Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.

By The Romaunt of Margret

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

I PLANT a tree whose leaf

The yew-tree leaf will suit:

But when its shade is o’er you laid,

Turn round and pluck the fruit.

Now reach my harp from off the wall

Where shines the sun aslant;

The sun may shine and we be cold!

O harken, loving hearts and bold,

Unto my wild romaunt,

Margret, Margret.

Sitteth the fair ladye

Close to the river side

Which runneth on with a merry tone

Her merry thoughts to guide:

It runneth through the trees,

It runneth by the hill,

Nathless the lady’s thoughts have found

A way more pleasant still.

Margret, Margret.

The night is in her hair

And giveth shade to shade,

And the pale moonlight on her forehead white

Like a spirit’s hand is laid;

Her lips part with a smile

Instead of speakings done:

I ween, she thinketh of a voice,

Albeit uttering none.

Margret, Margret.

All little birds do sit

With heads beneath their wings:

Nature doth seem in a mystic dream,

Absorbed from her living things:

That dream by that ladye

Is certes unpartook,

For she looketh to the high cold stars

With a tender human look.

Margret, Margret.

The ladye’s shadow lies

Upon the running river;

It lieth no less in its quietness,

For that which resteth never:

Most like a trusting heart

Upon a passing faith,

Or as upon the course of life

The steadfast doom of death.

Margret, Margret.

The ladye doth not move,

The ladye doth not dream,

Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid

In rest upon the stream:

It shaketh without wind,

It parteth from the tide,

It standeth upright in the cleft moonlight,

It sitteth at her side.

Margret, Margret.

Look in its face, ladye,

And keep thee from thy swound;

With a spirit bold thy pulses hold

And hear its voice’s sound:

For so will sound thy voice

When thy face is to the wall,

And such will be thy face, ladye,

When the maidens work thy pall.

Margret, Margret.

‘Am I not like to thee?

The voice was calm and low,

And between each word you might have heard

The silent forests grow;

‘The like may sway the like;’

By which mysterious law

Mine eyes from thine and my lips from thine

The light and breath may draw.

Margret, Margret.

‘My lips do need thy breath,

My lips do need thy smile,

And my pallid eyne, that light in thine

Which met the stars erewhile:

Yet go with light and life

If that thou lovest one

In all the earth who loveth thee

As truly as the sun,

Margret, Margret.

Her cheek had waxëd white

Like cloud at fall of snow;

Then like to one at set of sun,

It waxëd red alsò;

For love’s name maketh bold

As if the loved were near

And then she sighed the deep long sigh

Which cometh after fear.

Margret, Margret.

‘Now, sooth, I fear thee not—

Shall never fear thee now!’

(And a noble sight was the sudden light

Which lit her lifted brow.)

‘Can earth be dry of streams,

Or hearts of love?’ she said;

‘Who doubteth love, can know not love:

He is already dead.’

Margret, Margret.

‘I have’ … and here her lips

Some word in pause did keep,

And gave the while a quiet smile

As if they paused in sleep,—

‘I have … a brother dear,

A knight of knightly fame!

I broidered him a knightly scarf

With letters of my name.

Margret, Margret.

‘I fed his grey gosshawk,

I kissed his fierce bloodhoùnd,

I sate at home when he might come

And caught his horn’s far sound:

I sang him hunter’s songs,

I poured him the red wine,

He looked across the cup and said,

I love thee, sister mine.’

Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grass

With a low, shadowy laughter;

The sounding river which rolled, for ever

Stood dumb and stagnant after:

‘Brave knight thy brother is!

But better loveth he

Thy chaliced wine than thy chaunted song,

And better both than thee,

Margret, Margret.’

The ladye did not heed

The river’s silence while

Her own thoughts still ran at their will,

And calm was still her smile.

‘My little sister wears

The look our mother wore:

I smooth her locks with a golden comb,

I bless her evermore.’

Margret, Margret.

I gave her my first bird

When first my voice it knew;

I made her share my posies rare

And told her where they grew:

I taught her God’s dear name

With prayer and praise to tell,

She looked from heaven into my face

And said, I love thee well.’

Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grass

With a low, shadowy laughter;

You could see each bird as it woke and stared

Through the shrivelled foliage after.

‘Fair child thy sister is!

But better loveth she

Thy golden comb than thy gathered flowers,

And better both than thee,

Margret, Margret.’

The ladye did not heed

The withering on the bough;

Still calm her smile albeit the while

A little pale her brow:

‘I have a father old,

The lord of ancient halls;

An hundred friends are in his court

Yet only me he calls.

Margret, Margret.

‘An hundred knights are in his court

Yet read I by his knee;

And when forth they go to the tourney show

I rise not up to see:

’Tis a weary book to read,

My tryst’s at set of sun,

But loving and dear beneath the stars

Is his blessing when I’ve done.’

Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grass

With a low, shadowy laughter;

And moon and star though bright and far

Did shrink and darken after.

‘High lord thy father is!

But better loveth he

His ancient halls than his hundred friends,

His ancient halls, than thee,

Margret, Margret.’

The ladye did not heed

That the far stars did fail;

Still calm her smile, albeit the while …

Nay, but she is not pale!

‘I have more than a friend

Across the mountains dim:

No other’s voice is soft to me,

Unless it nameth him.’

Margret, Margret.

‘Though louder beats my heart

I know his tread again,

And his far plume aye, unless turned away

For the tears do blind me then:

We brake no gold, a sign

Of stronger faith to be,

But I wear his last look in my soul,

Which said, I love but thee!’

Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grass

With a low, shadowy laughter;

And the wind did toll, as a passing soul

Were sped by church-bell after;

And shadows, ’stead of light,

Fell from the stars above,

In flakes of darkness on her face

Still bright with trusting love.

Margret, Margret.

‘He loved but only thee!

That love is transient too.

The wild hawk’s bill doth dabble still

I’ the mouth that vowed thee true:

Will he open his dull eyes,

When tears fall on his brow?

Behold, the death-worm to his heart

Is a nearer thing than thou,

Margret, Margret.’

Her face was on the ground—

None saw the agony;

But the men at sea did that night agree

They heard a drowning cry:

And when the morning brake,

Fast rolled the river’s tide,

With the green trees waving overhead

And a white corse laid beside.

Margret, Margret.

A knight’s bloodhound and he

The funeral watch did keep;

With a thought o’ the chase he stroked its face

As it howled to see him weep.

A fair child kissed the dead,

But shrank before its cold.

And alone yet proudly in his hall

Did stand a baron old.

Margret, Margret.

Hang up my harp again!

I have no voice for song.

Not song but wail, and mourners pale

Not bards, to love belong.

O failing human love!

O light, by darkness known!

O false, the while thou treadest earth!

O deaf beneath the stone!

Margret, Margret.