A KNIGHT of gallant deeds

And a young page at his side, From the holy war in Palestine Did slow and thoughtful ride,

III

'O brave knight,' said the page,

'Or ere we hither came,

We talked in tent, we talked in field,
Of the bloody battle-game;

But here, below this greenwood bough,
I cannot speak the same.

IV

'Our troop is far behind,

The woodland calm is new, Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs,

Tread deep the shadows through; And in my mind some blessing kind Is dropping with the dew.

V

'The woodland calm is pure

I cannot choose but have

A thought from these, o' the beechen

trees

Which in our England wave,

And of the little finches fine
Which sang there, while in Palestine
The warrior-hilt we drave.

VI

'Methinks, a moment gone,
I heard my mother pray!

I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me
Wherein she passed away;

And I know the heavens are leaning down

To hear what I shall say.'

VII

The page spake calm and high, As of no mean degree; Perhaps he felt in nature's broad Full heart, his own was free:

II

'O young page,' said the knight,

'A noble page art thou!

Thou fearest not to steep in blood

The curls upon thy brow;

Then answered smilingly :

fight,

Didst ward me a mortal blow.'

IX

'And this I meant to say,-
My lady's face shall shine
As ladies' faces use, to greet
My page from Palestine;

Or, speak she fair or prank she gay,
She is no lady of mine.

X

'And this I meant to fear,

Her bower may suit thee ill ! For, sooth, in that same field and tent, Thy talk was somewhat still ; And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear, Than thy tongue for my lady's will.'

XI

Slowly and thankfully

The young page bowed his head : His large eyes seemed to muse a smile, Until he blushed instead,

And no lady in her bower, pardie,

Could blush more sudden red. 'Sir Knight, thy lady's bower to me Is suited well,' he said.

XII

Beati, beati, mortui !

From the convent on the sea,
One mile off, or scarce as nigh,
Swells the dirge as clear and high
As if that, over brake and lea,
Bodily the wind did carry
The great altar of Saint Mary,
And the fifty tapers burning o'er it,
And the lady Abbess dead before it,
And the chanting nuns whom yester-
week

Her voice did charge and bless,-
Chanting steady, chanting meek,
Chanting with a solemn breath
Because that they are thinking less
Upon the Dead than upon death!
Beati, beati, mortui !

Now the vision in the sound
Wheeleth on the wind around.
Now it sleepeth back, away—
The uplands will not let it stay
To dark the western sun.
Mortui!-away at last,-

Or ere the page's blush is past! And the knight heard all, and the page heard none.

Bodily the wind did carry

The great altar of Saint Mary,
And the fifty tapers paling o'er it,
And the Lady Abbess stark before it,
And the weary nuns with hearts that
faintly

Beat along their voices saintly

Ingemisco, ingemisco!

Dirge for abbess laid in shroud
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,
Page or lady, as we said,
All as sad if not as loud.
With the dews upon her head,

Ingemisco, ingemisco!

Is ever a lament begun
By any mourner under sun,
Which, ere it endeth, suits but one?

THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY

FIRST PART

'ONORA, ONORA,'-her mother is calling, She sits at the lattice and hears the dew falling

Drop after drop from the sycamores laden

With dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden, 'Night cometh, Onora.'

She looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees,

To the limes at the end where the green arbour is

'Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her,

While forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her

Night cometh-Onora!'

She looks up the forest whose alley's shoot on

Like the mute minster-aisles when the anthem is done,

And the choristers sitting with faces

aslant

Feel the silence to consecrate more than

the chant

'Onora, Onura!'