Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature C (Delaware Museum, first proof) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Text courtesy of The Delaware Art Museum Poems. A New Edition Dante Gabriel Rossetti F. S. Ellis Strangeways and Walden London 1881 May 12 proof 17-32 1 DGR C8 Library, Delaware Art Museum 10 point; 6 point leading roman 22 2 cm 3.8 cm 2 cm 2.5 cm 19 x 12.8cm (crown octavo) Commentary
Introduction

This is a an uncorrected copy of the final proof for this signature. Major additions were made to the text by DGR in his (missing) author's copy of this proof. These additions appear in both of the surviving revise proofs.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

The three copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. They include this uncorrected copy of the final proof , the printer's corrected copy of the revise, and an author's corrected revise.

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

C ‘Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, Sister Helen, Is ever to see you ere he die.’ ‘In all that his soul sees, there am I, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The soul's one sight, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He sends a ring and a broken coin, Sister Helen, And bids you mind the banks of Boyne.’ ‘What else he broke will he ever join, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He yields you these and craves full fain, Sister Helen, You pardon him in his mortal pain.’ ‘What else he took will he give again, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He calls your name in an agony, Sister Helen, That even dead Love must weep to see.’ ‘Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white hair on the blast.’ ‘The short short hour will soon be past, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He looks at me and he tries to speak, Sister Helen, But oh! his voice is sad and weak!’ ‘What here should the mighty Baron seek, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Oh his son still cries, if you forgive, Sister Helen, The body dies but the soul shall live.’ ‘Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive, Sister Helen, To save his dear son's soul alive.’ Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive, Little brother! (O Mother, Mary Mother, Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He cries to you, kneeling in the road, Sister Helen, To go with him for the love of God!’ ‘The way is long to his son's abode, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, Sister Helen, So darkly clad, I saw her not.’ ‘See her now or never see aught, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, Sister Helen, On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair.’ ‘Blest hour of my power and her despair, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow, Sister Helen, 'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago.’ ‘One morn for pride and three days for woe, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head, Sister Helen; With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed.’ ‘What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon, Sister Helen,— She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon.’ ‘Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow, Sister Helen, And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow.’ ‘Let it turn whiter than winter snow, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, Sister Helen! More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.’ ‘No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Alas! but I fear the heavy sound, Sister Helen; Is it in the sky or in the ground?’ ‘Say, have they turned their horses round, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘They have raised the old man from his knee, Sister Helen, And they ride in silence hastily.’ ‘More fast the naked soul doth flee, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Flank to flank are the three steeds gone, Sister Helen, But the lady's dark steed goes alone.’ ‘And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen, And weary sad they look by the hill.’ ‘But he and I are 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!) <hi rend="c">STRATTON WATER</hi>. ‘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! ‘In God's name, Janet, 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 Janet, O my love, my 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, Lord Sands, You've spoken oft to me; But all that I have from you to-day Is the rain on my body. ‘And many's the good gift, Lord Sands, 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. ‘They told me you were dead, Janet,— How could I guess the lie?’ ‘They told me you were false, Lord Sands,— What could I do but die?’ ‘Now keep you well, my brother Giles,— Through you I deemed her dead! As wan as your towers seem 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. The flood was creeping round their feet. ‘O Janet, come away! The hall is warm for the marriage-rite, The bed for the birthday.’ ‘Nay, but I hear your mother cry, “Go bring this bride to bed! And would she christen her babe unborn So wet she comes to wed?” ‘I'll be your wife to cross your door And meet your mother's e'e. We plighted troth to wed i' the kirk, And it's there you'll wed with me.’ 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.’ ‘The flood's in the kirkyard, Lord Sands, And round the belfry-stair.’ ‘I bade you fetch the priest,’ he said, ‘Myself shall bring him there. ‘It's for the lilt of wedding bells We'll have the hail to pour, And for the clink of bridle-reins The plashing of the oar. Beneath them on the nether hill A boat was floating wide: Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars And rowed to the hill-side. He's wrapped her in a green mantle And set her softly in; Her hair was wet upon her face, Her face was grey and thin; And ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘lie still, my babe, It's out you must not win!’ But woe's my heart for Father John As hard as he might pray, There seemed no help but Noah's ark Or Jonah's fish that day. The first strokes that the oars struck Were over the broad leas; The next strokes that the oars struck They pushed beneath the trees; The last stroke that the oars struck, The good boat's head was met, And there the gate of the kirkyard Stood like a ferry-gate. He's set his hand upon the bar And lightly leaped within: He's lifted her to his left shoulder, Her knees beside his chin. The graves lay deep beneath the flood Under the rain alone; And when the foot-stone made him slip, He held by the head-stone. The empty boat thrawed i' the wind, Against the postern tied. ‘Hold still, you've brought my love with me, You shall take back my bride.’ But woe's my heart for Father John And the saints he clamoured to! There's never a saint but Christopher Might hale such buttocks through! And ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘on men's shoulders I well had thought to wend, And well to travel with a priest, But not to have cared or ken'd.