Part 23

“Gilbert, my lord, is homeward bound, His sloop is drawing near, What shall I do when I am found Not in his house but here?”

“O I will heal the injuries I’ve done to him and thee. I’ll give him means to live at ease Afar from Shastonb’ry.”

When Gilbert came we both took thought: “Since comfort and good cheer,” Said he, “So readily are bought, He’s welcome to thee, Dear.”

So when my lord flung liberally His gold in Gilbert’s hands, I coaxed and got my brothers three Made stewards of his lands.

And then I coaxed him to install My other kith and kin, With aim to benefit them all Before his love ran thin.

And next I craved to be possessed Of plate and jewels rare. He groaned: “You give me, Love, no rest, Take all the law will spare!”

And so in course of years my wealth Became a goodly hoard, My steward brethren, too, by stealth Had each a fortune stored.

Thereafter in the gloom he’d walk, And by and by began To say aloud in absent talk, “I am a ruined man!—

“I hardly could have thought,” he said, “When first I looked on thee, That one so soft, so rosy red, Could thus have beggared me!”

Seeing his fair estates in pawn, And him in such decline, I knew that his domain had gone To lift up me and mine.

Next month upon a Sunday morn A gunshot sounded nigh: By his own hand my lordly born Had doomed himself to die.

“Live, my dear lord, and much of thine Shall be restored to thee!” He smiled, and said ’twixt word and sign, “Alas—that cannot be!”

And while I searched his cabinet For letters, keys, or will, ’Twas touching that his gaze was set With love upon me still.

And when I burnt each document Before his dying eyes, ’Twas sweet that he did not resent My fear of compromise.

The steeple-cock gleamed golden when I watched his spirit go: And I became repentant then That I had wrecked him so.

Three weeks at least had come and gone, With many a saddened word, Before I wrote to Gilbert on The stroke that so had stirred.

And having worn a mournful gown, I joined, in decent while, My husband at a dashing town To live in dashing style.

Yet though I now enjoy my fling, And dine and dance and drive, I’d give my prettiest emerald ring To see my lord alive.

And when the meet on hunting-days Is near his churchyard home, I leave my bantering beaux to place A flower upon his tomb;

And sometimes say: “Perhaps too late The saints in Heaven deplore That tender time when, moved by Fate, He darked my cottage door.”

THE REMINDER

WHILE I watch the Christmas blaze Paint the room with ruddy rays, Something makes my vision glide To the frosty scene outside.

There, to reach a rotting berry, Toils a thrush,—constrained to very Dregs of food by sharp distress, Taking such with thankfulness.

Why, O starving bird, when I One day’s joy would justify, And put misery out of view, Do you make me notice you!

THE RAMBLER

I DO not see the hills around, Nor mark the tints the copses wear; I do not note the grassy ground And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note Of cuckoos hid on either hand, The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree, and mead— All eloquent of love divine— Receives their constant careful heed: Such keen appraisement is not mine.