_
Dirge for abbess laid in shroud
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,
Page or lady, as we said,
With the dews upon her head,
All as sad if not as loud.
Dirge for abbess laid in shroud
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,
Page or lady, as we said,
With the dews upon her head,
All as sad if not as loud.
Elizabeth Browning
"--
"I keep my master's noble name,
For warring, not for feasting;
And if that here Sir Hubert were,
My master brave, my master dear,
Ye would not stay the questing. "
XLI.
"Where is thy master, scornful page,
That we may slay or bind him? "--
"Now search the lea and search the wood,
And see if ye can find him!
Nathless, as hath been often tried,
Your Paynim heroes faster ride
Before him than behind him. "
XLII.
"Give smoother answers, lying page,
Or perish in the lying! "--
"I trow that if the warrior brand
Beside my foot, were in my hand,
'T were better at replying! "
They cursed her deep, they smote her low,
They cleft her golden ringlets through;
The Loving is the Dying.
XLIII.
She felt the scimitar gleam down,
And met it from beneath
With smile more bright in victory
Than any sword from sheath,--
Which flashed across her lip serene,
Most like the spirit-light between
The darks of life and death.
XLIV.
_Ingemisco, ingemisco! _
From the convent on the sea,
Now it sweepeth solemnly,
As over wood and over lea
Bodily the wind did carry
The great altar of St. Mary,
And the fifty tapers paling o'er it,
And the Lady Abbess stark before it,
And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly
Beat along their voices saintly--
_Ingemisco, ingemisco!
_
Dirge for abbess laid in shroud
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,
Page or lady, as we said,
With the dews upon her head,
All as sad if not as loud.
_Ingemisco, ingemisco! _
Is ever a lament begun
By any mourner under sun,
Which, ere it endeth, suits but _one_?
_THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. _
FIRST PART.
I.
"Onora, Onora,"--her mother is calling,
She sits at the lattice and hears the dew falling
Drop after drop from the sycamores laden
With dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden,
"Night cometh, Onora. "
II.
She looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees,
To the limes at the end where the green arbour is--
"Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her,
While, forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her,
Night cometh--Onora! "
III.
She looks up the forest whose alleys shoot on
Like the mute minster-aisles when the anthem is done
And the choristers sitting with faces aslant
Feel the silence to consecrate more than the chant--
"Onora, Onora! "
IV.
And forward she looketh across the brown heath--
"Onora, art coming? "--what is it she seeth?
Nought, nought but the grey border-stone that is wist
To dilate and assume a wild shape in the mist--
"My daughter! " Then over
V.
"I keep my master's noble name,
For warring, not for feasting;
And if that here Sir Hubert were,
My master brave, my master dear,
Ye would not stay the questing. "
XLI.
"Where is thy master, scornful page,
That we may slay or bind him? "--
"Now search the lea and search the wood,
And see if ye can find him!
Nathless, as hath been often tried,
Your Paynim heroes faster ride
Before him than behind him. "
XLII.
"Give smoother answers, lying page,
Or perish in the lying! "--
"I trow that if the warrior brand
Beside my foot, were in my hand,
'T were better at replying! "
They cursed her deep, they smote her low,
They cleft her golden ringlets through;
The Loving is the Dying.
XLIII.
She felt the scimitar gleam down,
And met it from beneath
With smile more bright in victory
Than any sword from sheath,--
Which flashed across her lip serene,
Most like the spirit-light between
The darks of life and death.
XLIV.
_Ingemisco, ingemisco! _
From the convent on the sea,
Now it sweepeth solemnly,
As over wood and over lea
Bodily the wind did carry
The great altar of St. Mary,
And the fifty tapers paling o'er it,
And the Lady Abbess stark before it,
And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly
Beat along their voices saintly--
_Ingemisco, ingemisco!
_
Dirge for abbess laid in shroud
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,
Page or lady, as we said,
With the dews upon her head,
All as sad if not as loud.
_Ingemisco, ingemisco! _
Is ever a lament begun
By any mourner under sun,
Which, ere it endeth, suits but _one_?
_THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. _
FIRST PART.
I.
"Onora, Onora,"--her mother is calling,
She sits at the lattice and hears the dew falling
Drop after drop from the sycamores laden
With dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden,
"Night cometh, Onora. "
II.
She looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees,
To the limes at the end where the green arbour is--
"Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her,
While, forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her,
Night cometh--Onora! "
III.
She looks up the forest whose alleys shoot on
Like the mute minster-aisles when the anthem is done
And the choristers sitting with faces aslant
Feel the silence to consecrate more than the chant--
"Onora, Onora! "
IV.
And forward she looketh across the brown heath--
"Onora, art coming? "--what is it she seeth?
Nought, nought but the grey border-stone that is wist
To dilate and assume a wild shape in the mist--
"My daughter! " Then over
V.
