The garden stretches southward. In the She stood, a sight to make an old man midst He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, 'Look! look!' Before he ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, And blown across the walk. One arm aloft Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers young. So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her : 'Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thine.' She look'd but all Suffused with blushes-neither selfpossess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, Divided in a graceful quiet-paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Ah, happy shade-and still went waver lips For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statuelike, In act to render thanks. I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 'Now,' said he, will you climb the top A word could bring the colour to my dew; You cannot fail but work in hues to dim A thought would fill my eyes with happy Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.' So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, And shaping faithful record of the glance Love trebled life within me, and with That graced the giving--such a noise of And each in passing touch'd with some new grace life Swarm'd in the golden present, such a Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, voice Call'd to me from the years to come, and Like one that never can be wholly known, Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought such A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. And all that night I heard the watchman peal The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep 'I will,' Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, Full of his bliss, and following her dark O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, Made this night thus. squall nor storm Henceforward eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, Could keep me from that Eden where Between us, in the circle of his arms Served in the weeping elm; and more The bells; we listen'd; with the time We spoke of other things; we coursed about Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells The subject most at heart, more near Of that which came between, more sweet than each, and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling In whispers, like the whispers of the round The central wish, until we settled there. to her, leaves That tremble round a nightingale-in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter ance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, Holding the folded annals of my youth; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, Be wise not easily forgiven Are those, who setting wide the doors that bar given, And vows, where there was never need of vows, And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; Or while the balmy glooming, crescentlit, Spread the light haze along the river shores, And in the hollows; or as once we met And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. been intent On that veil'd picture-veil'd, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: The secret bridal chambers of the heart, have end. Behold her there, And often thought, 'I'll make them man And broke away. The more he look'd and wife.' Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But The Dora bore them meekly. Then before month was out he left his father's house, Then there came a day And hired himself to work within the When Allan call'd his son, and said, 'My son : fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Allan call'd I married late, but I would wish to see he died His niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well; son, In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred Or change a word with her he calls his His daughter Dora: take her for your wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law.' And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 'It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!' And days went on, and there was born a boy Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, To William; then distresses came on him; and said: And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But when the morrow came, she rose and took But Dora stored what little she could save, The child once more, and sat upon the And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: 'I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?' So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child!' 'And did I not,' said Allan, did I not Forbid you, Dora?' Dora said again : 'Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!' And Allan said, 'I see it is a trick dared To sight it. Well-for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more.' So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell Far off the farmer came into the field She bow'd upon her Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And the boy's cry came to her from the And the sun fell, and all the land was And all the things that had been. She |