"Stephen Spike," resumed Jack, solemnly, "_I_ am Mary Swash--_I_ am your wife!"
Spike started in his bed; then he buried his face in the coverlet--and he actually groaned. In bitterness of spirit the woman turned away and wept. Her feelings had been blunted by misfortune and the collisions of a selfish world; but enough of former self remained to make this the hardest of all the blows she had ever received. Her husband, dying as he was, as he must and did know himself to be, shrunk from one of her appearance, unsexed as she had become by habits, and changed by years and suffering.
I've left the keen, cold winds to blow Around the summits bare; My sunny pathway to the sea Winds downward, green and fair, And bright-leaved branches toss and glow Upon the buoyant air!
The fern its fragrant plumage droops O'er mosses, crisp and gray, Where on the shaded crags I sit, Beside the cataract's spray, And watch the far-off, shining sails Go down the sunny bay!
I've left the wintry winds of life On barren hearts to blow-- The anguish and the gnawing care, The silent, shuddering wo! Across the balmy sea of dreams My spirit-barque shall go.
Learned not the breeze its fairy lore Where sweetest measures throng? A maiden sings, beside the stream, Some chorus, wild and long, Mingling and blending with its roar, Like rainbows turned to song!
I hear it, like a strain that sweeps The confines of a dream; Now fading into silent space, Now with a flashing gleam Of triumph, ringing through the deeps Of forest, dell and stream!
Away! away! I hear the horn Among the hills of Spain: The old, chivalric glory fires Her warrior-hearts again! Ho! how their banners light the morn, Along Grenada's plain!
I hear the hymns of holy faith The red Crusaders sang, And the silver horn of Ronçeval, That o'er the tecbir rang When prince and kaiser through the fray To the paladin's rescue sprang!
A beam of burning light I hold!-- My good Damascus brand, And the jet-black charger that I ride Was foaled in the Arab land, And a hundred horsemen, mailed in steel, Follow my bold command!
Through royal cities speeds our march-- The minster-bells are rung; The loud, rejoicing trumpets peal, The battle-flags are swung, And sweet, sweet lips of ladies praise The chieftain, brave and young.
