C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Romance of the Swan’s Nest
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)
L
’Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass;
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water’s flow—
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
And the smile she softly uses
Fills the silence like a speech;
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooses,
For her future within reach.
Chooseth—“I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile;
And to him I will discover
That swan’s nest among the reeds.
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath,
And the lute he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.
All in silver, housed in azure,
And the mane shall swim the wind:
And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face.
He will say, ‘O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in;
And I kneel here for thy grace.’
With the red-roan steed anear him,
Which shall seem to understand—
Till I answer, ‘Rise and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.’
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say—
Nathless maiden-brave, ‘Farewell,’
I will utter, and dissemble—
‘Light to-morrow with to-day.’
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong:
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.
Swim the stream and climb the mountain
And kneel down beside my feet—
‘Lo! my master sends this gage,
Lady, for thy pity’s counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?’
A white rosebud for a guerdon,
And the second time, a glove:
But the third time—I may bend
From my pride, and answer—‘Pardon—
If he come to take my love.’
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee:
‘I am a duke’s eldest son!
Thousand serfs do call me master,—
But, O Love, I love but thee!’
Then; and lead me as a lover
Through the crowds that praise his deeds;
And when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto him I will discover
That swan’s nest among the reeds.”
Not yet ended, rose up gayly,
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe—
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.
Winding by the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads—
Past the boughs she stoops—and stops!
Lo! the wild swan had deserted—
And a rat had gnawed the reeds.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not! but I know
She could never show him—never,
That swan’s nest among the reeds!