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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.
"Saw God divide the night with flying flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills.
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became
"When the next moon was rolled into the sky,
"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
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
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
As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,
Because all words, though culled with choicest art,
Faints, faded by its heat.
O SWEET pale Margaret,
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, 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: 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?
A fairy shield your Genius made
And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,
Keeps real sorrow far away.
Than your twin-sister, Adeline.
Touched with a somewhat darker hue,
But ever trembling through the dew
O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,
Come down, come down, and hear me speak
Look out below your bower-eaves,