Young Edward he to Mary went When on the bed she lay: 155 'Sweet love, this is a wicked house-- Sweet love, we must away.' He raised her from the bridal-bed, All pale and wan with fear; 'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine, 160 No Dog would kennel here.' He led her from the bridal-bed, He led her from the stairs. [Had sense been hers she had not dar'd To venture on her prayers. _MS. erased._] The mother still was in the bower, And with a greedy heart 165 She _drank perdition_ on her knees, Which never may depart. But when their steps were heard below On God she did not call; She did forget the God of Heaven, 170 For they were in the hall. She started up--the servant maid Did see her when she rose; And she has oft declared to me The blood within her froze. 175 As Edward led his bride away And hurried to the door, The ruthless mother springing forth Stopped midway on the floor. What did she mean? What did she mean? 180 For with a smile she cried: 'Unblest ye shall not pass my door, The bride-groom and his bride. 'Be blithe as lambs in April are, As flies when fruits are red; 185 May God forbid that thought of me Should haunt your marriage-bed. 'And let the night be given to bliss, The day be given to glee: I am a woman weak and old, 190 Why turn a thought on me? 'What can an agéd mother do, And what have ye to dread? A curse is wind, it hath no shape To haunt your marriage-bed.' 195 When they were gone and out of sight She rent her hoary hair, And foamed like any Dog of June When sultry sun-beams glare. * * * * * Now ask you why the barren wife, 200 And why the maid forlorn, And why the ruthless mother lies Beneath the flowery thorn? Three times, three times this spade of mine, In spite of bolt or bar, 205 Did from beneath the belfry come, When spirits wandering are. And when the mother's soul to Hell By howling fiends was borne, This spade was seen to mark her grave 210 Beneath the flowery thorn. And when the death-knock at the door Called home the maid forlorn, This spade was seen to mark her grave Beneath the flowery thorn. 215 And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree; The ghosts that round it meet, 'Tis they that cut the rind at night, Yet still it blossoms sweet. * * * * * [_End of MS._] PART III[276:1]