Volume 6 — Imogen.

She was all compact of beauty, Like the sunlight and the flowers; One of those radiant beings That prove this world of ours Not utterly forsaken By the angel host of God, Since now and then its valleys By their holy feet are trod. If her hair was black and glossy Or golden-hued and bright, Or if her eyes were azure, Or dark and deep as night, I know not—this truth only Do I know or care to know; Never a lovelier maiden Blest this weary world below. In the castle ruled her father, And his lands stretched miles away Mine toiled down in the hamlet For his daily bread each day; Too far apart were we. Too high wert thou for me, O Lady Imogen! When the meadow was all golden With the cowslips' May-day bells, And the sweet breath of the primrose Came up from fragrant dells; When the blackbird and the throstle Whistled cheerly in the morn, And the skylark, quivering upward, Rose singing from the corn; Then when the blessed spring-time Filled with beauty all the earth, From her father's lordly castle Would this maiden wander forth, Where the violets were blooming In unfrequented dells; O'er the mead where zephyrs pilfered Fragrance from the cowslips' bells. Wheresoever beauty lingered, There this radiant maiden strayed, And beauty by her presence More beautiful was made; The sunshine looked more golden As it gleamed around her head; And the grass more green and living Rose up beneath her tread; And the flowers more bright and fragrant To greet her coming grew; And mad with love and music The birds about her flew. Oh! she was the loveliest maiden That ever eye did see; She was sunshine, she was music, She was all the world to me. But she never knew the passion That set my soul aflame; That hid me by the hedge-row To watch whene'er she came, To see her glorious beauty, Like a star from heaven, go by. Oh! to see her but one moment God knows that I would die, O peerless Imogen! They bore her to the abbey With the pomp of princely woe, With steeds and hearse and snowy pall, And white plumes drooping low: And high, proud heads were bending In her funereal train, And princely eyes were weeping Heavy tears like summer rain. I far off followed slowly, No tears were in mine eye; 'Twas not for one so lowly To weep for one so high; But, oh! since she hath vanished, With her have seemed to go All the beauty, all the music, Of this weary world below! Dead, dead, and buried, Imogen! E. Young.