XXII.
"The castle and its lands are thine-- The poor"s--it shall be done.
Go, _man_, to love! I go to live In Courland hall, alone: The bats along the ceilings cling, The lizards in the floors do run, And storms and years have worn and reft The stain by human builders left In working at the stone."
PART THE THIRD.
SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS KEPT.
I.
He dwelt alone, and sun and moon Were witness that he made Rejection of his humanness Until they seemed to fade; His face did so, for he did grow Of his own soul afraid.
II.
The self-poised G.o.d may dwell alone With inward glorying, But G.o.d"s chief angel waiteth for A brother"s voice, to sing; And a lonely creature of sinful nature It is an awful thing.
III.
An awful thing that feared itself; While many years did roll, A lonely man, a feeble man, A part beneath the whole, He bore by day, he bore by night That pressure of G.o.d"s infinite Upon his finite soul.
IV.
The poet at his lattice sate, And downward looked he.
Three Christians wended by to prayers, With mute ones in their ee; Each turned above a face of love And called him to the far chapelle With voice more tuneful than its bell: But still they wended three.
V.
There journeyed by a bridal pomp, A bridegroom and his dame; He speaketh low for happiness, She blusheth red for shame: But never a tone of benison From out the lattice came.
VI.
A little child with inward song, No louder noise to dare, Stood near the wall to see at play The lizards green and rare-- Unblessed the while for his childish smile Which cometh unaware.
PART THE FOURTH.
SHOWING HOW ROSALIND FARED BY THE KEEPING OF THE VOW.
I.
In death-sheets lieth Rosalind As white and still as they; And the old nurse that watched her bed Rose up with "Well-a-day!"
And oped the cas.e.m.e.nt to let in The sun, and that sweet doubtful din Which droppeth from the gra.s.s and bough Sans wind and bird, none knoweth how-- To cheer her as she lay.
II.
The old nurse started when she saw Her sudden look of woe: But the quick wan tremblings round her mouth In a meek smile did go, And calm she said, "When I am dead, Dear nurse it shall be so.
III.
"Till then, shut out those sights and sounds, And pray G.o.d pardon me That I without this pain no more His blessed works can see!
And lean beside me, loving nurse, That thou mayst hear, ere I am worse, What thy last love should be."
IV.
The loving nurse leant over her, As white she lay beneath; The old eyes searching, dim with life, The young ones dim with death, To read their look if sound forsook The trying, trembling breath.
V.
"When all this feeble breath is done, And I on bier am laid, My tresses smoothed for never a feast, My body in shroud arrayed, Uplift each palm in a saintly calm, As if that still I prayed.
VI.
"And heap beneath mine head the flowers You stoop so low to pull, The little white flowers from the wood Which grow there in the cool, Which _he_ and I, in childhood"s games, Went plucking, knowing not their names, And filled thine ap.r.o.n full.
VII.
"Weep not! _I_ weep not. Death is strong, The eyes of Death are dry!
But lay this scroll upon my breast When hushed its heavings lie, And wait awhile for the corpse"s smile Which shineth presently.
VIII.
"And when it shineth, straightway call Thy youngest children dear, And bid them gently carry me All barefaced on the bier; But bid them pa.s.s my kirkyard gra.s.s That waveth long anear.
IX.
"And up the bank where I used to sit And dream what life would be, Along the brook with its sunny look Akin to living glee,-- O"er the windy hill, through the forest still, Let them gently carry me.
X.
"And through the piny forest still, And down the open moorland Round where the sea beats mistily And blindly on the foreland; And let them chant that hymn I know, Bearing me soft, bearing me slow, To the ancient hall of Courland.