[Illustration: 0271] THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE |A knight of gallant deeds And a young page at his side, From the holy war in Palestine Did slow and thoughtful ride, As each were a palmer and told for beads The dews of the eventide. "O young page," said the knight, "A noble page art thou! Thou fearest not to steep in blood The curls upon thy brow; And once in the tent, and twice in the fight, Didst ward me a mortal blow." "O brave knight," said the page, "Or ere we hither came, We talked in tent, we talked in field, Of the bloody battle-game; But here, below this greenwood bough, I cannot speak the same. "Our troop is far behind, The woodland calm is new; Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs, Tread deep the shadows through; And, in my mind, some blessing kind Is dropping with the dew. "The woodland calm is pure-- I cannot choose but have A thought from these, o' the beechen trees, Which in our England wave, And of the little finches fine Which sang there while in Palestine The warrior-hilt we drave. "Methinks, a moment gone, I heard my mother pray! I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me Wherein she passed away; And I know the heavens are leaning down To hear what I shall say." The page spake calm and high, As of no mean degree; Perhaps he felt in nature's broad Full heart, his own was free: And the knight looked up to his lifted eye, Then answered smilingly-- "Sir page, I pray your grace! Certes, I meant not so To cross your pastoral mood, sir page, With the crook of the battle-bow; But a knight may speak of a lady's face, I ween, in any mood or place, If the grasses die or grow. "And this I meant to say -- My lady's face shall shine As ladies' faces use, to greet My page from Palestine; Or, speak she fair or prank she gay, She is no lady of mine. "And this I meant to fear-- Her bower may suit thee ill; For, sooth, in that same field and tent, Thy _talk_ was somewhat still: And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear Than thy tongue for my lady's will!" Slowly and thankfully The young page bowed his head; His large eyes seemed to muse a smile, Until he blushed instead, And no lady in her bower, pardiè, Could blush more sudden red: "Sir knight,--thy lady's bower to me Is suited well,' he said. _Beati, beati, mortui!_ From the convent on the sea, One mile off, or scarce so nigh, Swells the dirge as clear and high As if that, over brake and lea, Bodily the wind did carry The great altar of St Mary, And the fifty tapers burning o'er it, And the Lady Abbess dead before it, And the chanting nuns whom yesterweek Her voice did charge and bless,-- Chanting steady, chanting meek, Chanting with a solemn breath, Because that they are thinking less Upon the dead than upon death.