Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear He turned he spurred to the West he did not know who stoodīowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death. Her eyes grew wide for a moment she drew one last deep breath, Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! The Redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!Ĭlop-clop, in the frosty silence! Clop-clop, in the echoing night! Ĭlop clop, Clop clop! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear Ĭlop clop, Clop clop!, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?ĭown the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, She would not risk their hearing she would not strive again Īnd the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain. Up she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, The tip of one finger touched it she strove no more for the rest! The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat and blood! She twisted her hands behind her but all the knots held good! I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! “Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!įor Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,īut they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door. When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor, He did not come in the dawning he did not come at noon Īnd out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon, Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West. (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) He rose upright in the stirrups he scarce could reach her hand,īut she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brandĪs the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast Īnd he kissed its waves in the moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,īut I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,ĭumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say. Where Tim the ostler listened his face was white and peaked Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.Īnd dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,Īnd he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,Ī coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
ON THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT CHRISTINA ROSSETTI TORRENT
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
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