Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/117

 The mincing ladies wear:
Yet is it proved, and was of old,
Anear as well—I dare to hold—
 By truth, or by despair."

He smiled no more—he wept no more,—
 But passionate he spake,—
"Oh, womanly, she prayed in tent,
 When none beside did wake!
Oh, womanly, she paled in fight,
 For one belovèd's sake!—
And her little hand defiled with blood,
Her tender tears of womanhood,
 Most woman-pure, did make!"

"Well done it were for thy sistèr—
 Thou tellest well her tale!
But for my lady, she shall pray
 I' the kirk of Nydesdale—
Not dread for me, but love for me,
 Shall make my lady pale!
No casque shall hide her woman's tear—
It shall have room to trickle clear
 Behind her woman's veil."

"But what if she mistook thy mind.
 And followed thee to strife;
Then kneeling, did entreat thy love,
 As Paynims ask for life?"
"I would forgive, and evermore
Would love her as my servitor,
 But little as my wife.

"Look up—there is a small bright cloud
 Alone amid the skies!
So high, so pure, and so apart,
 A woman's glory lies."
The page looked up—the cloud was sheen—
A sadder cloud did rush I ween,
 Betwixt it and his eyes: