Poems. (Privately Printed.): the A2 Proofs (partial), British Library Copy (Ashley 1399) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 By permission of the British Library Poems. (Privately Printed.) Dante Gabriel Rossetti Strangeways and Walden London 1869 September 20 This is a set of the A2 proofs in its first state. [i-iv], 5-6, 9-10, 13-14, 17-25, [26], 29-40, 45-[46], 47-50, 53-[54], 55-58, [59]. DGR DGR British Library Ashley 1399 This was T. J. Wise's copy, which he probably received from either Swinburne or WMR. Commentary
Introduction

The cover note, in T. J. Wise's hand, is misleading. This document represents a partial copy of the A2 Proofs in their first state. They were printed around 21 September 1869. Lewis designates the A2 Proofs proof state 4 (see Lewis).

These proofs have only a few autograph corrections and revisions. They were probably once part of a complete copy that included the material that now survives in the Princeton/Troxell collection's Second Partial Copy, uncorrected, of 33 pages.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

Wise, <hi rend="i">The Ashley Library</hi> , IV. 124-125. Troxell, “The Trial Books” , 192. Fraser, “The Rossetti Collection of Janet Camp Troxell” , 160-161. Lewis, <hi rend="i"> <xref doc="a.z1024.l49.rad" link="dead" from="186">The Trial Book Fallacy</xref> </hi> , 186. Burnett, <hi rend="i">The Ashley Catalogue</hi> , I. 75-76.

Fragments of the firstof the ‘trial books’of 1869.Note corrections.

ForCase

 POEMS. (PRIVATELY PRINTED.) blank page

Most of these poems were written between 1847and 1853; and are here printed, if not withoutrevision, yet generally much in their originalstate. They are a few among a good manythen written, but of the others I have now nocomplete copies. The Sonnets and Songs are chiefly more recent work.] D. G. R. 1869.

 blank page Pages 1-4 not in this proof. Fain to be hearkened? When those bells Possessed the midday air, Was she not stepping to my side Down all the trembling stair?) ‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. ‘Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded; Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. ‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. ‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles: And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. ‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me:— Only to live as once on earth With Love,—only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he.’ She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild,— ‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. (I saw her smile). But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres: And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) Pages 7-8 not in this proof. Master, is it soothly said That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made, So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thy sunken beach,— Shape or shade In those halls pourtrayed of each? Ah! might I, by thy good grace Groping in the windy stair, (Darkness and the breath of space Like loud waters everywhere,) Meeting mine own image there Face to face, Send it from that place to her! Nay, not I; but oh! do thou, Master, from thy shadowkind Call my body's phantom now: Bid it bear its face declin'd Till its flight her slumbers find, And her brow Feel its presence bow like wind. Where in groves the gracile Spring Trembles, with mute orison Confidently strengthening, Water's voice and wind's as one Shed an echo in the sun, Soft as Spring, Master, bid it sing and moan. Song shall tell how glad and strong Is the night she soothes alway; Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue Of the brazen hours of day: Sounds as of the springtide they, Moan and song, While the chill months long for May. Not the prayers which with all leave The world's fluent woes prefer,— Not the praise the world doth give, Dulcet fulsome whisperer;— Let it yield man's love to her, And achieve Strength that shall not grieve or err. Wheresoe'er my sleep befall, Both at night-watch, (let it say,) And where round the sundial The reluctant hours of day, Heartless, hopeless of their way, Rest and call;— There her glance doth fall and stay. Suddenly her face is there: So do mounting vapours wreathe Subtle-scented transports where The black firwood sets its teeth. Part the boughs and look beneath,— Lilies share Secret waters there, and breathe. Pages 11-12 not in this proof. <hi rend="c">THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH.</hi> ‘Burden. Heavy calamity; The chorus of a song.’—Dictionary. In our Museum galleries To-day I lingered o'er the prize Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes,— Her Art for ever in fresh wise From hour to hour rejoicing me. Sighing I turned at last to win Once more the London dirt and din; And as I made the swing-door spin And issued, they were hoisting in A wingèd beast from Nineveh. A human face the creature wore, And hoofs behind and hoofs before, And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er. 'Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaur, A dead disbowelled mystery; The mummy of a buried faith Stark from the charnel without scathe, Its wings stood for the light to bathe,— Such fossil cerements as might swathe The very corpse of Nineveh. The print of its first rush-wrapping, Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing. What song did the brown maidens sing, From purple mouths alternating, When that was woven languidly? What vows, what rites, what prayers preferr'd, What songs has the strange image heard? In what blind vigil stood interr'd For ages, till an English word Broke silence first at Nineveh? Oh when upon each sculptured court, Where even the wind might not resort,— O'er which Time passed, of like import With the wild Arab boys at sport,— A living face looked in to see:— Oh seemed it not—the spell once broke— As though the carven warriors woke, As though the shaft the string forsook, The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, And there was life in Nineveh? On London stones our sun anew The beast's recovered shadow threw. (No shade that plague of darkness knew, No light, no shade, while older grew By ages the old earth and sea.) Lo thou! could all thy priests have shown Such proof to make thy godhead known? Pages 15-16 not in this proof. Ah! what is here can testify (Save that dumb presence of the sky) Unto thy day and Nineveh? Why, of those mummies in the room Above, there might indeed have come One out of Egypt to thy home, An alien. Nay, but were not some Of these thine own ‘antiquity?’ And now,—they and their gods and thou All relics here together,—now Whose profit? whether bull or cow, Isis or Ibis, who or how, Whether of Thebes or Nineveh? The consecrated metals found, And ivory tablets, underground, Winged teraphim and creatures crown'd, When air and daylight filled the mound, Fell into dust immediately. And even as these, the images Of awe and worship,—even as these,— So, smitten with the sun's increase, Her glory mouldered and did cease From immemorial Nineveh. The day her builders made their halt, Those cities of the lake of salt C Stood firmly 'stablished without fault, Made proud with pillars of basalt, With sardonyx and porphyry. The day that Jonah bore abroad To Nineveh the voice of God, A brackish lake lay in his road, Where erst Pride fixed her sure abode, As then in royal Nineveh. The day when he, Pride's lord and Man's, Showed all the kingdoms at a glance To Him before whose countenance The years recede, the years advance, And said, Fall down and worship me:— 'Mid all the pomp beneath that look, Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke, Where to the wind the salt pools shook, And in those tracts, of life forsook, That knew thee not, O Nineveh! Delicate harlot! On thy throne Thou with a world beneath thee prone In state for ages sat'st alone; And needs were years and lustres flown Ere strength of man could vanquish thee: Whom even thy victor foes must bring, Still royal, among maids that sing As with doves' voices, taboring Upon their breasts, unto the King,— A kingly conquest, Nineveh! ... Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway Had waxed; and like the human play Of scorn that smiling spreads away, The sunshine shivered off the day: The callous wind, it seemed to me, Swept up the shadow from the ground: And pale as whom the Fates astound, The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd: Within I knew the cry lay bound Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. And as I turned, my sense half shut Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut Go past as marshalled to the strut Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. It seemed in one same pageantry They followed forms which had been erst; To pass, till on my sight should burst That future of the best or worst When some may question which was first, Of London or of Nineveh. For as that Bull-god once did stand And watched the burial-clouds of sand, Till these at last without a hand Rose o'er his eyes, another land, And blinded him with destiny:— So may he stand again; till now, In ships of unknown sail and prow, Some tribe of the Australian plough Bear him afar,—a relic now Of London, not of Nineveh! Or it may chance indeed that when Man's age is hoary among men,— His centuries threescore and ten,— His furthest childhood shall seem then More clear than later times may be: Who, finding in this desert place This form, shall hold us for some race That walked not in Christ's lowly ways, But bowed its pride and vowed its praise Unto the God of Nineveh. The smile rose first,—anon drew nigh The thought:... Those heavy wings spread high So sure of flight, which do not fly; That set gaze never on the sky; Those scriptured flanks it cannot see; Its crown, a brow-contracting load; Its planted feet which trust the sod:... (So grew the image as I trod:) O Nineveh, was this thy God,— Thine also, mighty Nineveh? <hi rend="c">AVE.*</hi> The words substituted in line 10 have been struck through and “Stet” written in the margin. Mother of the Fair Delight, Thou handmaid perfect in God's sight, Now sitting fourth beside the Three, Thyself a woman-Trinity,— Being a daughter borne to God, Mother of Christ from stall to rood, And wife unto the Holy Ghost:— Oh when our need is uttermost, Think that to such as death may strike Thou once wert wast a sister sisterlike! Thou headstone of humanity, Groundstone of the great Mystery, Fashioned like us, yet more than we! Mind'st thou not (when June's heavy breath Warmed the long days in Nazareth,) That eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might live

* This hymn was written as a prologue to a series of designs.Art still identifies herself with all faiths for her own purposes:and the emotional influence here employed demands above all aninner standing-point.

 One faint night more amid the sands? Far off the trees were as pale wands Against the fervid sky: the sea Sighed further off eternally As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps in God's secret ways: Until a folding sense, like prayer, Which is, as God is, everywhere, Gathered about thee; and a voice Spake to thee without any noise, Being of the silence:—‘Hail,’ it said, ‘Thou that art highly favourèd; The Lord is with thee here and now; Blessed among all women thou.’ Ah! knew'st thou of the end, when first That Babe was on thy bosom nurs'd?— Or when He tottered round thy knee Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee?— And through His boyhood, year by year Eating with Him the Passover, Didst thou discern confusedly That holier sacrament, when He, The bitter cup about to quaff, Should break the bread and eat thereof?— Or came not yet the knowledge, even Till on some day forecast in Heaven His feet passed through thy door to press Upon His Father's business?— Or still was God's high secret kept? Nay, but I think the whisper crept Like growth through childhood. Work and play, Things common to the course of day, Awed thee with meanings unfulfill'd; And all through girlhood, something still'd Thy senses like the birth of light, When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night Or washed thy garments in the stream; To whose white bed had come the dream That He was thine and thou wast His Who feeds among the field-lilies. O solemn shadow of the end In that wise spirit long contain'd! O awful end! and those unsaid Long years when It was Finishèd! Mind'st thou not (when the twilight gone Left darkness in the house of John,) Between the naked window-bars That spacious vigil of the stars?— For thou, a watcher even as they, Wouldst rise from where throughout the day Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor; And, finding the fixed terms endure Of day and night which never brought Sounds of His coming chariot, Wouldst lift through cloud-waste unexplor'd Those eyes which said, ‘How long, O Lord?’ Then that disciple whom He loved, Well heeding, haply would be moved To ask thy blessing in His name; And that one thought in both, the same Though silent, then would clasp ye round To weep together,—tears long bound, Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. Yet, ‘Surely I come quickly,’—so He said, from life and death gone home. ‘Amen; even so, Lord Jesus, come!’ But oh! what human tongue can speak That day when death was sent to break From the tir'd spirit, like a veil, Its covenant with Gabriel Endured at length unto the end? What human thought can apprehend That mystery of motherhood When thy Beloved at length renew'd The sweet communion severèd,— His left hand underneath thine head And His right hand embracing thee?— Lo! He was thine, and this is He! Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, That lets me see her standing up Where the light of the Throne is bright? Unto the left, unto the right, The cherubim, arrayed, conjoint, Float inward to a golden point, And from between the seraphim The glory issues like a hymn. O Mary Mother, be not loth To listen,—thou whom the stars clothe, Who seëst and mayst not be seen! Hear us at last, O Mary Queen! Into our shadow bend thy face, Bowing thee from the secret place, O Mary Virgin, full of grace! blank page Pages 27-28 not in this proof. ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘your lands lie burnt And waste: to meet your foe All fear: this I have seen and learnt. Say that it shall be so, And I will go.’ She gazed at him. ‘Your cause is just, For I have heard the same:’ He said: ‘God's strength shall be my trust. Fall it to good or grame, 'Tis in His name.’ ‘Sir, you are thanked. My cause is dead. Why should you toil to break A grave, and fall therein?’ she said. He did not pause but spake: ‘For my vow's sake.’ ‘Can such vows be, Sir—to God's ear, Not to God's will?’ ‘My vow Remains: God heard me there as here,’ He said with reverent brow, ‘Both then and now.’ They gazed together, he and she, The minute while he spoke; And when he ceased, she suddenly Looked round upon her folk As though she woke. ‘Fight, Sir,’ she said: ‘my prayers in pain Shall be your fellowship.’ He whispered one among her train,— ‘To-night thou'lt bid her keep This staff and scrip.’ She sent him a sharp sword, whose belt About his body there As sweet as her own arms he felt. He kissed its blade, all bare, Instead of her. She sent him a green banner wrought With one white lily stem, To bind his lance with when he fought. He writ upon the same And kissed her name. She sent him a white shield, whereon She bade that he should trace His will. He blent fair hues that shone, And in a golden space He kissed her face. Right so, the sunset skies unseal'd, Like lands he never knew, Beyond to-morrow's battle-field Lay open out of view To ride into. Next day till dark the women pray'd: Nor any might know there How the fight went: the Queen has bade That there do come to her No messenger. Weak now to them the voice o' the priest As any trance affords; And when each anthem failed and ceas'd, It seemed that the last chords Still sang the words. ‘Oh what is the light that shines so red? 'Tis long since the sun set;’ Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid: ‘ 'Twas dim but now, and yet The light is great.’ Quoth the other: ‘ 'Tis our sight is dazed That we see flame i' the air.’ But the Queen held her brows and gazed, And said, ‘It is the glare Of torches there.’ ‘Oh what are the sounds that rise and spread? All day it was so still;’ Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid; ‘Unto the furthest hill The air they fill.’ Quoth the other; ‘ 'Tis our sense is blurr'd With all the chants gone by.’ But the Queen held her breath and heard, And said, ‘It is the cry Of Victory.’ The first of all the rout was sound, The next were dust and flame, And then the horses shook the ground: And in the thick of them A still band came. ‘Oh what do ye bring out of the fight, Thus hid beneath these boughs?’ ‘One that shall be thy guest to-night, And yet shall not carouse, Queen, in thy house.’ ‘Uncover ye his face,’ she said. ‘O changed in little space!’ She cried, ‘O pale that was so red! O God, O God of grace! Cover his face.’ His sword was broken in his hand Where he had kissed the blade. ‘O soft steel that could not withstand! O my hard heart unstayed, That prayed and prayed!’ His bloodied banner crossed his mouth Where he had kissed her name. ‘O east, and west, and north, and south, Fair flew my web, for shame, To guide Death's aim!’ The tints were shredded from his shield Where he had kissed her face. ‘Oh, of all gifts that I could yield, Death only keeps its place, My gift and grace!’ Then stepped a damsel to her side, And spake, and needs must weep: ‘For his sake, lady, if he died, He prayed of thee to keep This staff and scrip.’ That night they hung above her bed, Till morning wet with tears. Year after year above her head Her bed his token wears, Five years, ten years. That night the passion of her grief Shook them as there they hung. Each year the wind that shed the leaf Shook them and in its tongue A message flung. D And she would wake with a clear mind That letters writ to calm Her soul lay in the scrip; and find Only a torpid balm And dust of palm. They shook far off with palace sport When joust and dance were rife; And the hunt shook them from the court; For hers, in peace or strife, Was a Queen's life. A Queen's death now: as now they shake To chaunts in chapel dim,— Hung where she sleeps, not seen to wake, (Carved lovely white and slim), With them by him. Stand up to-day, still armed, with her, Good knight, before His brow Who then as now was here and there, Who had in mind thy vow Then even as now. The lists are set in Heaven to-day, The bright pavilions shine; Fair hangs thy shield, and none gainsay; The trumpets sound in sign That she is thine. Not tithed with days' and years' decease He pays thy wage He owed, But with imperishable peace Here in His own abode, Thy jealous God. blank page very small type DGR's directions to printer for printing the epigraph added here in manuscript. <hi rend="c">SISTER HELEN.</hi> “Dis, veux-tu prendre la vie D'un homme ton ennemi? Fais en cire son image Et mets devant feu en cage. Pour trois jours son nom diras,— Chair et cire se fondra.”

La Souricière aux Sourcières. 1465[?] 158-

DGR added this passage as a possible epigraph for the poem, and although Swinburne urged him to keep it, DGR decided against the lines (which are of his own invention). ‘Why did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen? To-day is the third since you began.’ ‘The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘But if you have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You'll let me play, for you said I might.’ ‘Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, Sister Helen; If now it be molten, all is well.’ ‘Even so,—nay, peace! you cannot tell, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, Sister Helen; How like dead folk he has dropped away!’ ‘Nay now, of the dead what can you say, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘See, see, the sunken pile of wood, Sister Helen, Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!’ ‘Nay now, when looked you yet on blood, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, Sister Helen, And I'll play without the gallery door.’ ‘Aye, let me rest,—I'll lie on the floor, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Here high up in the balcony, Sister Helen, The moon flies face to face with me.’ ‘Aye, look and say whatever you see, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) Received line 54 is misaligned slightly to the left. ‘Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, Sister Helen; In the shaken trees the chill stars shake.’ ‘Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘I hear a horse-tread, and I see, Sister Helen, Three horsemen that ride terribly.’ ‘Little brother, whence come the three, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, Sister Helen, And one draws nigh, but two are afar.’ ‘Look, look, do you know them who they are, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Oh, it's Holm of East Holm rides so fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white mane on the blast.’ ‘The hour has come, has come at last, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!) Received line 86 is misaligned slightly to the left. ‘He has made a sign and called Halloo! Sister Helen, And he says that he would speak with you.’ ‘Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, Sister Helen, That Holm of Ewern's like to die.’ ‘And he and thou, and thou and I, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘For three days now he has lain abed, Sister Helen, And he prays in torment to be dead.’ ‘The thing may chance, if he have prayed, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘But he has not ceased to cry to-day, Sister Helen, That you should take your curse away.’ ‘My prayer was heard,—he need but pray, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?) Pages 41-44 not in this proof. further out DGR's note to the printer on alignment of received line 285. ‘Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen, And weary sad they look by the hill.’ ‘But he they mourn is sadder still, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are winning up apace!’ ‘Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?’ ‘A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!) blank page <hi rend="c">STRATTON WATER.</hi> missing close quote in line 20 ‘ O have you seen the Stratton flood That's great with rain to-day? It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands, Full of the new-mown hay. ‘I led your hounds to Hutton bank To bathe at early morn: They got their bath by Borrowbrake Above the standing corn.’ Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands Looked up the western lea; The rook was grieving on her nest, The flood was round her tree. Over the castle-wall Lord Sands Looked down the eastern hill: The stakes swam free among the boats, The flood was rising still. ‘What's yonder far below that lies So white against the slope?’ ‘O it's a sail o' your bonny barks The waters have washed up. ‘But I have never a sail so white, And the water's not yet there.’ ‘O it's the swans o' your bonny lake The rising flood doth scare.’ ‘The swans they would not hold so still, So high they would not win.’ ‘O it's Joyce my wife has spread her smock And fears to fetch it in.’ ‘Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans, Nor aught that you can say; For though your wife might leave her smock, Herself she'd bring away.’ Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair, The court, and yard, and all; The kine were in the byre that day, The nags were in the stall. Lord Sands has won the weltering slope Whereon the white shape lay: The clouds were still above the hill, And the shape was still as they. Oh pleasant is the gaze of life And sad is death's blind head; But awful are the living eyes In the face of one thought dead. ‘O Jean, O love! and is it me Thy ghost has come to seek?’ ‘Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands,— Be sure my ghost shall speak.’ A moment stood he as a stone, Then grovelled to his knee. ‘O Jean, O Jean my love, O love, Rise up and come with me!’ ‘O once before you bade me come, And it's here you have brought me! ‘O many's the sweet word of love You've spoken oft to me; But all that I have from you to-day Is the rain on my body. ‘And many are the gifts of love You've promised oft to me; But the gift of yours I keep to-day Is the babe in my body. ‘O it's not in any earthly bed That first my babe I'll see; For I have brought my body here That the flood may cover me.’ His face was close against her face, His hands of hers were fain: O her wet cheeks were hot with tears, Her wet hands cold with rain. E ‘Now keep you well, my brother Hugh,— You told me she was dead! As wan as your towers be to-day, To-morrow they'll be red. ‘Look down, look down, my false mother, That bade me not to grieve: You'll look up when our marriage fires Are lit to-morrow eve. ‘O more than one and more than two The sorrow of this shall see: But it's to-morrow, love, for them,— To-day's for thee and me.’ He's drawn her face between his hands And her pale mouth to his: No bird that was so still that day Chirps sweeter than his kiss. He's ta'en her by the short girdle And by the dripping sleeve: ‘Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest,— You'll ask of him no leave. ‘O it's one half-hour to reach the kirk And one for the marriage-rite; And kirk and castle and castle-lands Shall be our babe's to-night.’ Pages 51-52 not in this proof. ‘For it's oh and oh I prayed to God, Whose rest I hoped to win, That when to-night at your board-head You'd bid the feast begin, This water past your window-sill Might bear my body in.’ Now make the white bed warm and soft And greet the merry morn. The night the mother should have died The young son shall be born. blank page <hi rend="c">DENNIS SHAND.</hi> The shadows fall along the wall, It's night at Haye-la-Serre; The maidens weave since day grew eve, The lady's in her chair. O passing slow the long hours go With time to think and sigh, When weary maidens weave beneath A listless lady's eye. It's two days that Earl Simon's gone And it's the second night; At Haye-la-Serre the lady's fair, In June the moon is light. O it's ‘Maids, ye'll wake till I come back,’ And the hound's i' the lady's chair: No shuttles fly, the work stands by, It's play at Haye-la-Serre. The night is worn, the lamp's forlorn, The shadows waste and ail; There's morning air at Haye-la-Serre, The watching maids look pale. missing close quote in line 25 O all unmarked the birds at dawn Where drowsy maidens be; But heard too soon the lark's first tune Beneath the trysting-tree. ‘Hold me thy hand, sweet Dennis Shand, Says the Lady Joan de Haye, ‘That thou to-morrow do forget To-day and yesterday. ‘O it's the autumn nights are chill, The winter nights are long, And my lord'll bide at home o' nights As long as the swallow's gone. ‘This summer he'll not be forth again And not again till spring; The wind is cold to him that's old And the frost withering. ‘We've all to fear; there's Maud the spy, There's Ann whose face I scor'd, There's Blanch tells Huot everything, And Huot loves my lord. ‘But O and it's my Dennis'll know, When my eyes look weary dim, Who finds the gold for his girdle-fee And who keeps love for him.’ divide At top of page, DGR's note to correct typo in line 45. Typo: "come and" printed as one word in line 45. Typo: open quote at beginning of line 53. The morrow's comeand the morrow-night, It's feast at Haye-la-Serre, And Dennis Shand the cup must hand Beside Earl Simon's chair. And still when the high pouring's done And cup and flagon clink, Till his lady's lips have touched the brim Earl Simon will not drink. ‘But it's, ‘Joan my wife,’ Earl Simon says, ‘Your maids are white and wan.’ And it's ‘O,’ she says, ‘they've watched the night With Maud's sick sister Ann.’ But it's, ‘Lady Joan and Joan my bird, Yourself look white and wan.’ And it's, ‘O, I've walked the night myself To pull the herbs for Ann: ‘And some of your knaves were at the hutch And some in the cellarage, But the only one that watched with us Was Dennis Shand your page. ‘Look on the boy, sweet honey lord, And mark his drooping e'e: The rosy colour's not yet back That paled in serving me.’ O it's, ‘Wife, your maids are foolish jades, And you're a silly chuck, And the lazy knaves shall get their staves About their ears for luck: ‘But Dennis Shand may take the cup And pour the wine to his hand; Wife, thou shalt touch it with thy lips, And drink thou, Dennis Shand!’