 | Contributions to a Ballad History of England and the States Sprung from Her |  |
41
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE.
1180.
Queen Eleanor's is a deadly hate,
It dogs her foes down, keen as fate.
It dogs her foes down, keen as fate.
And woe to those who the dark Queen scorn:
Better far had they never been born!
Better far had they never been born!
Than the Poitevin Queen should have on them frowned,
They'd have better been tracked by a black sleuth-hound.
They'd have better been tracked by a black sleuth-hound.
Be they ever so high who court her frown,
Her Aquitain hate will pull them down.
Her Aquitain hate will pull them down.
Be they ever so fair her love who cross,
Let them 'ware of deadly peril and loss.
Let them 'ware of deadly peril and loss.
Let them praise their name-saints, if, in the strife,
They lose all else, and yet 'scape with life.
They lose all else, and yet 'scape with life.
Woe and woe to Lord Clifford's daughter!
Eleanor's fiercest hate has sought her,
Eleanor's fiercest hate has sought her,
Sought her fiercely and sought her long,
On the false king's leman to wreak her wrong.
On the false king's leman to wreak her wrong.
A wrong not she will tamely endure,
That the Clifford's blood alone can cure;
That the Clifford's blood alone can cure;
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For she of Poitou will heap on her worse
Than empty scold and womanish curse.
Than empty scold and womanish curse.
And the parching thirst of the South Queen's rage,
The bowl or the steel shall alone assuage:
The bowl or the steel shall alone assuage:
The draught from the bowl, or the stab from the steel,
That her own right hand shall give or shall deal;
That her own right hand shall give or shall deal;
The bowl fierce thrust on the trembling hand
Of the white fair thing that can hardly stand;
Of the white fair thing that can hardly stand;
The stab that's dealt through the horror flung
To her feet, while her curse in its ears is rung;
To her feet, while her curse in its ears is rung;
These alone shall assuage her hate;
One shall be his Rosamond's fate.
One shall be his Rosamond's fate.
Well had the King his treasure concealed,
Long was she sought through wood and through field.
Long was she sought through wood and through field.
Long was she sought through road and through way,
Ere that she fell the dark Queen's prey.
Ere that she fell the dark Queen's prey.
For gold, what cannot be bought with gold?
To the South Queen's ears the secret's told.
To the South Queen's ears the secret's told.
Death laughs out in her bitter laugh;
Vengeance shall not be glutted but half.
Vengeance shall not be glutted but half.
Now to her robe let his minion cling!
Not hers the grasp of the doting King.
Not hers the grasp of the doting King.
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Now let a voice hiss into her ear,
Not his honied words, but the frenzy of fear!
Not his honied words, but the frenzy of fear!
Now let curses stay her breath
With the anguish of sudden and certain death
With the anguish of sudden and certain death
Ho! ho! then, Woodstock holds the eyes
That 'witch a King of his smiles and sighs!
That 'witch a King of his smiles and sighs!
A laggard is hate, if flits an hour
Ere Eleanor seeks the Clifford's bower;
Ere Eleanor seeks the Clifford's bower;
For, warring in Aquitain, far away
Is he, to her hate, who had barred the way.
Is he, to her hate, who had barred the way.
And God her soul from His good grace spurn,
If the Clifford have life when the King return.
If the Clifford have life when the King return.
Gold the clue from her guard has charmed;
Gold has the minion's guard unarmed.
Gold has the minion's guard unarmed.
O but the dark Queen's face was fixed
To the look of hell as the draught she mixed!
To the look of hell as the draught she mixed!
And O but hell to her fierce eyes rose,
As from many a dagger the keenest she chose!
As from many a dagger the keenest she chose!
Woe, O woe, for the golden-haired,
For whom her King has so softly cared!
For whom her King has so softly cared!
Woe, O woe, for the blue soft eyes
That, woe for them! won a kingly prize!
That, woe for them! won a kingly prize!
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O woe for the cheek and the lip so red,
That shall whiten so soon to the hue of the dead!
That shall whiten so soon to the hue of the dead!
And woe, thrice woe, for the rounded form
That soon not a kiss of its King shall warm!
That soon not a kiss of its King shall warm!
And woe, thrice woe, for the rose-sweet breath,
So soon to be still'd for ever by death!
So soon to be still'd for ever by death!
The Queen has left her secret room,
And horses are led out by page and groom;
And horses are led out by page and groom;
In the saddle, her men-at-arms, fierce and still,
Sit ready to do her dark, fierce will.
Sit ready to do her dark, fierce will.
Woe, O woe, to green Woodstock's rose,
If grasped by such rude, wild hands as those!
If grasped by such rude, wild hands as those!
Iron hands, and hearts that, in sooth,
As little know, as their poignards, of ruth;
As little know, as their poignards, of ruth;
Men of Poitou and of Aquitain race,
Keen to read their Southern Queen's face:
Keen to read their Southern Queen's face:
Men that on Henry's self had trod
At a flash of her eye or a meaning nod;
At a flash of her eye or a meaning nod;
Bloodhounds fell, that she holds in the slip,
Loosed by her frown or the curl of her lip.
Loosed by her frown or the curl of her lip.
Eleanor mounts, and away and away
They ride through the gloom of the darkening day.
They ride through the gloom of the darkening day.
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The day is lost in a gusty night,
Such tempest as suits her purpose aright.
Such tempest as suits her purpose aright.
And homestead and village, as by they sweep,
Feel a shudder of horror thrill through their sleep.
Feel a shudder of horror thrill through their sleep.
Hours have come and hours have gone,
But still that terrible hate rides on.
But still that terrible hate rides on.
Hours have come and hours have past;
Hushed Woodstock's streets are reached at last.
Hushed Woodstock's streets are reached at last.
Cool and fresh is the midnight breeze
That stirs green Woodstock's sleeping trees;
That stirs green Woodstock's sleeping trees;
Yet little the raging Queen recks now,
That the misty midnight cools her brow;
That the misty midnight cools her brow;
She hears not, she, the town's quick stir,
The casements opened to gaze on her.
The casements opened to gaze on her.
Death, her thought is of death alone,
Of a white dead face and a last deep groan.
Of a white dead face and a last deep groan.
No, not to save broad England's crown,
Would she miss the joy with which she leaps down.
Would she miss the joy with which she leaps down.
Adown she lights. Lord Christ! may few
Of earth feel the hate that thrills her through!
Of earth feel the hate that thrills her through!
O but it gladdens the heart of hell
To feel the fire of a rage so fell!
To feel the fire of a rage so fell!
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It nears to one, and before the hour,
The grim Queen's at the Clifford's bower.
The grim Queen's at the Clifford's bower.
O, ere the morning has grown to two,
That hand has a fearful deed to do!
That hand has a fearful deed to do!
And, ere the morning has passed to three,
Those eyes have a ghastly sight to see.
Those eyes have a ghastly sight to see.
O fearfulest deed! and O ghastliest sight!
That best had been hidden in dreariest night!
That best had been hidden in dreariest night!
The guards the door of the bower undo;
In her hand is the end of the maze's clue;
In her hand is the end of the maze's clue;
With fast-set teeth and a tiger tread,
Swift and softly she tracks the thread.
Swift and softly she tracks the thread.
A dread flits with her across the grass,
And the laurels shiver to feel her pass.
And the laurels shiver to feel her pass.
The heart of the maze her stern feet reach,
And a low laugh's laughed that is more than speech.
And a low laugh's laughed that is more than speech.
Dim before her rises the tower
That holds the sweetness of Woodstock's flower:
That holds the sweetness of Woodstock's flower:
Rose, how soon, with a pitiless scorn,
From its sweet young hold upon life, to be torn!
From its sweet young hold upon life, to be torn!
Rosamond stirs in her slumber deep;
What is the terror that shakes her sleep?
What is the terror that shakes her sleep?
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Rosamond starts from her ghastly dreams:
What is the sound that to hear she seems?
What is the sound that to hear she seems?
Is it the dreamt-of terror that's there?
Is it a foot on the creaking stair?
Is it a foot on the creaking stair?
Hark! she stiffens up white in bed;
Whom will it bring, that mounting tread?
Whom will it bring, that mounting tread?
Well may the blood to her cold heart start!
Who is it tears her curtains apart?
Who is it tears her curtains apart?
She tries to shriek, but her tongue is dumb:
Woe! woe! the meeting, so feared, has come!
Woe! woe! the meeting, so feared, has come!
“Mercy!” she reads that gaze aright,
Of the whelpless wolf or the hungered kite.
Of the whelpless wolf or the hungered kite.
“Mercy!” Christ! in that fierce, quick breath.
Is panted the horror of sure, sharp death!
Is panted the horror of sure, sharp death!
Out she flings her upon the floor,
As the grim Queen closes the chamber's door.
As the grim Queen closes the chamber's door.
Heaped on the trembling floor she lies,
White as the dead 'neath those dreadful eyes.
White as the dead 'neath those dreadful eyes.
Eyes that are filled with the fire of hell,
As shiver and shudder her prey's throes tell.
As shiver and shudder her prey's throes tell.
As over her prey she stands and looks down,
On her who must play with a Queen for a crown.
On her who must play with a Queen for a crown.
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But the game is played, and lost is the stake,
And the winner is here the forfeit to take.
And the winner is here the forfeit to take.
Heaven and hell have heard her vow;
Heaven and hell know its fell truth now.
Heaven and hell know its fell truth now.
What! and is this the head that would rest
Its golden curls upon Henry's breast!
Its golden curls upon Henry's breast!
What! are these the fingers, slight as a girl's,
The fingers that wound them in Henry's curls!
The fingers that wound them in Henry's curls!
What! these are the white, round arms, that could find
No form but a King's round which to wind!
No form but a King's round which to wind!
A King's! and darker, and yet more grim,
Grows the fell Queen's look as she thinks of him.
Grows the fell Queen's look as she thinks of him.
A King's! and dread are the words that meet
The aching ears at her ruthless feet.
The aching ears at her ruthless feet.
Curse and scorn, that they quiver to hear,
With a half-dead heart and a sickening fear.
With a half-dead heart and a sickening fear.
Curses that blast, and withering scorn;
Jesu! O had she never been born!
Jesu! O had she never been born!
Jesu! O that the earth would break,
And straight the quick to the dead would take!
And straight the quick to the dead would take!
“Up, foul minion! your foul joy's past;
“Hate, and not love, is here at last
“Hate, and not love, is here at last
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“What! you must toy with a crownèd king,
“With the hand that God saw set on this, this ring!
“With the hand that God saw set on this, this ring!
“Up! swore I not that we should meet?
“Up! ere I tread you beneath my feet.
“Up! ere I tread you beneath my feet.
“Mercy? No, not in life nor death:
“The air is hell while it holds your breath.
“The air is hell while it holds your breath.
“Mercy? Yes, for body and soul,
“Such mercy as lurks in this poniard and bowl.
“Such mercy as lurks in this poniard and bowl.
“Well did you plot my mercy to earn!
“Rise! How, minion, your prayers I spurn!
“Rise! How, minion, your prayers I spurn!
“Thus I laugh at your vain despair;
“Rise, ere I tear you up by the hair.
“Rise, ere I tear you up by the hair.
“Rise, and shudder! I, Eleanor, I
“Hiss in your ears: Arise, and die!”
“Hiss in your ears: Arise, and die!”
Up she rises, a ghastly sight;
O but her lips are cold and white!
O but her lips are cold and white!
O but white is her ghastly cheek!
And O but what horror her fixed eyes speak!
And O but what horror her fixed eyes speak!
Vacant of sense her glassy stare
On the cup thrust out, and the keen knife bare.
On the cup thrust out, and the keen knife bare.
Her stare, that seems not to understand
What glares from each stony, outstretched hand
What glares from each stony, outstretched hand
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Her stare, that sees all as if it seemed,
As if but a feverish dream it dreamed.
As if but a feverish dream it dreamed.
Yet real is the steel and real the draught,
The steel to be felt, or the death to be quaffed.
The steel to be felt, or the death to be quaffed.
Real the ghastly hush that she hears,
And the ghastly “Choose!” that thrills through her ears.
And the ghastly “Choose!” that thrills through her ears.
Which shall she seize, and which refuse?
For ever she hears that murderous “Choose!”
For ever she hears that murderous “Choose!”
“Choose, ere my dagger loose you to tell
“The tale of your cursèd shame to hell!”
“The tale of your cursèd shame to hell!”
Not the stab from her hands! not a touch from them!
Swift her fingers clutch on the gold cup's stem.
Swift her fingers clutch on the gold cup's stem.
As if life were hateful, at once she drains
The draught, till no fearful drop remains.
The draught, till no fearful drop remains.
As if life were fled from, and death were sweet
She drinks, and lies at the fierce Queen's feet.
She drinks, and lies at the fierce Queen's feet.
And sharp and shrill is her one wild cry,
“O God, but to see my boys ere I die!
“O God, but to see my boys ere I die!
“O Henry!” and with that name, her breath
Flutters and stills to stirless death.
Flutters and stills to stirless death.
The deed is done, the deed of hell;
What the grim Queen feels what tongue may tell!
What the grim Queen feels what tongue may tell!
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As she looks a look at the staring clay,
And wordless and frowning turns away.
And wordless and frowning turns away.
Yet again she turns and stoops her down,
And darker and feller yet grows her frown.
And darker and feller yet grows her frown.
A fair long tress her dagger has shorn;
That tress her page to the King has borne.
That tress her page to the King has borne.
“A wifely gift to the Queen's Lord sent.”
O but the grim King strode his tent,
O but the grim King strode his tent,
With a wounded lion's grow! and glare,
As he ground his teeth o'er the pale tress there.
As he ground his teeth o'er the pale tress there.
As through his set teeth there raged an oath,
And he plighted again, to the dead, his troth.
And he plighted again, to the dead, his troth.
And an oath of vengeance he fiercely swore
To the white cold one he should see no more.
To the white cold one he should see no more.
Well for you is it, darksome Queen,
The ocean rolls you and your Lord between!
The ocean rolls you and your Lord between!
Else small his mercy, and short the shrift
Of her who her hand 'gainst the Clifford dared lift.
Of her who her hand 'gainst the Clifford dared lift.
Yet better were that than your fearsome doom,
That gives you, Queen, to a living tomb;
That gives you, Queen, to a living tomb;
That gives your fierce life, day by day,
In a dungeon's darkness to chafe away,
In a dungeon's darkness to chafe away,
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To chafe and to rage, and to vainly tear
At the grate that bars you from light and air,
At the grate that bars you from light and air,
Your rage or your patience to him the same
To whom your token of vengeance came.
To whom your token of vengeance came.
Till your blood grow tame and your fierce heart feel
For pardon it well could grovel and kneel.
For pardon it well could grovel and kneel.
For the feel of the breeze and the warm free sun,
It could half wish its vengeful deed undone.
It could half wish its vengeful deed undone.
In Godstowe nunnery's shadowy gloom,
Was “Rosa Mundi” carved on a tomb,
Was “Rosa Mundi” carved on a tomb,
And the tomb's side white fair roses crept up,
Cunningly twined round a carven eup.
Cunningly twined round a carven eup.
Prayed for with mass and with holy prayer,
Chant and hymn, the Clifford lay there.
Chant and hymn, the Clifford lay there.
Still and carven in fair white stone,
She lay in the quiet choir alone,
She lay in the quiet choir alone,
Till Lincoln's bishop, Hugh, passed that way,
And enter'd the holy choir to pray,
And enter'd the holy choir to pray,
And seeing that tomb, more fair than all,
With its lights of wax and its silken pall,
With its lights of wax and its silken pall,
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And learning there Henry's light love lay,
Commanded straight she be borne away,
Commanded straight she be borne away,
Holding her pomp the Church's disgrace,
Spurning her sin from its resting-place.
Spurning her sin from its resting-place.
Now, Mary Mother, more mercy show,
Than living, or dead, she knew below!
Than living, or dead, she knew below!
Now God, from her soul, assoil all sin,
And give her at last unto bliss to win!
And give her at last unto bliss to win!
For what better bait can the Devil fling
For a woman's soul, than the love of a King?
For a woman's soul, than the love of a King?
Heaven rest her soul, and shield us all,
And aid us to stand, and not to fall!
And aid us to stand, and not to fall!
And, Mary Mother, give us to rest
At last in bliss with the Saints so blest!
At last in bliss with the Saints so blest!
| Contributions to a Ballad History of England and the States Sprung from Her | |