Part 3

"The old convent ruin the ivy rots off, Where the owl hoots by day and the toad is sun-proof, Where no singing-birds build and the trees gaunt and grey As in stormy sea-coasts appear blasted one way-- But is _this_ the wind's doing?

X.

"A nun in the east wall was buried alive Who mocked at the priest when he called her to shrive, And shrieked such a curse, as the stone took her breath, The old abbess fell backwards and swooned unto death With an Ave half-spoken.

XI.

"I tried once to pass it, myself and my hound, Till, as fearing the lash, down he shivered to ground-- A brave hound, my mother! a brave hound, ye wot! And the wolf thought the same with his fangs at her throat In the pass of the Brocken.

XII.

"At dawn and at eve, mother, who sitteth there With the brown rosary never used for a prayer? Stoop low, mother, low! If we went there to see, What an ugly great hole in that east wall must be At dawn and at even!

XIII.

"Who meet there, my mother, at dawn and at even? Who meet by that wall, never looking to heaven? O sweetest my sister, what doeth with _thee_ The ghost of a nun with a brown rosary And a face turned from heaven?

XIV.

"Saint Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams and erewhile I have felt through mine eyelids the warmth of her smile; But last night, as a sadness like pity came o'er her, She whispered--'Say _two_ prayers at dawn for Onora: The Tempted is sinning.'"

XV.

"Onora, Onora!" they heard her not coming, Not a step on the grass, not a voice through the gloaming; But her mother looked up, and she stood on the floor Fair and still as the moonlight that came there before, And a smile just beginning:

XVI.

It touches her lips but it dares not arise To the height of the mystical sphere of her eyes, And the large musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry Sing on like the angels in separate glory Between clouds of amber;

XVII.

For the hair droops in clouds amber-coloured till stirred Into gold by the gesture that comes with a word; While--O soft!--her speaking is so interwound Of the dim and the sweet, 't is a twilight of sound And floats through the chamber.

XVIII.

"Since thou shrivest my brother, fair mother," said she "I count on thy priesthood for marrying of me, And I know by the hills that the battle is done. That my lover rides on, will be here with the sun, 'Neath the eyes that behold thee."

XIX.

Her mother sat silent--too tender, I wis, Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss: But the boy started up pale with tears, passion-wrought-- "O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought! If he cometh, who told thee?"

XX.

"I know by the hills," she resumed calm and clear, "By the beauty upon them, that HE is anear: Did they ever look _so_ since he bade me adieu? Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, is true, As Saint Agnes in sleeping!"

XXI.

Half-ashamed and half-softened the boy did not speak, And the blush met the lashes which fell on his cheek: She bowed down to kiss him: dear saints, did he see Or feel on her bosom the BROWN ROSARY, That he shrank away weeping?

SECOND PART.

_A bed._ ONORA, _sleeping._ Angels, _but not near._

_First Angel._

Must we stand so far, and she So very fair?

_Second Angel._

As bodies be.

_First Angel._

And she so mild?

_Second Angel._

As spirits when They meeken, not to God, but men.

_First Angel._

And she so young, that I who bring Good dreams for saintly children, might Mistake that small soft face to-night, And fetch her such a blessed thing That at her waking she would weep For childhood lost anew in sleep. How hath she sinned?

_Second Angel._

In bartering love; God's love for man's.

_First Angel._

We may reprove The world for this, not only her: Let me approach to breathe away This dust o' the heart with holy air.

_Second Angel._

Stand off! She sleeps, and did not pray.

_First Angel._

Did none pray for her?

_Second Angel._

Ay, a child,-- Who never, praying, wept before: While, in a mother undefiled, Prayer goeth on in sleep, as true And pauseless as the pulses do.

_First Angel._

Then I approach.

_Second Angel._

It is not WILLED.

_First Angel._

One word: is she redeemed?

_Second Angel._

No more! The place is filled. [Angels _vanish_

_Evil Spirit (in a Nun's garb by the bed)._

Forbear that dream--forbear that dream! too near to heaven it leaned.

_Onora (in sleep)._

Nay, leave me this--but only this! 't is but a dream, sweet fiend!

_Evil Spirit._

It is a _thought_.

_Onora (in sleep)._

A sleeping thought--most innocent of good: It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend! it cannot if it would. I say in it no holy hymn, I do no holy work, I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that chimeth from the kirk.

_Evil Spirit._

Forbear that dream--forbear that dream!

_Onora (in sleep)._

Nay, let me dream at least. That far-off bell, it may be took for viol at a feast: I only walk among the fields, beneath the autumn-sun, With my dead father, hand in hand, as I have often done.

_Evil Spirit._

Forbear that dream--forbear that dream!

_Onora (in sleep)._

Nay, sweet fiend, let me go: I never more can walk with _him_, oh, never more but so! For they have tied my father's feet beneath the kirk-yard stone, Oh, deep and straight! oh, very straight! they move at nights alone: And then he calleth through my dreams, he calleth tenderly, "Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, and walk the fields with me!"

_Evil Spirit._

Forbear that dream, or else disprove its pureness by a sign.

_Onora (in sleep)._

Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied, my word shall answer thine. I heard a bird which used to sing when I a child was praying, I see the poppies in the corn I used to sport away in: What shall I do--tread down the dew and pull the blossoms blowing? Or clap my wicked hands to fright the finches from the rowan?

_Evil Spirit._

Thou shalt do something harder still. Stand up where thou dost stand Among the fields of Dreamland with thy father hand in hand, And clear and slow repeat the vow, declare its cause and kind, Which not to break, in sleep or wake thou bearest on thy mind.

_Onora (in sleep)._

I bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for mournful cause; I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong, the spirits laughed applause: The spirits trailed along the pines low laughter like a breeze, While, high atween their swinging tops, the stars appeared to freeze.

_Evil Spirit._

More calm and free, speak out to me why such a vow was made.

_Onora (in sleep)._

Because that God decreed my death and I shrank back afraid. Have patience, O dead father mine! I did not fear to die-- I wish I were a young dead child and had thy company! I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried three-year child, And wearing only a kiss of thine upon my lips that smiled! The linden-tree that covers thee might so have shadowed twain, For death itself I did not fear--'t is love that makes the pain: Love feareth death. I was no child, I was betrothed that day; I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. How could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone, And feel mine own betrothed go by--alas! no more mine own-- Go leading by in wedding pomp some lovely lady brave, With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, while mine were white in grave? How could I bear to sit in heaven, on e'er so high a throne, And hear him say to her--to _her_! that else he loveth none? Though e'er so high I sate above, though e'er so low he spake, As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might take, That hers, forsooth, were heavenly eyes--ah me, while very dim Some heavenly eyes (indeed of heaven!) would darken down to _him_!

_Evil Spirit._

Who told thee thou wast called to death?

_Onora (in sleep)._

I sate all night beside thee: The grey owl on the ruined wall shut both his eyes to hide thee, And ever he flapped his heavy wing all brokenly and weak, And the long grass waved against the sky, around his gasping beak. I sate beside thee all the night, while the moonlight lay forlorn Strewn round us like a dead world's shroud in ghastly fragments torn: And through the night, and through the hush, and over the flapping wing, We heard beside the Heavenly Gate the angels murmuring: We heard them say, "Put day to day, and count the days to seven, And God will draw Onora up the golden stairs of heaven. And yet the Evil ones have leave that purpose to defer, For if she has no need of HIM, He has no need of her."

_Evil Spirit._

Speak out to me, speak bold and free.

_Onora (in sleep)._

And then I heard thee say-- "I count upon my rosary brown the hours thou hast to stay! Yet God permits us Evil ones to put by that decree, Since if thou hast no need of HIM, He has no need of thee: And if thou wilt forgo the sight of angels, verily Thy true love gazing on thy face shall guess what angels be; Nor bride shall pass, save thee" ... Alas!--my father's hand's a-cold, The meadows seem ...

_Evil Spirit._

Forbear the dream, or let the vow be told.

_Onora (in sleep)._

I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this string of antique beads, By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds, This rosary brown which is thine own,--lost soul of buried nun! Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone,-- I vowed upon thy rosary brown,--and, till such vow should break, A pledge always of living days 't was hung around my neck-- I vowed to thee on rosary (dead father, look not so!), _I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe._

_Evil Spirit._

And canst thou prove ...

_Onora (in sleep)._

O love, my love! I felt him near again! I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain! Was this no weal for me to feel? Is greater weal than this? Yet when he came, I wept his name--and the angels heard but _his_.

_Evil Spirit._

Well done, well done!

_Onora (in sleep)._

Ah me, the sun! the dreamlight 'gins to pine,-- Ah me, how dread can look the Dead! Aroint thee, father mine!

She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright, And her breath comes in sobs, while she stares through the night; There is nought; the great willow, her lattice before, Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor: But her hands tremble fast as their pulses and, free From the death-clasp, close over--the BROWN ROSARY.

THIRD PART.

I.

'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bell Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle, And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride, And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside At the work shall be doing;

II.

While down through the wood rides that fair company, The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee, Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at once All the maids sigh demurely and think for the nonce, "And so endeth a wooing!"

III.

And the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way, With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say; Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath, And the little quick smiles come and go with her breath When she sigheth or speaketh.

IV.

And the tender bride-mother breaks off unaware From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair, Till in nearing the chapel and glancing before, She seeth her little son stand at the door: Is it play that he seeketh?

V.

Is it play, when his eyes wander innocent-wild And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child? He trembles not, weeps not; the passion is done, And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun On his head like a glory.

VI.

"O fair-featured maids, ye are many!" he cried, "But in fairness and vileness who matcheth the bride? O brave-hearted youths, ye are many! but whom For the courage and woe can ye match with the groom As ye see them before ye?"

VII.

Out spake the bride's mother, "The vileness is thine If thou shame thine own sister, a bride at the shrine!" Out spake the bride's lover, "The vileness be mine If he shame mine own wife at the hearth or the shrine And the charge be unproved.

VIII.

"Bring the charge, prove the charge, brother! speak it aloud: Let thy father and hers hear it deep in his shroud!" --"O father, thou seest, for dead eyes can see, How she wears on her bosom a BROWN ROSARY, O my father beloved!"

IX.

Then outlaughed the bridegroom, and outlaughed withal Both maidens and youths by the old chapel-wall: "So she weareth no love-gift, kind brother," quoth he, "She may wear an she listeth a brown rosary, Like a pure-hearted lady."

X.

Then swept through the chapel the long bridal train; Though he spake to the bride she replied not again: On, as one in a dream, pale and stately she went Where the altar-lights burn o'er the great sacrament, Faint with daylight, but steady.

XI.

But her brother had passed in between them and her, And calmly knelt down on the high-altar stair-- Of an infantine aspect so stern to the view That the priest could not smile on the child's eyes of blue As he would for another.

XII.

He knelt like a child marble-sculptured and white That seems kneeling to pray on the tomb of a knight, With a look taken up to each iris of stone From the greatness and death where he kneeleth, but none From the face of a mother.

XIII.

"In your chapel, O priest, ye have wedded and shriven Fair wives for the hearth, and fair sinners for heaven; But this fairest my sister, ye think now to wed, Bid her kneel where she standeth, and shrive her instead: O shrive her and wed not!"

XIV.

In tears, the bride's mother,--"Sir priest, unto thee Would he lie, as he lied to this fair company." In wrath, the bride's lover,--"The lie shall be clear! Speak it out, boy! the saints in their niches shall hear: Be the charge proved or said not!"

XV.

Then serene in his childhood he lifted his face, And his voice sounded holy and fit for the place,-- "Look down from your niches, ye still saints, and see How she wears on her bosom a BROWN ROSARY! Is it used for the praying?"

XVI.

The youths looked aside--to laugh there were a sin-- And the maidens' lips trembled from smiles shut within. Quoth the priest, "Thou art wild, pretty boy! Blessed she Who prefers at her bridal a brown rosary To a worldly arraying."

XVII.

The bridegroom spake low and led onward the bride And before the high altar they stood side by side: The rite-book is opened, the rite is begun, They have knelt down together to rise up as one. Who laughed by the altar?

XVIII.

The maidens looked forward, the youths looked around, The bridegroom's eye flashed from his prayer at the sound; And each saw the bride, as if no bride she were, Gazing cold at the priest without gesture of prayer, As he read from the psalter.

XIX.

The priest never knew that she did so, but still He felt a power on him too strong for his will: And whenever the Great Name was there to be read, His voice sank to silence--THAT could not be said, Or the air could not hold it.

XX.

"I have sinned," quoth he, "I have sinned, I wot"-- And the tears ran adown his old cheeks at the thought: They dropped fast on the book, but he read on the same, And aye was the silence where should be the NAME,-- As the choristers told it.

XXI.

The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done They, who knelt down together, arise up as one: Fair riseth the bride--Oh, a fair bride is she, But, for all (think the maidens) that brown rosary, No saint at her praying!

XXII.

What aileth the bridegroom? He glares blank and wide; Then suddenly turning he kisseth the bride; His lips stung her with cold; she glanced upwardly mute: "Mine own wife," he said, and fell stark at her foot In the word he was saying.

XXIII.

They have lifted him up, but his head sinks away, And his face showeth bleak in the sunshine and grey. Leave him now where he lieth--for oh, never more Will he kneel at an altar or stand on a floor! Let his bride gaze upon him.

XXIV.

Long and still was her gaze while they chafed him there And breathed in the mouth whose last life had kissed her, But when they stood up--only _they_! with a start The shriek from her soul struck her pale lips apart: She has lived, and forgone him!

XXV.

And low on his body she droppeth adown-- "Didst call me thine own wife, beloved--thine own? Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warm To the world's cold without thee! Come, keep me from harm In a calm of thy teaching!"

XXVI.

She looked in his face earnest-long, as in sooth There were hope of an answer, and then kissed his mouth, And with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly,-- "Now, O God, take pity--take pity on me! God, hear my beseeching!"

XXVII.

She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay, She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day: Wild she sprang to her feet,--"I surrender to _thee_ The broken vow's pledge, the accursed rosary,-- I am ready for dying!"

XXVIII.

She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground Where it fell mute as snow, and a weird music-sound Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim,-- As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers' hymn And moaned in the trying.

FOURTH PART.

Onora looketh listlessly adown the garden walk: "I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk. I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro, Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks below. All things are the same, but I,--only I am dreary, And, mother, of my dreariness behold me very weary.

"Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the spring And smiled to think I should smile more upon their gathering: The bees will find out other flowers--oh, pull them, dearest mine, And carry them and carry me before Saint Agnes' shrine." --Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted in the spring, And her and them all mournfully to Agnes' shrine did bring.

She looked up to the pictured saint and gently shook her head-- "The picture is too calm for _me_--too calm for _me_," she said: "The little flowers we brought with us, before it we may lay, For those are used to look at heaven,--but _I_ must turn away, Because no sinner under sun can dare or bear to gaze On God's or angel's holiness, except in Jesu's face."

She spoke with passion after pause--"And were it wisely done If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone? If we whose virtue is so weak should have a will so strong, And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path from the wrong? To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and heaven,-- A single rose, for a rose-tree which beareth seven times seven? A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast,-- Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!"

Then breaking into tears,--"Dear God," she cried, "and must we see All blissful things depart from us or ere we go to THEE? We cannot guess Thee in the wood or hear Thee in the wind? Our cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind? Ay sooth, we feel too strong, in weal, to need thee on that road, But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on 'God.'"

Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever mused thus, "_The bees will find out other flowers_,--but what is left for _us_?" But her young brother stayed his sobs and knelt beside her knee, --"Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?" She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek, So tenderly, so tenderly--she needed not to speak.

The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more. The woman fair who placed it there had died an hour before. Both perished mute for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach. O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out of each!

_A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES._

I.

Seven maidens 'neath the midnight Stand near the river-sea Whose water sweepeth white around The shadow of the tree; The moon and earth are face to face, And earth is slumbering deep; The wave-voice seems the voice of dreams That wander through her sleep: The river floweth on.

II.

What bring they 'neath the midnight, Beside the river-sea? They bring the human heart wherein No nightly calm can be,-- That droppeth never with the wind, Nor drieth with the dew: Oh, calm in God! thy calm is broad To cover spirits too. The river floweth on.

III.

The maidens lean them over The waters, side by side, And shun each other's deepening eyes, And gaze adown the tide; For each within a little boat A little lamp hath put, And heaped for freight some lily's weight Or scarlet rose half shut. The river floweth on.

IV.

Of shell of cocoa carven Each little boat is made; Each carries a lamp, and carries a flower, And carries a hope unsaid; And when the boat hath carried the lamp Unquenched till out of sight, The maiden is sure that love will endure; But love will fail with light. The river floweth on.

V.

Why, all the stars are ready To symbolize the soul, The stars untroubled by the wind, Unwearied as they roll; And yet the soul by instinct sad Reverts to symbols low-- To that small flame, whose very name Breathed o'er it, shakes it so! The river floweth on.

VI.

Six boats are on the river, Seven maidens on the shore, While still above them steadfastly The stars shine evermore. Go, little boats, go soft and safe, And guard the symbol spark! The boats aright go safe and bright Across the waters dark. The river floweth on.

VII.

The maiden Luti watcheth Where onwardly they float: That look in her dilating eyes Might seem to drive her boat: Her eyes still mark the constant fire, And kindling unawares That hopeful while, she lets a smile Creep silent through her prayers. The river floweth on.

VIII.

The smile--where hath it wandered? She riseth from her knee, She holds her dark, wet locks away-- There is no light to see! She cries a quick and bitter cry-- "Nuleeni, launch me thine! We must have light abroad to-night, For all the wreck of mine." The river floweth on.

IX.