VI.
IT was eve, twas the hour when the Angelus, ringing
Soft o’er the streamlets and low o’er the leas,
Sang of rest to the weary earth, censerlike swinging
Palpitant blessing and balm on the breeze,—
Sweetly it chimed over Barham Beach, bringing
Peace for a moment to stricken Louise.
’Gainst a pale yellow sunset she stood, careless leaning
Where rustic and lichened a gate barred the way,
And on either hand pine trees were black damascening
The western expanse primrose golden and gay,
Ebon black was her robe, but great poppies went straying
Golden, magnificent, over its sheen,
Dark as midnight her hair gloomed, and ringlets were playing
Round the gold comb like the crest of a queen,
And the black of her eyes was what one in the gloaming
Sees in a fern-feathered wood-fountain’s deep,
A black where yet late little glints go a-roaming
Ere night s nursing tenderness rocks them to sleep,
And so staglike the lift of her head was, so stately
The fearless straight glance and her whole haughty grace,
One had met her with homage, nor deemed that but lately
She had writhed in the modern rack s iron embrace.
There are seasons when nulled is all power of sensation,
When spirit and substance have fretted so long
Frayed out for the nonce are alike indignation,
Grief, horror, and hope, and the sting of shame s thong,
