Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, The lovely, lordly creature floated on To where her wounded brethren lay; there stay'd; Knelt on one knee, the child on one, and prest Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers, And happy warriors, and immortal names, And said, 'You shall not lie in the tents but here, With female hands and hospitality.' Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance, She past my way. Up started from my side A shadow, and all her hue changed, and she said: 'He saved my life: my brother slew him for it.' No more at which the king in bitter scorn And held them up: she saw them, and a day Rose from the distance on her memory, When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche: And then once more she look'd at my pale face: Till understanding all the foolish work Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, Her iron will was broken in her mind; Her noble heart was molten in her breast; She bow'd, she set the child on the earth; she laid A feeling finger on my brows, and presently 'O Sire,' she said, 'he lives: he is not dead : O let me have him with my brethren here In our own palace: we will tend on him Like one of these; if so, by any means, To lighten this great clog of thanks, that makes She said but at the happy word, 'he lives,' With brow to brow like night and evening mixt yours, mine - not It is not yours, but mine: give me the child,' And turn'd each face her way: wan was her cheek Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye, And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst The laces toward her babe; but she nor cared Nor knew it, clamouring on, till Ida heard, Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood The mother, me, the child; but Cyril, who lay Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew Tall as a figure lengthened on the sand When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said: 'O fair and strong and terrible! Lioness That with your long locks play the Lion's mane ! But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks, We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will. What would you more? give her the child! remain Orb'd in your isolation: he is dead, Or all as dead: henceforth we let you be: Win you the hearts of women; and beware To hold your own, deny not her's to her, Give her the child! O if, I say, you keep One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved The breast that fed or the arm that dandled you, Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer, |