And up and almost over me came on A robed--ecclesiastic--with his train (I choose the words lest that they do some wrong) Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. And I lying helpless, with my bruised face Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back, Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, Delivering orders, 'Take the bruised wretch. He raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon. Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door. With that some threw a cloth upon my face Because it bled. I knew they carried me Within his home, and I was satisfied; Willing my death. Was it an abbey door? Was 't entrance to a palace? or a house Of priests? I say not, nor if abbot he, Bishop or other dignity; enough That he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch.' And I was borne far up a turret stair Into a peakèd chamber taking form O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, Left in my pain, that evil things were said Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared, Suspect of heresy had disappeared, Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned. So be it methought, I would not live, not I. But none did question me. A beldame old, Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. So had I food and water, rest and calm. Then on the third day I rose up and sat On the side of my low bed right melancholy, All that high force of passion overpast, I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears Spite of myself came to myself again (For I had slept), and since I could not die Looked through the window three parts overgrown With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, And saw at foot o' the rise another tower In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, I knew even there had been my lost love's cell. So musing on the man that with his foot Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, 'Would he had haled me straight to prison' methought, 'So made an end at once.' My sufferings rose Like billows closing over, beating down; Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. 'T was thus, I came from Oxford secretly, the news Terrible of her danger smiting me,-- She was so young, and ever had been bred With whom 't was made a peril now to name. There had been worship in the night; some stole To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there. Father and mother, mother and father kind, So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom? I know the chiefest Evil One himself Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, Father and mother, mother and father kind, It may be yet ye know not this--not all.