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“Qui e?” “I am Ginevra.” And I thought, “Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest, And bid me hence.” But, lo, a moment more The bolts were drawn, and arms whose
touch Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in. “O ghost or angel of my buried love, I know not, I care not which, be welcome here ! Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!” I heard him say, and then I heard no more.
It was high noontide when I woke again,
shroud To try the cause.
This was the verdict given: “A woman who has been to burial borne, Made fast and left and locked in with the dead; Who at her husband's door has stood and plead For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied; Who from her father's house is urged and chased, Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact. The Court pronounces the defendant — dead ! She can resume her former ties at will, Or may renounce them, if such be her will. She is no more a daughter or a spouse, Unless she choose, and is set free to form New ties if so she choose.”
O, blessed words! That very day we knelt before the priest, My love and I, were wed, and life began. Child of my child, child of Antonio's child, Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face. 'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you. But time is brief, and, had I told you not, Haply the story would have met your ears From them, the Amieris. Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up, To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad. I who have died once, do not fear to die. Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this. Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say, I know I shall not stand long at that gate, Or knock and be refused an entrance there, For he will start up when he hears my voice, The saints will smile, and he will open quick. Only a night to part me from that joy. Jesu Maria ! let the dawning come!
THE HIGH TIDE AT LINCOLNSHIRE
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers rang by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best,” quoth he. “Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe, ‘The Brides of Enderby.""
Men say it was a stolen tyde
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flight of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.
I sat and spun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies, And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !” calling
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away
The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.
I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding down with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again, “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
“The old sea wall (he cried) is downe,
The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-place.” He shook as one that looks on death: “God save you, mother !” straight he saith, “Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?”
“Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,
With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play
Afar I heard her milking song."
With that he cried and beat his breast;
For, lo! along the river's bed
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow, seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sat that night,
The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church tower, red and high – A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to me, That in the dark rang “Enderby.”
They rang the sailor lads to guide
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
And didst thou visit him no more?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore,
Ere yet the early dawn was clear, Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
To manye more than myne and me: