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Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

But when that moan had past for evermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him, and he groan'd, "The King is gone."
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
"From the great deep to the great deep he goes."

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag; Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, "He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound He comes again; but-if he come no moreO me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat, Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed On that high day, when, clothed with living light, They stood before his throne in silence, friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?”

Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint

As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw,
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.


[Ballads and Poems 1880.]


"WAIT a little," you say, "you are sure it 'll all come right," But the boy was born i' trouble, an' looks so wan an' so white:

Wait! an' once I ha' waited—I hadn't to wait for long. Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry.--No, no, you are doing me wrong!

Harry and I were married: the boy can hold up his head, The boy was born in wedlock, but after my man was dead; I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' I work an' I wait to the end.

I am all alone in the world, an' you are my only friend.


Doctor, if you can wait, I'll tell you the tale o' my life. When Harry an' I were children, he call'd me his own little wife;

I was happy when I was with him, an' sorry when he

was away,

An' when we play'd together, I loved him better than play; He workt me the daisy chain--he made me the cowslip


He fought the boys that were rude, an' I loved him better than all.

Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home in disgrace, I never could quarrel with Harry-I had but to look in his face.


There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's kin, that had need Of a good stout lad at his farm; he sent, an' the father agreed;

So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire farm for years an' for years;

I walked with him down to the quay, poor lad, an' we parted in tears.

The boat was beginning to move, we heard them a-ringing the bell,

"I'll never love any but you, God bless you, my own little Nell."


I was a child, an' he was a child, an' he came to harm; There was a girl, a hussy, that workt with him up at the farm,

One had deceived her an' left her alone with her sin an' her shame,

And so she was wicked with Harry; the girl was the most to blame.


And years went over till I that was little had grown so tall, The men would say of the maids, "Our Nelly's the flower of 'em all.'

I didn't take heed o' them, but I taught myself all I could To make a good wife for Harry, when Harry came home for good.


Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as happy too, For I heard it abroad in the fields "I'll never love any but you;"

“I'll never love any but you" the morning song of the lark, "I'll never love any but you" the nightingale's hymn in the dark.


And Harry came home at last, but he look'd at me sidelong and shy,

Vext me a bit, till he told me that so many years had gone by,

I had grown so handsome and tall-that I might ha' forgot him somehow

For he thought-there were other lads-he was fear'd to look at me now.


Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o' Christmas day,

Married among the red berries, an' all as merry as MayThose were the pleasant times, my house an' my man were my pride,

We seem'd like ships i' the Channel a-sailing with wind an' tide.


But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried the villages round,

So Harry went over the Solent to see if work could be found;

An' he wrote "I ha' six weeks' work, little wife, so far as I know;

I'll come for an hour to-morrow, an' kiss you before I go."


So I set to righting the house, for wasn't he coming that day?

An' I hit on an old deal-box that was pus'hd in a corner


It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a letter along wi' the rest,

I had better ha' put my naked hand in a hornets' nest.


"Sweetheart"-this was the letter-this was the letter I read

"You promised to find me work near you, an' I wish I was dead

Didn't you kiss me an' promise? you haven't done it, my lad,

An' I almost died o' your going away, an' I wish that I had."


I too wish that I had-in the pleasant times that had past, Before I quarrell'd with Harry-my quarrel-the first an' the last.


For Harry came in, an' I flung him the letter that drove me wild,

An' he told it me all at once, as simple as any child, "What can it matter, my lass, what I did wi' my single life? I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to his wife; An' she wasn't one o' the worst." "Then," I said, "I'm none o' the best."

An' he smiled at me, "Ain't you, my love? Come, come, little wife, let it rest!

The man isn't like the woman, no need to make such a stir."

Jiriczek, Englische Dichter.


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