Composed 1830.—Published 1835
[Early in life this story had interested me, and I often thought it would make a pleasing subject for an opera or musical drama.—I. F.]
In 1837 this poem was placed among those grouped as "Yarrow revisited, etc." In 1845 it was transferred to the "Miscellaneous Poems."—Ed.
Part I
Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes
Like harebells bathed in dew,
Of cheek that with carnation vies,
And veins of violet hue;[651]
Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 5
A likening to frail flowers;
Yea, to the stars, if they were born[652]
For seasons and for hours.
Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred,[653]
Stepped One at dead of night, 10
Whom such high beauty could not guard
From meditated blight;
By stealth she passed, and fled as fast
As doth the hunted fawn,
Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 15
Appeared unwelcome dawn.
Seven days she lurked in brake and field,
Seven nights her course renewed,
Sustained by what her scrip might yield,
Or berries of the wood; 20
At length, in darkness travelling on,
When lowly doors were shut,
The haven of her hope she won,
Her Foster-mother's hut.
"To put your love to dangerous proof 25
I come," said she, "from far;
For I have left my Father's roof,
In terror of the Czar."
No answer did the Matron give,
No second look she cast, 30
But hung upon the Fugitive,[654]
Embracing and embraced.
She led the Lady[655] to a seat
Beside the glimmering fire,
Bathed duteously her wayworn feet, 35
Prevented each desire:—
The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed,
And on that simple bed,
Where she in childhood had reposed,
Now rests her weary head. 40
When she, whose couch had been the sod,
Whose curtain, pine or thorn,
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God,
Who comforts the forlorn;
While over her the Matron bent 45
Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole
Feeling from limbs with travel spent,
And trouble from the soul.