"He sends a ring and a broken coin, Sister Helen, And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." "What else he broke will he ever join, Little brother?" (O Mother, Mary Mother, No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!) "He yields you these and craves full fain, Sister Helen, You pardon him in his mortal pain." "What else he took will he give again, Little brother?" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!) She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." “Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune, Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!) “A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, "They've caught her to Westholm's Sister Helen, So darkly clad, I saw her not." "See her now or never see aught, Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?) "Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, Sister Helen, On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair." "Blest hour of my power and her despair, Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven!) "Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow, Sister Helen, 'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." "One morn for pride and three days for woe. Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!) saddle-bow, Sister Helen, And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow." "Let it turn whiter than winter snow, Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!) "O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, Sister Helen! More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." "No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!) "Alas! but I fear the heavy sound, Sister Helen; Is it in the sky or in the ground?" "Say, have they turned their horses round, Little brother?" (O Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?) BELOVED, thou hast brought me many flowers Plucked in the garden, all the summer through And winter, and it seemed as if they grew In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers. So, in the like name of that love of ours, Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too, And which on warm and cold days I withdrew From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine, Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Here's ivy! take them, as I used to do Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine. ALGERNON SWINBURNE THE YOUTH OF THE YEAR From ATALANTA IN CALYDON WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; |