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

      – "But what if she mistook thy mind

      And followed thee to strife,

      Then kneeling did entreat thy love

      As Paynims ask for life?"

      – "I would forgive, and evermore

      Would love her as my servitor,

      But little as my wife.

      "Look up – there is a small bright cloud

      Alone amid the skies!

      So high, so pure, and so apart,

      A woman's honour lies."

      The page looked up – the cloud was sheen —

      A sadder cloud did rush, I ween,

      Betwixt it and his eyes.

      Then dimly dropped his eyes away

      From welkin unto hill —

      Ha! who rides there? – the page is 'ware,

      Though the cry at his heart is still:

      And the page seeth all and the knight seeth none,

      Though banner and spear do fleck the sun,

      And the Saracens ride at will.

      He speaketh calm, he speaketh low, —

      "Ride fast, my master, ride,

      Or ere within the broadening dark

      The narrow shadows hide."

      "Yea, fast, my page, I will do so,

      And keep thou at my side."

      "Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way,

      Thy faithful page precede.

      For I must loose on saddle-bow

      My battle-casque that galls, I trow,

      The shoulder of my steed;

      And I must pray, as I did vow,

      For one in bitter need.

      "Ere night I shall be near to thee, —

      Now ride, my master, ride!

      Ere night, as parted spirits cleave

      To mortals too beloved to leave,

      I shall be at thy side."

      The knight smiled free at the fantasy,

      And adown the dell did ride.

      Had the knight looked up to the page's face,

      No smile the word had won;

      Had the knight looked up to the page's face,

      I ween he had never gone:

      Had the knight looked back to the page's geste,

      I ween he had turned anon,

      For dread was the woe in the face so young,

      And wild was the silent geste that flung

      Casque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprung

      And stood – alone, alone.

      He clenched his hands as if to hold

      His soul's great agony —

      "Have I renounced my womanhood,

      For wifehood unto thee,

      And is this the last, last look of thine

      That ever I shall see?

      "Yet God thee save, and mayst thou have

      A lady to thy mind,

      More woman-proud and half as true

      As one thou leav'st behind!

      And God me take with Him to dwell —

      For Him I cannot love too well,

      As I have loved my kind."

      She looketh up, in earth's despair,

      The hopeful heavens to seek;

      That little cloud still floateth there,

      Whereof her loved did speak:

      How bright the little cloud appears!

      Her eyelids fall upon the tears,

      And the tears down either cheek.

      The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel —

      The Paynims round her coming!

      The sound and sight have made her calm, —

      False page, but truthful woman;

      She stands amid them all unmoved:

      A heart once broken by the loved

      Is strong to meet the foeman.

      "Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep,

      From pouring wine-cups resting?" —

      "I keep my master's noble name,

      For warring, not for feasting;

      And if that here Sir Hubert were,

      My master brave, my master dear,

      Ye would not stay the questing."

      "Where is thy master, scornful page,

      That we may slay or bind him?" —

      "Now search the lea and search the wood,

      And see if ye can find him!

      Nathless, as hath been often tried,

      Your Paynim heroes faster ride

      Before him than behind him."

      "Give smoother answers, lying page,

      Or perish in the lying!" —

      "I trow that if the warrior brand

      Beside my foot, were in my hand,

      'T were better at replying!"

      They cursed her deep, they smote her low,

      They cleft her golden ringlets through;

      The Loving is the Dying.

      She felt the scimitar gleam down,

      And met it from beneath

      With smile more bright in victory

      Than any sword from sheath, —

      Which flashed across her lip serene,

      Most like the spirit-light between

      The darks of life and death.

      Ingemisco, ingemisco!

      From the convent on the sea,

      Now it sweepeth solemnly,

      As over wood and over lea

      Bodily