Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume II. | Page 8

see her thus no more.
She held
Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read
Till he would stop
her at the needed word.
'O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund,
'O
well is thee, and happy shalt thou be.
Thy wife--' and there he stopped
her, and he took
And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring,

Taking no heed of me, no heed at all.
Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face
When I did see her blush,
and put it on.
'Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid,
Gave me
the ring. I set my heel on it,
Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering
forth,
And did in righteous anger storm at him.
'What! what!' quoth
I, 'before her father's eyes,
Thou universal villain, thou ingrate,

Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored,
Most basest of mankind!'
And Rosamund,
Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm,

And 'Father,' cries she, 'father.'
And I stormed
At him, while in his Spanish he replied
As one
would speak me fair. 'Thou Spanish hound!'
'Father,' she pleaded.
'Alien vile,' quoth I,
'Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus?

It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes
On this my daughter.'
'Father,' moans my girl;
And I, not willing to be so withstood,

Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes
Blazed--then he

stormed at me in his own tongue,
And all his Spanish arrogance and
pride
Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then
He let me know,
for I perceived it well,
He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul
scorn
Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me
As I with him.
'Father,' sighed Rosamund.
'Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,' quoth I.

And slowly, slowly, she betook herself
Down the long hall; in
lowly wise she went
And made her moans.
But when my girl was gone
I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me;

Belike it master'd him, for both felt mute.
I calmed me, and he
calmed him as he might.
For I bethought me I was yet an host,
And
he bethought him on the worthiness
Of my first deeds.
So made I sign to him.
The tide was up, and soon I had him forth,

Delivered him his goods, commended him
To the captain o' the
vessel, then plucked off
My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave,

And he was not outdone, but every way
Gave me respect, and on the
deck we two
Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more.
Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund!
She did not weep, no. Plain
upon me, no.
Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears:
As
new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain,
And make denial
of it, yet more blue
And fair of favour afterward, so they.
The wild
woodrose was not more fresh of blee
Than her soft dimpled cheek:
but I beheld,
Come home, a token hung about her neck,
Sparkling
upon her bosom for his sake,
Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not,

All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale.
And all that day went like another day,
Ay, all the next; then was I
glad at heart;
Methought, 'I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth

Upon an alien man, mine enemy,
Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in
truth,
This likes me very well. My most dear child,

Forget yon
grave dark mariner. The Lord
Everlasting,' I besought, 'bring it to
pass.'

Stealeth a darker day within my hall,
A winter day of wind and
driving foam.
They tell me that my girl is sick--and yet
Not very
sick. I may not hour by hour,
More than one watching of a moon that
wanes,
Make chronicle of change. A parlous change
When he looks
back to that same moon at full.
Ah! ah! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass,
Though never she
made moan. I saw the rings
Drop from her small white wasted hand.
And I,
Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given
My land, my
name to have her as of old.
Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small

White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white,
And mournfuller by
much, her mother dear
Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and
fear
Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide,
We thought 'The girl is
better,' or we thought
'The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck

She drew, and prayed me send it to her love;
A token she was true
e'en to the end.
What matter'd now? But whom to send, and how
To
reach the man? I found an old poor priest,
Some peril 't was for him
and me, she writ
My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell,
She
kissed the letter, and that old poor priest,
Who had eaten of my bread,
and shelter'd him
Under my roof in troublous times, he took,
And to
content her on this errand went,
While she as done with earth did wait
the end.
Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness
Of death. Nay, rather let
them chide the grief
Of living, chide the waste of mother-love
For
babes that joy to get away to God;
The waste of work and moil and
thought and thrift
And father-love for sons that heed it not,
And
daughters