William and Marie William and Mary DGR 1 Digital images courtesy of the Rosenbach Library. William and Mary Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1841 fair copy Dante Gabriel Rossetti Rosenbach Library two folded leaves of unlined white paper, four pages Commentary
Introduction

This is first of two fair copies that DGR made of the poem in 1841. The other is in the Duke University Library.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

William and Mary. A Ballad ====== “O whither awaye, myne owne true love? O whither awaye sae soone? The rayne will splash thy 'broiderie And soak thy gilded shoone.” “I heed not the winde, and I heed not the haile, And I heed not the storme, Mary: Before an hour hath passed awaye In my owne halle mote I be.” “But the lightning will startle thy berrie-browne steed, And he will snort and shy; And long ere thou mayest reach thy halle On the cauld earth shalt thou lie.” “Thou knowest not my berrie-browne steed, Mary, Nor the dangers we have past; He would bear one free through the raging sea, Like an arrowe before the blast. But telle me true, myne onlie love, And truelie tell to me; And why dost thou praye that I thys daye In thy bower so long sho'd be.” She put her armes about his necke, And he felt her hearte beat highe; And she hid her face within his breaste As she spoke righte dolefullie. “O there is a knight of the north countrie; Sir Richard is his name; And long years syne, ere my mother died, A wooing to me he came: “And he standes below in the castle-halle, And his sworde is in his hande; And when you have passed the corridor He will slaye you where you stande. “Then staye with me, my dearest love, And hearken to my prayer; Or I'll not see thy face again, Nor hear thy voice nae mair.” Lord William turned him round about, And grasped his trustie brande; “And I'll not yield a foot,” quoth he, “While the hilte holds in my hande.” And she heard the trampling of hurried feete And the sound of men in strife; And she knelt her down on the stonie floore, And prayed for Willie's lyfe. At last there rose a loud, loud shriek, And it woke the echoes neare: The ladie started to her feete And quaked for verie feare: And she ran full quicklie down the staires, And she oped the iron doore; And she was aware of her lover's corpse Lay weltering in his gore. And o'er him stood that recreant knight, As he wiped his bloodie sword: The ladie threw her on her knees And kissed her fallen lord. “Assassin! on thy guiltie head May Heaven's vengeance falle; For thou hast slayne my dearest friende, My life — my soul — my all. O he was gentler than the lamb, And milder than the dove; God knows he was the onlie man That ever I did love. And now pure angels bear his soul To brighter realmes on highe; But thou shalt dwell with fiendes belowe In endlesse miserie.” He took her up into his armes, And his lookes were blacke as deathe, And he dashed her down from the windowe highe To the moat which rolled beneath. * * * * * The wind was moaning through the trees; It whistled and it sang; And the crash of heaven's artillery Though the echoing welkin rang. The lightning flashed across the waste With a wild and ghastly glare, And it mingled in its fitful gleams With the hot and sulphurous air: And it danced on high, and it skimmed along O'er the parched and blasted heath; And the flowers withered where it passed Beneath its fiery breath. Sir Richard dashed across the plain; His spurs were red with gore; And he thought that spectres followed him, Above — behind — before. He heard their wailings on the wind; Their shrieks upon the blast. What would he not have given to know That dreary heath was past? But brighter flashed the levin-glare, And deeper rolled the thunder; And shrubs were strewn along the ground, And oaks were riven asunder. And the lightning glanced on the murderer's face, And showed its livid hue, As faster o'er the lonesome waste In mortal fear he flew. And it glimmered on his crested helm, And dashed him from his horse, And stretched him writhing on the earth, A burnt and blackened corse. (Gabriel Charles Rossetti) G. Rossetti.