. The princess, a medley. Mine — mine — not yoursIt is not yours, but mine : give me the child !Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the cry :So stood the unhappy mother open-mouthd,And turnd each face her way : wan was her cheekWith hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn,Red grief and mothers hunger in her eye, i3. And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and halfThe sacred mothers bosom, panting, burstThe laces toward her babe ; but she nor caredNor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard,Lookd up, and rising slowly from me, stoodErect and silent, striking with her glance The mother, me, the child;
. The princess, a medley. Mine — mine — not yoursIt is not yours, but mine : give me the child !Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the cry :So stood the unhappy mother open-mouthd,And turnd each face her way : wan was her cheekWith hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn,Red grief and mothers hunger in her eye, i3. And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and halfThe sacred mothers bosom, panting, burstThe laces toward her babe ; but she nor caredNor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard,Lookd up, and rising slowly from me, stoodErect and silent, striking with her glance The mother, me, the child; but he that layBeside us, Cyril, batterd as he was,Traild himself up on one knee : then he drewHer robe to meet his lips, and down she lookd m< At the armd man sideways, pitying as it seemd,Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his face,Remembering his ill-omend song, arose A MEDLEY. 3 Once more thro all her height, and oer him grewTall as a figure lengthend on the sandWhen the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said:. O fair and strong and terrible ! LionessThat with your long locks play the lions mane !But Love and Nature, these are two more terribleAnd stronger. See, your foot is on our necks,We vanquishd, you the victor of your will. 150 ii4 THE PRINCESS: What would you more ? give her the child ! remain Orbd in your isolation : he is dead, Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : Win you the hearts of women ; and beware Lest, where you seek the common love of these, The common hate with the revolving wheel Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis Break from a darkend future, crownd with fire, And tread you out for ever : but howsoeer 160 Fixt in yourself, never in your own arms To hold your own, deny not hers to her, Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, Or own one port of sense not flint to prayer, Give her the child ! or if you scorn to lay it, Yourself, in hands so
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