Wooing

I know not how I came, New on my knightly journey, To win the fairest dame That graced my maiden tourney.

Chivalry’s lovely prize With all men’s gaze upon her, Why did she free her eyes On me, to do me honour?

Ah! ne’er had I my mind With such high hope delighted, Had she not first inclined, And with her eyes invited.

But never doubt I knew, Having their glance to cheer me, Until the day joy grew Too great, too sure, too near me.

When hope a fear became, And passion, grown too tender, Now trembled at the shame Of a despised surrender;

And where my love at first Saw kindness in her smiling, I read her pride, and cursed The arts of her beguiling.

Till winning less than won, And liker wooed than wooing, Too late I turned undone Away from my undoing;

And stood beside the door, Whereto she followed, making My hard leave-taking more Hard by her sweet leave-taking.

Her speech would have betrayed Her thought, had mine been colder: Her eyes distress had made A lesser lover bolder.

But no! Fond heart distrust, Cried Wisdom, and consider: Go free, since go thou must, And so farewell I bid her.

And brisk upon my way I smote the stroke to sever, And should have lost that day My life’s delight for ever;

But when I saw her start And turn aside and tremble;— Ah! she was true, her heart I knew did not dissemble.

There is a hill beside the silver Thames, Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine: And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems Steeply the thickets to his floods decline. Straight trees in every place Their thick tops interlace, And pendant branches trail their foliage fine Upon his watery face.

Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows: His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade, Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes Straight to the caverned pool his toil has made. His winter floods lay bare The stout roots in the air: His summer streams are cool, when they have played Among their fibrous hair.

A rushy island guards the sacred bower, And hides it from the meadow, where in peace The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, Robbing the golden market of the bees: And laden barges float By banks of myosote; And scented flags and golden flower-de-lys Delay the loitering boat.

And on this side the island, where the pool Eddies away, are tangled mass on mass The water-weeds, that net the fishes cool And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass; Where spreading crowfoot mars The drowning nenuphars, Waving the tassels of her silken grass Below her silver stars.

But in the purple pool there nothing grows, Not the white water-lily spoked with gold; Though best she loves the hollows, and well knows On quiet streams her broad shields to unfold: Yet should her roots but try Within these deeps to lie, Not her long reaching stalk could ever hold Her waxen head so high.

Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook Within its hidden depths, and ’gainst a tree Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book, Forgetting soon his pride of fishery; And dreams, or falls asleep, While curious fishes peep About his nibbled bait, or scornfully Dart off and rise and leap.

And sometimes by the pathway through the trees An aged dame at evening trudges home: And merry voices greet her, and she sees Her dear grandchildren, down the hill that come To meet her, and to bear Her basket home with care, Divining that, of all her treasures, some Will be for them to share.

Else, he that wishes solitude is safe, Whether he bathe at morning in the stream: Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafe The meadows, busy with a blurring steam; Or watch, as fades the light, The gibbous moon grow bright, Until her magic rays dance in a dream, And glorify the night.

Where is this bower beside the silver Thames? O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow! O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems, No sharer of my secret I allow: Lest ere I come the while Strange feet your shades defile; Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow Within your guardian isle.