Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 14

"But tell me first, true voice of my doom, Of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom; Keeps she watch through glare and through gloom, Watch for me asleep and awake?"-- "Spell-bound she watches in one white room, And is patient for thy sake.

"By her head lilies and rosebuds grow; The lilies droop,--will the rosebuds blow?

The silver slim lilies hang the head low; Their stream is scanty, their sunshine rare; Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow, They will blossom and wax fair.

"Red and white poppies grow at her feet, The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat, Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat; But the white buds swell; one day they will burst, Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet,-- Which will open the first?"

Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail, And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale: "Time is short, life is short," they took up the tale: "Life is sweet, love is sweet, use to-day while you may; Love is sweet, and to-morrow may fail; Love is sweet, use to-day."

While the song swept by, beseeching and meek, Up rose the Prince with a flush on his cheek, Up he rose to stir and to seek, Going forth in the joy of his strength; Strong of limb, if of purpose weak, Starting at length.

Forth he set in the breezy morn, Across green fields of nodding corn, As goodly a Prince as ever was born, Carolling with the carolling lark;-- Sure his bride will be won and worn, Ere fall of the dark.

So light his step, so merry his smile, A milkmaid loitered beside a stile, Set down her pail and rested awhile, A wave-haired milkmaid, rosy and white; The Prince, who had journeyed at least a mile, Grew athirst at the sight.

"Will you give me a morning draught?"-- "You're kindly welcome," she said, and laughed.

He lifted the pail, new milk he quaffed; Then wiping his curly black beard like silk: "Whitest cow that ever was calved Surely gave you this milk."

Was it milk now, or was it cream?

Was she a maid, or an evil dream?

Her eyes began to glitter and gleam; He would have gone, but he stayed instead; Green they gleamed as he looked in them: "Give me my fee," she said.--

"I will give you a jewel of gold."-- "Not so; gold is heavy and cold."-- "I will give you a velvet fold Of foreign work your beauty to deck."-- "Better I like my kerchief rolled Light and white round my neck."--

"Nay," cried he, "but fix your own fee."-- She laughed, "You may give the full moon to me; Or else sit under this apple-tree Here for one idle day by my side; After that I'll let you go free, And the world is wide."

Loath to stay, but to leave her slack, He half turned away, then he quite turned back: For courtesy's sake he could not lack To redeem his own royal pledge; Ahead, too, the windy heaven lowered black With a fire-cloven edge.

So he stretched his length in the apple-tree shade, Lay and laughed and talked to the maid, Who twisted her hair in a cunning braid, And writhed it in shining serpent-coils, And held him a day and night fast laid In her subtle toils.

At the death of night and the birth of day, When the owl left off his sober play, And the bat hung himself out of the way, Woke the song of mavis and merle, And heaven put off its hodden gray For mother-o'-pearl.

Peeped up daisies here and there, Here, there, and everywhere; Rose a hopeful lark in the air, Spreading out towards the sun his breast; While the moon set solemn and fair Away in the west.

"Up, up, up," called the watchman lark, In his clear reveillee: "Hearken, O hark!

Press to the high goal, fly to the mark.

Up, O sluggard, new morn is born; If still asleep when the night falls dark, Thou must wait a second morn."

"Up, up, up," sad glad voices swelled: "So the tree falls and lies as it's felled.

Be thy bands loosed, O sleeper, long held In sweet sleep whose end is not sweet.

Be the slackness girt and the softness quelled And the slowness fleet."

Off he set. The gra.s.s grew rare, A blight lurked in the darkening air, The very moss grew hueless and spare, The last daisy stood all astunt; Behind his back the soil lay bare, But barer in front.

A land of chasm and rent, a land Of rugged blackness on either hand: If water trickled, its track was tanned With an edge of rust to the c.h.i.n.k; If one stamped on stone or on sand It returned a clink.

A lifeless land, a loveless land, Without lair or nest on either hand: Only scorpions jerked in the sand, Black as black iron, or dusty pale; From point to point sheer rock was manned By scorpions in mail.

A land of neither life nor death, Where no man buildeth or fashioneth, Where none draws living or dying breath; No man cometh or goeth there, No man doeth, seeketh, saith, In the stagnant air.

Some old volcanic upset must Have rent the crust and blackened the crust; Wrenched and ribbed it beneath its dust Above earth's molten centre at seethe, Heaved and heaped it by huge upthrust Of fire beneath.

Untrodden before, untrodden since: Tedious land for a social Prince; Halting, he scanned the outs and ins, Endless, labyrinthine, grim, Of the solitude that made him wince, Laying wait for him.

By bulging rock and gaping cleft, Even of half mere daylight reft, Rueful he peered to right and left, Muttering in his altered mood: "The fate is hard that weaves my weft, Though my lot be good."

Dim the changes of day to night, Of night scarce dark to day not bright.

Still his road wound towards the right, Still he went, and still he went, Till one night he spied a light, In his discontent.

Out it flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave, Like a red-hot eye from a grave.

No man stood there of whom to crave Rest for wayfarer plodding by: Though the tenant were churl or knave The Prince might try.

In he pa.s.sed and tarried not, Groping his way from spot to spot, Towards where the cavern flare glowed hot:-- An old, old mortal, cramped and double, Was peering into a seething-pot, In a world of trouble.

The veriest atomy he looked, With grimy fingers clutching and crooked, Tight skin, a nose all bony and hooked, And a shaking, sharp, suspicious way; Blinking, his eyes had scarcely brooked The light of day.

Stared the Prince, for the sight was new; Stared, but asked without more ado: "May a weary traveller lodge with you, Old father, here in your lair?

In your country the inns seem few, And scanty the fare."

The head turned not to hear him speak; The old voice whistled as through a leak (Out it came in a quavering squeak): "Work for wage is a bargain fit: If there's aught of mine that you seek You must work for it.

"Buried alive from light and air This year is the hundredth year, I feed my fire with a sleepless care, Watching my potion wane or wax: Elixir of Life is simmering there, And but one thing lacks.

"If you're fain to lodge here with me, Take that pair of bellows you see,-- Too heavy for my old hands they be,-- Take the bellows and puff and puff: When the steam curls rosy and free The broth's boiled enough.

"Then take your choice of all I have; I will give you life if you crave.

Already I'm mildewed for the grave, So first myself I must drink my fill: But all the rest may be yours, to save Whomever you will."

"Done," quoth the Prince, and the bargain stood.

First he piled on resinous wood, Next plied the bellows in hopeful mood; Thinking, "My love and I will live.

If I tarry, why life is good, And she may forgive."

The pot began to bubble and boil; The old man cast in essence and oil, He stirred all up with a triple coil Of gold and silver and iron wire, Dredged in a pinch of virgin soil, And fed the fire.

But still the steam curled watery white; Night turned to day and day to night; One thing lacked, by his feeble sight Unseen, unguessed by his feeble mind: Life might miss him, but Death the blight Was sure to find.

So when the hundredth year was full The thread was cut and finished the school.

Death snapped the old worn-out tool, Snapped him short while he stood and stirred (Though stiff he stood as a stiff-necked mule) With never a word.

Thus at length the old crab was nipped.

The dead hand slipped, the dead finger dipped In the broth as the dead man slipped,-- That same instant, a rosy red Flushed the steam, and quivered and clipped Round the dead old head.

The last ingredient was supplied (Unless the dead man mistook or lied).

Up started the Prince, he cast aside The bellows plied through the tedious trial, Made sure that his host had died, And filled a phial.

"One night's rest," thought the Prince. "This done, Forth I speed with the rising sun: With the morrow I rise and run, Come what will of wind or of weather.

This draught of Life when my Bride is won We'll drink together."

Thus the dead man stayed in his grave, Self-chosen, the dead man in his cave; There he stayed, were he fool or knave, Or honest seeker who had not found; While the Prince outside was prompt to crave Sleep on the ground.