The Rothers
Right royal faces, none the less,
And gracious ways when the world is kind ;
But trust a Rother in your distress,—
A hollow hemlock stem you find,
Where you looked for a sapling to cling to and save
You yet from the chasm below like a grave.
And now they are ended—the faithless race;
Sir Thomas was never a Rother born,
He took the name when he took the place.
With the childless wife he laughs to scorn:
And his life is a cruel and evil life—
But let none pity his craven wife.
She—oh marvel of wonder and awe—
O angered patience of God!—I say
God sees our sins; for a sign I saw
Set in the western skies one day—
White, over Rother, white and pale
For many a mile over hill and dale. . . .
Now let me make the marvel clear.
When Edward, last o' the Rothers, died
He left two orphan daughters here:
Little children who scarce could ride.
Clutching the mane with baby hands.
O'er half an acre of their lands.
I think I see the sorrel mare,
Staid, old; and, tumbled on her neck.
Flushed faces, dimpled arms, and hair
Of crimpy flax with a golden fleck;
As by the side, with timid graces.
Well to the fore, the prim nurse paces.
A pretty cavalcade! Ah well.
The Rothers ever loved a horse!
And so one day Sir Edward fell,
Out hunting; dragged along the gorse
For yards, one foot i' the stirrup still,
The hunters found him upon the hill.
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