Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 20

Art thou greater than great Babylon, Which lies overthrown?

Take heed, ye unwise among the people; O ye fools, when will ye understand?-- He that planted the ear shall He not hear, Nor He smite who formed the hand?

"Vengeance is Mine, is Mine," thus saith the Lord:-- O Man, put up thy sword.

II.

"TO-DAY FOR ME."

She sitteth still who used to dance, She weepeth sore and more and more-- Let us sit with thee weeping sore, O fair France!

She trembleth as the days advance Who used to be so light of heart:-- We in thy trembling bear a part, Sister France!

Her eyes shine tearful as they glance: "Who shall give back my slaughtered sons?

"Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."-- Alas, France!

She struggles in a deathly trance, As in a dream her pulses stir, She hears the nations calling her, "France, France, France!"

Thou people of the lifted lance, Forbear her tears, forbear her blood: Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood, Back from France.

Eye not her loveliness askance, Forge not for her a galling chain; Leave her at peace to bloom again, Vine-clad France.

A time there is for change and chance, A time for pa.s.sing of the cup: And One abides can yet bind up Broken France.

A time there is for change and chance: Who next shall drink the trembling cup, Wring out its dregs and suck them up After France?

ON THE WING.

SONNET.

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, Sporting at ease and courting full in view.

When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed; Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield; So farewell life and love and pleasures new.

Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep: But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.

CONSIDER.

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:-- We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our G.o.d doth view Whether they fall or mount,-- He guards us too.

Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair:-- What profits all this care And all this coil?

Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; G.o.d gives them food:-- Much more our Father seeks To do us good.

BEAUTY IS VAIN.

While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight?

She's not so sweet as a rose, A lily's straighter than she, And if she were as red or white She'd be but one of three.

Whether she flush in love's summer Or in its winter grow pale, Whether she flaunt her beauty Or hide it away in a veil, Be she red or white, And stand she erect or bowed, Time will win the race he runs with her And hide her away in a shroud.

MAGGIE A LADY.

You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear, For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see; And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year, 'T will be little lord or lady at my knee.

O, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil, That you shake and turn white like a c.o.c.kcrow ghost?

You're as white as I turned once down by the mill, When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:

Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl (It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me), Philip with the merry life in lip and curl, Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!

I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint; I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad, Till I raised my wail of desolate complaint For you, my cousin, brother, all I had.

They said I looked so pale,--some say so fair,-- My lord stopped in pa.s.sing to soothe me back to life: I know I missed a ringlet from my hair Next morning; and now I am his wife.

Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring, I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe: All day long I sit in the sun and sing, Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.

And I'm the rose of roses says my lord; And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky, While I hold him fast with the golden cord Of a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.

His mother said "fie," and his sisters cried "shame,"

His high-born ladies cried "shame" from their place: They said "fie" when they only heard my name, But fell silent when they saw my face.

Am I so fair, Philip? Philip, did you think I was so fair when we played boy and girl, Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brink Of our stream which the mill-wheel sent awhirl?

If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now, Sitting where a score of servants stand, With a coronet on high days for my brow And almost a sceptre for my hand.

You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown, A stranger on land and at home on the sea, Coasting as best you may from town to town: Coasting along do you often think of me?

I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower, With hands grown white through having naught to do: Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hour Till I nigh wish myself a child with you.

WHAT WOULD I GIVE?