Classic Poem

T HORA working at embroidery , E LSPETH spinning . Thora (sings)

We severed in autumn early,
 Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
The wheat and the oats and the barley
 Are ripe for the harvest now,
We sunder'd one misty morning,
 Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain,
Through the flowers those hills adorning—
 Thou comest not back again.

My heart is heavy and weary
 With the weight of a weary soul;
The mid-day glare grows dreary,
 And dreary the midnight scroll.
The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle,
 'Neath the load of the golden grain;
I sigh for a mate more fickle—
 Thou comest not back again.

The warm sun riseth and setteth,
 The night bringeth moist'ning dew,
But the soul that longeth forgetteth
 The warmth and the moisture, too;
In the hot sun rising and setting
 There is naught save feverish pain;
There are tears in the night-dews wetting—
 Thou comest not back again.

Thy voice in mine ear still mingles
 With the voices of whisp'ring trees;
Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles
 At each kiss of the summer breeze;
While dreams of the past are thronging
 For substance of shades in vain,
I am waiting, watching, and longing—
 Thou comest not back again.

Waiting and watching ever,
 Longing and lingering yet,
Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver,
 Winds murmur and waters fret,
No answer they bring, no greeting,
 No speech save that sad refrain,
Nor voice, save an echo repeating—
 He cometh not back again. Elspeth:

Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max;
 With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot.
If the husbands vanish'd, and left no tracks,
 Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot? Thora:

How well I remember that dreary ride;
 How I sigh'd for the lands of ice and snow,
In the trackless wastes of the desert wide,
 With the sun o'erhead and the sand below;
'Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms,
 How I sighed for the forest of sheltering firs,
Whose shadows environ'd the Danish farms
 Where I sang and sported in childish years!
On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage
 We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high;
Our fever'd thirst we could scarce assuage
 At the brackish well that was nearly dry;
And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set,
 And we rode all the day through a desert land,
And we camped where the lake and the river met,
 On sedge and shingle and shining sand:
Enfolded in Hugo's cloak I slept,
 Or watched the stars while I lay awake;
And close to our feet the staghound crept,
 And the horses were grazing beside the lake;
Now we own castles and serving men,
 Lands and revenues. What of that?
Hugo the Norman was kinder then,
 And happier was Thora of Armorat. Elspeth:

Nay, I warn'd thee, with Norman sails unfurl'd
 Above our heads, when we wished thee joy,
That men are the same all over the world;
 They will worship only the newest toy;
Yet Hugo is kind and constant too,
 Though somewhat given to studies of late;
Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue,
 And worse than thine is thy sisters' fate.
But a shadow darkens the chamber door.

Enter Thurston. Thurston .

 'Tis I, Lady Thora, our lord is near.
My horse being fresher, I rode before;
 Both he and Eric will soon be here. Thora:

Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are
 Most welcome. What has delayed you thus? Thurston:

Both by sea and land we have travell'd far,
 Yet little of note has happened to us—
We were wreck'd on the shores of Brittany,
 Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound;
The rocks were steep and the surf ran high,
 Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown'd.
By a swarm of knaves we were next beset,
 Who took us for corsairs; then released
By a Breton count, whose name I forget.
 Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast. Elspeth:

That man is rude and froward of speech:
 My ears are good, though my sight grows dim. Thora:
Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach
 Courtly nor servile manners to him.