Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By GeorgeHoughton1034 The Handsel Ring
“H
Here by thy warrior sire’s own shrine,
Handsel I thee by this golden sign,
This sunshiny thing.”
Weeping she reached her hand so slim,
Smiled, though her eyes were wet and dim,
Saying: “I swear, by Heaven, by him,
And by this handsel ring!”
Out of his fingers the jewel flashed,
On the gray flags of the kirk it clashed,
That treacherous thing;
Clashed, and bounded, and circled, and sped,
Till through a crevice it flamed and fled,—
Down in the tomb of the knightly dead
Darted the handsel ring.
Goldsmiths shall forge for thy hands a score;
Let not thy heart be harried and sore
For a little thing!”
“Nay! but behold what broodeth there!
See the cold sheen of his silvery hair!
Look how his eyeballs roll and stare,
Seeking thy handsel ring!”
’T is a black vision that sorrow hath sown;
Haste, let us hence, for dark it hath grown,
And moths are on wing.”
“Nay, but his shrunken fist, behold,
Looses his lance-hilt and scatters the mould!
What is that his long fingers hold?
Christ! ’t is our handsel ring!”
Neither the lips nor the eyelids stir;
Naught to her, now, but music and myrrh,—
Needless his handsel ring.