COUNTESS NELL.
SHE flung away, like worthless dross, the garments of her pride,
And donned a peasant's russet gown, to be a peasant's bride;
Not one of all her lofty line had ever looked so fair.
Braiding with simple ribbons up the beauty of her hair.
The diamond circlet from her brows, the jewels from her breast,
The plumes and velvet of her rank, she left them with the rest;
And to the sister that she loved, "Thou mayst be braver, May,
But none more happy, dear, than I, upon my wedding day.
"Sweetest, farewell! go kneel for me, before St. Mary's grace,
For if my uncle ban my name, there must be one to bless;
And tell him, great as was my love, so greater is my pain,
For all the world is won and lost, if we shall meet again.
"Open the gates!" she said, and knelt and kissed the threshold stone.
Then turned with eyes that would not weep and went her way alone.
At morn, within the chapel gray, the priest received her vows.
And all day long she gayly wrought in Hubert's little house.
"If it had been a peasant maid that my dear lord had wed,
She would have labored like a bee beneath his roof," she said.
"And shall his kindred say of this, that it were not as well.
When for the love she bore to him, he married Countess Nell?
"I'll learn to spin the shining flax, to milk the spotted kine,
To keep my cottage hearthstone bright, and train my bowery vine;
I'll learn to dress our simple food, to bake our wheaten bread,
And be a peasant's wife, indeed," the high-born lady said.
So she laid down the silver lute, to hear the distaff hum,
Or only ceased her happy song to watch her husband come;
And if the unaccustomed task put her weak hands to pain,
She said, "He kissed this little hand," and labored on again.
Ah! how we women yield to such our soul and being up,
A pearl of countless cost dissolved, to fill their brimming cup.
We at their bidding hide our cares, and put away our fears;
We learn to smile for them, and keep for lonely hours our tears.
Our love, that sprung in joy, in grief clings with a closer hold,
And if our idols be but clay, we strive to find them gold.
O, who shall tell in what strange ways affection's course may run,
Since noble Countess Nell loved so a humble peasant's son?
