Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

All night beneath a double weight, and followed by a track
Of fire that flashed along the dark, the steed, with ears laid back
As if he heard a cry behind, and was aware that death
Or life was laid upon his speed, bore on with deepdrawn breath
And nostrils quivering wide, until at length the stars withdrawn
Had melted out into the dusk that comes before the dawn.
Then cheerly to his steed outspoke the rider of the twain
That bore the nobler, knightlier mien, and slackened girth and rein:
“Three rivers hast thou set between the foemen and our flight;
Now softly, gallant Roland, now, for soon by this good light,
Slow breaking pale o'er moor and dale, above the eastern hill,
Soon shall I see my castle rise: art weary, or art chill,
Thou gentle youth, that tremblest so? Nay, only with the cold
I ween, for thou approved hast been for steadfast and for bold.

Small speech has passed between us yet, small guerdon hast thou shared
Of thanks as yet for all that thou for me hast done and dared;
But One shall thank thee, for I wot that on my lady's 'hest
(A gentle lady, true and kind!) thou camest on this quest.
Yet tell me now, where foundest thou the strength, and where the skill
To win at me, to set me free,—so young, so tender still?”
Then answered faint and low the Page, as one that strives to speak
In spite of very feebleness: “Thou seest I am weak;
So took I twain for counsellors that have been held from old
More strong than any under heaven, and one of them was Gold.”

Long thoughtful paused the Knight, but not above the Page's word
That fell perchance upon his ear (so deep he mused) unheard.
Then spake he: “When at first I heard thy sweet, low-warbled song,
That night by night came floating light around my dungeon strong,—

Now far and faint, as if it woke and died among the stars,
Now nearer, like a friend's kind voice beneath my prison bars,—
I thought some spirit of the blest watched o'er me from above,
And mourned for me, itself set free from all of earth but Love.”
But sudden spake the Page, and clenched his hand, “To thee it seemed
That Love dwells only with the Dead; yet have the living deemed
That they could also love, I ween.” No further word he said,
But ever fainter came his breath, and lower sank his head.
“Now rest on me, thou gentle youth, for thou art sorely spent;
So lean thy head upon my breast;” and ever as they went
Still firmer round his drooping form Lord Guilbert did enfold
His stalwart arm, and strove to wrap and shield him from the cold,
And whispered oft, “How farest thou?” and still the answer fell
As from a soul that moaned in sleep, “Yea, with me it is well.”

So fared they on in silence, till at length, as clearer broke
A glimmer on the hill's dusk edge, the boy, as one that woke,

Half roused from heavy dreams, spake slow,—“This dawn to me breaks dim;
I pray thee lift me off from steed ere yet my senses swim,
And bear me to the little well that springs beneath the hill,—
Thou knowest it?” But then the Knight spake soothingly and still,—
“A little, little space, dear youth, yet bear thee up, be strong;
My gentle lady waits for us.” “Nay, she hath waited long,
So may she tarry yet a while. Oh, bear me to the place
Where now I hear the waters flow—I ask it of thy grace!”

Then kind, as one with feebleness that will contend no more,
The good Knight lifted him from steed, and tenderly him bore,
Light as an infant in his arms, and passive as the dead,
Adown the grassy, woodland path, with firm and cautious tread;
And after them a sunbeam slid, a glitter struck all through
The dell, thrid deep with gossamers and films besprent with dew;

On swift and silent sped the knight, yet at each step he trod
He startled up the happy things beloved of Sleep and God,
And through the rustling grass and leaves a hum, a twitter broke,
As if the Soul within them hid half-stirred before it woke.
So gliding swift 'twixt heavy boughs that stooping seemed to sign
With wet, cool finger on their brows a benison divine,
They gained a rocky, moss-grown stair; and where the fountain sprung,
One moment as above its deep dark mirror Guilbert hung,
He saw each wild-wood flower and fern that grew around the place,—
And looking upward from its depths a white and deathly face!

There smiled she on him in the light that never yet was cast
By earthly dawn. “Thou knowest me! thou knowest me, at last!”
But all his soul grew wild; from lips as pale as were her own,
He murmured, “Blind as ever; blind, that only now have known—

Death, death!” But with a quiet mien she spake, “Not death, but life,
The winning of a long-sought boon, the ending of a strife;”
And laid her head upon his breast, like one that wearied sore,
Sighs deep, yet well content to know the struggle comes no more.
He looked at her, he smote his hands together with a cry—
“True heart and sweet, that hast not spared for one like me to die,—
O live for me!” “Yea, would I fain, for what is death to prove
What life bears feeble witness to—the steadfast strength of love;”
So spake she tenderly: “yet One above shall choose for me,
That chooseth best,—for each is blest,—to live, to die, for thee!”

“Oh come unto thy place at last!” and to his heart, smit through
With love and anguish, Guilbert then the dying woman drew;
Two human hearts that Life had held apart with severance keen,
Together met and mingled fast with only Death between.

At length she raised a calm, glad face, and looking upward drew
A long, deep, blissful breath—again—again—for now she knew
The token,—it was Pain and Life together that withdrew.
The sun brake solemn. “There,” she spake, “I see the golden gate,
But not the word that shone for me so long above it—‘Wait!’
Now with this sprinkling on my soul, this Baptism, I go
Where evermore from shore to shore the blissful waters flow;
I see them flash in sudden light, I hear them as they roll,
The billows of the flood wherewith our God makes glad the soul;
There, by that river of delight, on goodly branches grow
All fruits of pleasantness and peace, we failed to find below;
All blossoms withered in our heat, or blighted by our frost;
All things we missed and did not mourn; all things we loved and lost:
There, O my husband! there this love of mine, that was not given
To bless thee on the earth, will bide, stored up for thee in heaven!”