“Is there an herb . . . ?” I asked. “Or none?”
Yes, thus I asked him desperately.
“—There is,” he said; “a certain one . . . ”
Would he had sworn that none knew he!
“To-morrow I will walk your way,”
He hinted low, alas for me.—
Fieldwards I gazed throughout next day;
Now fields I never more would see!
The sunset-shine, as curfew strook,
As curfew strook beyond the lea,
Lit his white smock and gleaming crook,
While slowly he drew near to me.
He pulled from underneath his smock
The herb I sought, my curse to be—
“At times I use it in my flock,”
He said, and hope waxed strong in me.
“’Tis meant to balk ill-motherings”—
(Ill-motherings! Why should they be?)—
“If not, would God have sent such things?”
So spoke the shepherd unto me.
That night I watched the poppling brew,
With bended back and hand on knee:
I stirred it till the dawnlight grew,
And the wind whiffled wailfully.
“This scandal shall be slain,” said I,
“That lours upon her innocency:
I’ll give all whispering tongues the lie;”—
But worse than whispers was to be.
“Here’s physic for untimely fruit,”
I said to her, alas for me,
Early that morn in fond salute;
And in my grave I now would be.
—Next Sunday came, with sweet church chimes
In Pydel Vale, alas for me:
I went into her room betimes;
No more may such a Sunday be!
“Mother, instead of rescue nigh,”
She faintly breathed, alas for me,
“I feel as I were like to die,
And underground soon, soon should be.”