The Bride's Prelude (1881 slip proofs, British Library copy) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 By permission of the British Library The Bride's Prelude Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1881 galley proofs pages 1-46, [47] DGR British Library, Ashley 1415 Commentary
Introduction

This is a complete set of slip proofs of the first revise printing of the poem. It represents a revise made from the set of slip proofs held in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. Another (complete) set of these first revise proofs is held in the library of the Taylor Collection, Princeton University library. DGR had all these proofs printed off in early May 1881 for eventual publication in the 1881 Poems. A New Edition (see DGR's letters to his publisher Ellis of 4 and 17 May 1881, Fredeman, Correspondence , 81.207, 226 ). The library of the Delaware Art Museum also has a large collection of the proof signatures for the 1881 volume, where the poem was first published (from pages 188-234).

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

At least three impressions of the slip proofs were pulled, at DGR's request, before the poem was incorporated into the printing of the 1881 Poems. A New Edition (see DGR's letters to his publisher Ellis of 9 and 15 May 1881, Fredeman, Correspondence , 81.215, 223 ). DGR seems to have received his first set of proofs for correction around 17 May.

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

Bookplate with standing female angel blowing trumpet and seated female angel. Between the two figures is a flowing banner on which is inscribed the owner's name. Below the figures and the ower's name is an inscribed poem.

THOMAS JAMES WISE HIS BOOK

BOOKS BRING ME FRIENDS WHERE'ER ON EARTH I BE. SOLACE OF SOLITUDE- BONDS OF SOCIETY! Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE</hi> </hi>. ‘Sister,’ said busy Amelotte To listless Alo’se; ‘Along your wedding-road the wheat Bends as to hear your horse's feet, And the noonday stands still for heat.’ Amelotte laughed into the air With eyes that sought the sun: But where the walls with long brocade Were screened, as one who is afraid Sat Alo’se within the shade. And even in shade was gleam enough To shut out full repose From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which Was like the inner altar-niche Whose dimness worship has made rich. blank page Within the window's heaped recess The light was counterchanged In blent reflexes manifold From perfume-caskets of wrought gold And gems the bride's hair could not hold All thrust together: and with these A slim-curved lute, which now, At Amelotte's sudden passing there, Was swept in somewise unaware, And shook to music the close air. Against the haloed lattice warm The bridesmaid sunned her breast; Then to the glass turned tall and free, And braced and shifted daintly Her loin-belt through her cōte-hardie. The belt was silver, and the clasp Of lozenged arm-bearings; A world of mirrored tints minute The rippling sunshine wrought into 't, That flushed her hand and warmed her foot. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. At least an hour had Alo’se,— Her jewels in her hair,— Her white gown, as became a bride, Quartered in silver at each side,— Sat thus aloof, as if to hide. Over her bosom, that lay still, The vest was rich in grain, With close pearls wholly overset: Around her throat the fastenings met Of chevesayle and mantelet. Her arms were laid along her lap With the hands open: life Itself did seem at fault in her: Beneath the drooping brows, the stir Of thought made noonday heavier. Long sat she silent; and then raised Her head, with such a gasp As while she summoned breath to speak Fanned high that furnace in the cheek But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak. blank page (Oh gather round her now, all ye Past seasons of her fear,— Sick springs, and summers deadly cold! To flight your hovering wings unfold, For now your secret shall be told. Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts Of dread detecting flame,— Gaunt moonlights that like sentinels Went past with iron clank of bells,— Draw round and render up your spells!) ‘Sister,’ said Alo’se,‘I had A thing to tell thee of Long since, and could not. But do thou Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow Thine heart, and I will tell thee now. Amelotte wondered with her eyes; But her heart said in her: Dear Alo’se would have me pray Because the awe she feels to-day Must need more prayers than she can say.’ blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. So Amelotte put by the folds That covered up her feet, And knelt,—beyond the arras'd gloom And the hot window's dull perfume,— Where day was stillest in the room. ‘Queen Mary, hear,’ she said, ‘and say To Jesus the Lord Christ, This bride's new joy, which He confers, New joy to many ministers, And many griefs are bound in hers.’ The bride turned in her chair, and hid Her face against the back, And took her pearl-girt elbows in Her hands, and could not yet begin, But shuddering, uttered, ‘Urscelyn!’ Most weak she was; for as she pressed Her hand against her throat, Along the arras she let trail Her face, as if all heart did fail, And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale. blank page Amelotte still was on her knees As she had kneeled to pray. Deeming her sister swooned, she thought, At first, some succour to have brought; But Alo’se rocked, as one distraught. She would have pushed the lattice wide To gain what breeze might be; But marking that no leaf once beat The outside casement, it seemed meet Not to bring in more scent and heat. So she said only: ‘Alo’se, Sister, when happened it At any time that the bride came To ill, or spoke in fear of shame, When speaking first the bridegroom's name?’ A bird had out its song and ceased Ere the bride spoke. At length She said: ‘The name is as the thing:— Sin hath no second christening, And shame is all that shame can bring. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘In divers places more than once I would have told thee this; But faintness took me, or a fit Like fever. God would not permit That I should change thine eyes with it. ‘Yet once I spoke, hadst thou but heard:— That time we wandered out All the sun's hours, but missed our way When evening darkened, and so lay The whole night covered up in hay. ‘At last my face was hidden: so, Having God's hint, I paused Not long; but drew myself more near Where thou wast laid, and shook off fear, And whispered quick into thine ear ‘Something of the whole tale. At first I lay and bit my hair For the sore silence thou didst keep: Till, as thy breath came long and deep, I knew that thou hadst been asleep. blank page ‘The moon was covered, but the stars Lasted till morning broke. Awake, thou told'st me that thy dream Had been of me,—that all did seem At jar,—but that it was a dream. ‘I knew God's hand and might not speak. After that night I kept Silence and let the record swell: Till now there is much more to tell Which must be told out ill or well.’ She paused then, weary, with dry lips Apart. From the outside By fits there boomed a dull report From where i' the hanging tennis-court The bridegroom's retinue made sport. The room lay still in dusty glare, Having no sound through it Except the chirp of a caged bird That came and ceased: and if she stirred, Amelotte's raiment could be heard. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. Quoth Amelotte: ‘The night this chanced Was a late summer night Last year! What secret, for Christ's love, Keep'st thou since then? Mary above! What thing is this thou speakest of? ‘Mary and Christ! Lest when 'tis told I should be prone to wrath,— This prayer beforehand! How she errs Soe'er, take count of grief like hers, Whereof the days are turned to years!’ She bowed her neck, and having said, Kept on her knees to hear; And then, because strained thought demands Quiet before it understands, Darkened her eyesight with her hands. So when at last her sister spoke, She did not see the pain O' the mouth nor the ashamčd eyes, But marked the breath that came in sighs And the half-pausing for replies. blank page This was the bride's sad prelude-strain:— ‘I'the convent where a girl I dwelt till near my womanhood, I had but preachings of the rood And Aves told in solitude ‘To spend my heart on: and my hand Had but the weary skill To eke out upon silken cloth Christ's visage, or the long bright growth Of Mary's hair, or Satan wroth. ‘So when at last I went, and thou, A child not known before, Didst come to take the place I left,— My limbs, after such lifelong theft Of life, could be but little deft ‘In all that ministers delight To noble women: I Had learned no word of youth's discourse, Nor gazed on games of warriors, Nor trained a hound, nor ruled a horse. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘Besides, the daily life i' the sun Made me at first hold back. To thee this came at once; to me It crept with pauses timidly; I am not blithe and strong like thee. ‘Yet my feet liked the dances well, The songs went to my voice, The music made me shake and weep; And often, all night long, my sleep Gave dreams I had been fain to keep. ‘But though I loved not holy things, To hear them scorned brought pain,— They were my childhood; and these dames Were merely perjured in saints' names And fixed upon saints' days for games. ‘And sometimes when my father rode To hunt with his loud friends, I dared not bring him to be quaff'd, As my wont was, his stirrup-draught, Because they jested so and laugh'd. blank page ‘At last one day my brothers said, “The girl must not grow thus,— Bring her a jennet,—she shall ride.” They helped my mounting, and I tried To laugh with them and keep their side. ‘But brakes were rough and bents were steep Upon our path that day: My palfrey threw me; and I went Upon men's shoulders home, sore spent, While the chase followed up the scent. ‘Our shrift-father (and he alone Of all the household there Had skill in leechcraft,) was away When I reached home. I tossed, and lay Sullen with anguish the whole day. ‘For the day passed ere some one brought To mind that in the hunt Rode a young lord she named, long bred Among the priests, whose art (she said) Might chance to stand me in much stead. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘I bade them seek and summon him: But long ere this, the chase Had scattered, and he was not found. I lay in the same weary stound, Therefore, until the night came round. ‘It was dead night and near on twelve When the horse-tramp at length Beat up the echoes of the court. By then, my feverish breath was short With pain the sense could scarce support. ‘My fond nurse sitting near my feet Rose softly,—her lamp's flame Held in her hand, lest it should make My heated lids, in passing, ache; And she passed softly, for my sake. ‘Returning soon, she brought the youth They spoke of. Meek he seemed, But good knights held him of stout heart. He was akin to us in part, And bore our shield, but barred athwart. blank page ‘I now remembered to have seen His face, and heard him praised For letter-lore and medicine, Seeing his youth was nurtured in Priests' knowledge, as mine own had been.’ The bride's voice did not weaken here, Yet by her sudden pause She seemed to look for questioning; Or else (small need though) 'twas to bring Well to her mind the bygone thing. Her thought, long stagnant, stirred by speech, Gave her a sick recoil; As, dip thy fingers through the green That masks a pool,—where they have been The naked depth is black between. Amelotte kept her knees; her face Was shut within her hands, As it had been throughout the tale; Her forehead's whiteness might avail Nothing to say if she were pale. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. Although the lattice had dropped loose, There was no wind; the heat Being so at rest that Amelotte Heard far beneath the plunge and float Of a hound swimming in the moat. Some minutes since, two rooks had toiled Home to the nests that crowned Ancestral ash-trees. Through the glare Beating again, they seemed to tear With that thick caw the woof o' the air. But else, 'twas at the dead of noon Absolute silence; all, From the raised bridge and guarded sconce To green-clad places of pleasałnce Where the long lake was white with swans. Amelotte spoke not any word Nor moved she once; but felt Between her hands in narrow space Her own hot breath upon her face, And kept in silence the same place. blank page Alo’se did not hear at all The sounds without. She heard The inward voice (past help obey'd) Which might not slacken nor be stay'd, But urged her till the whole were said. Therefore she spoke again: ‘That night But little could be done: My foot, held in my nurse's hands, He swathed up heedfully in bands, And for my rest gave close commands. ‘I slept till noon, but an ill sleep Of dreams: through all that day My side was stiff and caught the breath; Next day, such pain as sickeneth Took me, and I was nigh to death. ‘Life strove, Death claimed me for his own Through days and nights: but now 'Twas the good father tended me, Having returned. Still, I did see The youth I spoke of constantly. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘For he would with my brothers come To stay beside my couch, And fix my eyes against his own, Noting my pulse; or else alone, To sit at gaze while I made moan. ‘(Some nights I knew he kept the watch, Because my women laid The rushes thick for his steel shoes.) Through many days this pain did use The life God would not let me lose. ‘At length, with my good nurse to aid, I could walk forth again: And still, as one who broods or grieves, At noons I'd meet him and at eves, With idle feet that drove the leaves. ‘The day when I first walked alone Was thinned in grass and leaf, And yet a goodly day o' the year: The last bird's cry upon mine ear Left my brain weak, it was so clear. blank page ‘The tears were sharp within mine eyes; I sat down, being glad, And wept; but stayed the sudden flow Anon, for footsteps that fell slow; 'Twas that youth passed me, bowing low. ‘He passed me without speech; but when, At least an hour gone by, Rethreading the same covert, he Saw I was still beneath the tree, He spoke and sat him down with me. ‘Little we said; nor one heart heard Even what was said within; And, faltering some farewell, I soon Rose up; but then i' the autumn noon My feeble brain whirled like a swoon. ‘He made me sit. “Cousin, I grieve Your sickness stays by you.” “I would,” said I, “that you did err So grieving. I am wearier Than death, of the sickening dying year.” blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘He answered: “If your weariness Accepts a remedy, I hold one and can give it you.” I gazed: “What ministers thereto, Be sure,” I said, “that I will do.” ‘He went on quickly:—'Twas a cure He had not ever named Unto our kin, lest they should stint Their favour, for some foolish hint Of wizardry or magic in't: ‘But that if he were let to come Within my bower that night, (My women still attending me, He said, while he remain'd there,) he Could teach me the cure privily. ‘I bade him come that night. He came; But little in his speech Was cure or sickness spoken of, Only a passionate fierce love That clamoured upon God above. blank page ? t Printer's query in margin of line 390, referencing the possibility that the “d” in “led” shoud be a “t”. ‘My women wondered, leaning close Aloof. At mine own heart I think great wonder was not stirr'd. I dared not listen, yet I heard His tangled speech, word within word. ‘He craved my pardon first,—all else Wild tumult. In the end He remained silent at my feet Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat Made all the blood of my life meet. ‘And lo! I loved him. I but said, If he would leave me then, His hope some future might forecast. His hot lips stung my hand: at last My damsels led him forth in haste.’ The bride took breath to pause; and turned Her gaze where Amelotte Knelt,—the gold hair upon her back Quite still in all its threads,—the track Of her still shadow sharp and black. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. That listening without sight had grown To stealthy dread; and now That the one sound she had to mark Left her alone too, she was stark Afraid, as children in the dark. Her fingers felt her temples beat; Then came that brain-sickness Which thinks to scream, and murmureth; And pent between her hands, the breath Was damp against her face like death. Her arms both fell at once; but when She gasped upon the light, Her sense returned. She would have pray'd To change whatever words still stay'd Behind, but felt there was no aid. So she rose up, and having gone Within the window's arch Once more, she sat there, all intent On torturing doubts, and once more bent To hear, in mute bewilderment. blank page But Alo’se still paused. Thereon Amelotte gathered voice In somewise from the torpid fear Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear She said: ‘Speak, sister; for I hear.’ But Alo’se threw up her neck And called the name of God:— ‘Judge, God, 'twixt her and me to-day! She knows how hard this is to say, Yet will not have one word away.’ Her sister was quite silent. Then Afresh:—‘Not she, dear Lord! Thou be my judge, on Thee I call!’ She ceased,—her forehead smote the wall: ‘Is there a God,’ she said, ‘at all?’ Amelotte shuddered at the soul, But did not speak. The pause Was long this time. At length the bride Pressed her hand hard against her side, And trembling between shame and pride blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. Said by fierce effort: ‘From that night Often at nights we met: That night, his passion could but rave: The next, what grace his lips did crave I knew not, but I know I gave.’ Where Amelotte was sitting, all The light and warmth of day Were so upon her without shade, That the thing seemed by sunshine made Most foul and wanton to be said. She would have questioned more, and known The whole truth at its worst, But held her silent, in mere shame Of day. 'Twas only these words came:— ‘Sister, thou hast not said his name.’ ‘Sister,’ quoth Alo’se, ‘thou know'st His name. I said that he Was in a manner of our kin. Waiting the title he might win, They called him the Lord Urscelyn.’ blank page The bridegroom's name, to Amelotte Daily familiar,—heard Thus in this dreadful history,— Was dreadful to her; as might be Thine own voice speaking unto thee. The day's mid-hour was almost full; Upon the dial-plate The angel's sword stood near at One. An hour's remaining yet; the sun Will not decrease till all be done. Through the bride's lattice there crept in At whiles (from where the train Of minstrels, till the marriage-call, Loitered at windows of the wall,) Stray lute-notes, sweet and musical. They clung in the green growths and moss Against the outside stone; Low like dirge-wail or requiem They murmured, lost 'twixt leaf and stem: There was no wind to carry them. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. Amelotte gathered herself back Into the wide recess That the sun flooded: it o'erspread Like flame the hair upon her head And fringed her face with burning red. All things seemed shaken and at change: A silent place o' the hills She knew, into her spirit came: Within herself she said its name And wondered was it still the same. The bride (whom silence goaded) now Said strongly,—her despair By stubborn will kept underneath:— ‘Sister, 'twere well thou didst not breathe That curse of thine. Give me my wreath.’ ‘Sister,’ said Amelotte, ‘abide In peace. Be God thy judge, As thou hast said—not I. For me, I merely will thank God that he Whom thou hast lovčd loveth thee.’ blank page Then Alo’se lay back, and laughed With wan lips bitterly, Saying, ‘Nay, thank thou God for this,— That never any soul like his Shall have its portion where love is.’ Weary of wonder, Amelotte Sat silent: she would ask No more, though all was unexplained: She was too weak; the ache still pained Her eyes,—her forehead's pulse remained. The silence lengthened. Alo’se Was fain to turn her face Apart, to where the arras told Two Testaments, the New and Old, In shapes and meanings manifold. One solace that was gained, she hid. Her sister, from whose curse Her heart recoiled, had blessed instead: Yet would not her pride have it said How much the blessing comforted. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. Only, on looking round again After some while, the face Which from the arras turned away Was more at peace and less at bay With shame than it had been that day. She spoke right on, as if no pause Had come between her speech: ‘That year from warmth grew bleak and pass'd;’ She said; ‘the days from first to last How slow,—woe's me! the nights how fast!’ ‘From first to last it was not known: My nurse, and of my train Some four or five, alone could tell What terror kept inscrutable: There was good need to guard it well. ‘Not the guilt only made the shame, But he was without land And born amiss. He had but come To train his youth here at our home And, being man, depart therefrom. blank page ‘Of the whole time each single day Brought fear and great unrest: It seemed that all would not avail Some once,—that my close watch would fail, And some sign, somehow, tell the tale. ‘The noble maidens that I knew, My fellows, oftentimes Midway in talk or sport, would look A wonder which my fears mistook, To see how I turned faint and shook. ‘They had a game of cards, where each By painted arms might find What knight she should be given to. Ever with trembling hand I threw Lest I should learn the thing I knew. ‘And once it came. And Aure d'Onhault Held up the bended shield And laughed: “Gramercy for our share!— If to our bridal we but fare To smutch the blazon that we bear!” blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘But proud Denise de Villenbois Kissed me, and gave her wench The card, and said: “If in these bowers You women play at paramours, You must not mix your game with ours.” ‘And one upcast it from her hand: “Lo! see how high he'll soar!” But then their laugh was bitterest; For the wind veered at fate's behest And blew it back into my breast. ‘Oh! if I met him in the day Or heard his voice,—at meals Or at the Mass or through the hall,— A look turned towards me would appal My heart by seeming to know all. ‘Yet I grew curious of my shame, And sometimes in the church, On hearing such a sin rebuked, Have held my girdle-glass unhooked To see how such a woman looked. blank page ‘But if at night he did not come, I lay all deadly cold To think they might have smitten sore And slain him, and as the night wore, His corpse be lying at my door. ‘And entering or going forth, Our proud shield o'er the gate Seemed to arraign my shrinking eyes. With tremors and unspoken lies The year went past me in this wise. ‘About the spring of the next year An ailing fell on me; (I had been stronger till the spring;) 'Twas mine old sickness gathering, I thought; but 'twas another thing. ‘I had such yearnings as brought tears, And a wan dizziness: Motion, like feeling, grew intense; Sight was a haunting evidence And sound a pang that snatched the sense. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘It now was hard on that great ill Which lost our wealth from us And all our lands. Accursed be The peevish fools of liberty Who will not let themselves be free! ‘The Prince was fled into the west: A price was on his blood, But he was safe. To us his friends He left that ruin which attends The strife against God's secret ends. ‘The league dropped all asunder,—lord, Gentle and serf. Our house Was marked to fall. And a day came When half the wealth that propped our name Went from us in a wind of flame. ‘Six hours I lay upon the wall And saw it burn. But when It clogged the day in a black bed Of louring vapour, I was led Down to the postern, and we fled. blank page ‘But ere we fled, there was a voice Which I heard speak, and say That many of our friends, to shun Our fate, had left us and were gone, And that Lord Urscelyn was one. ‘That name, as was its wont, made sight And hearing whirl. I gave No heed but only to the name: I held my senses, dreading them, And was at strife to look the same. ‘We rode and rode. As the speed grew, The growth of some vague curse Swarmed in my brain. It seemed to me Numbed by the swiftness, but would be— That still—clear knowledge certainly. ‘Night lapsed. At dawn the sea was there And the sea-wind: afar The ravening surge was hoarse and loud, And underneath the dim dawn-cloud Each stalking wave shook like a shroud. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘From my drawn litter I looked out Unto the swarthy sea, And knew. That voice, which late had cross'd Mine ears, seemed with the foam uptoss'd: I knew that Urscelyn was lost. ‘Then I spake all: I turned on one And on the other, and spake: My curse laughed in me to behold Their eyes: I sat up, stricken cold, Mad of my voice till all was told. ‘Oh! of my brothers, Hugues was mute, And Gilles was wild and loud, And Raoul strained abroad his face, As if his gnashing wrath could trace Even there the prey that it must chase. ‘And round me murmured all our train, Hoarse as the hoarse-tongued sea; Till Hugues from silence louring woke, And cried: “What ails the foolish folk? Know ye not frenzy's lightning-stroke?” ‘But Then my stern father came to them And quelled them with his look, Silent and deadly pale. Anon I knew that we were hastening on, My litter closed and the light gone. blank page ‘And I remember all that day The barren bitter wind Without, and the sea's moaning there That I first moaned with unaware, And when I knew, shook down my hair. ‘Few followed us or faced our flight: Once only I could hear, Far in the front, loud scornful words, And cries I knew of hostile lords, And crash of spears and grind of swords. ‘It was soon ended. On that day Before the light had changed We reached our refuge; miles of rock Bulwarked for war; whose strength might mock Sky, sea, or man, to storm or shock. ‘Listless and feebly conscious, I Lay far within the night Awake. The many pains incurred That day,—the whole, said, seen or heard,— Stayed by in me as things deferred. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘Not long. At dawn I slept. In dreams All was passed through afresh From end to end. As the morn heaved Towards noon, I, waking sore aggrieved, That I might die, cursed God, and lived. ‘Many days went, and I saw none Except my women. They Calmed their wan faces, loving me; And when they wept, lest I should see, Would chaunt a desolate melody. ‘Panic unthreatened shook my blood Each sunset, all the slow Subsiding of the turbid light. I would rise, sister, as I might, And bathe my forehead through the night ‘To elude madness. The stark walls Made chill the night: and when We oped our curtains, to resume Sun-sickness after long sick gloom, The withering sea-wind walked the room. blank page Through the gaunt windows the great gales Bore in the tattered clumps Of waif-weed and the tamarisk-boughs; And sea-mews, 'mid the storm's carouse, Were flung, wild-clamouring, in the house. ‘My hounds I had not; and my hawk, Which they had saved for me, Wanting the sun and rain to beat His wings, soon lay with gathered feet; And my flowers faded, lacking heat. ‘Such still were griefs: for grief was still A separate sense, untouched Of that despair which had become My life. Great anguish could benumb My soul,—my heart was quarrelsome. ‘Time crept. Upon a day at length My kinsfolk sat with me: That which they asked was bare and plain: I answered: the whole bitter strain Was again said, and heard again. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘Fierce Raoul snatched his sword, and turned The point against my breast. I bared it, smiling: “To the heart Strike home,” I said; “another dart Wreaks hourly there a deadlier smart.” ‘'Twas then my sire struck down the sword, And said with shaken lips: “She from whom all of you receive Your life, so smiled; and I forgive.” Thus, for my mother's sake, I live. ‘But I, a mother even as she, Turned shuddering to the wall: For I said: “Great God! and what would I do, When to the sword, with the thing I knew, I offered not one life but two!” ‘Then I fell back from them, and lay Outwearied. My tired sense Soon filmed and settled, and like stone I slept; till something made me moan, And I woke up at night alone. blank page ‘I woke at midnight, cold and dazed; Because I found myself Seated upright, with bosom bare, Upon my bed, combing my hair, Ready to go, I knew not where. ‘It dawned light day,—the last of those Long months of longing days. That noon, the change was wrought on me In somewise,—nought to hear or see,— Only a trance and agony.’ The bride's voice failed her, from no will To pause. The bridesmaid leaned, And where the window-panes were white, Looked for the day: she knew not quite If there were either day or night. It seemed to Alo’se that the whole Day's weight lay back on her Like lead. The hours that did remain Beat their dry wings upon her brain Once in mid-flight, and passed again. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. There hung a cage of burnt perfumes In the recess: but these, For some hours, weak against the sun, Had simmered in white ash. From One The second quarter was begun. They had not heard the stroke. The air, Though altered with no wind, Breathed now by pauses, so to say: Each breath was time that went away,— Each pause a minute of the day. I' the almonry, the almoner, Hard by, had just dispensed Church-dole and march-dole. High and wide Now rose the shout of thanks, which cried On God that He should bless the bride. Its echo thrilled within their feet, And in the furthest rooms Was heard, where maidens flushed and gay Wove with stooped necks the wreaths alway Fair for the virgin's marriage-day. blank page The mother leaned along, in thought After her child; till tears, Bitter, not like a wedded girl's, Fell down her breast along her curls, And ran in the close work of pearls. The speech ached at her heart. She said: ‘Sweet Mary, do thou plead This hour with thy most blessed Son To let these shameful words atone, That I may die when I have done.’ The thought ached at her soul. Yet now:— ‘Itself—that life’ (she said,) Out of my weary life—when sense Unclosed, was gone. What evil men's Most evil hands had borne it thence ‘I knew, and cursed them. Still in sleep I have my child; and pray To know if it indeed appear As in my dream's perpetual sphere, That I—death reached—may seek it there. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘Sleeping, I wept; though until dark A fever dried mine eyes Kept open; save when a tear might Be forced from the mere ache of sight. And I nursed hatred day and night. ‘Aye, and I sought revenge by spells; And vainly many a time Have laid my face into the lap Of a wise woman, and heard clap Her thunder, the fiend's juggling trap. ‘At length I feared to curse them, lest From evil lips the curse Should be a blessing; and would sit Rocking myself and stifling it With babbled jargon of no wit. ‘But this was not at first: the days And weeks made frenzied months Before this came. My curses, pil'd Then with each hour unreconcil'd, Still wait for those who took my child.’ blank page She stopped, grown fainter. ‘Amelotte, Surely,’ she said, ‘this sun Sheds judgment-fire from the fierce south: It does not let me breathe: the drouth Is like sand spread within my mouth.’ The bridesmaid rose. I' the outer glare Gleamed her pale cheeks, and eyes Sore troubled; and aweary weigh'd Her brows just lifted out of shade; And the light jarred within her head. 'Mid flowers fair-heaped there stood a bowl With water. She therein Through eddying bubbles slid a cup, And offered it, being risen up, Close to her sister's mouth, to sup. The freshness dwelt upon her sense, Yet did not the bride drink; But she dipped in her hand anon And cooled her temples; and all wan With lids that held their ache, went on. blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. Through those dark watches of my woe, Time, an ill plant, had waxed Apace. That year was finished. Dumb And blind, life's wheel with earth's had come Whirled round: and we might seek our home. ‘Our wealth was rendered back, with wealth Snatched from our foes. The house Had more than its old strength and fame: But still 'neath the fair outward claim I rankled,—a fierce core of shame. ‘It chilled me from their eyes and lips Upon a night of those First days of triumph, as I gazed Listless and sick, or scarcely raised My face to mark the sports they praised. ‘The endless changes of the dance Bewildered me: the tones Of lute and cithern struggled tow'rds Some sense; and still in the last chords The music seemed to sing wild words. blank page ‘My shame possessed me in the light And pageant, till I swooned. But from that hour I put my shame From me, and cast it over them By God's command and in God's name ‘For my child's bitter sake. O thou Once felt against my heart With longing of the eyes,—a pain Since to my heart for ever,—then Beheld not, and not felt again!’ She scarcely paused, continuing:— ‘That year drooped weak in March; And April, finding the streams dry, Choked, with no rain, in dust: the sky Shall not be fainter this July. ‘Men sickened; beasts lay without strength; The year died in the land. But I, already desolate, Said merely, sitting down to wait,— “The seasons change and Time wears late.” blank page Ashley 1415 Library notation in upper right. ‘For I had my hard secret told, In secret, to a priest; He was much with me; and he said The world's soul, for its sins, was sped, And the sun's courses numberčd. ‘The year slid like a corpse afloat: None trafficked,—who had bread Did eat. That year our legions, come Thinned from the place of war, at home Found busier death, more burdensome. ‘Tidings and rumours came with them, The first for months. The chiefs Sat daily at our board, and in Their speech were names of friend and kin: One day they spoke of Urscelyn. ‘The words were light, among the rest: Quick glance my brothers sent To sift the speech; and I, struck through, Sat sick and giddy in full view: Yet did none gaze, so many knew. blank page ‘Because in the beginning, much Had caught abroad, through them That heard my clamour on the coast: But two were hanged; and then the most Held silence wisdom, as thou know'st. ‘That year the convent yielded thee Back to our home; and thou Then knew'st not how I shuddered cold To kiss thee, seeming to enfold To my changed heart myself of old. ‘Then there was showing thee the house, So many rooms and doors; Thinking the while how thou would'st start If once I flung the doors apart Of one dull chamber in my heart. ‘And yet I longed to open it; And often in that year Of plague and want, when side by side We've knelt to pray with them that died, My prayer was, “Show her what I hide!”’

End of Part I.

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