Part 14

THE MILK-WHITE DOE.

FRENCH VOLKS-LIED.

IT was a mother and a maid That walked the woods among, And still the maid went slow and sad, And still the mother sung.

‘What ails you, daughter Margaret? Why go you pale and wan? Is it for a cast of bitter love, Or for a false leman?’

‘It is not for a false lover That I go sad to see; But it is for a weary life Beneath the greenwood tree.

‘For ever in the good daylight A maiden may I go, But always on the ninth midnight I change to a milk-white doe.

‘They hunt me through the green forest With hounds and hunting men; And ever it is my fair brother That is so fierce and keen.’

* * * * *

‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son; Where are your hounds so good?’ ‘Oh, they are hunting a white doe Within the glad greenwood.

‘And three times have they hunted her, And thrice she’s won away; The fourth time that they follow her That white doe they shall slay.’

* * * * *

Then out and spoke the forester, As he came from the wood, ‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hair Among the wild deer’s blood.

‘And I have hunted the wild deer In east lands and in west; And never saw I white doe yet That had a maiden’s breast.’

Then up and spake her fair brother, Between the wine and bread: ‘Behold I had but one sister, And I have been her dead.

‘But ye must bury my sweet sister With a stone at her foot and her head, And ye must cover her fair body With the white roses and red.

‘And I must out to the greenwood, The roof shall never shelter me; And I shall lie for seven long years On the grass below the hawthorn tree.’

HELIODORE.

(MELEAGER.)

POUR wine, and cry again, again, again! To Heliodore! And mingle the sweet word ye call in vain With that ye pour! And bring to me her wreath of yesterday That’s dank with myrrh; Hesternæ Rosæ, ah my friends, but they Remember her! Lo the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep As who repine, For if on any breast they see her sleep It is not mine!

THE PROPHET.

(ANTIPHILUS.)

I KNEW it in your childish grace The dawning of Desire, ‘Who lives,’ I said, ‘will see that face Set all the world on fire!’ They mocked; but Time has brought to pass The saying over-true; Prophet and martyr now, alas, I burn for Truth,—and you!

LAIS.

(POMPEIUS.)

LAIS that bloomed for all the world’s delight, Crowned with all love lilies, the fair and dear, Sleeps the predestined sleep, nor knows the flight Of Helios, the gold-reined charioteer: Revel, and kiss, and love, and hate, one Night Darkens, that never lamp of Love may cheer!

CLEARISTA.

(MELEAGER.)

FOR Death, not for Love, hast thou Loosened thy zone! Flutes filled thy bower but now, Morning brings moan! Maids round thy bridal bed Hushed are in gloom, Torches to Love that led Light to the tomb!