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"The balmy moon of blessed Israel
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine: All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell
With spires of silver shine.”
As one that museth where broad sunshine laves
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves
Of sound on roof and floor
Within, and anthem sung, is charm’d and tied
To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died
To save her father's vow;
The daughter of the warrior Gileadite,
A maiden pure; as when she went along From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light,
With timbrel and with song.
My words leapt forth : “Heaven heads the count of crimes
With that wild oath.” She render'd answer ligh: " Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times
I would be born and die.
Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root
Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit
Changed, I was ripe for death.
“My God, my land, my father these did move
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love
Down to a silent grave.
“And I went mourning, · No fair Hebrew boy
Shall smile away my maiden blaine aniong The Hebrew mothers' - emptied of all joy,
Leaving the dance and song,
“ Leaving the olive-gardens far below,
Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow
Beneath the battled tower.
“ The light white cloud swam over us.
Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den ; We saw the large white stars rise one by one,
Or, from the darken'd glen,
“ Saw God divide the night with flying flame,
And thunder on the everlasting hills.
A solemn scorn of ills.
“ When the next moon was rolld into the sky,
Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die
For God and for my sire !
" It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,
That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell,
Sweetens the spirit still.
“ Moreover it is written that my race
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth.” Here her face
Glow'd, as I look'd at her.
She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood :
Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood,
Toward the morning-star.
Losing her carol I stood pensively,
As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly,
And the old year is dead.
“Alas! alas !” a low voice, full of care,
Murmur'd beside me: “Turn and look on me: I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair,
If what I was I be.
“ Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor!
O me, that I should ever see the light ! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor
Do hunt me, day and night.”
She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust :
To whom the Egyptian: “O, you tamely died ! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust
The dagger thro' her side.”
With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams,
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams
Ruled in the eastern sky.
Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark,
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc,
A light of ancient France;
Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death,
Who kneeling, with one arın about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,
Sweet as new buds in Spring.
No memory labors longer from the deep
Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep
To gather and tell o'er
Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain
Compass’d, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again!
But no two dreams are like.
As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,
Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest
By sighs or groans or tears ;
Because all words, tho' cull’d with choicest art,
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart
Faints, faded by its heat.
O rare pale Margaret,
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood,
From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood
Between the rainbow and the sun.
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth
Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her sprcadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night.
2. You love, remaining peacefully,
To hear the murmur of the strife,
But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea,
Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway
Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lulld echoes of laborious day
Come to you, gleams of mellow light
3. What can it matter, Margaret,
What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet,
Sang looking thro' his prison-bars?
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell
The last wild thought of Chatelet,
Just ere the falling axe did part
Even in her sight he loved so well ?
4. A fairy shield your Genius made
And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,
Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes,
You are not less divine, But more human in your moods,
Than your twin-sister, Adeline.
Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue,
But ever trembling thro' the dew
O rare pale Margaret,
up the ringlets on your cheek:
The sun is just about to set,
And faint, rainy lights are seen,
Moving in the leafy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,
Where all day long you sit between
Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn,
Look out below your bower-eaves,
dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.