What Is It That You See—My Lord
‘What have you to say to us, my Lady of Northumberland?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—I've nothing else to say.’
‘Oh, yes, you have—my Lady—and we think we shall be hearing it
And you'll be glad to tell it, before the end of day.’
‘At what hour did it happen—my Lady of Northumberland?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—nothing has happened here.’
‘Oh, yes, there has, my Lady—'twas at three o'clock it happened.’
‘I often rise at three o'clock and have for many a year.’
‘Why do you rise so early?’
‘It is an ancient custom,
'Twas at that hour I used to rise to nurse my crying child.’
‘And still you walk in sleep, Lady?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
An old maternal tenderness by which I am beguiled.’
‘And still you rock the cradle on the stone before the altar?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington, why do you harass me?’
‘We think we have a message to send our Duke in Ireland—
When deeds are done at three o'clock he'd better come and see.
‘There is an ancient office—it's in the common Prayer Book.
You had best kneel down and read it—“We do beseech Thee, Lord,
From envy and from malice and from hard hearts, deliver us—
From pride and from false doctrine and from hatred of Thy word.”’
‘Go get your Book, my Lady!’
‘I haven't any Book, Sirs.
When Law is written in the heart there's little need to pray.’
‘You have no Book, my Lady? There was once a superstition
That every Christian Lady used a Prayer Book every day.’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—I've lost my Book’—
‘You lost it?’
‘And deeply I regret it.’
‘But if it should be found
By what token might we know it?’
‘It is bound in purple velvet,
With a cross of pearls upon it and with sapphire set around.’
‘There are others just as costly—my Lady of Northumberland.’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington, pray, what have you to do
With the tokens in my Prayer Book?’
‘Why, as honest Christian gentlemen,
It is only if we find it, that the book belongs to you.’
‘Look for the wedding service, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
My sister's hand emblazoned it, oh, every letter shone.
“Here's my heart's promise to obey,” she said, “upon my wedding day,
When you, my Dear, give me away, upon the altar stone.”’
‘What would you give to have it back, my Lady of Northumberland?
It's worth its weight in gold, we think.’
‘I'd give my wedding ring.’
‘Your Lord, being dead, would blush for shame.’
‘That isn't so, good gentlemen.
He's been in Paradise too long to care for such a thing.’
‘What colors did your sister use, O Lady of Northumberland?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington, pray, what is this to you?’
‘A further sign to know it by, my Lady of Northumberland.’
‘She did the letters all in rose, in gilt, in tender blue.’
‘Is this your Prayer Book, maybe—my Lady of Northumberland?
'Tis bound in purple velvet, with pearls all set around.’
‘Good gentlemen, I thank you—’
‘We are your servants, Lady.
'Twas buried beneath the altar stone, half covered in the ground.’
‘Why have you grown so pallid, my Lady of Northumberland?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—I am not well to-day.’
‘You would better call your sister.’
‘Nay gentlemen—she's sleeping.
I bade her take an extra rest upon her wedding day.’
‘Why is your hand stained red, Lady? Madam, are you wounded?’
‘There's blood upon this book, Sirs!’
‘Is there some secret here?
You would better call your sister.’
‘I said, Sir, she is sleeping.’
‘Aye, sleeping sound and sleeping well and laid upon her bier.’
‘You play some cruel trick, I think, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
Her bridal gown all waiting lies—this is her wedding day.’
‘Oh, well you know, my Lady, that at three o'clock this morning
You killed her on the altar stone when she knelt down to pray.’
‘We've something now for you to do—my Lady of Northumberland,
Although to bend your will to ours is bitter hard for you.’
‘I'll never bend my will to yours, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington!’
‘Oh, yes, you will, my Lady, and be glad to bend it, too.
‘Go call your page, my Lady.’
‘I will not call my page, Sirs.’
‘Oh, yes, you will—my Lady—with all your cruel pride.’
‘I have called my page already, at three o'clock this morning!
I saddled the horse with my own hand on which the lad should ride.’
‘Then call another, Lady, for you must send a message,
And say, “I killed my sister, who went alone to pray.”’
‘I sent the message, Gentlemen, and so cannot obey you!
My Lord will be here at the door about this hour today.’
‘Can no one break your pride, Lady?’
‘Not you, I think—good gentlemen!
I said, “I killed my sister who went to pray alone,
At three o'clock this morning. Ride fast, my Lord of Winchester!
Oh, scourge your horse and slay me, Sir, upon the altar stone.”’
‘Now we will break your pride, Lady, we'll break your cruel pride, Lady!
And you shall learn your lesson yet and thankfully obey.’
‘That is a word I'll never speak—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—
Save to my Lord of Winchester upon our wedding day—
‘What words are these you dare to speak—O Lady of Northumberland?
Even now about your brow accursed the deathly powers move.’
‘You are too ignorant and low, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
To comprehend the red hot roads, the strange wild roads of love.’
‘Your speech is cursed and you are damned, O Lady of Northumberland.
Yours is an evil will, we think. A foul deed has been done.’
‘Before the hour is gone, my Lords, I wed the Duke of Winchester.
There'll be a bridal yet to-day, upon the altar stone.’
‘Now we will break your pride, Lady, we'll break your cruel pride, Lady!
If you would live until he comes, the whip shall tutor you.
'Tis better far that you should say to God upon your Judgment Day,
That at the end you did one thing you did not wish to do.’
‘If that's the way I earn my right to greet my lord, good gentlemen,
I bend before you willingly. You have no need to urge.
To feel his sword thrust through my breast were sweet as any bridal wreath.
And I will earn that prize, my Lords, although 'tis by the scourge.’
‘Now we will break your pride, Lady! We'll break your cruel pride, Lady!
You may leap and you may run, but we will tame you still.’
‘I break for no one but my Love—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.’
‘Yet you shall learn from us, we think, the cleavage of your will.’
‘Bend low before us, Lady! O Lady of Northumberland!
Bend low before us, Lady and crouch upon the ground.
The whip has something here to do, and you, before we are through with you,
Shall run and cringe and whimper too, like any bleeding hound.’
‘Oh, gladly, gladly, do I bend, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
But not as one who kneels to you—but of my own desire.
For now at last ere I am dead, behold I am anointed
With that for which I have prayed so long, pain's quick consuming fire.
‘Oh, fierce has been my cruel pride—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
And I have lain upon my bed in pools of bitter sweat,
For I could scarcely speak or move for strict constraining of my love.
Now I shall be set free—set free!—And God shall ease me yet.
‘Break me from out this cruel rack, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
Oh, cut me loose with bleeding whips and send me free and wild.
Oh, drive me forth from my disguise—so I may smile into love's eyes.
Then I can run to meet my Lord as if I were his child.
‘Scourge me and scourge me yet again—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
I never yet had faith in God—but I believe him now—
Seeing how at last he answers prayer! 'Tis by his will that you are here.
But never think I bend to you, though I am bending now.
‘The whip you lift to shame me—Sirs—is lashed with powers of all the stars!
Oh, make me cringe and make me run and scourge me yet again!
For I am one who deals with God, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—
And men shall never break my pride—I do not deal with men.’
‘What's this, my Lords?’
‘Why, justice—Sir!’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
What is this wild and bleeding shape that fawns upon my knee?’
‘'Tis she whose pride is broken, Sire. The Lady of Northumberland
Who slew your bride at break of day, has learned humility.’
‘Stand up, and look me in the eyes—O Lady of Northumberland.’
‘Oh, that I do—my Lord—my Love—to whom I yield alone.
My Lord, I give myself to you. Do with me as you choose to do.
Oh, lift your sword and slay me, Sir, upon the altar stone.’
‘You'll not be saved by me, Lady, O Lady of Northumberland.
I have no wish to break your pride or quench your cruel fire,
I know you long to feel my will—I give it not, through flesh and steel,
But if you go to meet your God, go by your own desire.’
‘'Tis not your will in flesh nor steel—I want—my Lord of Winchester.
There's something else, among the stars, upon a strange wild height.
Some distant focus of your will, like the strong moon above a hill
That lifts and drags the silvery tide and holds it bound with light.
‘Who best can hold her husband's will, is wife, my Lord of Winchester.
I know what 'tis you wish of me who somehow am your bride.
More deep than love, more deep than hate, I know full well you are my mate.
There'll be a wedding yet, to-day—and I'll stand up in pride.
‘Give me your sword!—How beautiful! It shines—my Lord of Winchester!
We need no hymn, we need no priest, we need no festal mood.
Here's my heart's promise to obey, my Lord, upon our wedding day.
Her painted words of gilt and rose I stain for you with blood.
‘But there is something that shall live—forever—Lord of Winchester.
A tender infancy of Love—a creature wild and bright.
Ere I am damned in Hell and lost, the powers of my creative ghost
Shall bear your child and cast him out laughing into the night.’
. . . . . . . . . .
‘What is it that your staring eye perceives, O Lord of Winchester?
It is not bent upon the ground—'tis not her corpse you see!’—
‘Why, no—there is a little child flits through the air, good gentlemen—
No bigger than a petal cast from off a wild rose tree.’
‘Why is it that you raise your cloak, so gently, Lord of Winchester?
'Tis not the cold corpse on the ground that you would shelter so’—
‘Why, no, it is a little child that I would comfort, gentlemen.
It runs to me with cries of Love. I cannot let it go.’
‘What are you holding to your breast, we pray you, Lord of Winchester?
And what is it you see—my Lord—beyond our mortal sight!’
‘Good Gentlemen—be still, I pray—A child was born to me to-day—
A child of deep immortal Love and innocent delight.’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—I've nothing else to say.’
‘Oh, yes, you have—my Lady—and we think we shall be hearing it
And you'll be glad to tell it, before the end of day.’
‘At what hour did it happen—my Lady of Northumberland?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—nothing has happened here.’
‘Oh, yes, there has, my Lady—'twas at three o'clock it happened.’
‘I often rise at three o'clock and have for many a year.’
‘Why do you rise so early?’
‘It is an ancient custom,
'Twas at that hour I used to rise to nurse my crying child.’
‘And still you walk in sleep, Lady?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
An old maternal tenderness by which I am beguiled.’
‘And still you rock the cradle on the stone before the altar?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington, why do you harass me?’
‘We think we have a message to send our Duke in Ireland—
When deeds are done at three o'clock he'd better come and see.
‘There is an ancient office—it's in the common Prayer Book.
You had best kneel down and read it—“We do beseech Thee, Lord,
From envy and from malice and from hard hearts, deliver us—
From pride and from false doctrine and from hatred of Thy word.”’
‘Go get your Book, my Lady!’
‘I haven't any Book, Sirs.
When Law is written in the heart there's little need to pray.’
‘You have no Book, my Lady? There was once a superstition
That every Christian Lady used a Prayer Book every day.’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—I've lost my Book’—
‘You lost it?’
‘And deeply I regret it.’
‘But if it should be found
By what token might we know it?’
‘It is bound in purple velvet,
With a cross of pearls upon it and with sapphire set around.’
‘There are others just as costly—my Lady of Northumberland.’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington, pray, what have you to do
With the tokens in my Prayer Book?’
‘Why, as honest Christian gentlemen,
It is only if we find it, that the book belongs to you.’
‘Look for the wedding service, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
My sister's hand emblazoned it, oh, every letter shone.
“Here's my heart's promise to obey,” she said, “upon my wedding day,
When you, my Dear, give me away, upon the altar stone.”’
‘What would you give to have it back, my Lady of Northumberland?
It's worth its weight in gold, we think.’
‘I'd give my wedding ring.’
‘Your Lord, being dead, would blush for shame.’
‘That isn't so, good gentlemen.
He's been in Paradise too long to care for such a thing.’
‘What colors did your sister use, O Lady of Northumberland?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington, pray, what is this to you?’
‘A further sign to know it by, my Lady of Northumberland.’
‘She did the letters all in rose, in gilt, in tender blue.’
‘Is this your Prayer Book, maybe—my Lady of Northumberland?
'Tis bound in purple velvet, with pearls all set around.’
‘Good gentlemen, I thank you—’
‘We are your servants, Lady.
'Twas buried beneath the altar stone, half covered in the ground.’
‘Why have you grown so pallid, my Lady of Northumberland?’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—I am not well to-day.’
‘You would better call your sister.’
‘Nay gentlemen—she's sleeping.
I bade her take an extra rest upon her wedding day.’
‘Why is your hand stained red, Lady? Madam, are you wounded?’
‘There's blood upon this book, Sirs!’
‘Is there some secret here?
You would better call your sister.’
‘I said, Sir, she is sleeping.’
‘Aye, sleeping sound and sleeping well and laid upon her bier.’
‘You play some cruel trick, I think, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
Her bridal gown all waiting lies—this is her wedding day.’
‘Oh, well you know, my Lady, that at three o'clock this morning
You killed her on the altar stone when she knelt down to pray.’
‘We've something now for you to do—my Lady of Northumberland,
Although to bend your will to ours is bitter hard for you.’
‘I'll never bend my will to yours, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington!’
‘Oh, yes, you will, my Lady, and be glad to bend it, too.
‘Go call your page, my Lady.’
‘I will not call my page, Sirs.’
‘Oh, yes, you will—my Lady—with all your cruel pride.’
‘I have called my page already, at three o'clock this morning!
I saddled the horse with my own hand on which the lad should ride.’
‘Then call another, Lady, for you must send a message,
And say, “I killed my sister, who went alone to pray.”’
‘I sent the message, Gentlemen, and so cannot obey you!
My Lord will be here at the door about this hour today.’
‘Can no one break your pride, Lady?’
‘Not you, I think—good gentlemen!
I said, “I killed my sister who went to pray alone,
At three o'clock this morning. Ride fast, my Lord of Winchester!
Oh, scourge your horse and slay me, Sir, upon the altar stone.”’
‘Now we will break your pride, Lady, we'll break your cruel pride, Lady!
And you shall learn your lesson yet and thankfully obey.’
‘That is a word I'll never speak—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—
Save to my Lord of Winchester upon our wedding day—
‘What words are these you dare to speak—O Lady of Northumberland?
Even now about your brow accursed the deathly powers move.’
‘You are too ignorant and low, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
To comprehend the red hot roads, the strange wild roads of love.’
‘Your speech is cursed and you are damned, O Lady of Northumberland.
Yours is an evil will, we think. A foul deed has been done.’
‘Before the hour is gone, my Lords, I wed the Duke of Winchester.
There'll be a bridal yet to-day, upon the altar stone.’
‘Now we will break your pride, Lady, we'll break your cruel pride, Lady!
If you would live until he comes, the whip shall tutor you.
'Tis better far that you should say to God upon your Judgment Day,
That at the end you did one thing you did not wish to do.’
‘If that's the way I earn my right to greet my lord, good gentlemen,
I bend before you willingly. You have no need to urge.
To feel his sword thrust through my breast were sweet as any bridal wreath.
And I will earn that prize, my Lords, although 'tis by the scourge.’
‘Now we will break your pride, Lady! We'll break your cruel pride, Lady!
You may leap and you may run, but we will tame you still.’
‘I break for no one but my Love—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.’
‘Yet you shall learn from us, we think, the cleavage of your will.’
‘Bend low before us, Lady! O Lady of Northumberland!
Bend low before us, Lady and crouch upon the ground.
The whip has something here to do, and you, before we are through with you,
Shall run and cringe and whimper too, like any bleeding hound.’
‘Oh, gladly, gladly, do I bend, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
But not as one who kneels to you—but of my own desire.
For now at last ere I am dead, behold I am anointed
With that for which I have prayed so long, pain's quick consuming fire.
‘Oh, fierce has been my cruel pride—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
And I have lain upon my bed in pools of bitter sweat,
For I could scarcely speak or move for strict constraining of my love.
Now I shall be set free—set free!—And God shall ease me yet.
‘Break me from out this cruel rack, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
Oh, cut me loose with bleeding whips and send me free and wild.
Oh, drive me forth from my disguise—so I may smile into love's eyes.
Then I can run to meet my Lord as if I were his child.
‘Scourge me and scourge me yet again—my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington.
I never yet had faith in God—but I believe him now—
Seeing how at last he answers prayer! 'Tis by his will that you are here.
But never think I bend to you, though I am bending now.
‘The whip you lift to shame me—Sirs—is lashed with powers of all the stars!
Oh, make me cringe and make me run and scourge me yet again!
For I am one who deals with God, my Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington—
And men shall never break my pride—I do not deal with men.’
‘What's this, my Lords?’
‘Why, justice—Sir!’
‘My Lords of Fyfe and Wyvington,
What is this wild and bleeding shape that fawns upon my knee?’
‘'Tis she whose pride is broken, Sire. The Lady of Northumberland
Who slew your bride at break of day, has learned humility.’
‘Stand up, and look me in the eyes—O Lady of Northumberland.’
‘Oh, that I do—my Lord—my Love—to whom I yield alone.
My Lord, I give myself to you. Do with me as you choose to do.
Oh, lift your sword and slay me, Sir, upon the altar stone.’
‘You'll not be saved by me, Lady, O Lady of Northumberland.
I have no wish to break your pride or quench your cruel fire,
I know you long to feel my will—I give it not, through flesh and steel,
But if you go to meet your God, go by your own desire.’
‘'Tis not your will in flesh nor steel—I want—my Lord of Winchester.
There's something else, among the stars, upon a strange wild height.
Some distant focus of your will, like the strong moon above a hill
That lifts and drags the silvery tide and holds it bound with light.
‘Who best can hold her husband's will, is wife, my Lord of Winchester.
I know what 'tis you wish of me who somehow am your bride.
More deep than love, more deep than hate, I know full well you are my mate.
There'll be a wedding yet, to-day—and I'll stand up in pride.
‘Give me your sword!—How beautiful! It shines—my Lord of Winchester!
We need no hymn, we need no priest, we need no festal mood.
Here's my heart's promise to obey, my Lord, upon our wedding day.
Her painted words of gilt and rose I stain for you with blood.
‘But there is something that shall live—forever—Lord of Winchester.
A tender infancy of Love—a creature wild and bright.
Ere I am damned in Hell and lost, the powers of my creative ghost
Shall bear your child and cast him out laughing into the night.’
. . . . . . . . . .
‘What is it that your staring eye perceives, O Lord of Winchester?
It is not bent upon the ground—'tis not her corpse you see!’—
‘Why, no—there is a little child flits through the air, good gentlemen—
No bigger than a petal cast from off a wild rose tree.’
‘Why is it that you raise your cloak, so gently, Lord of Winchester?
'Tis not the cold corpse on the ground that you would shelter so’—
‘Why, no, it is a little child that I would comfort, gentlemen.
It runs to me with cries of Love. I cannot let it go.’
‘What are you holding to your breast, we pray you, Lord of Winchester?
And what is it you see—my Lord—beyond our mortal sight!’
‘Good Gentlemen—be still, I pray—A child was born to me to-day—
A child of deep immortal Love and innocent delight.’
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