Did she think it I or--what, Clutching her dress? Her face so wild that not A star in a stormy spot Shows half so much distress.
I spoke; but she answered naught. "Amy," I said, "'Tis I!"--as her form I caught... Then laughed like one distraught, For the beautiful girl was dead!...
This is the tale they tell Of that Hallowe'en; This is the thing that befell Me and the village belle, Beautiful Amy Dean.
The nuns sing, "_Ora pro nobis_;" The casements glitter above; And the beautiful Virgin, whose robe is Woven of infinite love, Infinite love and sorrow, Prays for them there on high-- Who has most need of her prayers,--to-morrow Shall tell them!--they or I?
Up in the hills together We loved, where the world was true; Our world of the whin and heather, Our skies of a nearer blue; A blue from which one borrows A faith that helps one die-- O Mother, thou Mother of Sorrows, None needs such more than I!
We lived, we loved unwedded-- Love's sin and its shame that slays!-- No ill of the years we dreaded, No day of their coming days; Their coming days, their many Trials by noon and night-- And I know no land, not any Where the sun shines half so bright.
Was he false to me, my Mother! Or I to him, my God!-- Who gave thee right, O brother! To take God's right and rod! God's rod of avenging morrows-- And the life here in my side!-- O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows, Would that I, too, had died!
By the wall of the Chantry kneeling I pray, and the organ rings, "_Gloria! gloria!_" pealing, "_Sancta Maria!_" sings. They will find us dead to-morrow By the wall of their nunnery-- O Mother, thou Mother of Sorrow, His unborn babe and me.
Thrice on the lips and twice on the eyes I kiss you or ever I kiss your bosom.-- When love is young would you have it wise, Wise as the world goes?--No! 'tis a blossom Lovely and wise since it's lovely; content To live or to die as its folly pleases: Life is a rose and the rose's scent Is love, that grows as the rose increases.
If I tell you the Marquis will die, will you smile? And laugh when he's dead?--This powder, my lily, That seems but an innocent sweet in this phial-- Do not touch it! breathe distant!--a poison Exili Used a life to discover. Its formula left To a pupil (well worthy the master!), the prudent And pious Sainte Croix. Him, of teacher bereft, The Devil, I deem, must have taken as student.