Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 26

After this she often came To bring me fruit or wine, Or sometimes hothouse flowers.

And at nights I lay awake Often and often thinking What to do for her sake.

Wet or dry it was the same: She would come in at all hours, Set me eating and drinking, And say I must grow strong; At last the day seemed long And home seemed scarcely home If she did not come.

Well, I grew strong again: In time of primroses I went to pluck them in the lane; In time of nestling birds I heard them chirping round the house; And all the herds Were out at gra.s.s when I grew strong, And days were waxen long, And there was work for bees Among the May-bush boughs, And I had shot up tall, And life felt after all Pleasant, and not so long When I grew strong.

I was going to the Hall To be my Lady's maid: "Her little friend," she said to me, "Almost her child,"

She said and smiled, Sighing painfully; Blushing, with a second flush, As if she blushed to blush.

Friend, servant, child: just this My standing at the Hall; The other servants call me "Miss,"

My Lady calls me "Margaret,"

With her clear voice musical.

She never chides when I forget This or that; she never chides.

Except when people come to stay (And that's not often) at the Hall, I sit with her all day And ride out when she rides.

She sings to me and makes me sing; Sometimes I read to her, Sometimes we merely sit and talk.

She noticed once my ring And made me tell its history: That evening in our garden walk She said she should infer The ring had been my father's first, Then my mother's, given for me To the nurse who nursed My mother in her misery, That so quite certainly Some one might know me, who-- Then she was silent, and I too.

I hate when people come: The women speak and stare And mean to be so civil.

This one will stroke my hair, That one will pat my cheek And praise my Lady's kindness, Expecting me to speak; I like the proud ones best Who sit as struck with blindness, As if I wasn't there.

But if any gentleman Is staying at the Hall (Though few come prying here), My Lady seems to fear Some downright dreadful evil, And makes me keep my room As closely as she can: So I hate when people come, It is so troublesome.

In spite of all her care, Sometimes to keep alive I sometimes do contrive To get out in the grounds For a whiff of wholesome air, Under the rose you know: It's charming to break bounds, Stolen waters are sweet, And what's the good of feet If for days they mustn't go?

Give me a longer tether, Or I may break from it.

Now I have eyes and ears And just some little wit: "Almost my lady's child"; I recollect she smiled, Sighed and blushed together; Then her story of the ring Sounds not improbable, She told it me so well It seemed the actual thing:-- O keep your counsel close, But I guess under the rose, In long past summer weather When the world was blossoming, And the rose upon its thorn: I guess not who he was Flawed honor like a gla.s.s And made my life forlorn; But my Mother, Mother, Mother, O, I know her from all other.

My Lady, you might trust Your daughter with your fame.

Trust me, I would not shame Our honorable name, For I have n.o.ble blood Though I was bred in dust And brought up in the mud.

I will not press my claim, Just leave me where you will: But you might trust your daughter, For blood is thicker than water And you're my mother still.

So my Lady holds her own With condescending grace, And fills her lofty place With an untroubled face As a queen may fill a throne.

While I could hint a tale (But then I am her child) Would make her quail; Would set her in the dust, Lorn with no comforter, Her glorious hair defiled And ashes on her cheek: The decent world would thrust Its finger out at her, Not much displeased I think To make a nine days' stir; The decent world would sink Its voice to speak of her.

Now this is what I mean To do, no more, no less: Never to speak, or show Bare sign of what I know.

Let the blot pa.s.s unseen; Yea, let her never guess I hold the tangled clew She huddles out of view.

Friend, servant, almost child, So be it and nothing more On this side of the grave.

Mother, in Paradise, You'll see with clearer eyes; Perhaps in this world even When you are like to die And face to face with Heaven You'll drop for once the lie: But you must drop the mask, not I.

My Lady promises Two hundred pounds with me Whenever I may wed A man she can approve: And since besides her bounty I'm fairest in the county (For so I've heard it said, Though I don't vouch for this), Her promised pounds may move Some honest man to see My virtues and my beauties; Perhaps the rising grazier, Or temperance publican, May claim my wifely duties.

Meanwhile I wait their leisure And grace-bestowing pleasure, I wait the happy man; But if I hold my head And pitch my expectations Just higher than their level, They must fall back on patience: I may not mean to wed, Yet I'll be civil.

Now sometimes in a dream My heart goes out of me To build and scheme, Till I sob after things that seem So pleasant in a dream: A home such as I see My blessed neighbors live in With father and with mother, All proud of one another, Named by one common name, From baby in the bud To full-blown workman father; It's little short of Heaven.

I'd give my gentle blood To wash my special shame And drown my private grudge; I'd toil and moil much rather The dingiest cottage drudge Whose mother need not blush, Than live here like a lady And see my Mother flush And hear her voice unsteady Sometimes, yet never dare Ask to share her care.

Of course the servants sneer Behind my back at me; Of course the village girls, Who envy me my curls And gowns and idleness, Take comfort in a jeer; Of course the ladies guess Just so much of my history As points the emphatic stress With which they laud my Lady; The gentlemen who catch A casual glimpse of me And turn again to see, Their valets on the watch To speak a word with me, All know and sting me wild; Till I am almost ready To wish that I were dead, No faces more to see, No more words to be said, My Mother safe at last Disburdened of her child, And the past past.

"All equal before G.o.d,"-- Our Rector has it so, And sundry sleepers nod: It may be so; I know All are not equal here, And when the sleepers wake They make a difference.

"All equal in the grave,"-- That shows an obvious sense: Yet something which I crave Not death itself brings near; How should death half atone For all my past; or make The name I bear my own?

I love my dear old Nurse Who loved me without gains; I love my mistress even, Friend, Mother, what you will: But I could almost curse My Father for his pains; And sometimes at my prayer, Kneeling in sight of Heaven, I almost curse him still: Why did he set his snare To catch at unaware My Mother's foolish youth; Load me with shame that's hers, And her with something worse, A lifelong lie for truth?

I think my mind is fixed On one point and made up: To accept my lot unmixed; Never to drug the cup But drink it by myself.

I'll not be wooed for pelf; I'll not blot out my shame With any man's good name; But nameless as I stand, My hand is my own hand, And nameless as I came I go to the dark land.

"All equal in the grave,"-- I bide my time till then: "All equal before G.o.d,"-- To-day I feel His rod, To-morrow He may save: Amen.

SONG.

Oh what comes over the sea, Shoals and quicksands past; And what comes home to me, Sailing slow, sailing fast?

A wind comes over the sea With a moan in its blast; But nothing comes home to me, Sailing slow, sailing fast.

Let me be, let me be, For my lot is cast: Land or sea all's one to me, And sail it slow or fast.

BY THE SEA.

Why does the sea moan evermore?

Shut out from heaven it makes its moan.

It frets against the boundary sh.o.r.e; All earth's full rivers cannot fill The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

Sheer miracles of loveliness Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed: Anemones, salt, pa.s.sionless, Blow flower-like; just enough alive To blow and multiply and thrive.

Sh.e.l.ls quaint with curve, or spot, or spike, Encrusted live things argus-eyed, All fair alike, yet all unlike, Are born without a pang, and die Without a pang,--and so pa.s.s by.

DAYS OF VANITY.

A dream that waketh, Bubble that breaketh, Song whose burden sigheth, A pa.s.sing breath, Smoke that vanisheth,-- Such is life that dieth.

A flower that fadeth, Fruit the tree sheddeth, Trackless bird that flieth, Summer time brief, Falling of the leaf,-- Such is life that dieth.

A scent exhaling, Snow waters failing, Morning dew that drieth, A windy blast, Lengthening shadows cast,-- Such is life that dieth.

A scanty measure, Rust-eaten treasure, Spending that nought buyeth, Moth on the wing, Toil unprofiting,-- Such is life that dieth.

Morrow by morrow Sorrow breeds sorrow, For this my song sigheth; From day to night We lapse out of sight,-- Such is life that dieth.

ENRICA, 1865.