Wooing

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

Chivalry's lovely prizeWith all men's gaze upon her,Why did she free her eyesOn me, to do me honour?

Ah! ne'er had I my mindWith 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 grewToo great, too sure, too near me.

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

And where my love at firstSaw kindness in her smiling,I read her pride, and cursedThe arts of her beguiling.

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

And stood beside the door,Whereto she followed, makingMy hard leave-taking moreHard by her sweet leave-taking.

Her speech would have betrayedHer thought, had mine been colder:Her eyes' distress had madeA 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 wayI smote the stroke to sever,And should have lost that dayMy life's delight for ever:

But when I saw her startAnd turn aside and tremble;--Ah! she was true, her heartI 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 gemsSteeply the thickets to his floods decline.Straight trees in every placeTheir thick tops interlace,And pendant branches trail their foliage fineUpon his watery face.

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

A rushy island guards the sacred bower,And hides it from the meadow, where in peaceThe lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,Robbing the golden market of the bees:And laden barges floatBy banks of myosote;And scented flag and golden flower-de-lysDelay the loitering boat.

And on this side the island, where the poolEddies away, are tangled mass on massThe water-weeds, that net the fishes cool,And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass;Where spreading crowfoot marsThe drowning nenuphars,Waving the tassels of her silken grassBelow 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 knowsOn quiet streams her broad shields to unfold:Yet should her roots but tryWithin these deeps to lie,Not her long reaching stalk could ever holdHer waxen head so high.

Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hookWithin its hidden depths, and 'gainst a treeLeaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book,Forgetting soon his pride of fishery;And dreams, or falls asleep,While curious fishes peepAbout his nibbled bait, or scornfullyDart off and rise and leap.

And sometimes a slow figure 'neath the trees,In ancient-fashioned smock, with tottering careUpon a staff propping his weary knees,May by the pathway of the forest fare:As from a buried dayAcross the mind will straySome perishing mute shadow,--and unawareHe passeth on his way.

Else, he that wishes solitude is safe,Whether he bathe at morning in the stream:Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafeThe 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 whileStrange feet your shades defile;Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prowWithin your guardian isle.