned to smile,
Hearing her tiny step along the halls,
Watching the slow toil of her baby feet
Labouring from stair to stair. Her restless life
Was never still. She laughed out in her sleep,
Living the glad day over, and sometimes,
Blindfold with slumber, to the halls below
Crept from her turret chamber.
'Twas in vain
That when bright girlhood came, I tried to yoke
Her errant thoughts to mine. My elf charge paled
Over her books. She sighed for the pure air
Of crags and glens, her greyhound and her pony,
And for the free use of her glorious limbs.
She was lithe like a vine, and she could scale
The rocks as lightly. The long summer day
Was short to her if she might wander on
From hill-side to ravine, or ford the streams,
Or, resting on some island rock, her feet
Bare glancing through the waves, twine pallid wreaths
Of lilies, ferns, and dripping water weeds
For her brown hair. Yet to my side she stole,
If seated near the lilied pool I read
Romance or poem, and when winter nights
Drew us around the hearth, she came to plead
For wilder fables, listening at my feet,
With ear attentive and chained lips, until
Her blue eyes with excess of terror grew
Darker, like fair lakes frozen. If she played,
The crags were royal palaces, her doll
A captive princess, and herself a knight
Who, armed with spear and shield, came to the rescue.
Who slept in the green vale had cast a spell
Over the heir of Rookwood; that her babe
Was elf or water-sprite; and whispering gossips
Told how the infant at her baptism
Made the old chapel ring with saucy laughter,
While that which answered from the niches dim,
Was wilder than an echo. Be it so.
She was Christ's child, signed with His holy cross,
On brow and breast.
It was my fanciful thought
To call her Lilia; she whom we had plucked
Out of the lily leaves.
Oh pleasant times!
Only a patron's golden alms, at first,
I gave my pensioner, in boyish pride
Masking my heart; but as the child grew strong,
The little seed of tenderness that lay
Hid in my bosom, thrust into the light
The embryo of a tree with buds and blooms
Shut in its folded being.
Infancy
Lay like a wreath of spring flowers on her brow;
But the rude breast whereon I grafted her,
Shot through the pale veins of my elfin charge
Its own abounding life. 'Twas I who trained
Her feet upon the level lawns, and taught
Her lips their blossom language. Then, betimes,
Lest the coarse peasant earth should clog its roots,
For gentler nurture my fair foreign plant
To Rookwood I conveyed.
To those dim halls,
Where the blithe common sunshine of the fields
Put on grave splendour; to those druid shades,
Came the fresh nature of the untrained child
Like an opposing element. Her voice
Broke the long silence of the morning hours.
Either she went forth through the lawns with me,
Or at my mother's footstool strewed her playthings,
Prattling aloud, and at the rare rebuke,
Reading her face with unabashed grave eyes,
Till Maud glanced sidelong with a stately smile,
And fair calm Marian, with a woman's impulse,
Bent down and took the lone child to her heart.
Even Ernestine, who o'er her broidery needle
Secretly dreamed of tournaments and masques,
And cavaliers be-plumed, whose very dolls
Had been court ladies in brocade and velvet,
Put by her rainbow paroquets and roses
To fashion garments for the elf child Lilia;
And even my lady mother deigned to smile,
Hearing her tiny step along the halls,
Watching the slow toil of her baby feet
Labouring from stair to stair. Her restless life
Was never still. She laughed out in her sleep,
Living the glad day over, and sometimes,
Blindfold with slumber, to the halls below
Crept from her turret chamber.
'Twas in vain
That when bright girlhood came, I tried to yoke
Her errant thoughts to mine. My elf charge paled
Over her books. She sighed for the pure air
Of crags and glens, her greyhound and her pony,
And for the free use of her glorious limbs.
She was lithe like a vine, and she could scale
The rocks as lightly. The long summer day
Was short to her if she might wander on
From hill-side to ravine, or ford the streams,
Or, resting on some island rock, her feet
Bare glancing through the waves, twine pallid wreaths
Of lilies, ferns, and dripping water weeds
For her brown hair. Yet to my side she stole,
If seated near the lilied pool I read
Romance or poem, and when winter nights
Drew us around the hearth, she came to plead
For wilder fables, listening at my feet,
With ear attentive and chained lips, until
Her blue eyes with excess of terror grew
Darker, like fair lakes frozen. If she played,
The crags were royal palaces, her doll
A captive princess, and herself a knight
Who, armed with spear and shield, came to the rescue.
She was a child still when my sister Maud
Passed from our halls, a willing bride, with love
Ruffling her inborn calmness just so much
As a dove, drinking at a marble fount,
Troubles the water. Marian followed soon,
And Ernestine, left lonely, to my side,
Stole for companionship.
We three together
Would wander through the woodlands, till the path
We loitering followed broke against a hedge
That parted Rookwood from the broad domain
Nursed for my cousin Arthur, who, abroad,
Studied the graces of a foreign court.
Passed from our halls, a willing bride, with love
Ruffling her inborn calmness just so much
As a dove, drinking at a marble fount,
Troubles the water. Marian followed soon,
And Ernestine, left lonely, to my side,
Stole for companionship.
We three together
Would wander through the woodlands, till the path
We loitering followed broke against a hedge
That parted Rookwood from the broad domain
Nursed for my cousin Arthur, who, abroad,
Studied the graces of a foreign court.
The idle tales linked to my Lilia's birth
Were not forgotten. Peasants, round their hearths,
Told how they'd seen her upon giddy boughs
Rocked like a bird to slumber; how she sat
On the wet rocks and crowned her hair with flowers,
Singing witch melodies. Some even swore
They'd met her spirit in the fields at night,
White-robed and talking softly.
I had made
No secret of the past, but led my charge,
When her small feet could tread the unequal path,
Down to the lilied pool, and told her there
Of the pale lady crowned with scarlet blooms,
Whose hair curled round the lily stems, whose arms
Sheltered an infant; and I think this gave
A colour to her nature.
Did I note
As the months passed, her beauty's quick perfecting?
I only knew that she had stood between
Me and my boyhood's peril; that the love
She lighted in my soul, was like a flame
That, kindled in some close unwholesome cave,
Burns out mephitic vapours. I was happy—
Armed with strong thoughts, aspiring every day
To nobler wisdom; and as fountains, falling,
Do pluck down rainbows, even by baffled effort
Made hopeful; health to my misshapen limbs
With manhood come; and strength, if discontent
Held up her mirror, or ambition flashed
His blazing sword athwart its path, to curb
My startled spirit—tranquil with my books,
Save when sweet Lilia lured me from their sway,
Breaking the calm of thought with her light jests,
As one flings down on some unsparkling lake
Handfuls of blossoms. Rumours of the world,
Flying o'er Rookwood, dropped to Ernestine
Seeds that put forth. She hungered for the life
Of courts and cities. She was born for these,
And Lilia's wild ways only served to warn
And chide her into stateliness. A flower
That grows beside a cataract imbibes
Not less the nature of its restless neighbour.
Were not forgotten. Peasants, round their hearths,
Told how they'd seen her upon giddy boughs
Rocked like a bird to slumber; how she sat
On the wet rocks and crowned her hair with flowers,
Singing witch melodies. Some even swore
They'd met her spirit in the fields at night,
White-robed and talking softly.
I had made
No secret of the past, but led my charge,
When her small feet could tread the unequal path,
Down to the lilied pool, and told her there
Of the pale lady crowned with scarlet blooms,
Whose hair curled round the lily stems, whose arms
Sheltered an infant; and I think this gave
A colour to her nature.
Did I note
As the months passed, her beauty's quick perfecting?
I only knew that she had stood between
Me and my boyhood's peril; that the love
She lighted in my soul, was like a flame
That, kindled in some close unwholesome cave,
Burns out mephitic vapours. I was happy—
Armed with strong thoughts, aspiring every day
To nobler wisdom; and as fountains, falling,
Do pluck down rainbows, even by baffled effort
Made hopeful; health to my misshapen limbs
With manhood come; and strength, if discontent
Held up her mirror, or ambition flashed
His blazing sword athwart its path, to curb
My startled spirit—tranquil with my books,
Save when sweet Lilia lured me from their sway,
Breaking the calm of thought with her light jests,
As one flings down on some unsparkling lake
Handfuls of blossoms. Rumours of the world,
Flying o'er Rookwood, dropped to Ernestine
Seeds that put forth. She hungered for the life
Of courts and cities. She was born for these,
And Lilia's wild ways only served to warn
And chide her into stateliness. A flower
That grows beside a cataract imbibes
Not less the nature of its restless neighbour.
Fronting the sunset, Rookwood's library
Looks down the lawn; and up that gradual slope,
The west wind, loitering, hums a song it learned
Down by the tuneful river. River-scents
Blow through the oriels; shade and quiet fill
The book-lined room. 'Twixt rows of oaken shelves
Are hung two dusky pictures—St. Jerome,
Framed in the dark mouth of his desert cave;
A brindled lion couchant at his feet;
Pondering the gospels—and, a space beyond,
White companies of angels flock to thee,
Lily of heaven, Cecilia! One recess
O'ervaults an organ's gilded pipes, and here
Many an evening, Ernestine and Lilia
Sang to my stormy playing. Lilia's voice
Was like the gay dance of a bayadere,
Aerially light, but Ernestine's
Stately as gondolas that glide between
Ranked palaces, and with slow keels plough up
Their glassy pictures. On my sister's lip
The round notes dwelt, till each in full completeness
Seemed fallen for mellowness, like dropping fruit;
But Lilia's bright-winged song capricious flew
From flower to flower of sound. Here came my mother,
Aged and bent, the windows of her mind
Opaque with wintry frost. With folded hands
And drooping head she sat, while on its wings
The music bore her through a twilight past—
Over the stagnant waters of a lake
Up whose dead waves a phantom city gleamed,
Gleamed up in swaying downward.
Lilia's chamber
Was over mine. I could not see its windows—
But on the turret facing hers, sometimes,
A shadow gliding gently to and fro,
And once when it fell darkly, I could mark
How she had shaken her long tresses down
To braid them for the night coif.
Through my sleep
Even, her light laugh and her elfin tread
Constantly wandered. Nay, once fully roused
By the near sound of steps, I could have sworn
That where the winding stair abruptly turned
Close by my door, the hem of a white robe
Ruffled the darkness.
On my mother's lips
Lay the recording marble. I had set
Betwixt the world's reproach and Lilia's name
The bulwark of my love. Wooed ever yet
Lover so coldly? With my blighted manhood
I weighed her fairest youth, counted the years
Dividing us, and warned her if one thought
Recoiled from me 'twere wisdom to invoke
Death, sickness, beggary, torment in all shapes,
Rather than chain to her offended soul
The deep disgust of an unwelcome love.
Lilia, the child, shy pressing to my heart,
Lilia, the girl, just taught the trick of blushes,
Answered me without words.
And from that hour
Lilia was mine, however wooed or won;
My plighted wife, though Ernestine might wear
A triple scorn upon her brow; my bride,
Though all my haughty peers cried fie upon me;
Who should lay down the law to Rookwood's heir?
I'd rain bright gold o'er Lilia's shameful birth,
Express the stigma on her name in diamonds.
The groaning coffers that my pride had slighted,
Opened their mouths in praise of her betrothal.
Looks down the lawn; and up that gradual slope,
The west wind, loitering, hums a song it learned
Down by the tuneful river. River-scents
Blow through the oriels; shade and quiet fill
The book-lined room. 'Twixt rows of oaken shelves
Are hung two dusky pictures—St. Jerome,
Framed in the dark mouth of his desert cave;
A brindled lion couchant at his feet;
Pondering the gospels—and, a space beyond,
White companies of angels flock to thee,
Lily of heaven, Cecilia! One recess
O'ervaults an organ's gilded pipes, and here
Many an evening, Ernestine and Lilia
Sang to my stormy playing. Lilia's voice
Was like the gay dance of a bayadere,
Aerially light, but Ernestine's
Stately as gondolas that glide between
Ranked palaces, and with slow keels plough up
Their glassy pictures. On my sister's lip
The round notes dwelt, till each in full completeness
Seemed fallen for mellowness, like dropping fruit;
But Lilia's bright-winged song capricious flew
From flower to flower of sound. Here came my mother,
Aged and bent, the windows of her mind
Opaque with wintry frost. With folded hands
And drooping head she sat, while on its wings
The music bore her through a twilight past—
Over the stagnant waters of a lake
Up whose dead waves a phantom city gleamed,
Gleamed up in swaying downward.
Lilia's chamber
Was over mine. I could not see its windows—
But on the turret facing hers, sometimes,
A shadow gliding gently to and fro,
And once when it fell darkly, I could mark
How she had shaken her long tresses down
To braid them for the night coif.
Through my sleep
Even, her light laugh and her elfin tread
Constantly wandered. Nay, once fully roused
By the near sound of steps, I could have sworn
That where the winding stair abruptly turned
Close by my door, the hem of a white robe
Ruffled the darkness.
On my mother's lips
Lay the recording marble. I had set
Betwixt the world's reproach and Lilia's name
The bulwark of my love. Wooed ever yet
Lover so coldly? With my blighted manhood
I weighed her fairest youth, counted the years
Dividing us, and warned her if one thought
Recoiled from me 'twere wisdom to invoke
Death, sickness, beggary, torment in all shapes,
Rather than chain to her offended soul
The deep disgust of an unwelcome love.
Lilia, the child, shy pressing to my heart,
Lilia, the girl, just taught the trick of blushes,
Answered me without words.
And from that hour
Lilia was mine, however wooed or won;
My plighted wife, though Ernestine might wear
A triple scorn upon her brow; my bride,
Though all my haughty peers cried fie upon me;
Who should lay down the law to Rookwood's heir?
I'd rain bright gold o'er Lilia's shameful birth,
Express the stigma on her name in diamonds.
The groaning coffers that my pride had slighted,
Opened their mouths in praise of her betrothal.
My life was little changed; 'twas nothing new
If when I walked, hung Lilia on my path
Talking her wayward fancies; nothing new
If when I read, stole Lilia to my side,
And o'er the page I pondered open laid
A volume of the idle rhymes she loved;
That I must quit my garland of rare thoughts
To twine her wreath of bluets; nothing new
That her light steps kept ever count of mine,
That she beset me with her wilful ways,
That she was ever near me. I was all
Her world. She had no other. From the day
Her baby feet first tottered o'er the lawns,
Lilia had been my shadow. In my heart
Love lay too deep. 'Twas buried from my sight.
The spoils of sixteen summers rose above it.
Life's reddest flower unfolded like a lily
For want of light. I needed sterner teaching—
Unapt to read the riddle of past days,
To twist in one their many-coloured threads,
To see the scattered brightness of my life
Concentred to a star.
'Twas early May.
Across the lawns, to woods and waves beyond
"We had been loitering. Ernestine and I
Looked from its high banks to the stream below,
Part veiled with drooping boughs—and, ankle deep
In grass and yielding moss—from rock to rock
Dropped our sure-footed Lilia, till at last,
Safe on the pebbly shore, she turning, threw
Her long locks back, and lifting eyes brimful
Of elvish laughter, called, "Hark, Ernestine!
My father is a water sprite, and see,
The vine, my mother, leans to his embrace
From the rough rocks he scales. Therefore I twine
Wet water weeds and scarlet pendent blooms
In my curled hair!" The echoes shook her laugh
To silvery fragments, as the rocks below
Brake the melodious waters. Ere she paused,
A white hound and a youth that chid him back
Came up the hollow. When his lifted face
Questioned my own, I knew my cousin Arthur.
If when I walked, hung Lilia on my path
Talking her wayward fancies; nothing new
If when I read, stole Lilia to my side,
And o'er the page I pondered open laid
A volume of the idle rhymes she loved;
That I must quit my garland of rare thoughts
To twine her wreath of bluets; nothing new
That her light steps kept ever count of mine,
That she beset me with her wilful ways,
That she was ever near me. I was all
Her world. She had no other. From the day
Her baby feet first tottered o'er the lawns,
Lilia had been my shadow. In my heart
Love lay too deep. 'Twas buried from my sight.
The spoils of sixteen summers rose above it.
Life's reddest flower unfolded like a lily
For want of light. I needed sterner teaching—
Unapt to read the riddle of past days,
To twist in one their many-coloured threads,
To see the scattered brightness of my life
Concentred to a star.
'Twas early May.
Across the lawns, to woods and waves beyond
"We had been loitering. Ernestine and I
Looked from its high banks to the stream below,
Part veiled with drooping boughs—and, ankle deep
In grass and yielding moss—from rock to rock
Dropped our sure-footed Lilia, till at last,
Safe on the pebbly shore, she turning, threw
Her long locks back, and lifting eyes brimful
Of elvish laughter, called, "Hark, Ernestine!
My father is a water sprite, and see,
The vine, my mother, leans to his embrace
From the rough rocks he scales. Therefore I twine
Wet water weeds and scarlet pendent blooms
In my curled hair!" The echoes shook her laugh
To silvery fragments, as the rocks below
Brake the melodious waters. Ere she paused,
A white hound and a youth that chid him back
Came up the hollow. When his lifted face
Questioned my own, I knew my cousin Arthur.
The boy my father loved was now a man
Cast in his mould, but round whose manhood hung
A studied courtliness, unlike Sir Hugh's
Rough royalty. Disdain on Arthur's lip,
Tamed by disgust, sat like a wearied falcon.
There burned no fire within his listless eye,
No eager impulse leaping from his heart
Waved the red colours on his cheek, his voice
Was sweet and even as a stream that has
Never a rock to break against.
To lie
Out on the green sward, pillowing his head
Upon the sleek neck of some favourite hound,
Follow the watercourses, rod and line
Swung idly o'er his shoulder, walk his horse
Along the bridle-paths—reins dropped and arms
Folded in thought—or in a voice whose cadence
Silvered the roughest measures, read aloud
Ballad or romance writ in sweet old French;
That quaint old French-once married to our English,
Rude spelt, and garnished with "Ma foys" and "Pardys;"
Perchance to" , dream,—an arm: flung o'er his eyelids
While Lilia touched the organ, and without
Twilight grew dark and. rose the evening star.
Adding her silver splendours to the night—
Was life enough for Arthur.
June was over.
When did I first miss Lilia from my side?
Thoughts she was wont to scatter wandered now
As wildly in her absence. Everywhere,
Within doors and without, a vague discomfort
Haunted my steps. And where was idle Lilia?
Why, loitering down the walks at Arthur's side,
Why, riding his black hunter, on the lawn,
Feeding his hound with biscuit, reading rhymes
At Arthur's side in the deep library window.
So answered Ernestine, and drooped her head
Sideways to hide a smile.
I could not stoop
To doubt my plighted wife. 'Twas natural—
Strangers were rare at Rookwood. Arthur told
Gay tales of foreign courts—had wandered far.
His traveller's magic held her in its spell.
Well might she weary of my side, and long,
Poor child, for wider ranging—thus I reasoned.
But as the weeks wore on, my pride spoke louder,
And every morn flung back the coiled suspicion
I nightly tore, indignant, from my breast.
Ernestine's cold smile and attentive glance,
Lilia's dropt eyes, flushed cheek, and faltering tongue,
Arthur's calm gaze for ever following Lilia,
Angered me all alike.
'Twas after midnight.
Too bright the moon across my pillow shone—
I rose to drop the curtain and looked forth.
'Twas after midnight. Lilia's lamp still burning?
Her shadow flitted o'er the turret wall,
Returned and paused. She stood before her mirror.
There she was gathering up her hair and buckling
A riband round her waist, and at her throat
Fastening the open folds of her thin robe.
Then all was dark. All silent too, I heard not
A step upon the stairs. Suddenly issued
From the low tower door a figure clad
In filmy white. Across the lawns it fled.
Whither?
The stars were paling in the east
When my affianced wife came hurrying back.
I heard her pause beside my chamber door
That stood ajar, then, up the winding stair
Pass to her own.
I questioned her that morn
With keen, cold eyes. Her flashing glance braved mine,
Wavered and fell—a glittering blade struck down
By heavier steel. Thenceforth she fled me. Came
Our bridal day and passed. I would not note it,
And Lilia—had forgot.
I'd fallen asleep
One day at noon—my slumber so transparent,
That through its painted curtain of swift dreams,
Shone, visible, the steadfast things beyond.
Vision extinguished vision, yet I knew—
Held by the light imperious touch of sleep—
I did but dream in the deep library chair.
Dreamed I that faltering step across the threshold?
The sob, the kiss quick dropped upon my hand?
I grappled with my sleep and flung it from me.
No one!—yet Arthur's spaniel, lying near,
Beat on the carpet with his feathery tail.
Cast in his mould, but round whose manhood hung
A studied courtliness, unlike Sir Hugh's
Rough royalty. Disdain on Arthur's lip,
Tamed by disgust, sat like a wearied falcon.
There burned no fire within his listless eye,
No eager impulse leaping from his heart
Waved the red colours on his cheek, his voice
Was sweet and even as a stream that has
Never a rock to break against.
To lie
Out on the green sward, pillowing his head
Upon the sleek neck of some favourite hound,
Follow the watercourses, rod and line
Swung idly o'er his shoulder, walk his horse
Along the bridle-paths—reins dropped and arms
Folded in thought—or in a voice whose cadence
Silvered the roughest measures, read aloud
Ballad or romance writ in sweet old French;
That quaint old French-once married to our English,
Rude spelt, and garnished with "Ma foys" and "Pardys;"
Perchance to" , dream,—an arm: flung o'er his eyelids
While Lilia touched the organ, and without
Twilight grew dark and. rose the evening star.
Adding her silver splendours to the night—
Was life enough for Arthur.
June was over.
When did I first miss Lilia from my side?
Thoughts she was wont to scatter wandered now
As wildly in her absence. Everywhere,
Within doors and without, a vague discomfort
Haunted my steps. And where was idle Lilia?
Why, loitering down the walks at Arthur's side,
Why, riding his black hunter, on the lawn,
Feeding his hound with biscuit, reading rhymes
At Arthur's side in the deep library window.
So answered Ernestine, and drooped her head
Sideways to hide a smile.
I could not stoop
To doubt my plighted wife. 'Twas natural—
Strangers were rare at Rookwood. Arthur told
Gay tales of foreign courts—had wandered far.
His traveller's magic held her in its spell.
Well might she weary of my side, and long,
Poor child, for wider ranging—thus I reasoned.
But as the weeks wore on, my pride spoke louder,
And every morn flung back the coiled suspicion
I nightly tore, indignant, from my breast.
Ernestine's cold smile and attentive glance,
Lilia's dropt eyes, flushed cheek, and faltering tongue,
Arthur's calm gaze for ever following Lilia,
Angered me all alike.
'Twas after midnight.
Too bright the moon across my pillow shone—
I rose to drop the curtain and looked forth.
'Twas after midnight. Lilia's lamp still burning?
Her shadow flitted o'er the turret wall,
Returned and paused. She stood before her mirror.
There she was gathering up her hair and buckling
A riband round her waist, and at her throat
Fastening the open folds of her thin robe.
Then all was dark. All silent too, I heard not
A step upon the stairs. Suddenly issued
From the low tower door a figure clad
In filmy white. Across the lawns it fled.
Whither?
The stars were paling in the east
When my affianced wife came hurrying back.
I heard her pause beside my chamber door
That stood ajar, then, up the winding stair
Pass to her own.
I questioned her that morn
With keen, cold eyes. Her flashing glance braved mine,
Wavered and fell—a glittering blade struck down
By heavier steel. Thenceforth she fled me. Came
Our bridal day and passed. I would not note it,
And Lilia—had forgot.
I'd fallen asleep
One day at noon—my slumber so transparent,
That through its painted curtain of swift dreams,
Shone, visible, the steadfast things beyond.
Vision extinguished vision, yet I knew—
Held by the light imperious touch of sleep—
I did but dream in the deep library chair.
Dreamed I that faltering step across the threshold?
The sob, the kiss quick dropped upon my hand?
I grappled with my sleep and flung it from me.
No one!—yet Arthur's spaniel, lying near,
Beat on the carpet with his feathery tail.
I had been trained in sorrow's hardy school,
No raw recruit in suffering. Fate might pluck
At my life's core. I smiled as one who sees
War's mailed hand snatch off the silken favour
Bound to his helm, but has no mind for that
To drop his sword's point. While my bleeding heart
Craved leave to count its wounds, while every thought
Concealed a knife, while to all earth and heaven
Seemed half divulged the story of my grief,
So curiously did all things hint at it—
I walked beneath the vigilant eye of sorrow,
As walk her darlings. Not enough to hide
My hurt from prying looks—this pride will do,
And take her pay in heart throes—from myself
I hid my grief that was my inmost self!
The poisonous fruit that life let fall for me
I held in cautious hands, and wary thought
Did only graze the outer rind of sorrow,
Knowing there was a bitter core within
She must not feed upon.
The sob, the tear,
Albeit but visions, did their angel errand,
And my roused heart made answer.
All that night
I watched beside my casement. So the next.
And so the next. No Lilia! Through the day
I hung upon her footsteps. Arthur, too,
He ever at her side, and I, apart,
A careless loiterer whom chance had thrown
Into their company. 'Twas then I marked
Lilia's white cheek, faint step, and hollow laugh
That made mirth pitiful. Alas, poor child—
An infant to this worldling! Had my pride
Suffered her erring feet unchid to wander
Into his net? 'Twas thus my heart arraigned me
Unfaithful to my trust.
A crescent moon
Waxed into golden fulness. Came a night
Of blended light and storm. High craggy clouds,
Along whose clefts the constant lightning played,
Rose toppling o'er the hills, and, half-way hung,
Betwixt the zenith and pale horizon.
The moon was struggling upward. Midnight near,
I, seated at my window, heard again
Footsteps above, and marked her lamp's pale ray
Paint Lilia's semblance on the turret wall.
I heard her pass my door and saw her stand
Upon the lawn, beneath, ere, shrouding close
My figure in a mantle's dark' disguise,
I followed.
Nay, how light across the turf
She trod—across the turf where I had guided
Her infant steps! Not down the lane that led
To Arthur's boundaries. Soon the swollen, wave
Was audible. She stood and listened then
With lifted hand. Did Arthur meet her there?
The blood leaped through my heart, a pale mist swept
Over my eyes, the very earth was thrilling,
Reeling beneath my feet. Lilia fled on.
She trod the brink of the ravine. Broad oaks
Embraced her with their shadows. While I scarce
Discerned her flowing draperies, the moon
Withdrew its light.
I followed through the darkness—
A perilous path! I tracked her by the sound
Of crashing brush and slippery stones displaced
Tumbling into the hollow. Outstretched boughs
Forbade me with their firm extended arms.
Vines caught my feet, far-reaching brambles held
My garments. In the river's lifted voice
There was a fearful cadence, and the wind
Rose shrill and sudden. Then the cataract
Grew hoarser, louder, till all sounds were trampled
Under its eager feet. The boughs o'erhead
Were instantly divided. Breathless, faint,
I stood above the waterfall and felt
Its white waves leap beneath me.
Where was Lilia?
I pried into the gloom. I shouted "Lilia!"
My tongue was palsied by the rushing waters.
They tore the sweet name from my lips and fled.
Down the rough brake, along this dizzy path,
How had she kept her way? Frantic, I cast
My mantle back, and springing to the edge
Of the sheer rock, made ready for a leap
Wild as the cataract's. Just then, the moon.
As one who bears a lamp from stair to stair
Clambering a ruin, through the crevices
Of the black cloud obscurely shone, and stood
On its torn battlements.
The deep ravine
Was flooded with its light. Beneath my feet
Lay the round pool to which the waters leapt.
The air was heavy with a languid perfume,
For white unfolding to the moonlight gleamed
The web of lilies, whence I'd plucked my Lilia.
But where the child? Up from the leafy pool
I raised my eyes and glanced along the rocks
That overhung it. From my heart, a cry
Sprang to my lips and paused.
High o'er a ledge,
That, level with the stream, had once upheld
Her hapless mother, on the rock's sharp edge,
Steadying the hollow of her daring foot,
Stood Lilia. Who hut Lilia so could venture?
What did she there? and what a trysting-place!
And where was Arthur?
In my eagerness,
Forward I pressed. The overhanging rock
She leaned from, nearly faced me. Clad in white,
In filmy white fair-robed from head to foot,
She stood, how like a form I well remembered!
My heart was sudden cold. Old stories thronged
My memory. Of a maniac mother born—
So strange in all her ways—alone, at night,
To wander hither? Lilia! oh the child!
The girl! the woman worth all life to me!
And I had wronged her by the cruelest thought!
Live, Lilia, live—be his—be anything—
Be aught but that! My sick heart paused, for Lilia
Lifting her eyes, thereon, as on full urns
Held the moon's glitter.
To my form they turned,
Yet spake no wonder. Vacant, cold, they wandered
Over the wild bright firmament. Sweet angels!
Where had I seen that look in Lilia's eyes?
Betwixt the dreamer and my soul there glided
A picture strange yet fair—Rookwood's old hall
Half gloom, half firelight; by the chimney corner
A crowd of wondering varlets; at the door
My mother with a smile upon her lip;
And on the oaken stair, her chamber taper
Lit in her hand, and her unconscious eyes
Fast held by sleep, a child in flowing night-robes!
The vision faded from me—then—'twas done
Ere I could breathe—her white arms tossed aloft,
Lilia sprang forward. Through the moonlight flitted
That lightest form. The parted waves laughed out
Embracing her—the lilies closed above.
No raw recruit in suffering. Fate might pluck
At my life's core. I smiled as one who sees
War's mailed hand snatch off the silken favour
Bound to his helm, but has no mind for that
To drop his sword's point. While my bleeding heart
Craved leave to count its wounds, while every thought
Concealed a knife, while to all earth and heaven
Seemed half divulged the story of my grief,
So curiously did all things hint at it—
I walked beneath the vigilant eye of sorrow,
As walk her darlings. Not enough to hide
My hurt from prying looks—this pride will do,
And take her pay in heart throes—from myself
I hid my grief that was my inmost self!
The poisonous fruit that life let fall for me
I held in cautious hands, and wary thought
Did only graze the outer rind of sorrow,
Knowing there was a bitter core within
She must not feed upon.
The sob, the tear,
Albeit but visions, did their angel errand,
And my roused heart made answer.
All that night
I watched beside my casement. So the next.
And so the next. No Lilia! Through the day
I hung upon her footsteps. Arthur, too,
He ever at her side, and I, apart,
A careless loiterer whom chance had thrown
Into their company. 'Twas then I marked
Lilia's white cheek, faint step, and hollow laugh
That made mirth pitiful. Alas, poor child—
An infant to this worldling! Had my pride
Suffered her erring feet unchid to wander
Into his net? 'Twas thus my heart arraigned me
Unfaithful to my trust.
A crescent moon
Waxed into golden fulness. Came a night
Of blended light and storm. High craggy clouds,
Along whose clefts the constant lightning played,
Rose toppling o'er the hills, and, half-way hung,
Betwixt the zenith and pale horizon.
The moon was struggling upward. Midnight near,
I, seated at my window, heard again
Footsteps above, and marked her lamp's pale ray
Paint Lilia's semblance on the turret wall.
I heard her pass my door and saw her stand
Upon the lawn, beneath, ere, shrouding close
My figure in a mantle's dark' disguise,
I followed.
Nay, how light across the turf
She trod—across the turf where I had guided
Her infant steps! Not down the lane that led
To Arthur's boundaries. Soon the swollen, wave
Was audible. She stood and listened then
With lifted hand. Did Arthur meet her there?
The blood leaped through my heart, a pale mist swept
Over my eyes, the very earth was thrilling,
Reeling beneath my feet. Lilia fled on.
She trod the brink of the ravine. Broad oaks
Embraced her with their shadows. While I scarce
Discerned her flowing draperies, the moon
Withdrew its light.
I followed through the darkness—
A perilous path! I tracked her by the sound
Of crashing brush and slippery stones displaced
Tumbling into the hollow. Outstretched boughs
Forbade me with their firm extended arms.
Vines caught my feet, far-reaching brambles held
My garments. In the river's lifted voice
There was a fearful cadence, and the wind
Rose shrill and sudden. Then the cataract
Grew hoarser, louder, till all sounds were trampled
Under its eager feet. The boughs o'erhead
Were instantly divided. Breathless, faint,
I stood above the waterfall and felt
Its white waves leap beneath me.
Where was Lilia?
I pried into the gloom. I shouted "Lilia!"
My tongue was palsied by the rushing waters.
They tore the sweet name from my lips and fled.
Down the rough brake, along this dizzy path,
How had she kept her way? Frantic, I cast
My mantle back, and springing to the edge
Of the sheer rock, made ready for a leap
Wild as the cataract's. Just then, the moon.
As one who bears a lamp from stair to stair
Clambering a ruin, through the crevices
Of the black cloud obscurely shone, and stood
On its torn battlements.
The deep ravine
Was flooded with its light. Beneath my feet
Lay the round pool to which the waters leapt.
The air was heavy with a languid perfume,
For white unfolding to the moonlight gleamed
The web of lilies, whence I'd plucked my Lilia.
But where the child? Up from the leafy pool
I raised my eyes and glanced along the rocks
That overhung it. From my heart, a cry
Sprang to my lips and paused.
High o'er a ledge,
That, level with the stream, had once upheld
Her hapless mother, on the rock's sharp edge,
Steadying the hollow of her daring foot,
Stood Lilia. Who hut Lilia so could venture?
What did she there? and what a trysting-place!
And where was Arthur?
In my eagerness,
Forward I pressed. The overhanging rock
She leaned from, nearly faced me. Clad in white,
In filmy white fair-robed from head to foot,
She stood, how like a form I well remembered!
My heart was sudden cold. Old stories thronged
My memory. Of a maniac mother born—
So strange in all her ways—alone, at night,
To wander hither? Lilia! oh the child!
The girl! the woman worth all life to me!
And I had wronged her by the cruelest thought!
Live, Lilia, live—be his—be anything—
Be aught but that! My sick heart paused, for Lilia
Lifting her eyes, thereon, as on full urns
Held the moon's glitter.
To my form they turned,
Yet spake no wonder. Vacant, cold, they wandered
Over the wild bright firmament. Sweet angels!
Where had I seen that look in Lilia's eyes?
Betwixt the dreamer and my soul there glided
A picture strange yet fair—Rookwood's old hall
Half gloom, half firelight; by the chimney corner
A crowd of wondering varlets; at the door
My mother with a smile upon her lip;
And on the oaken stair, her chamber taper
Lit in her hand, and her unconscious eyes
Fast held by sleep, a child in flowing night-robes!
The vision faded from me—then—'twas done
Ere I could breathe—her white arms tossed aloft,
Lilia sprang forward. Through the moonlight flitted
That lightest form. The parted waves laughed out
Embracing her—the lilies closed above.
'Twas then I woke—from rock to rock mad leaping,
A lion's strength was raging in my limbs.
The smiling waves received me. In their arms,
Oh what a fight with death! Down those cool depths
What frantic wrestling! Did the weeds below
Entangle her? I rose and dived again,
It seemed a thousand times. Then, spent and blind,
Sprang to the surface. From beneath the lilies
Gleamed out a face. I caught her from their net,
And flung my burden on the shore.
How long
Ere through her eyes' blue depths my Lilia's soul
Bloomed up again as lilies through the wave?
All wonder, shame, and joy, was in the face
That questioned mine. There, where my arms had twice
Plucked her from death's cold bosom, in that spot
Thick sown with lovely memories, as its banks
In spring with violets, she could not hide
Her heart from mine. 'Twas Ernestine had struck
The jarring chord. 'Twas Ernestine, whose pride
Let fall the hint that turned my Lilia's love
For one who had but gold to offer her,
Into deep shame; who whispered that she sold
Her loveliness to one who paid its price
Only for pity. 'Twas so slight a net
Had meshed our Cupid's feet. If Arthur, heir
To Rookwood, next to me, with Ernestine,
Had plotted for himself, or did hut wing
Some idle hours, unthoughtful of the future
My marriage was to mar, at Lilia's side,
I never knew.
'Tis many years since then;
And while I write in Rookwood's library,
The velvet shadows of an August evening
Slant down the lawn, and on a grassy bank
Beneath the window where I sit, is Lilia.
Her braided hair lies smooth upon her brow.
Her blue eyes have grown thoughtful, though her lips
Have the same passionate life. The babe she rocks
Upon her bosom has a brow no calmer.
All her wild ways have fallen from my Lilia,
As its superfluous blossoms from the tree.
My boy, who lies beside her on the lawn,
Plays with his brace of pointers.
Ernestine
Is Arthur's wife, and mistress of his home
And heart. Her beauty has been praised by kings.
Her face is welcome at our English court.
The dream of all her childhood is fulfilled.
Her boys and girls are lovely as their mother;
Arthur has heirs enow to bear his name
Adown through coming years; but Arthur's children
Will scarcely play the lord in bonny Rookwood.
A lion's strength was raging in my limbs.
The smiling waves received me. In their arms,
Oh what a fight with death! Down those cool depths
What frantic wrestling! Did the weeds below
Entangle her? I rose and dived again,
It seemed a thousand times. Then, spent and blind,
Sprang to the surface. From beneath the lilies
Gleamed out a face. I caught her from their net,
And flung my burden on the shore.
How long
Ere through her eyes' blue depths my Lilia's soul
Bloomed up again as lilies through the wave?
All wonder, shame, and joy, was in the face
That questioned mine. There, where my arms had twice
Plucked her from death's cold bosom, in that spot
Thick sown with lovely memories, as its banks
In spring with violets, she could not hide
Her heart from mine. 'Twas Ernestine had struck
The jarring chord. 'Twas Ernestine, whose pride
Let fall the hint that turned my Lilia's love
For one who had but gold to offer her,
Into deep shame; who whispered that she sold
Her loveliness to one who paid its price
Only for pity. 'Twas so slight a net
Had meshed our Cupid's feet. If Arthur, heir
To Rookwood, next to me, with Ernestine,
Had plotted for himself, or did hut wing
Some idle hours, unthoughtful of the future
My marriage was to mar, at Lilia's side,
I never knew.
'Tis many years since then;
And while I write in Rookwood's library,
The velvet shadows of an August evening
Slant down the lawn, and on a grassy bank
Beneath the window where I sit, is Lilia.
Her braided hair lies smooth upon her brow.
Her blue eyes have grown thoughtful, though her lips
Have the same passionate life. The babe she rocks
Upon her bosom has a brow no calmer.
All her wild ways have fallen from my Lilia,
As its superfluous blossoms from the tree.
My boy, who lies beside her on the lawn,
Plays with his brace of pointers.
Ernestine
Is Arthur's wife, and mistress of his home
And heart. Her beauty has been praised by kings.
Her face is welcome at our English court.
The dream of all her childhood is fulfilled.
Her boys and girls are lovely as their mother;
Arthur has heirs enow to bear his name
Adown through coming years; but Arthur's children
Will scarcely play the lord in bonny Rookwood.