The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Volume 2. Browning Elizabeth Barrett

      "A boon, thou noble knight,

      If ever I servèd thee!

      Though thou art a knight and I am a page,

      Now grant a boon to me;

      And tell me sooth, if dark or bright,

      If little loved or loved aright

      Be the face of thy ladye."

      Gloomily looked the knight —

      "As a son thou hast servèd me,

      And would to none I had granted boon

      Except to only thee!

      For haply then I should love aright,

      For then I should know if dark or bright

      Were the face of my ladye.

      "Yet it ill suits my knightly tongue

      To grudge that granted boon,

      That heavy price from heart and life

      I paid in silence down;

      The hand that claimed it, cleared in fine

      My father's fame: I swear by mine,

      That price was nobly won!

      "Earl Walter was a brave old earl,

      He was my father's friend,

      And while I rode the lists at court

      And little guessed the end,

      My noble father in his shroud

      Against a slanderer lying loud,

      He rose up to defend.

      "Oh, calm below the marble grey

      My father's dust was strown!

      Oh, meek above the marble grey

      His image prayed alone!

      The slanderer lied: the wretch was brave —

      For, looking up the minster-nave,

      He saw my father's knightly glaive

      Was changed from steel to stone.

      "Earl Walter's glaive was steel,

      With a brave old hand to wear it,

      And dashed the lie back in the mouth

      Which lied against the godly truth

      And against the knightly merit

      The slanderer, 'neath the avenger's heel,

      Struck up the dagger in appeal

      From stealthy lie to brutal force —

      And out upon the traitor's corse

      Was yielded the true spirit.

      "I would mine hand had fought that fight

      And justified my father!

      I would mine heart had caught that wound

      And slept beside him rather!

      I think it were a better thing

      Than murdered friend and marriage-ring

      Forced on my life together.

      "Wail shook Earl Walter's house;

      His true wife shed no tear;

      She lay upon her bed as mute

      As the earl did on his bier:

      Till – 'Ride, ride fast,' she said at last,

      'And bring the avengèd's son anear!

      Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee,

      For white of blee with waiting for me

      Is the corse in the next chambère.'

      "I came, I knelt beside her bed;

      Her calm was worse than strife:

      'My husband, for thy father dear,

      Gave freely when thou wast not here

      His own and eke my life.

      A boon! Of that sweet child we make

      An orphan for thy father's sake,

      Make thou, for ours, a wife.'

      "I said, 'My steed neighs in the court,

      My bark rocks on the brine,

      And the warrior's vow I am under now

      To free the pilgrim's shrine;

      But fetch the ring and fetch the priest

      And call that daughter of thine,

      And rule she wide from my castle on Nyde

      While I am in Palestine.'

      "In the dark chambère, if the bride was fair,

      Ye wis, I could not see,

      But the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed,

      And wedded fast were we.

      Her mother smiled upon her bed

      As at its side we knelt to wed,

      And the bride rose from her knee

      And kissed the smile of her mother dead,

      Or ever she kissed me.

      "My page, my page, what grieves thee so,

      That the tears run down thy face?" —

      "Alas, alas! mine own sistèr

      Was in thy lady's case:

      But she laid down the silks she wore

      And followed him she wed before,

      Disguised as his true servitor,

      To the very battle-place."

      And wept the page, but laughed the knight,

      A careless laugh laughed he:

      "Well done it were for thy sistèr,

      But not for my ladye!

      My love, so please you, shall requite

      No woman, whether dark or bright,

      Unwomaned if she be."

      The page stopped weeping and smiled cold —

      "Your wisdom may declare

      That womanhood is proved the best

      By golden brooch and glossy vest

      The mincing ladies wear;

      Yet is it proved, and was of old,

      Anear as well, I dare to hold,

      By truth, or by despair."

      He smiled no more, he wept no more,

      But passionate he spake —

      "Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,

      When none beside did wake!

      Oh, womanly she paled in fight,

      For one belovèd's sake! —

      And her little hand, defiled with blood,

      Her tender tears of womanhood

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