She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: She watched my crest among them all, She saw me fight, she heard me call, Atween me and the castle wall, The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana: The false, false arrow went aside, The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oh! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana! They should have stabbed me where I lay, Oriana! THE BALLAD OF ORIANA 225 How could I rise and come away, Oriana? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabbed me where I lay, Oriana, They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. O breaking heart that will not break, O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, Up from my heart unto my eyes, Within thy heart my arrow lies, O cursed hand! O cursèd blow! O happy thou that liest low, Oriana! All night the silence seems to flow A weary, weary way I go, When Norland winds pipe down the sea, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. Alfred Tennyson. BARTHRAM'S DIRGE THEY shot him dead on the Nine-Stone Rig, Beside the Headless Cross, And they left him lying in his blood, They made a bier of the broken bough, And they bore him to the Lady Chapel, A lady came to that lonely bower, BARTHRAM'S DIRGE She tore her ling (long) yellow hair, She bathed him in the Lady-Well And she plaited a garland for his breast, They rowed him in a lily sheet, And the Gray Friars sung the dead man's mass They buried him at the mirk midnight, They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, 227 And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower, The moss and the Lady fern. A Gray Friar stayed upon the grave, And sang till the morning tide, And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul, While Headless Cross shall bide. Surtees. THE YOUNG MAY MOON THE Young May moon is beaming, love, Through Morna's grove When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake! the heavens look bright, my dear ; 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear; And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear. Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. Thomas Moore. |