Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DEAD MOTHER, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DEAD MOTHER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Lord roland on his roan horse
Last Line: About a dead man's head.
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Death - Mothers; Dead, The


LORD ROLAND on his roan horse
Is riding far and fast,
Though white the eddying snow is driven
Along the northern blast.

There's snow upon the holly-bush,
There's snow upon the pine;
There's many a bough beneath the snow
He had not thought so fine --
For the last time Roland crossed the moor
He rode to Palestine.

Now pale across the windy hills
A castle 'gins to rise,
With unsubstantial turrets thin
Against the windy skies.

"Welcome, O welcome, Towers of Sands,
I welcome you again!
Yet often in my Syrian tent,
I saw you far more plain."

Lord Roland spurs his roan horse
Through all the snow and wind --
And soon he's reached those towers so wan,
And left the moor behind.

"Welcome, Sir John the Steward!
How oft in Eastern lands
I've called to mind your English face,
And sighed to think of Sands.

"If still you love your old play-mate
You loved so well of yore --
Go up, go up, and tell my mother
That Roland's at the door."

"O how shall I tell you, Lord Roland,
The news that you must know? --
Your mother is dead, Lord Roland --
She died a month ago."

When day was gone and night was come,
When all things turn to sleep.
Lord Roland in the darkness, then,
Learned that a man can weep.

"O why did I stay so long from home
And tarry so many a year,
And now I'll see thee never again,
Thy voice I'll never hear.

"There's a flood of death betwixt us twain,
A flood that is dark and dour;
But if my prayer can reach thee, Mother,
And if the dead have power,
Come back from Heaven, come back, my Mother,
An' it be but for an hour."

It's a long, long road from Heaven to earth;
And a weary road, I ween,
For whoso passed the gates of Death
To reach those gardens green.

'Tis a long, long road from the heart o' the grave
To the home where kinsmen sleep;
But a mother thinks no road too long
Hearing her children weep.

The moon has dropt behind the moor,
The night is quiet and still...
What makes the flesh of Lord Roland
To shudder and turn chill?

Something stirs in the light o' the flame,
Aye drifting nigher and nigher...
"My hands are chill," says a voice in the wind,
"I'll warm them at the fire.

"Give me a crust o' your bread, my son,
Give me a cup o' your wine.
Long have I fasted for your sake,
And long you'll fast for mine."

Lord Roland stares across the dusk
With stern and dreadful eyes,
There's only a wind in the light o' the fire,
A wind that shudders and sighs.

"My limbs are faint," sighs a voice in the wind
"My feet are bruised and torn --
"It's long I've seen no linen sheets,
I'll rest me here till morn."

There's an eerie shape in the chamber now,
And shadowy feet that move;
The fire goes out in a sullen ash,
Like the angry end of love --

And out of doors the red cock cries,
And then the white and the grey --
Where one spirit crossed Whinny-moor,
There's two that hurry away.

And silent sits Lord Roland, alone,
Stiff, with a look of dread;
And the chilly beams of morning fall
About a dead man's head.




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