The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Volume 2. Browning Elizabeth Barrett

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      The lady did not heed

      The river's silence while

      Her own thoughts still ran at their will,

      And calm was still her smile.

      "My little sister wears

      The look our mother wore:

      I smooth her locks with a golden comb,

      I bless her evermore."

      Margret, Margret.

      "I gave her my first bird

      When first my voice it knew;

      I made her share my posies rare

      And told her where they grew:

      I taught her God's dear name

      With prayer and praise to tell,

      She looked from heaven into my face

      And said, I love thee well."

      Margret, Margret.

      IT trembled on the grass

      With a low, shadowy laughter;

      You could see each bird as it woke and stared

      Through the shrivelled foliage after.

      "Fair child thy sister is!

      But better loveth she

      Thy golden comb than thy gathered flowers,

      And better both than thee,

      Margret, Margret."

      Thy lady did not heed

      The withering on the bough;

      Still calm her smile albeit the while

      A little pale her brow:

      "I have a father old,

      The lord of ancient halls;

      An hundred friends are in his court

      Yet only me he calls.

      Margret, Margret.

      "An hundred knights are in his court

      Yet read I by his knee;

      And when forth they go to the tourney-show

      I rise not up to see:

      'T is a weary book to read,

      My tryst's at set of sun,

      But loving and dear beneath the stars

      Is his blessing when I've done."

      Margret, Margret.

      IT trembled on the grass

      With a low, shadowy laughter;

      And moon and star though bright and far

      Did shrink and darken after.

      "High lord thy father is!

      But better loveth he

      His ancient halls than his hundred friends,

      His ancient halls, than thee,

      Margret, Margret."

      The lady did not heed

      That the far stars did fail;

      Still calm her smile, albeit the while …

      Nay, but she is not pale!

      "I have more than a friend

      Across the mountains dim:

      No other's voice is soft to me,

      Unless it nameth him."

      Margret, Margret.

      "Though louder beats my heart,

      I know his tread again,

      And his fair plume aye, unless turned away,

      For the tears do blind me then:

      We brake no gold, a sign

      Of stronger faith to be,

      But I wear his last look in my soul,

      Which said, I love but thee!"

      Margret, Margret.

      IT trembled on the grass

      With a low, shadowy laughter;

      And the wind did toll, as a passing soul

      Were sped by church-bell after;

      And shadows, 'stead of light,

      Fell from the stars above,

      In flakes of darkness on her face

      Still bright with trusting love.

      Margret, Margret.

      "He loved but only thee!

      That love is transient too.

      The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still

      I' the mouth that vowed thee true:

      Will he open his dull eyes

      When tears fall on his brow?

      Behold, the death-worm to his heart

      Is a nearer thing than thou,

      Margret, Margret."

      Her face was on the ground —

      None saw the agony;

      But the men at sea did that night agree

      They heard a drowning cry:

      And when the morning brake,

      Fast rolled the river's tide,

      With the green trees waving overhead

      And a white corse laid beside.

      Margret, Margret.

      A knight's bloodhound and he

      The funeral watch did keep;

      With a thought o' the chase he stroked its face

      As it howled to see him weep.

      A fair child kissed the dead,

      But shrank before its cold.

      And alone yet proudly in his hall

      Did stand a baron old.

      Margret, Margret.

      Hang up my harp again!

      I have no voice for song.

      Not song but wail, and mourners pale,

      Not bards, to love belong.

      O failing human love!

      O light, by darkness known!

      O false, the while thou treadest earth!

      O deaf beneath the stone!

      Margret, Margret.

      – so find we profit,

      By losing of our prayers.

      To rest the weary nurse has gone:

      An eight-day watch had watchèd she,

      Still rocking beneath sun and moon

      The baby on her knee,

      Till Isobel its mother said

      "The fever СКАЧАТЬ