• ‘Oh his son still cries, if you forgive,
• Sister Helen,
• The body dies but the soul shall live.’
• ‘Fire shall forgive me as I forgive,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!)

• 190‘Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive,
• Sister Helen,
• To save his dear son's soul alive.’
• Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,
• Little brother!
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘He cries to you, kneeling in the road,
• Sister Helen,
• To go with him for the love of God!’
• 200‘The way is long to his son's abode,
• Little brother.’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘A lady's here, by a dark steed brought,
• Sister Helen,
• So darkly clad, I saw her not.’
• ‘See her now or never see aught,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• 210 What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?)

• ‘Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair,
• Sister Helen,
• On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair.’
• ‘Blest hour of my power and her despair,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow,
• Sister Helen,
• 220'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago.’
• ‘One morn for pride and three days for woe,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head,
• Sister Helen;
• With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed.’
• ‘What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed,
• Little brother?’
• 230 ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• What strain s but death's, between Hell and Heaven? )

• ‘She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon,
• Sister Helen,—
• She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon.’
• ‘Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow,
• 240 Sister Helen,
• And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow.’
• ‘Let it turn whiter than winter snow,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,
• Sister Helen!
• More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.’
• ‘No vesper-chime, but a dying knell,
• 250 Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘Alas! but I fear the heavy sound,
• Sister Helen;
• Is it in the sky or in the ground?’
• ‘Say, have they turned their horses round,
• Little brother?’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?)

• 260 ‘They have raised the old man from his knee,
• Sister Helen,
• And they ride in silence hastily.’
• ‘More fast the naked soul doth flee,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘Flank to flank are the white three steeds gone,
• Sister Helen,
• But the lady's dark steed goes alone.’
• 270 ‘And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown,
• Little brother.’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill,
• Sister Helen,
• And weary sad they look by the hill.’
• ‘But he and I are sadder still,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• 280 Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘See, see, the wax has dropped from its place,
• Sister Helen,
• And the flames are winning up apace!’
• ‘Yet here they burn but for a space,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)

• ‘Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd,
• Sister Helen?
• 290 Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?’
• ‘A soul that's lost as mine is lost,
• Little brother!’
• ( O Mother, Mary Mother,
• Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)

   

• ‘O HAVE you seen the Stratton flood
• That's great with rain to-day?
• It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands,
• Full of the new-mown hay.

• ‘I led your hounds to Hutton bank
• To bathe at early morn:
• They got their bath by Borrowbrake
• Above the standing corn.’

• Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands
• 10 Looked up the western lea;
• The rook was grieving on her nest,
• The flood was round her tree.

• Over the castle-wall Lord Sands
• Looked down the eastern hill:
• The stakes swam free among the boats,
• The flood was rising still.

• ‘What's yonder far below that lies
• So white against the slope?’
• ‘O it's a sail o' your bonny barks
• 20 The waters have washed up.’

• ‘But I have never a sail so white,
• And the water's not yet there.’
• ‘O it's the swans o' your bonny lake
• The rising flood doth scare.’

• ‘The swans they would not hold so still,
• So high they would not win.’
• ‘O it's Joyce my wife has spread her smock
• And fears to fetch it in.’

• ‘Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans,
• 30 Nor aught that you can say;
• For though your wife might leave her smock,
• Herself she'd bring away.’

• Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair,
• The court, and yard, and all;
• The kine were in the byre that day,
• The nags were in the stall.

• Lord Sands has won the weltering slope
• Whereon the white shape lay:
• The clouds were still above the hill,
• 40 And the shape was still as they.

• Oh pleasant is the gaze of life
• And sad is death's blind head;
• But awful are the living eyes
• In the face of one thought dead!

• ‘In God's name, Janet, is it me
• Thy ghost has come to seek?’
• ‘Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands,—
• Be sure my ghost shall speak.’

• A moment stood he as a stone,
• 50 Then grovelled to his knee.
• ‘O Janet, O my love, my love,
• Rise up and come with me!’
• ‘O once before you bade me come,
• And it's here you have brought me!

• ‘O many's the sweet word, Lord Sands,
• You've spoken oft to me;
• But all that I have from you to-day
• Is the rain on my body.

• ‘And many's the good gift, Lord Sands,
• 60 You've promised oft to me;
• But the gift of yours I keep to-day
• Is the babe in my body.

• ‘O it's not in any earthly bed
• That first my babe I'll see;
• For I have brought my body here
• That the flood may cover me.’

• His face was close against her face,
• His hands of hers were fain:
• O her wet cheeks were hot with tears,
• 70 Her wet hands cold with rain.

• ‘They told me you were dead, Janet,—
• How could I guess the lie?’
• ‘They told me you were false, Lord Sands,—
• What could I do but die?’

• ‘Now keep you well, my brother Giles,—
• Through you I deemed her dead!
• As wan as your towers be seem to-day,
• To-morrow they'll be red.

• ‘Look down, look down, my false mother,
• 80 That bade me not to grieve:
• You'll look up when our marriage fires
• Are lit to-morrow eve.

• ‘O more than one and more than two
• The sorrow of this shall see:
• But it's to-morrow, love, for them,—
• To-day's for thee and me.’

• He's drawn her face between his hands
• And her pale mouth to his:
• No bird that was so still that day
• 90 Chirps sweeter than his kiss.

• The flood was creeping round their feet.
• ‘O Janet, come away!
• The hall is warm for the marriage-rite,
• The bed for the birthday.’

• ‘Nay, but I hear your mother cry,
• “Go bring this bride to bed!
• And would she christen her babe unborn
• So wet she comes to wed?”

• ‘I'll be your wife to cross your door
• 100 And meet your mother's e'e.
• We plighted troth to wed i' the kirk,
• And it's there you'll wed with me.’

• He's ta'en her by the short girdle
• And by the dripping sleeve:
• ‘Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest,—
• You'll ask of him no leave.

• ‘O it's one half-hour to reach the kirk
• And one for the marriage-rite;
• And kirk and castle and castle-lands
• 110 Shall be our babe's to-night.’

• ‘The flood's in the kirkyard, Lord Sands,
• And round the belfry-stair.’
• ‘I bade ye you fetch the priest,’ he said,
• ‘Myself shall bring him there.

• ‘It's for the lilt of wedding bells
• We'll have the hail to pour,
• And for the clink of bridle-reins
• The plashing of the oar.

• Beneath them on the nether hill
• 120 A boat was floating wide:
• Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars
• And rowed to the hill-side.

• He's wrapped her in a green mantle
• And set her softly in;
• Her hair was wet upon her face,
• Her face was grey and thin;
• And ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘lie still, my babe,
• It's out you must not win!’

• But woe's my heart for Father John
• 130 As hard as he might pray,
• There seemed no help but Noah's ark
• Or Jonah's fish that day.

• The first strokes that the oars struck
• Were over the broad leas;
• The next strokes that the oars struck
• They pushed beneath the trees;

• The last stroke that the oars struck,
• The good boat's head was met,
• And there the gate of the kirkyard
• 140 Stood like a ferry-gate.

• He's set his hand upon the bar
• And lightly leaped within:
• He's lifted her to his left shoulder,
• Her knees beside his chin.

• The graves lay deep beneath the flood
• Under the rain alone;
• And when the foot-stone made him slip,
• He held by the head-stone.

• The empty boat thrawed i' the wind,
• 150 Against the postern tied.
• ‘Hold still, you've brought my love with me,
• You shall take back my bride.’

• But woe's my heart for Father John
• And the saints he clamoured to!
• There's never a saint but Christopher
• Might hale such buttocks through!

• And ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘on men's shoulders
• I well had thought to wend,
• And well to travel with a priest,
• 160 But not to have cared or ken'd.

• ‘And oh!’ she said, ‘it's well this way
• That I thought to have fared,—
• Not to have lighted at the kirk
• But stopped in the kirkyard.

• ‘For it's oh and oh I prayed to God,
• Whose rest I hoped to win,
• That when to-night at your board-head
• You'd bid the feast begin,
• This water past your window-sill
• 170 Might bear my body in.’

• Now make the white bed warm and soft
• And greet the merry morn.
• The night the mother should have died,
• The young son shall be born.

   

• ‘WHO rules these lands?’ the Pilgrim said.
• ‘Stranger, Queen Blanchelys.’
• ‘And who has thus harried them?’ he said.
• ‘It was Duke Luke did this:
• God's ban be his!’

• The Pilgrim said: ‘Where is your house?
• I'll rest there, with your will.’
• ‘You've but to climb these blackened boughs
• And you'll see it over the hill,
• 10 For it burns still.’

• ‘Which road, to seek your Queen?’ said he.
• ‘Nay, nay, but with some wound
• You'll fly back hither, it may be,
• And by your blood i' the ground
• My place be found.’