Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
The Greenwood Shrift
By Caroline Bowles Southey (17861854)
O
Of Windsor Forest’s deepest glade,
A dying woman lay;
Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood
A woful wail that day.
“O mother, mother! do not die,
And leave us all alone.”
“My blessed babes!” she tried to say,
But the faint accents died away
In a low sobbing moan.
And fast and strong she drew her breath,
And up she raised her head;
And, peeping through the deep-wood maze
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
“Will he not come?” she said.
A little maid’s light form was seen,
All breathless with her speed;
And, following close, a man came on
(A portly man to look upon),
Who led a panting steed.
Or e’er she reached the woman’s side,
And kissed her clay-cold cheek,—
“I have not idled in the town,
But long went wandering up and down,
The minister to seek.
I think they mocked me everywhere;
And when I found his home,
And begged him on my bended knee,
To bring his book and come with me,
Mother! he would not come.
And would not go in peace away
Without the minister;
I begged him, for dear Christ, his sake,
But oh! my heart was fit to break—
Mother! he would not stir.
I ran back, fast as fast could be,
To come again to you;
And here, close by, this squire I met,
Who asked (so mild) what made me fret;
And when I told him true,
‘God sends me to this dying bed.’
Mother, he ’s here, hard by.”
While thus the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye.
With quivering flank and bended knee,
Pressed close his bonny bay;
A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,
Than those stood there that day.
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms; and in his look
Something that like a sermon book
Preached, “All is vanity.”
Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,
He stepped to where she lay;
And, kneeling down, bent over her,
Saying, “I am a minister,—
My sister! let us pray.”
(God’s words were printed on his soul),
Into the dying ear
He breathed, as ’t were, an angel’s strain,
The things that unto life pertain,
And death’s dark shadows clear.
In Christ renewed, regenerate,
Of God’s most blest decree
That not a single soul should die
Who turns repentant, with the cry
“Be merciful to me!”
Endured but for a little while
In patience, faith, and love,
Sure, in God’s own time, to be
Exchanged for an eternity
Of happiness above.
He raised his hands and eyes, to pray
That peaceful it might pass;
And then the orphans’ sobs alone
Were heard, as they knelt every one
Close round on the green grass.
Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,
Who reined their coursers back,
Just as they found the long astray,
Who, in the heat of chase that day,
Had wandered from their track.
And lighted down, as if agreed,
In silence at his side;
And there, uncovered all, they stood—
It was a wholesome sight and good—
That day for mortal pride.
Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band;
And central in the ring,
By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed king.