 | [Poems by Moody in] William Vaughn Moody : A Study by David Dodds Henry |  |
ANGELLE
I
(Count Bertram speaks.)
Was it not glorious? the street
One blaze of banners, flags, and flowers,
The stone bridge to my charger's feet
Made soft with woven stuffs, white showers
Of roses from the crowded roofs
Left him no spot to plant his hoofs
One blaze of banners, flags, and flowers,
The stone bridge to my charger's feet
Made soft with woven stuffs, white showers
Of roses from the crowded roofs
Left him no spot to plant his hoofs
That was not snowed knee-deep with bloom
Plucked by our burgher-girls to crown
Me, who dared bid the old proud town,
Bowed low so long in wrath and gloom,
Rise up and shake her neck and feel
Fall off the riven ring of steel.
Plucked by our burgher-girls to crown
Me, who dared bid the old proud town,
Bowed low so long in wrath and gloom,
Rise up and shake her neck and feel
Fall off the riven ring of steel.
My life's one dream had come about;
Our town was free; Duke Leon dead;
In five days I should go to wed
His daughter, and so wipe quite out
The old stain, banish every trace
Of the old hatred and disgrace.
Our town was free; Duke Leon dead;
In five days I should go to wed
His daughter, and so wipe quite out
The old stain, banish every trace
Of the old hatred and disgrace.
Why was it then, that when I threw
My glance to one low balustrade,
The whole rich city seemed to fade
Before a mere girl's face, that drew
All meaning from the earth and skies
And held it in her lips and eyes?
My glance to one low balustrade,
The whole rich city seemed to fade
Before a mere girl's face, that drew
All meaning from the earth and skies
And held it in her lips and eyes?
A streak of sunlight sifting through
The gnarled magnolia's rose pink dome
Above the wall, cared not to roam
The musky under-glooms of blue,
When once it found and kissed to flame
The hair that held her face in frame.
The gnarled magnolia's rose pink dome
Above the wall, cared not to roam
The musky under-glooms of blue,
When once it found and kissed to flame
The hair that held her face in frame.
246
Did twenty thousand people strain
Their throats, my name on high to raise?
It all seemed cheap beside the praise
Her calm brow gave me, while a band
Of white-robed boys placed in my hand
The broidered banner of our land.
Their throats, my name on high to raise?
It all seemed cheap beside the praise
Her calm brow gave me, while a band
Of white-robed boys placed in my hand
The broidered banner of our land.
Only a moment one may guess,
The spell had strength to hold me: then
I rose up. I was lord of men
Who freed my city from distress;
Round me my grateful people bowed—
And she was one face in the crowd.
The spell had strength to hold me: then
I rose up. I was lord of men
Who freed my city from distress;
Round me my grateful people bowed—
And she was one face in the crowd.
A face to stare at, doubtlessly,
And I almost a stranger, so
I plucked Count Armon's sleeve to know
Her name and state. He screened his eye
With one broad gauntlet from the sun:
‘Angelle, the sole uncloistered nun
And I almost a stranger, so
I plucked Count Armon's sleeve to know
Her name and state. He screened his eye
With one broad gauntlet from the sun:
‘Angelle, the sole uncloistered nun
‘Our town boasts,’ laughed he, ‘calm and cold
As marble martyr in her niche:
'Twas she who worked your banner's rich,
Soft blazoning. A shame, I hold,
Such eyes should dim their violet fire
On paltry needle-work, for hire!”
As marble martyr in her niche:
'Twas she who worked your banner's rich,
Soft blazoning. A shame, I hold,
Such eyes should dim their violet fire
On paltry needle-work, for hire!”
That task at least (I dared have said)
Was not for hire: each burning thread
Which caught the sun above my head
Was stained her very heart's core red.
Each stitch, I knew, had been a prayer,
Each pin thrust a thanksgiving, there.
Was not for hire: each burning thread
Which caught the sun above my head
Was stained her very heart's core red.
Each stitch, I knew, had been a prayer,
Each pin thrust a thanksgiving, there.
How had I thought to ride away!
About me birds and brooks and bees,
Above me milk-white orchard trees,
And in my heart a tune so gay
The quail's low drum, the throstle's throat,
Were discord to its meanest note.
About me birds and brooks and bees,
Above me milk-white orchard trees,
And in my heart a tune so gay
The quail's low drum, the throstle's throat,
Were discord to its meanest note.
And now—how leans her cheek death pale
Against her idle wheel tonight?
What deems she of earth's bale and blight,
Of all earth's bitter blight and bale?
Three days, and then I ride away—
Why has my bread turned stone, I say?
Against her idle wheel tonight?
What deems she of earth's bale and blight,
Of all earth's bitter blight and bale?
Three days, and then I ride away—
Why has my bread turned stone, I say?
247
II
(It is the evening of the second day after. Angelle speaks.)
Ah, dearest, here is a sight of sights
To stop one's weeping: only see,
Three blood-red blooms on my cactus tree
Tonight of all the nights!
To stop one's weeping: only see,
Three blood-red blooms on my cactus tree
Tonight of all the nights!
My cactus waited a winter through
To bloom, for an end it had in mind;
My heart, deep hid in its lifeless rind,
It had its purpose, too.
To bloom, for an end it had in mind;
My heart, deep hid in its lifeless rind,
It had its purpose, too.
Tomorrow doubtless the blooms will fall,
Only a broken stem remain
Of the bright like blood and the dim like rain
Wrapped up in the lucent ball:
Only a broken stem remain
Of the bright like blood and the dim like rain
Wrapped up in the lucent ball:
But the stalk will cherish, I dare avow,
The daylong pride of its diadem;
I shall not forget that I wore a gem
Two nights on my worthless brow.
The daylong pride of its diadem;
I shall not forget that I wore a gem
Two nights on my worthless brow.
Two long, long nights, from dusk to dusk!
Is not that much? I ask no more.
My heart would burst did a third night pour
Its chrismal flame and musk.
Is not that much? I ask no more.
My heart would burst did a third night pour
Its chrismal flame and musk.
Last week my heart was as cold and dead
As the glass-green stem of my cactus-tree;
Last night on a sudden one, two, three
Buds burst out warm and red.
As the glass-green stem of my cactus-tree;
Last night on a sudden one, two, three
Buds burst out warm and red.
Tomorrow doubtless the blooms will fall,
Only a broken stem remain
Of the bright like blood and the dim like rain
Wrapped up in the lucent ball:
Only a broken stem remain
Of the bright like blood and the dim like rain
Wrapped up in the lucent ball:
But the stalk will perish, I dare avow,
The daylong pride of its diadem;
I shall not forget that I wore a gem
Two nights on my worthless brow.
The daylong pride of its diadem;
I shall not forget that I wore a gem
Two nights on my worthless brow.
III
(Obelin, a vagabond minstrel, continueth his tale before the Abbess.)
Had I the art Fra Gochil knows,
I'd paint, not tell you, the story's close;
The grace and pomp of the tourney shows!
I'd paint, not tell you, the story's close;
The grace and pomp of the tourney shows!
248
Mere words can ne'er suffice to tell
Of the great lists shaped like a scallop shell,
Where they fought three days for the silver bell.
Of the great lists shaped like a scallop shell,
Where they fought three days for the silver bell.
When the count brought home his just-wed bride
He hung a silver bell by the side
Of the throne where she sat languid-eyed,
He hung a silver bell by the side
Of the throne where she sat languid-eyed,
To watch the gallant jousting game;
And he challenged every knight who came
To tilt for the prize in his lady's name.
And he challenged every knight who came
To tilt for the prize in his lady's name.
And on the third day came a knight
With blue shield moon-shape, star bedight,
So all clapped hands at the gracious sight.
With blue shield moon-shape, star bedight,
So all clapped hands at the gracious sight.
Behind his visor all saw glare
Such eyes as shine from a wild beast's lair,
The queen leaned forward from her chair.
Such eyes as shine from a wild beast's lair,
The queen leaned forward from her chair.
Our count laughed up as he took his lance
Some jest to his bride with the brows askance:
He never dreamed of the deed's mischance.
Some jest to his bride with the brows askance:
He never dreamed of the deed's mischance.
Steel clashed on steel in a storm of sound:
Dust cleared: our count lay on the ground,
Pierced through the breast with a mortal wound:
Dust cleared: our count lay on the ground,
Pierced through the breast with a mortal wound:
While over him, with bared head, stood
Dead Leon's son, our foe. ‘God's rood!’
He cried, ‘here wash I out in blood
Dead Leon's son, our foe. ‘God's rood!’
He cried, ‘here wash I out in blood
‘The shameful bond that linked my race
To his: behold how I erase
The stain and cancel the disgrace!’
To his: behold how I erase
The stain and cancel the disgrace!’
Then fell a strange thing: from her throne
The bride came down, her wild hair blown
About her, all her pale face grown
The bride came down, her wild hair blown
About her, all her pale face grown
One fire, and all her soul one thirst
To bind the bonds that her kinsman burst,
And keep her faith—come best or worst:
To bind the bonds that her kinsman burst,
And keep her faith—come best or worst:
When who should burst in through the ring
About the wounded knight, who fling
His wife one side, and sink and cling
About the wounded knight, who fling
His wife one side, and sink and cling
About his form with moanings wild—
But just that maid we townsfolk styled
Angelle, the saintly and undefiled?
But just that maid we townsfolk styled
Angelle, the saintly and undefiled?
249
Who (we loved to say) heard Heaven's own hymn
As her faced yearned out of its hair's soft rim,
Too gold for a lover's breath to dim:
As her faced yearned out of its hair's soft rim,
Too gold for a lover's breath to dim:
With the brow too white neath the parted strands
For aught but the brow of the saint who stands
With the young Christ clinging to both her hands.
For aught but the brow of the saint who stands
With the young Christ clinging to both her hands.
We had worshipped her as we worshipped God,—
And lo! she lay on the earth like a clod,
A common thing, to be spurned and trod!
And lo! she lay on the earth like a clod,
A common thing, to be spurned and trod!
[OMITTED]
Next day when the funeral train went through
The great bridge gate, the people knew
Who walked behind, brow-bound with rue,
The great bridge gate, the people knew
Who walked behind, brow-bound with rue,
Blackvested, and with muffled face,
And the women moralled, knitting their lace,
Of her deadly sin and its swift disgrace.
And the women moralled, knitting their lace,
Of her deadly sin and its swift disgrace.
IV
The nuns rose up and left the room:
The abbess sat in the purple gloom.
The abbess sat in the purple gloom.
The minstrel let the lute-notes fail,
Then turned in question of the tale.
Then turned in question of the tale.
‘How shameful that no purest life
Is free from fleshly sin and strife!
Is free from fleshly sin and strife!
‘If punishment were yours to tell
What had you meted the maid Angelle?’
What had you meted the maid Angelle?’
The abbess let her stern gaze fall
On the wan white Christ in the shadowed wall.
On the wan white Christ in the shadowed wall.
‘If I had sought some way to win
To show my hate of her deadly sin
To show my hate of her deadly sin
‘I had gone bare-head and with naked feet
And held her hand through the crowded street.’
And held her hand through the crowded street.’
| [Poems by Moody in] William Vaughn Moody : A Study by David Dodds Henry | |