Had the knight looked up to the page's face,
I ween he had never gone:

Had the knight looked back to the page's geste,
I ween he had turned anon,

For dread was the woe in the face so young,
And wild was the silent geste that flung
Casque, sword to earth, as the boy downsprung
And stood-alone, alone.

He clenched his hands as if to hold
His soul's great agony-

"Have I renounced my womanhood,
For wifehood unto thee,

And is this the last, last look of thine
That ever I shall see?

"Yet God thee save, and mayst thou have A lady to thy mind,

More woman-proud and half as true

As one thou leav'st behind!

And God me take with HIм to dwell—

For HIM I cannot love too well,

As I have loved my kind."

She looketh up, in earth's despair,
The hopeful heavens to seek;
That little cloud still floateth there,
Whereof her loved did speak:
How bright the little cloud appears!
Her eyelids fall upon the tears,

And the tears down either cheek.

The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel-
The Paynims round her coming!

The sound and sight have made her calm,-
False page, but truthful woman;

She stands amid them all unmoved:
A heart once broken by the loved
Is strong to meet the foeman.

"Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep,
From pouring wine-cups resting?".
"I keep my master's noble name,

For warring, not for feasting; And if that here Sir Hubert were, My master brave, my master dear, Ye would not stay the questing." "Where is thy master, scornful page, That we may slay or bind him?""Now search the lea and search the wood, And see if ye can find him! Nathless, as hath been often tried, Your Paynim heroes faster ride

Before him than behind him.”

"Give smoother answers, lying page,
Or perish in the lying!"-
"I trow that if the warrior brand
Beside my foot, were in my hand,
'Twere better at replying!"

They cursed her deep, they smote her low,
They cleft her golden ringlets through;
The Loving is the Dying.

She felt the scimitar gleam down,

And met it from beneath

With smile more bright in victory
Than any sword from sheath,—
Which flashed across her lip serene,
Most like the spirit-light between
The darks of life and death.

Ingemisco, ingemisco!

From the convent on the sea,

Now it sweepeth solemnly,
As over wood and over lea

Bodily the wind did carry
The great altar of St. Mary,

And the fifty tapers paling o'er it,

And the Lady Abbess stark before it,

And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly Beat along their voices saintly

Ingemisco, ingemisco!

Dirge for abbess laid in shroud
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,

Page or lady, as we said,

With the dews upon her head,
All as sad if not as loud.
Ingemisco, ingemisco!

Is ever a lament begun

By any mourner under sun,

Which, ere it endeth, suits but one?

THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.
[Graham's Magazine 1842.]

"THERE is no God" the foolish saith,
But none "There is no sorrow;"

And nature oft the cry of faith

In bitter need will borrow:

Eyes, which the preacher could not school,

By wayside graves are raised,

And lips say "God be pitiful,"

Who ne'er said "God be praisèd."

Be pitiful, O God!

The tempest stretches from the steep
The shadow of its coming,

The beasts grow tame and near us creep,
As help were in the human;

Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind,

We spirits tremble under

The hills have echoes, but we find

No answer for the thunder.

Be pitiful, O God!

The battle hurtles on the plains,
Earth feels new scythes upon her;
We reap our brothers for the wains,
And call the harvest-honour:
Draw face to face, front line to line,
One image all inherit,-

Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,
Clay-clay, and spirit—spirit.

Be pitiful, O God!

The plague runs festering through the town,
And never a bell is tolling,

And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon,
Nod to the dead-cart's rolling:
The young child calleth for the cup,
The strong man brings it weeping,
The mother from her babe looks up,
And shrieks away its sleeping.

Be pitiful, O God!

The plague of gold strikes far and near,
And deep and strong it enters;

This purple chimar which we wear

Makes madder than the centaur's:

Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange,

We cheer the pale gold-diggers,

Each soul is worth so much on 'Change,

And marked, like sheep, with figures.

Be pitiful, O God!

The curse of gold upon the land

The lack of bread enforces;

The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,
Like more of Death's White Horses:
The rich preach "rights" and "future days,"
And hear no angel scoffing,

The poor die mute, with starving gaze

On corn-ships in the offing.

Be pitiful, O God!

We meet together at the feast,
To private mirth betake us;
We stare down in the winecup, lest
Some vacant chair should shake us:
We name delight, and pledge it round-
"It shall be ours to-morrow!"
God's seraphs, do your voices sound
As sad, in naming sorrow?

Be pitiful, O God!

We sit together, with the skies,
The steadfast skies, above us,
Wo look into each other's eyes,
"And how long will you love us?"
The eyes grow dim with prophecy,
The voices, low and breathless,--
"Till death us part!"-O words, to be
Our best, for love the deathless!

Be pitiful, O God!

We tremble by the harmless bed
Of one loved and departed:
Our tears drop on the lips that said.
Last night "Be stronger-hearted!"
O God-to clasp those fingers close,
And yet to feel so lonely!