Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume II. | Page 6

their riches up.?Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes,?Who dealt with them according to their wont.
In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves?And dashed them wet upon me, came I home.?Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund,?Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields--?That I should sigh to think it! There, no more.
Being right weary I betook me straight?To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream?Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns?Daunted the country in the moonless night,?Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream?And took my fill of rest.
A voice, a touch,?'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair?She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship!?I have been down the beach. O pitiful!?A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks,?And none to guide our people. Wake.'
Then I?Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day;?In the windy pother seas came in like smoke?That blew among the trees as fine small rain,?And then the broken water sun-besprent?Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast?A caravel, a pinnace that methought?To some great ship had longed; her hap alone?Of all that multitude it was to drive?Between this land of England her right foe,?And that most cruel, where (for all their faith?Was one) no drop of water mote they drink?For love of God nor love of gold.
I rose?And hasted; I was soon among the folk,?But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised?Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone?In grass, and women served them bread and mead,?Other the sea laid decently alone?Ready for burial. And a litter stood?In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man,?The govourner or the captain as it seemed,?Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery,?And epaulet and sword. They must have loved?That man, for many had died to bring him in,?Their boats stove in were stranded here and there.?In one--but how I know not--brought they him,?And he was laid upon a folded flag,?Many times doubled for his greater ease,?That was our thought--and we made signs to them?He should have sepulture. But when they knew?They must needs leave him, for some marched them off?For more safe custody, they made great moan.
After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh,?One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said,?'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then,?'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.'?Again the first, 'An' if he breatheth yet?He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off,?And left us two, that by the litter stayed,?Looking on one another, and we looked?(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on.?Then would he have me know the meet was fixed?For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you?He left me. And I had the Spaniard home.?What other could be done? I had him home.?Men on his litter bare him, set him down?In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall.
And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon,?Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now?Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds?Of that great ensign covered store of gold,?Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades?Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare,?And other gear. I locked it for my part?Into an armoury, and that fair flag?(While we did talk full low till he should end)?Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die?Under his country's colours; he was brave,?His deadly wound to that doth testify.
And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund,?My daughter, who had looked not yet on death,?Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread--?Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers,?White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast.?Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard,?But while with daunted heart she moved anigh,?His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip,?And he, reviving, with a sob looked up?And set on her the midnight of his eyes.
Then she, in act to place the burial gift?Bending above him, and her flaxen hair?Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright?Comely and tall, her innocent fair face?Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame.?'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad.?Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough,?My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth,?But say an Av�� first for him with me.'
Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed?Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them,?Till as I think for wonder at them, more?Than for his proper strength, he could not die.
So in obedient wise my daughter risen,?And going, let a smile of comforting cheer?Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her?For many a night and day that he beheld.
And then withal my dame, a leech of skill,?Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound,?Her women aiding at their best. And he?'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night?Full oft in his own tongue