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Not that I bid you spare her the pain ;
Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose ;
Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,
GOLD HAIR :
A STORY OF PORNIC.
OH, the beautiful girl, too white,
Who lived at Pornic down by the sea, Just where the sea and the Loire unite !
And a boasted name in Brittany She bore, which I will not write.
Too white, for the flower of life is red;
Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)
To just see earth, and hardly be seen, And blossom in heaven instead.
Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair !
One grace that grew to its full on earth : Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
And her waist want half a girdle's girth, But she had her great gold hair.
Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
Freshness and fragrance—floods of it, too !
Here, Life smiled, “ Think what I meant to do!”
Than that, when some delicate evening dies,
There 's a shoot of colour startles the skies
That, while the breath was nearly to seek,
As they put the little cross to her lips,
A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,
hair !" made the girl her moan-
“Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! “ Leave my poor gold hair alone !”
The passion thus vented, dead lay she :
Her parents sobbed their worst on that,
For indeed the hair was to wonder at,
But curled around her brow, like a crown,
And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, And calmed about her neck—ay, down
To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap l' the gold, it reached her gown.
All kissed that face, like a silver wedge
'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair : E'en the priest allowed death's privilege,
As he planted the crucifix with care
Of body and soul, in the very space
In Pornic church, for her pride of race, Pure life and piteous fate.
And in after-time would your fresh tear fall,
Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold both robe and pall,
How she prayed them leave it alone awhile, So it never was touched at all.
Years flew; this legend grew at last
The life of the lady; all she had done, All been, in the memories fading fast
Of lover and friend, was summed in one Sentence survivors passed :
Had turned an angel before the time :
Of frailty, all you could count a crime Was-she knew her gold hair's worth.
At little pleasant Pornic church,
It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, Was taken to pieces : left in the lurch,
A certain sacred space lay bare, And the boys began research.
’T was the space where our sires would lay a saint,
A benefactor,-a bishop, suppose,
Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,
So we come to find them in after-days
When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds Of use to the living, in many ways:
For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise.