| |
| FROM the private gateway stealing, | |
| Timidly, with cautious care, | |
| In her hood her face concealing, | |
| Glancing round her everywhere, | |
| Where the narrow pathway leadeth | 5 |
| To the wood beyond the heath, | |
| On her pious errand speedeth | |
| Hungary’s Elizabeth. | |
| |
| In her mantle she hath hidden | |
| Bread to carry to the poor; | 10 |
| Yet her mission is forbidden, | |
| And she cannot feel secure,— | |
| Trembling lest the hunt be over, | |
| And returning with his band, | |
| Full of wrath, her lord discover | 15 |
| She hath broken his command. | |
| |
| Only yesterday he swore it,— | |
| Should she dare to disobey, | |
| She should bitterly deplore it | |
| Ere the closing of the day. | 20 |
| Yet one thought her bosom saddens, | |
| Till it makes her heart to bleed, | |
| And the flower that sunshine gladdens | |
| Pities the neglected weed. | |
| |
| Pity for the starving pleadeth | 25 |
| Ever in her gentle heart, | |
| From the table luxury spreadeth | |
| She would give to them a part; | |
| Vain and wicked seems the splendor | |
| That she daily round her sees, | 30 |
| If to them she may not tender | |
| Even life’s necessities. | |
| |
| Not a single eye hath seen her | |
| Since she left the postern gate, | |
| None but his whose hand can screen her | 35 |
| From the barbéd shaft of fate. | |
| On she goes,—a thoughtful beauty | |
| Sleeps within her serious face, | |
| And the inward sense of duty | |
| Lends her an angelic grace. | 40 |
| |
| Suddenly she stops and listens, | |
| For a rustling step is near, | |
| And the glancing sunlight glistens | |
| On a hunter’s brandished spear. | |
| As in trembling fear she pauses, | 45 |
| Like a ship before it strands, | |
| Suddenly her path he crosses, | |
| And her lord before her stands. | |
| |
| Fiercely then his dark eyes lowered, | |
| And her very heart grew weak, | 50 |
| As before his glance she cowered, | |
| Daring not a word to speak; | |
| As the hawk upon the heron, | |
| Ere he stoopeth down the air, | |
| On the lady gazed the Baron, | 55 |
| And he said, “What have you there?” | |
| |
| Then she stood, all unresistant, | |
| Knowing hope from earth was vain, | |
| And the heavens to her seemed distant | |
| In that hour of bitter pain. | 60 |
| For a moment, bowed with sadness, | |
| Prayed she to herself alone, | |
| Then a smile of holy gladness | |
| Over all her features shone. | |
| |
| Passed the pain of her endurance, | 65 |
| But it left a pensive grace, | |
| And a look of sweet assurance | |
| Through it gleamed upon her face, | |
| As the twilight’s serious splendor | |
| Looks through fading summer showers, | 70 |
| And she said, in accents tender, | |
| “Pardon,—they are only flowers.” | |
| |
| “Silly lie!” he muttered, sneering, | |
| As with sudden grasp he tore | |
| From her hands the mantle, bearing | 75 |
| All its charitable store,— | |
| When, in fragrant showers escaping, | |
| Roses strewed the greensward there, | |
| And the curse his lip was shaping | |
| Changed into a silent prayer. | 80 |
| |
| Down before her then he bended, | |
| And the miracle confessed, | |
| And the hand that she extended | |
| Humbly to his lips he pressed, | |
| Saying, “’T is the will of Heaven, | 85 |
| And I can oppose no more,— | |
| Half my wealth henceforth be given | |
| To relieve the sick and poor.” | |
| |
