And round us ever there crowded fast And who so bold that might tell the thing The king had watched with a heart sore stirred 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 "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 And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie! And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest '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 Then pondering much they found a way, And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, '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, Nothing heard but his foot through the hall, And the King wondered, and said, "Alack! "Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall As though my court were a funeral?" Then lowly knelt the child at the dais, "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; There's many an hour must needs beguile Full many a lordly hour, full fain Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign: But this King never smiled again. (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 Whose service is my special dignity, And she my loadstar while I go and come. I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath A CHILL. What can lambkins do All the keen night through? 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 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: It will be late to counsel then or pray. 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? Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? THE LOWEST PLACE. Give me the lowest place: not that I dare 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. |