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And round us ever there crowded fast
Great men with faces all aghast:

And who so bold that might tell the thing
Which now they knew to their lord the King?
Much woe I learnt in their communing.

The king had watched with a heart sore stirred
For two whole days, and this was the third:

And still to all his court would he say, "What keeps my son so long away?"

And they said: "The ports lie far and wide
That skirt the swell of the English tide;

"And England's cliffs are not more white Than her women are, and scarce so light Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright;

"And in some port that he reached from France The Prince has lingered for his pleasaùnce."

But once the King asked: "What distant cry
Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?"

And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie!
Do the fishers fling their nets at sea."

And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest
When the sea-mew misses its young from the nest?"

'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread,

Albeit they knew not what they said:

But who should speak to-day of the thing
That all knew there except the King?

Then pondering much they found a way,
And met round the King's high seat that day:

And the King sat with a heart sore stirred,
And seldom he spoke and seldom heard.

'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware Of a little boy with golden hair,

As bright as the golden poppy is

That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss:

Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring,
And his garb black like the raven's wing.

Nothing heard but his foot through the hall,
For now the lords were silent all.

And the King wondered, and said, "Alack!
Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black?

"Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall As though my court were a funeral?"

Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,
And looked up weeping in the King's face.

"O wherefore black, O King, ye may say, For white is the hue of death to-day.

"Your son and all his fellowship

Lie low in the sea with the White Ship."

King Henry fell as a man struck dead;
And speechless still he stared from his bed
When to him next day my rede I read.

There's many an hour must needs beguile
A King's high heart that he should smile,

Full many a lordly hour, full fain

Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:

But this King never smiled again.
By none but me can the tale be told,
The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.

(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,

Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (The sea hath no King but God alone.)

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. (b 1830).

SONNET.

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;

Whose service is my special dignity,

And she my loadstar while I go and come.
And so because you love me, and because

I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes where with to crown your honoured name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.

A CHILL.

What can lambkins do

All the keen night through?
Nestle by their woolly mother
The careful ewe.

What can nestlings do

In the nightly dew?

Sleep beneath their mother's wing

Till day breaks anew.

If in field or tree

There might only be

Such a warm soft sleeping-place
Found for me!

REMEMBER.

SONNET.

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

UP-HILL.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

THE LOWEST PLACE.

Give me the lowest place: not that I dare
Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast died
That I might live and share

Thy glory by Thy side.

Give me the lowest place: or if for me

That lowest place too high, make one more low

Where I may sit and see

My God and love Thee so.

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