"In days of old, oh grandame stern!
     The holy olden time,
To give a blemished lamb to God,
     It was a grievous crime.
My darling sister from my kiss
     Her bright mouth backward drew,
As though she feared the faded lips
     Had power to wither too.
But her; why do I speak of her?
     My father scowled at me;
Was it a dream that I had been
     Once fondled on his knee?

"And yet, I could have borne it all
     Had but my mother shown
That, e'en beneath such foul disguise,
     Her love could tell its own.
I kissed her hand, for near embrace
     I felt had been amiss;
But my whole heart, my yearning heart,
     I poured into that kiss.

"Oh love! wert thou as powerful
     As legends say thou art,
Thy charmëd touch had moved her hand
     To draw me to her heart.
They say I was a pretty child
     (They need to say so now!)
Ah! then she used to smooth the hair
     That curled about my brow.

"The curls are gone, or gold or brown,
     Their lost hue I forget,
But, on their scorched and scant remains
     That pressure lingers yet.
But, for the cruel hand that stayed
     The red flames wreathing high,
I might have died, and left my name
     A household memory.

"And, deep within my mother's heart,
     Beyond Death's power to kill,
I still had been the little child,
     The bright-haired darling still."

"Go back! Thy seemly covering
     The veil and hood must be,
For never shall our ancient house
     Give coronet to thee."

"A coronet! oh, give me back
     The home affection gone!
I covet from our lineal gems
     That pearl of price alone.
'Twas at thy word the convent's gloom
     My childhood darken'd o'er;
But I've stepped beyond the worldly shades,
     I shall not enter more.

"Bethink thee, I am scarce sixteen,
     And grievous it appears
To learn my life-time in a day,
     Yet live it three-score years.
As well I may, for convent life
     Doth draw a sluggish breath;
Life, did I say?— 'twere better called
     A long look-out for death.

"And, oh! amidst those cloisters dim,
     Where not e'en thought is free,
The mounting bird, the running stream,
    Would still keep haunting me.
Nor could the missal's sacred lore
     My thoughts with Heaven engage;
Some landscape from the world without
     Still floated o'er the page,

"Keep, keep thy wealth, and rank and name,
     Yea, home and friend deny,
Let me be free to come and go
     Beneath God's open sky.
In nature's large and loving heart
     I have not lost my place;
The stream that gives thine image back
     Doth not refuse my face.

"The flower doth not avoid my touch,
     Nor tall tree wave me hence,
The breeze doth kiss thy cheek and mine
     Without a difference.
But sickly plants I love to tend,
     For these my kindred be,
And, when their gentle breath flows out,
     It feels like sympathy.

"With these and my unquestioned thoughts
     Here will I live and die;
Though at the altar, I should stand,
     Thy power I will defy."

In vain their stormy anger burst
     The steadfast maiden o'er;
So they were fain to seek for one
      To take that burden sore.

They offered wealth, but knight and squire
     Of high and low degree,
Vowed they would need her weight in gold
     To wed with such as she.
Then the poor maiden raised her head,
     And all a woman's pride
Swelled the slight neck, while jest and scoff
     Flew round from side to side.

But up then spake a yeoman stanch,
     And his sun-browned face flushed high,
"If ye be knights and gentlemen,
     Thank God, so am not I!
I have a home. Dear lady, say,
     If thou couldst stoop so low;
Thou knowest that on the lowly bush
     A pleasant fruit doth grow.

"An ancient house; it hath in front
     An oak, a royal tree;
But each old branch, at morn and eve,
     Shall learn to bow to thee.
It hath a pleasant garden-ground;
     I'll make thee there a seat,
Just where the rivulet can float
     Its lilies to thy feet.

"A quiet house, where, year by year,
     The building swallows come;
Poor wounded bird! the heights are cold,
     Come to the sheltered home.
And, to atone for all the griefs
     That robbed youth of its right,
True love shall make thy later years
     A childhood for delight."

And then the maiden bent her head,
     And all her pride was gone;
She said, " I will wear out my life
     In serving thee alone."
Then spake the grandame: " As thy wife
     She may not own my name."
"And shall not! " quoth the yeoman bold,
     " It was her only shame.