Poems with Fables in Prose By Frederic Herbert Trench |
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| THE QUEEN OF GOTHLAND |
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| II. |
| III. |
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| VII. |
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 | Poems with Fables in Prose |  |
59
THE QUEEN OF GOTHLAND
to M.S.
61
I
Ho! Ho! the Count was not of those
That care for treasure-trove!
Ploughland and forest, quarry, fell,
Castle and pleasure-grove.
All that his house had heaped, he took
And shared among his mountain folk,
And wasted as they throve;
Then flung the rest, all that he had,
Round the white neck of love!
Ay, in pearls for his young love.
That care for treasure-trove!
Ploughland and forest, quarry, fell,
Castle and pleasure-grove.
All that his house had heaped, he took
And shared among his mountain folk,
And wasted as they throve;
Then flung the rest, all that he had,
Round the white neck of love!
Ay, in pearls for his young love.
Make no mistake! the squanderer knew
Shrewdly may be as I or you
The virtue that's in gold;
But this despotic man we lost
Had faults and manifold.
He had a something in the brain
Never could bide his proper gain;
He was not of the Clan of Take,
The Clan of Get and Hold!
There, in a savage discontent,
The Count would sit receiving rent:
He took the silver that you brought
And thrust you back the gold.
“I'd hew with you down to the rock,
Down to the rock!” he cried,
“Then could you know the man that's stript
And working at your side!”
Well, he stript himself, he showed his thew,
he bared himself in pride,
He dared with you, he shared with you,
And you for him had died!
And you heard his simple gusty laugh,
And felt, and you were sure,
'Twas thirsting for the fire of life
That made and kept him poor;
And that he would keep the fire of life
As pure as fire is pure!
So impetuously, so seriously,
Then grimly, nigh deliriously,
He fought, he played, for love;
But he lost, and vanished utterly.
Shrewdly may be as I or you
The virtue that's in gold;
But this despotic man we lost
Had faults and manifold.
He had a something in the brain
Never could bide his proper gain;
He was not of the Clan of Take,
The Clan of Get and Hold!
There, in a savage discontent,
The Count would sit receiving rent:
He took the silver that you brought
And thrust you back the gold.
“I'd hew with you down to the rock,
Down to the rock!” he cried,
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And working at your side!”
Well, he stript himself, he showed his thew,
he bared himself in pride,
He dared with you, he shared with you,
And you for him had died!
And you heard his simple gusty laugh,
And felt, and you were sure,
'Twas thirsting for the fire of life
That made and kept him poor;
And that he would keep the fire of life
As pure as fire is pure!
So impetuously, so seriously,
Then grimly, nigh deliriously,
He fought, he played, for love;
But he lost, and vanished utterly.
II
Naught that shy beauty promised him,
Merry had watched him crave:
And the day she married Gothland's King
When her father's town was brave
With flags, drums, seething battlements,
After a duel for her sake
Wounded and nigh the grave,
(Think you that could his spirit break
Or force the Count's head on his breast
Like any quivering slave?)
He arose, lean in his uniform,
Pulse not a stroke too fast,
Waited her brilliant-eyed approach,
And saw her start aghast,
And she, the drawn face and the frown.
On gallant knee downcast
He tendered her his secret gift,
The poor enthusiast!
Out of his square palm's brawny foil
She took the pearls. Faint gems entoil
Clasp-opals of their massy coil.
Then, with a jibe, he passed. . . .
She stood, she sighed, she took the gift
Because it was the last;
Took that amazing gift of pearls
(Unweeting all he gave)
Thrice-pityingly, reluctantly,
As 'twere a soul to save.
Merry had watched him crave:
And the day she married Gothland's King
When her father's town was brave
With flags, drums, seething battlements,
After a duel for her sake
Wounded and nigh the grave,
(Think you that could his spirit break
Or force the Count's head on his breast
Like any quivering slave?)
He arose, lean in his uniform,
Pulse not a stroke too fast,
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And saw her start aghast,
And she, the drawn face and the frown.
On gallant knee downcast
He tendered her his secret gift,
The poor enthusiast!
Out of his square palm's brawny foil
She took the pearls. Faint gems entoil
Clasp-opals of their massy coil.
Then, with a jibe, he passed. . . .
She stood, she sighed, she took the gift
Because it was the last;
Took that amazing gift of pearls
(Unweeting all he gave)
Thrice-pityingly, reluctantly,
As 'twere a soul to save.
That night she wore the coil of pearls
With her bride's diadem,
And she locked away that coil of pearls
With many a holy gem
In a casket in her chambers high,
And thought no more of them.
Ah, dark towers! Fort of faerie,
Steep as Jerusalem!
With her bride's diadem,
And she locked away that coil of pearls
With many a holy gem
In a casket in her chambers high,
And thought no more of them.
Ah, dark towers! Fort of faerie,
Steep as Jerusalem!
III
Three years; and one night there was foundUp to the heather drawn,
The Count's boat, lying on the moor—
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Inland, instead of out to sea—
But no boat there at dawn!
Some said he had appeared that night,
Dour as a thunderstroke,
And asked her for no more than this,
That she should slip the yoke:
Make off then in the dawning dim
Came she but in her smock to him,
And for kingdom, share his cloak!
Told how she seized a riding-whip
And slashed across his bearded lip
The hardy libertine.
But who puts faith in such a tale?
What eye the Count had seen?
No! . . . Winters wore. The King grew bald.
All Gothland was serene.
IV
But at last the lady pale, so pale,
Who never could take rest,
She stept down from the bed of kings
And rode to south and west.
From the lightly-faithful bed of kings
She rode, they say, and drest
In her white silken wedding-gown
Alone through many a drowsy town;
Hardly she drew the rein by night
For the fire within her breast.
Who never could take rest,
She stept down from the bed of kings
And rode to south and west.
From the lightly-faithful bed of kings
She rode, they say, and drest
In her white silken wedding-gown
Alone through many a drowsy town;
Hardly she drew the rein by night
For the fire within her breast.
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About the peak'd and stormy towers
At the corners of her keep
Had marched a music old and proud
For the waking of her sleep,
But the rousing voice she listened for
Was the sea's against the steep.
At the corners of her keep
Had marched a music old and proud
For the waking of her sleep,
But the rousing voice she listened for
Was the sea's against the steep.
“Take him away, your nimble hawk
That comes again to hand!
Bring me the bird that shows the pass
Into a blither land,
And the tune I never heard before
Is the tune I understand!
That comes again to hand!
Bring me the bird that shows the pass
Into a blither land,
And the tune I never heard before
Is the tune I understand!
“O where shall I now pin my faith
Who greatly have believed?
And whither shall I fly, my heart,
That so hath been deceived?
It does no good to speak aloud,
Save to the wind, save to the cloud!
Who greatly have believed?
And whither shall I fly, my heart,
That so hath been deceived?
It does no good to speak aloud,
Save to the wind, save to the cloud!
“Make room, thou southland mountain-top,
Make room for my disdain!
Make room, Ægean-breathing Dawn!
Cypress above the plain,
I will inhabit silence; then
I shall begin to reign.
Make room for my disdain!
Make room, Ægean-breathing Dawn!
Cypress above the plain,
I will inhabit silence; then
I shall begin to reign.
“I had a cousin—a mad king—
Why mad? He had a play
Played out for him, and him alone.
I'll have, ‘The Death of Day!’
The boards are bare, the footlights lit,
The house fills, tier on tier,
The vasty arch bedazzles. . . . Now
Among the oaks and deer,
With every grass-blade lustred through,
What tragic gods I hear!
Why mad? He had a play
Played out for him, and him alone.
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The boards are bare, the footlights lit,
The house fills, tier on tier,
The vasty arch bedazzles. . . . Now
Among the oaks and deer,
With every grass-blade lustred through,
What tragic gods I hear!
“As Muse I'll listen. My thick hair
Night-heavy, my sole crown,
Falls round me like a close despair
And veils me on the throne.
See! The Players change as quick as kings!—
The eve-mist changes. So
I'll waver with unstable things,
And go with things that go!
Night-heavy, my sole crown,
Falls round me like a close despair
And veils me on the throne.
See! The Players change as quick as kings!—
The eve-mist changes. So
I'll waver with unstable things,
And go with things that go!
“I will go wander like a wave
And lash me to the mast,
And sail by many a siren cave
Till peril's charm be past.
I'll wash this gaze in gaze of flowers
In some Greek olive glen,
And listen till I find my soul
In places far from men.
And lash me to the mast,
And sail by many a siren cave
Till peril's charm be past.
I'll wash this gaze in gaze of flowers
In some Greek olive glen,
And listen till I find my soul
In places far from men.
“O the world's ill, if even I
Whose whimsies none resist—
Who, satiate with all-yieldingness,
Can change lands as I list,
Yet find Death sweetest of all tales
Of Life the rhapsodist!
If I too sharp-set find the yoke
Of earth's monotony,
Then for these poor and common folk
What must it be, what must it be?
Whose whimsies none resist—
Who, satiate with all-yieldingness,
Can change lands as I list,
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Of Life the rhapsodist!
If I too sharp-set find the yoke
Of earth's monotony,
Then for these poor and common folk
What must it be, what must it be?
“I will forget them. I am wronged.
How can I give them ease?
I will forget them—play the Muse
Of all bright ironies.
Since what I asked the gods refuse,
I will have Glory's kiss!
Failure that's great—among great things
At least deny not this!
How can I give them ease?
I will forget them—play the Muse
Of all bright ironies.
Since what I asked the gods refuse,
I will have Glory's kiss!
Failure that's great—among great things
At least deny not this!
“Now for the prey I cannot kill,
The hound that comes not back,
The horse I cannot break at will,
And a leap to end the track!
My soul it shall be hunting still
Though the night it may be black.
The hound that comes not back,
The horse I cannot break at will,
And a leap to end the track!
My soul it shall be hunting still
Though the night it may be black.
“I am a queen, and round a queen
Rumour hath ever rung;
But rather than such honour grant
Me, Glory, to die young,
Full of the passion thou didst plant,
Sure that I could have shaped the chant
Woman hath never sung!
Rumour hath ever rung;
But rather than such honour grant
Me, Glory, to die young,
Full of the passion thou didst plant,
Sure that I could have shaped the chant
Woman hath never sung!
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“Blood of grapes stretch me not to drink,
But juices more sublime!
I'll see the world's green acre shrink
While life is at the prime!
I'll lift my horse up on the brink
As he had wings to climb,
And pledge thee, Glory, ere I sink
Into the night of time!”
But juices more sublime!
I'll see the world's green acre shrink
While life is at the prime!
I'll lift my horse up on the brink
As he had wings to climb,
And pledge thee, Glory, ere I sink
Into the night of time!”
V
She rode resolvèd and amain,
She rode for many a year,
A vagabond and scholar queen
Whose body knew no fear
(Her fear was of the spirit pent
For madness dogged her as she went),
She chose the foam for outrider
And the wind for cavalier.
She rode for many a year,
A vagabond and scholar queen
Whose body knew no fear
(Her fear was of the spirit pent
For madness dogged her as she went),
She chose the foam for outrider
And the wind for cavalier.
Became she poet? She became
Empress, and in a line
Of oldest lineage she was first
Of ladies that must shine;
To her deserted spouse returned—
Returned, at what a cost!—
Mute, mute she wore her dazzling thorns,
But all dear things she lost.
For chance among her nearest kin
Strange havoc did contrive;
In blood of all whom she held dear
The gods made horror thrive;
Brothers and sons were shamed and shot,
Or sisters burned alive.
She stared into Fate's eyes accurst
And, seeing no glint divine,
Closed her wise tragic lips, this first
Of ladies that must shine.
Ah, dolour that might never speak! . . .
Yet as the herd-boy on the peak
Gathers the forest's roar and shade
Into the pipe he idly made,
So in this ditty even I
Would murmur all that mighty sigh!
Empress, and in a line
Of oldest lineage she was first
Of ladies that must shine;
To her deserted spouse returned—
Returned, at what a cost!—
Mute, mute she wore her dazzling thorns,
But all dear things she lost.
For chance among her nearest kin
Strange havoc did contrive;
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The gods made horror thrive;
Brothers and sons were shamed and shot,
Or sisters burned alive.
She stared into Fate's eyes accurst
And, seeing no glint divine,
Closed her wise tragic lips, this first
Of ladies that must shine.
Ah, dolour that might never speak! . . .
Yet as the herd-boy on the peak
Gathers the forest's roar and shade
Into the pipe he idly made,
So in this ditty even I
Would murmur all that mighty sigh!
VI
At last, in a grove of ilexes
Off Epirus, in the sea,
She built a Grecian pleasure-house
Altar'd to poetry
And Heine. (May the clan that own
The palace now adore his stone
As piously as she!)
Off Epirus, in the sea,
She built a Grecian pleasure-house
Altar'd to poetry
And Heine. (May the clan that own
The palace now adore his stone
As piously as she!)
“Here, an old woman, I will rest,”
She said: and from the north
Sent for a girl's toys, jewelries.
But lo! when they come forth
In that clear Adriatic morn,
On the cold imperial bed
The coil of pearls, so long unworn,
Lay lustreless and dead.
She said: and from the north
Sent for a girl's toys, jewelries.
But lo! when they come forth
In that clear Adriatic morn,
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The coil of pearls, so long unworn,
Lay lustreless and dead.
“Tell me now, Monks of the sea-crag,
Men wise in country lore,
Whose bee-hive cluster of white cells
Juts on the Corfiote shore,
Where shall I sain them back to white
And how sick pearls restore?” . . .
And one looked up from his lentil pan,
Like an olive, silvery-hoar,
This Monk they sent her for a guide
To row her out at the ebb-tide.
Men wise in country lore,
Whose bee-hive cluster of white cells
Juts on the Corfiote shore,
Where shall I sain them back to white
And how sick pearls restore?” . . .
And one looked up from his lentil pan,
Like an olive, silvery-hoar,
This Monk they sent her for a guide
To row her out at the ebb-tide.
He rowed her in a little boat
That secret place to learn,
His wrinkled hands pulled on the loom,
His eye serene and stern,
A Charon in the boat of doom,
Unblinking, taciturn.
That secret place to learn,
His wrinkled hands pulled on the loom,
His eye serene and stern,
A Charon in the boat of doom,
Unblinking, taciturn.
There was gold broom on the sun-bright hills,
The plash of oars in chime,
And came a smell from the rocky bays
Of lentisk-bush and thyme.
The plash of oars in chime,
And came a smell from the rocky bays
Of lentisk-bush and thyme.
They rowed along the rosy crags
Sea-gnawn, with bouldered base,
“O can you see yon headland high
With the slant cave in its face?
Deep down within it runs the pool
Where your sick pearls must lie;
At its mouth is the sea-otter's hole
And a slant slit is the sky.
The walls aloft are green with slime,
And the sea-birds' dung is soft with time
Along the ledges high.”
Sea-gnawn, with bouldered base,
“O can you see yon headland high
With the slant cave in its face?
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Where your sick pearls must lie;
At its mouth is the sea-otter's hole
And a slant slit is the sky.
The walls aloft are green with slime,
And the sea-birds' dung is soft with time
Along the ledges high.”
And by that cranny darkly down
They went the sea-birds' way
Into the cavern's foul descent;
Above, the roofs of mountain leant
That plunge down to the spray.
At last they heard a black wave wash,
The subterranean channel plash,
That never sees the day.
They went the sea-birds' way
Into the cavern's foul descent;
Above, the roofs of mountain leant
That plunge down to the spray.
At last they heard a black wave wash,
The subterranean channel plash,
That never sees the day.
She took the pearls from her sere breast,
Felt them all, long unworn,
And in the gloom, swift and unseen,
She kissed those pearls as they had been
The love-babe never born;
And dropt them in the salt, salt wave
With tears of the forlorn.
Felt them all, long unworn,
And in the gloom, swift and unseen,
She kissed those pearls as they had been
The love-babe never born;
And dropt them in the salt, salt wave
With tears of the forlorn.
A voice cried: “Long, O long lie there,
Beneath the break of foam!
Far have ye wandered, suffered much;
To that ye wandered from
We give you back, thrice-noble pearls,
Until ye shall become
Perfect again and pure again
In that which is your home!”
Beneath the break of foam!
Far have ye wandered, suffered much;
To that ye wandered from
We give you back, thrice-noble pearls,
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Perfect again and pure again
In that which is your home!”
And swift came rushings through the air
Of cold and wingèd things
Alarmed escaping from their lair,
Blasts and torch-flickerings.
Of cold and wingèd things
Alarmed escaping from their lair,
Blasts and torch-flickerings.
“Who art thou, visionary Monk,
That speak'st this requiem?”
“One that sees peak'd and stormy towers
Steep as Jerusalem,
Battlements grey, and over all
One window like a gem,
And a young girl, weeping on the wall,
That wears a diadem!”
That speak'st this requiem?”
“One that sees peak'd and stormy towers
Steep as Jerusalem,
Battlements grey, and over all
One window like a gem,
And a young girl, weeping on the wall,
That wears a diadem!”
In the cavern darkness where they stand
She takes the high torch from his hand
To search till she discerns
That manèd visage, trace by trace,—
The solemn-sounding mountain's base
Rough'd to a humorous savage face
Wherein the granite burns. . . .
She takes the high torch from his hand
To search till she discerns
That manèd visage, trace by trace,—
The solemn-sounding mountain's base
Rough'd to a humorous savage face
Wherein the granite burns. . . .
“How sharp,” he said, “that last, last hour
Of departure's sick delay
Prints on the warm, cleft, trembling soul
The thing it takes away!
Of departure's sick delay
Prints on the warm, cleft, trembling soul
The thing it takes away!
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Stamped how imperishably clear
Your northern night dwells in me here!
In my Greek island cell
How oft I shut my eyes and smell
Your sweetbriar by the northern shore
And hear that fountain play!
Its spouted rabble of loud drops
Hangs in the evening still!
November woods becloud the turf
By the dove-house squat and chill.
All's hush; and a ragged thunder-storm
Comes up over towers and wood;
White doves beat in a throbbing swarm
Against the thunder-cloud
As though they had thy transport been—
The yielding of my flame-foot Queen!
We pace together up the sward
As they circle over the firth;
The moonfall on thy coifless hair
Makes glamour of the earth. . . .
And then, leaning on the parapet,
‘Ah!’ thou say'st, ‘before passion's voice
All, all is overset:—
But what's a madman's passion worth?’ . . .
Well, hast thou learnt it yet?
Your northern night dwells in me here!
In my Greek island cell
How oft I shut my eyes and smell
Your sweetbriar by the northern shore
And hear that fountain play!
Its spouted rabble of loud drops
Hangs in the evening still!
November woods becloud the turf
By the dove-house squat and chill.
All's hush; and a ragged thunder-storm
Comes up over towers and wood;
White doves beat in a throbbing swarm
Against the thunder-cloud
As though they had thy transport been—
The yielding of my flame-foot Queen!
We pace together up the sward
As they circle over the firth;
The moonfall on thy coifless hair
Makes glamour of the earth. . . .
And then, leaning on the parapet,
‘Ah!’ thou say'st, ‘before passion's voice
All, all is overset:—
But what's a madman's passion worth?’ . . .
Well, hast thou learnt it yet?
“Why, great one, never kneel to me!
We are too wise and old;
Thou hast brought back the young man's pearls
Before his heart is cold! . . .
Calm, calm's for all such agonies
As happened long ago!
Calm is the Earth, though from its side
A moon was torn! What woe!
Yet time hath filled the wound with salt
And solitary flow.
We are too wise and old;
Thou hast brought back the young man's pearls
Before his heart is cold! . . .
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As happened long ago!
Calm is the Earth, though from its side
A moon was torn! What woe!
Yet time hath filled the wound with salt
And solitary flow.
“We were too dream-intent and hard
To mingle each with each.
Thou hadst to be thyself—to become
Thyself the last, high, tragic song
Of this our piercèd Christendom,
Too high, too sad, for speech! . . .
Saved in some vessel we see not,
Some dark urn of the Lord,
Is shed this everlasting loss,
This waste of spirit poured.
To mingle each with each.
Thou hadst to be thyself—to become
Thyself the last, high, tragic song
Of this our piercèd Christendom,
Too high, too sad, for speech! . . .
Saved in some vessel we see not,
Some dark urn of the Lord,
Is shed this everlasting loss,
This waste of spirit poured.
“For me, more than I need is mine;
Labour of the hands is mine;
Content, among my lentils here,
And the obscurity divine.”
Labour of the hands is mine;
Content, among my lentils here,
And the obscurity divine.”
VII
Well, she went back, she faced her fate,
Her tasks, without demur;
Amid the shining cares of state
Were lentils grown for her.
But not long had the pair to wait,
O not long to endure!
A year thence, at the hour she fell,
Stabbed by some crazy boor,
The old Monk in his convent died
The death of the obscure.
Her tasks, without demur;
Amid the shining cares of state
Were lentils grown for her.
But not long had the pair to wait,
O not long to endure!
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Stabbed by some crazy boor,
The old Monk in his convent died
The death of the obscure.
And the pearls? Ah, blithe rejoicing pearls,
Snapt is your rusty chain!
Sucked out to the sea-darkness fresh,
Released and born again,
Somewhere beneath that ruddy crag,
That blue Ionian main,
Freely (for who shall seek the fort,
Angelokastron?) there
Unknown of all men ye may now
Beauty and sheen repair!
Snapt is your rusty chain!
Sucked out to the sea-darkness fresh,
Released and born again,
Somewhere beneath that ruddy crag,
That blue Ionian main,
Freely (for who shall seek the fort,
Angelokastron?) there
Unknown of all men ye may now
Beauty and sheen repair!
| Poems with Fables in Prose | |