Gilbert had sailed to India’s shore,

   And I was all alone:

My lord came in at my open door

   And said, “O fairest one!”

He leant upon the slant bureau,

   And sighed, “I am sick for thee!”

“My lord,” said I, “pray speak not so,

   Since wedded wife I be.”

Leaning upon the slant bureau,

   Bitter his next words came:

“So much I know; and likewise know

   My love burns on the same!

“But since you thrust my love away,

   And since it knows no cure,

I must live out as best I may

   The ache that I endure.”

When Michaelmas browned the nether Coomb,

   And Wingreen Hill above,

And made the hollyhocks rags of bloom,

   My lord grew ill of love.

My lord grew ill with love for me;

   Gilbert was far from port;

And—so it was—that time did see

   Me housed at Manor Court.

About the bowers of Manor Court

   The primrose pushed its head

When, on a day at last, report

   Arrived of him I had wed.

“Gilbert, my lord, is homeward bound,

   His sloop is drawing near,

What shall I do when I am found

   Not in his house but here?”

“O I will heal the injuries

   I’ve done to him and thee.

I’ll give him means to live at ease

   Afar from Shastonb’ry.”

When Gilbert came we both took thought:

   “Since comfort and good cheer,”

Said he, “So readily are bought,

   He’s welcome to thee, Dear.”

So when my lord flung liberally

   His gold in Gilbert’s hands,

I coaxed and got my brothers three

   Made stewards of his lands.

And then I coaxed him to install

   My other kith and kin,

With aim to benefit them all

   Before his love ran thin.

And next I craved to be possessed

   Of plate and jewels rare.

He groaned: “You give me, Love, no rest,

   Take all the law will spare!”

And so in course of years my wealth

   Became a goodly hoard,

My steward brethren, too, by stealth

   Had each a fortune stored.

Thereafter in the gloom he’d walk,

   And by and by began

To say aloud in absent talk,

   “I am a ruined man!—

“I hardly could have thought,” he said,

   “When first I looked on thee,

That one so soft, so rosy red,

   Could thus have beggared me!”

Seeing his fair estates in pawn,

   And him in such decline,

I knew that his domain had gone

   To lift up me and mine.

Next month upon a Sunday morn

   A gunshot sounded nigh:

By his own hand my lordly born

   Had doomed himself to die.

“Live, my dear lord, and much of thine

   Shall be restored to thee!”

He smiled, and said ’twixt word and sign,

   “Alas—that cannot be!”

And while I searched his cabinet

   For letters, keys, or will,

’Twas touching that his gaze was set

   With love upon me still.

And when I burnt each document

   Before his dying eyes,

’Twas sweet that he did not resent

   My fear of compromise.

The steeple-cock gleamed golden when

   I watched his spirit go:

And I became repentant then

   That I had wrecked him so.

Three weeks at least had come and gone,

   With many a saddened word,

Before I wrote to Gilbert on

   The stroke that so had stirred.

And having worn a mournful gown,

   I joined, in decent while,

My husband at a dashing town

   To live in dashing style.

Yet though I now enjoy my fling,

   And dine and dance and drive,

I’d give my prettiest emerald ring

   To see my lord alive.

And when the meet on hunting-days

   Is near his churchyard home,

I leave my bantering beaux to place

   A flower upon his tomb;

And sometimes say: “Perhaps too late

   The saints in Heaven deplore

That tender time when, moved by Fate,

   He darked my cottage door.”