Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine ;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood-
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
"Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine ;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

S. DOBELL.

379

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL

The blesséd damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,

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40

5

But a white rose of Mary's gift,

For service meetly worn ;

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Her hair that lay along her back

Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseemed she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;

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The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.

(To one, it is ten years of years.
Yet now, and in this place

....

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Surely she leaned o'er me-her hair
Fell all about my face.

Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on ;
By God built over the sheer depth
The which is Space begun ;

So high, that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in Heaven, across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.

Beneath, the tides of day and night
With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge.

Heard hardly, some of her new friends
Amid their loving games

Spake evermore among themselves
Their virginal chaste names;

And the souls mounting up to God
Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped

Out of the circling charm ;

Until her bosom must have made

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The bar she leaned on warm,

And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw

Time like a pulse shake fierce

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove

Within the gulf to pierce

Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres.

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The sun was gone now; the curled moon 55

Was like a little feather

Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
Had when they sang together.

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song,
Strove not her accents there,

Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells
Possessed the mid-day air,

Strove not her steps to reach my side
Down all the echoing stair ?)

'I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come,' she said.

"Have I not prayed in Heaven ?-on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
And shall I feel afraid?

'When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,

I'll take his hand and go with him
To the deep wells of light;

We will step down as to a stream,
And bathe there in God's sight.

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65

70

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'We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod,

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Whose lamps are stirred continually

With prayer sent up to God ;

And see our old prayers, granted, melt
Each like a little cloud.

'We two will lie i' the shadow of

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That living mystic tree,

Within whose secret growth the Dove

Is sometimes felt to be,

While every leaf that His plumes touch
Saith His Name audibly.

'And I myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying_so,

The songs I sing here; which his voice
Shall pause in, hushed and slow,

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And find some knowledge at each pause,
Or some new thing to know.'

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st.

Yea, one wast thou with me

That once of old.

To endless unity

But shall God lift

The soul whose likeness with thy soul
Was but its love for thee ?)

'We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves

Where the lady Mary is,

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With her five handmaidens, whose names 105

Are five sweet symphonies,

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

Margaret and Rosalys.

'Circlewise sit they, with bound locks

And foreheads garlanded;

Into the fine cloth white like flame
Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead.

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'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : Then will I lay my cheek

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To his, and tell about our love,
Not once abashed or weak:

And the dear Mother will approve

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My pride, and let me speak.

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Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all souls

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
Bowed with their aureoles :

She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild,

'All this is when he comes.' She ceased. 135
The light thrilled towards her, filled
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres:
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)

380

REST

D. G. RoSSETTI.

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;

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Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies,

Hushed in and curtained with a blesséd dearth
Of all that irked her from the hour of birth ;
With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her,
Silence more musical than any song;

Even her very heart has ceased to stir :
Until the morning of Eternity

Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be ; And when she wakes she will not think it long. C. G. RosSETTI.

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381 SONG

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree: