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"And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among 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.
We heard the lion roaring from his den; We saw the large white stars rise one by one, Or, from the darkened glen,
"Saw God divide the night with flying flame,
"When the next moon was rolled into the sky, Strength came to me that equalled 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,
"Moreover, it is written that my race
Hewed Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer
On Arnon unto Minneth."
Here her face
Glowed, as I looked at her.
She locked her lips: she left me where I stood:
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,
Murmured 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!
She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust:
With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams,
Stolen to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky.
Morn broadened on the borders of the dark,
Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring.
No memory labors longer from the deep
Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain
As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,
In yearnings that can never be exprest
Because all words, though culled with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet,
Wither beneath the palate, and the heart
Faints, faded by its heat.
O SWEET pale Margaret,
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as though you stood Between the rainbow and the sun.
The very smile before you speak,
Of dainty sorrow without sound,
You love, remaining peacefully,
To hear the murmur of the strife,
Your spirit is the calmed sea,
Laid by the tumult of the fight.
You are the evening star, alway
Remaining betwixt dark and bright:
Lulled echoes of laborious day
Come to you, gleams of mellow light
What can it matter, Margaret,
What songs below the waning stars
The lion-heart, Plantagenet,
Sang looking through his prison bars?
The last wild thought of Chatelet,
A fairy shield your Genius made
And gave you on your natal day.
But more human in your moods,
Than your twin-sister, Adeline.
But ever trembling through the dew
O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,
Come down, come down, and hear me speak
The sun is just about to set.
The arching limes are tall and shady,
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,
Look out below your bower-eaves,