III

And with this utterance of all her being.
The appearance-world thereunto swift agreeing.
Melcha flies !
. . . Lo! now she lies
In sunny grass :
Her own dear lake - land ! in a waterglass
Shadows of green herbage flowing,
Whose leaning blades (]uench one another glowing !
On snowy petal of a frail windflower
Golden anthers hint the hour
By tremulously shadowing ;
Blue shadows to air-ruflled verges cling.
Here she buries her pale face,
Rendering ecstasy for grace,
Sensible of only this.
That spring woodlands are a bliss.
Now the birch from bronzy stems
Buds alternate emerald gems,
Whose leaflets glossy glistening
Fairy-fanned are listening
Unto mellow-throated elves.
Merrily sunning their small selves.
Where a flutter of a rain
Of slim branches moves a stain
On the delicate lady-skin.
Pinky silver shadowed thin.
How she hears the turtle coo.
And a soft call of cuckoo,
The lake-ripple lisping,
Bluely, blithely crisping ;
Views yon delicate larch -clouds
Heaving like the masted shrouds,
Vivid green in azure sky.
Murmuring how tranquilly !
Cherry, and pink apple blossom
Hanging foam in air's blue bosom ;
How she scents the woodland smell,
She remembereth so well ;
Lying silent in a trance,
As in hours of old romance !
While already crosiered fern
In the sun begins to burn.
Though dim morning rime impearl
Wings of mavis and of merle.
. . . But at length upon her mind
The hell she hath left behind
Glareth dimly from afar.
Like eclipse, or baleful star,
While she gradually remembers
How her soul hath been hell's embers!
" I will humbly seek confession!
So relieve this dire oppression ! "
Thinking thus, she took her way
To where above the placid bay
Stands her well-beloved chapel,
Near her home among the apple.
The lake lay yonder as before ;
Yet she knew the land no more !
What hath come to wood and field ?
No answer may her musing yield.
There the sanctuary appears :
. . . Doth it totter as with years?
Lo! the crucifix of wood
Shrined where it hath ever stood :
She is on her knees before it . . .
But what awful change comes o'er it ?
The bleeding head bowed on the breast
Turns away from her request ;
Turns from her who would be blest !
And she feels she cannot pray ;
Cannot find what she shall say !

Then she enters grief-amazed
The rude chapel ruin-crazed ;
Weathered beams and walls inclined
To and fro, as in a wind.
All her wild tale she reveals
To the priest, nor aught conceals.
He, much moved, and sore astonished.
His weird penitent admonished
She was wound in mortal sin ;
And, would she salvation win,
Hardest penance must endure ;
Make herself a holy nun ;
Banish all which might allure
Memory of that evil one,
Who in guise of a white angel
Drew her from the pure evangel !
" For evermore thou shalt forsake
Those enchantments of the lake 1 "
This was not the aged priest.
Wont to serve her holy feast,
Before she fled away from earth ;
And Melcha felt a very dearth
In her heart, when he so stern
Bade her love for ever turn
From all memory of him.
Yonder in the waters dim.
Yet she feared the fatal spell —
Christ and Heaven ! Love and Hell !
"We may scorn not common ground :
God hath wisely fenced us round :
Within I bleed from a deep wound ! " . . .

When she hath arrived at home,
A stranger maiden sees her come
(How the aged house did lean !
Other was the garden scene) :
Who on Melcha's face and dress
Looks wide-eyed ; while with no less
Marvel Melcha looks on hers.
She with the strange maid confers ;
And, naming her own family.
Asks if sister, or her sire,
Be in the house, or near the byre ?
The maid, with terror in her eye,
Replies : " 'Tis near a century,
Since, as they tell me, one so named
Lived here — there is a portrait framed
In the old mansion, dim with age,
That often doth my mind engage.
Hanging in the parlour old ;
A lady, of whom strange things are told —
How she eloped with our lake-fairy . . .
Like you the picture looks ! ah ! Holy
Mary!"

Then Melcha in a mournful dream
Turned away from where the gleam
Of her old home promised rest
To the weary and distressed ;
While the maiden scared and pale
Fled within to tell her tale.

And Melcha went with drooping face
To her mother's resting-place.
But she found not the old stone ;
In its place a whiter one,
Commemorative of some other,
Not her well-beloved mother !
And confusion o'er her grew.
When the dates thereon she knew.
While on a headstone sunk among
Grass and darnel growing long.
Where weather-stains and lichen gather,
She spells the name of her old father . . .
And now the dear name uf her sister.
Alas ! how often in fond hope she kissed her !
Melcha lies in the warm sun,
Murmuring, " I must be a nun ! "

So she made herself a nun ;
And a high repute she won
Among pale devotees who fast,
Afflict their souls, and bodies cast
Scourged upon the midnight stone,
Supplicating, making moan,
Lacerated with remorse
For sin's dark tyrannic force.
Yet, alas ! the demon doubt
Was not utterly cast out.
Still her exorcised devil
Would return to hold his revel ;
And where slept Love's own warm grace.
Alas ! now was a desolate place ;
In that lone hollow of her heart
Fiery fangs of serpent dart ;
Nor Heaven's mild and holy balm
Fills her wounded soul with calm.
Yet fellow-feeling with the poor.
Enslaved and sorrowful, half wrought a cure :
The world-wide mystery of Fate
Fell upon her with all its weight ;
But gleams of Love, and Righteousness,
Over the welter of distress
From unimaginable quarters
Looked here and there upon the waters,
Deep, wan waters of our sorrow,
Murmuring of dark to-morrow.
Yea, and kindly thought for all
Lifts from sorrow's lonely pall.

But they who reft of consolation live
Feel the sad impotence of penurjs
When, longing some sweet cordial to give.
Helpless, and dumb, and void, they hear the cry :
"A drop to cool our tongues in this flame's misery !"
As one awaking after night,
Blind with blaze of sudden light,
To chaos was her nature hurled,
Paralysed for either world,
Since her wild audacious flight.
Now once more a gleam Elysian
Dawns upon her, a new vision,
Other than the sight of old.
Wondrous, wide, more manifold.
Then she cried, " How bitter, love 1
Aching hollows where should be
Love, and His tranquillity !
Alas ! my soul would climb above !
Yet if thou sink for need of me ?
Did I well to fly away,
Leaving thee alone to stray
Ever further from sweet day ?
In those awful wilds art lost ?
O to clasp thee, tempest-tost !
Ah ! my Lord ! Ah ! not for ever
Pom mine own thou wilt me sever :
Nay ! my husband, thou shalt prove
A mightier arm, though mine remove ! . . .
Two hearts tangled in Love's girdle golden !
Who dreams they shall not be holden ?
I am faint : I seem to feel
Some new change, for woe or weal."
Then she wandered through the brake.
Till she came upon the lake :
How wistfully she gazed, and gazed
Where the auroral billow blazed !

Ah 1 what is the wild thrilling trouble
In the sun's blithe water-double ? . . .
Behold, from forth the waters blue
Burst the spirit O'Donoghue !

He openeth wide longing arms —
Though where are now the earlier charms ?
How she wavereth on the brink !
In mortal faint she seems to sink ;
Yet looking on him, whispereth : " He is risen ! "
Then, all transfigured, yields her to the prison
Of his embrace! but this her lover now
Shines radiant, as never he hath shone.
" Yea, He is risen — though I know not how!"
Answers the other . . . and the twain are gone
Under the sun-reverberant tide :
The fairy Knight hath won his bride !