Poems by William Dean Howells Part 15

IX.

When she awoke, the sun long time had set, And all the land was sleeping in the moon, And all the flowers with dim, sad dews were wet, As they had wept to see her in that swoon.

It was about the night's low-breathing noon; Only the larger stars were waking yet.

X.

Bopeep, the fair and hapless shepherdess, Rose from her swooning in a sore dismay, And tried to smooth her damp and rumpled dress, That showed in truth a grievous disarray; Then where the brook the wan moon's mirror lay, She laved her eyes, and curled each golden tress.

XI.

And looking to her ribbons, if they were As ribbons of a shepherdess should be, She took the hat that she was wont to wear (Bedecked it was with ribbons flying free As ever man in opera might see), And set it on her curls of yellow hair.

XII.

"And I will go and seek my sheep," she said, "Through every distant land until I die; But when they bring me hither, cold and dead, Let me beneath these apple-blossoms lie, With this dear, faithful, lovely runnel nigh, Here, where my cru--cru--cruel sheep have fed."

XIII.

Thus sorrow and despair make bold Bopeep, And forth she springs, and hurries on her way: Across the lurking rivulet she can leap, No sombre forest shall her quest delay, No crooked vale her eager steps bewray: What dreadeth she that seeketh her lost sheep?

XIV.

By many a pond, where timorous water-birds, With clattering cries and throbbing wings, arose, By many a pasture, where the soft-eyed herds Looked shadow-huge in their unmoved repose, Long through the lonesome night that sad one goes And fills the solitude with wailing words;

XV.

So that the little field-mouse dreams of harm, Snuggled away from harm beneath the weeds; The violet, sleeping on the clover's arm, Wakes, and is cold with thoughts of dreadful deeds; The pensive people of the water-reeds Hark with a mute and dolorous alarm.

XVI.

And the fond hearts of all the turtle-doves Are broken in compa.s.sion of her woe, And every tender little bird that loves Feels in his breast a sympathetic throe; And flowers are sad wherever she may go, And hoa.r.s.e with sighs the waterfalls and groves.

XVII.

The pale moon droppeth low; star after star Grows faint and slumbers in the gray of dawn; And still she lingers not, but hurries far, Till in a dreary wilderness withdrawn Through tangled woods she lorn and lost moves on, Where griffins dire and dreadful dragons are.

XVIII.

Her ribbons all are dripping with the dew, Her red-heeled shoes are torn, and stained with mire, Her tender arms the angry sharpness rue Of many a scraggy thorn and envious brier; And poor Bopeep, with no sweet pity nigh her, Wrings her small hands, and knows not what to do.

XIX.

And on that crude and rugged ground she sinks, And soon her seeking had been ended there, But through the trees a fearful glimmer shrinks, And of a hermit's dwelling she is 'ware: At the dull pane a dull-eyed taper blinks, Drowsed with long vigils and the morning air.

XX.

Thither she trembling moves, and at the door Falls down, and cannot either speak or stir: The hermit comes,--with no white beard before, Nor coat of skins, nor cap of s.h.a.ggy fur: It was a comely youth that lifted her, And to his hearth, and to his breakfast, bore.

XXI.

Arrayed he was in princeliest attire, And of as goodly presence sooth was he As any little maiden might admire, Or any king-beholding cat might see "My poor Bopeep," he sigheth piteously, "Rest here, and warm you at a hermit's fire."

XXII.

She looked so beautiful, there, mute and white, He kissed her on the lips and on the eyes (The most a prince could do in such a plight); But chiefly gazed on her in still surprise, And when he saw her lily eyelids rise, For him the whole world had no fairer sight.

XXIII.

"Rude is my fare: a bit of venison steak, A dish of honey and a gla.s.s of wine, With clean white bread, is the poor feast I make.

Be served, I pray: I think this flask is fine,"

He said. "Hard is this hermit life of mine: This day I will its weariness forsake."

XXIV.

And then he told her how it chanced that he, King Cole's son, in that forest held his court, And the sole reason that there seemed to be Was, he was being hermit there for sport; But he confessed the life was not his forte, And therewith both laughed out right jollily.

XXV.

And sly Bopeep forgot her sheep again In gay discourse with that engaging youth: Love hath such sovran remedies for pain!

But then he was a handsome prince, in truth, And both were young, and both were silly, sooth, And everything to Love but love seems vain.

XXVI.

They took them down the silver-clasped book That this young anchorite's predecessor kept,-- A holy seer,--and through it they did look; Sometimes their idle eyes together crept, Sometimes their lips; but still the leaves they swept, Until they found a shepherd's pictured crook.

XXVII.

And underneath was writ it should befall On such a day, in such a month and year, A maiden fair, a young prince brave and tall, By such a chance should come together here.

They were the people, that was very clear: "O love," the prince said, "let us read it all!"

XXVIII.

And thus the hermit's prophecy ran on: Though she her lost sheep wist not where to find, Yet should she bid her weary care begone, And banish every doubt from her sweet mind: They, with their little snow-white tails behind, Homeward would go, if they were left alone.

XXIX.

They closed the book, and in her happy eyes The prince read truth and love forevermore,-- Better than any hermit's prophecies!

They pa.s.sed together from the cavern's door; Embraced, they turned to look at it once more, And over it beheld the glad sun rise,

x.x.x.

That streamed before them aisles of dusk and gold Under the song-swept arches of the wood, And forth they went, tranced in each other's hold, Down through that rare and luminous solitude, Their happy hearts enchanted in the mood Of morning, and of May, and romance old.

x.x.xI.

Sometimes the saucy leaves would kiss her cheeks, And he must kiss their wanton kiss away; To die beneath her feet the wood-flower seeks, The quivering aspen feels a fine dismay, And many a scented blossom on the spray In odorous sighs its pa.s.sionate longing speaks.

x.x.xII.