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

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 lost and gone. Ay, let them chide?These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done?Was rightly done; and what thereon befell?Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do?Again.
I will be brief. The days drag on,?My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age.?Once I despondent in the moaning wood?Look out, and lo a caravel at sea,?A man that climbs the rock, and presently?The Spaniard!
I did greet him, proud no more.?He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death,?To land on th' Island soil. In broken words?Of English he did ask me how she fared.?Quoth I, 'She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund?My girl will die;' but he is fain, saith he,?To talk with her, and all his mind to speak;?I answer,