Guendolen.
213
Out of the heart of the wooded dell
Three times tolls the abbey bell;
And, in the wake of its echoed knell
Follows a softer, weirder tone;
Her heart upleaping at the sound,
Under the clasp of her broidered zone
Grows eager as a leashed hound.
Not breathed into her straining ear,
But in her spirit, silver clear,
Spoken far, yet sounding near,
She hears Sir Ethel's voice again.
And the words "Help, Guendolen!"
Three times tolls the abbey bell;
And, in the wake of its echoed knell
Follows a softer, weirder tone;
Her heart upleaping at the sound,
Under the clasp of her broidered zone
Grows eager as a leashed hound.
Not breathed into her straining ear,
But in her spirit, silver clear,
Spoken far, yet sounding near,
She hears Sir Ethel's voice again.
And the words "Help, Guendolen!"
She does not waken the hound asleep
Dreaming within, by the glimmering light,
But treads alone through the forest deep,
Trusting herself to the lawless night.
From drenched boughs the rain is shed
At every step on her shrinking head;
Deep in the hollows, the stealthy vine
Catches her feet in its secret twine.
There are dancing lights in the marshes damp
Where the firefly kindles his fitful lamp,
Dreaming within, by the glimmering light,
But treads alone through the forest deep,
Trusting herself to the lawless night.
From drenched boughs the rain is shed
At every step on her shrinking head;
Deep in the hollows, the stealthy vine
Catches her feet in its secret twine.
There are dancing lights in the marshes damp
Where the firefly kindles his fitful lamp,
