Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot, And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal, All her fair length upon the ground she lay : And at her head a follower of the camp, A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood, Then Florian knelt, and 'Come,' he whisper'd to her, 'Lift up your head, sweet sister lie not thus. What have you done but right? you could not slay Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, When fall'n in darker ways.' And likewise I: 'Be comforted: have I not lost her too, In whose least act abides the nameless charm That none has else for me.' She heard, she moved, She moan'd, a folded voice; and up she sat, And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth, As those that mourn half-shrouded over death In deathless marble. 'Her,' she said, 'my friend Parted from her betray'd her cause and mine Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not your faith? O base and bad! what comfort? none for me!' 'Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child, My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more! For now will cruel Ida keep her back; And either she will die from want of care, Or sicken with ill usage, when they say The child is hers for every little fault, The child is hers; and they will beat my girl, Remembering her mother: O my flower! Or they will take her, they will make her hard, And she will pass me by in after-life With some cold reverence worse than were she dead. Ill mother that I was to leave her there, To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, The horror of the shame among them all : Until they hate to hear me like a wind And satisfy my soul with kissing her: Ah! what might that man not deserve of me, Who gave me back my child?' 'Be comforted,' Said Cyril, you shall have it:' but again She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so Like tender things that being caught feign death, Spoke not, nor stirr'd. By this a murmur ran Thro' all the camp, and inward raced the scouts With rumour of Prince Arac hard at hand. We left her by the woman, and without Found the gray kings at parle: and 'Look to it,' cried My father, that our compact is performed: You have spoilt this girl; she laughs at you and man : She shall not legislate for Nature, king, But yields, or war.' King Then Gama turn'd to me: 'We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time With our strange child: and yet they say that still You love her. Give us, then, your mind at large: 'Not war, if possible, O king,' I said, 'lest from the abuse of war, The desecrated shrine, the trampled year, The smouldering homestead, and the household flower Torn from the lintel all the common wrong A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her (And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, By gentleness than war. I want her love. What were I nigher this, altho' we dash'd Your cities into shards with catapults, And dusted down your domes with mangonels; She would not love; - or brought her chain'd, a slave, The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, Not ever would she love; but brooding turn Were caught within the record of her wrongs, Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice, Not to be molten out.' And roughly spake |