Sweet Marie
You were very fair to meet once, Marie,
With your eyes like some blue hiding flower,
Now where the sun would ever seem to be,
Now glowing purple through a diamond shower.
But it was the wonder hair that you had,
With its strange changing colours, gold and red,
Now brown, now amber—guessing drove men mad,
All for the sudden sight of your young head.
Once down amongst the vine-fields stood a youth,
Sweet singing of its auburn, till arose
A fool to match him, swore it was, in truth,
Gold of all gold, until they fell to blows.
Oh! red gold of the sun it was to me,
The very sun itself; indeed, the day,
Lost all its light when you I might not see,
Shone at the gloaming if you chanced my way.
But yet you passed us by and had no smile,
For all our foolish loving, nor a look
To check our thieving glances—chide our guile,
That made us linger on the path you took.
Like some proud queen you went thus treasure crowned,
Quick bearing, well we knew, all your sweet gold
To one who was beloved, there, loose unbound,
The yellow wealth lay ready to his hold.
Cursed be he; did he kiss, then, tress by tress,
And so beneath the hiding glory seek
Those smiling lips, that only spoke to bless
All I did curse, in accents low and meek.
Fate has such ways of laying plan and plot,
And heart to heart that are not over wise,
Why did you choose a braggart and a sot
From those who loved you, held you as a prize?
Did my deep curses fall? For stricken he
Found death’s black gate, and waited while you prayed
All the great saints of Heaven kind to be,
Thus bargained for his life, all undismayed.
As once beside a wayside shrine I hid
And saw you coming, trembled at your tear,
I read your anguish ‘neath each swollen lid,
So raised from eyes that could not hide their fear.
There, from her niche, the Virgin, gazing down,
Appeared to watch you as you loosed your hair.
And oh the glory of that red and brown,
All the fair sunlight seemed entangled there!
’Sweet Mother, for his life I, tress for tress,
Shall cut this beauty which God gave to me,
Wilt thou my pleading hearken to and bless,
And pray thy Son to grant this boon to me.’
You raised your eyes expectant, and I, too,
Gazed at the carven face until it seemed
The figure smiled, and then it forward threw
Its head to bowing, this—unless I dreamed.
But, Marie, lock by lock you flung your hair
Upon the knife that seemed to pierce my heart,
At each slow-parting strand I cried ‘Beware,’
And looked for blood upon the tress apart.
You laughed upon me, ‘Did you see her bow?
My boon is granted, he shall live, shall live!’
Before the Virgin low you bent your brow,
‘Behold, sweet Mother, all my gold I give.’
‘And this must die,’—I kissed each tangled lock,
Laid it in sorrow on the altar stone—
‘That he may live’—your laughter came to mock
The evil hope that held my heart its own.
And then you left me smiling in your glee.
I stood before the Virgin eye to eye,
‘What, jealous of her hair!’ I cried. But she
Stiff, painted, wooden, did not heed my cry.
But who would say the Virgin was not wise
To weigh the value of men’s love with this
Gold heap of hair? For scarcely were my cries
Of anger over than your voice of bliss
Came backward to me, ‘He is whole again,
And walks toward me, hold me lest I fall,’
And so with lowered eyes of grief and pain,
With giving hands I offered him my all.
But this shorn lamb had no soft tempered wind
To bless her sacrifice and bid her live,
For sudden laughter, scorn, and jeers unkind
Were all the welcome that your love did give.
Stricken we stood a moment, facing him,
And the false woman leaning to his side,
With her stiff pointing finger, and her dim
Hard eyes upon us. Laughing now they cried
‘You once were very fair and sweet, Marie,
With all your wonder locks of gold and red,
Now brown, now amber men went mad to see
The endless glory of your shining head.’
All still you stood a moment with your eyes
Fixed on him for some mercy, but his face
Half turned in scorning; so, like one who dies,
You moaned, and ran to hide in your disgrace.
And I had struck him, but he fell to tears,
And loud lamenting, crying, ‘Oh, the gold
That was my life. O death-inflicting shears,
To rob the perfumed locks I loved to hold!’
I spurned him, told the sacrifice, and bid
Him go and seek you, praying you forgive,
But he with laughter scorned me as I chid,
‘I’ll seek some other tresses, so I live.’
I struck him then, for I was sick, in truth,
Of my long hatred; he went down to lie
Beside his dog, who was the nobler brute,
And wept that he was slain and soon to die.
