 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
CONVENT-ROBBING.
(OLD STYLE.)
May Margaret felt a cold cloud come down on her—
They made her a nun and put a black gown on her;
Young Roland went white
Thro' the winter moonlight,
Looming tall in the breath of the frost every night,
And gazed at the Convent, and plann'd how to win her there,
And his cheek gather'd dew till the dawn, and grew thinner there.
They made her a nun and put a black gown on her;
Young Roland went white
Thro' the winter moonlight,
Looming tall in the breath of the frost every night,
And gazed at the Convent, and plann'd how to win her there,
And his cheek gather'd dew till the dawn, and grew thinner there.
‘A ruse, ho, a ruse!’ cried his brother, Clerk John, to him,—
When in vain both the monks and the leeches had gone to him,—
‘Cease to fume and to frown,
Close thine eyes, lie thee down,
Stretch thee straight on a bier in thy chilly death-gown;
The great bell shall ring, and thy house gather gloom in it,
While I'll to the Convent, and beg thee a tomb in it!’
When in vain both the monks and the leeches had gone to him,—
‘Cease to fume and to frown,
Close thine eyes, lie thee down,
Stretch thee straight on a bier in thy chilly death-gown;
The great bell shall ring, and thy house gather gloom in it,
While I'll to the Convent, and beg thee a tomb in it!’
The Convent bell tolls, hung with black are the porches there,
Come tall black pall-bearers and pages with torches there,
Then the bier,—and thereon
The pale youth dead and gone!
And behind, grim as Death, weeping sore, goes Clerk John!
And the chapel is dark, as the bearers pace slow in it,
And all the black nuns stands with lights in a row in it.
Come tall black pall-bearers and pages with torches there,
Then the bier,—and thereon
The pale youth dead and gone!
And behind, grim as Death, weeping sore, goes Clerk John!
And the chapel is dark, as the bearers pace slow in it,
And all the black nuns stands with lights in a row in it.
Ah! chill is the chapel, the great bell chimes weary there,
Black bearers, black nuns, and black pages look dreary there;
The youth lies in death,
Not a syllable saith;
But the tiny frost-cloud on his lips is his breath!—
And the shroud round his limbs hath bright armour of steel in it
And his hand, gloved in mail, grips the sword it can feel in it!
Black bearers, black nuns, and black pages look dreary there;
The youth lies in death,
Not a syllable saith;
But the tiny frost-cloud on his lips is his breath!—
14
And his hand, gloved in mail, grips the sword it can feel in it!
Ho, she screameth,—May Margaret! kneels by the side of him !—
‘White Mary above, be the guardian and guide of him!
They plighted us twain,
Yet we parted in pain,
And ah! that so soon I should clasp him again!’
Wan, wan, is her cheek, with dim torchlight the while on it—
Does she dream? . . Has the face changed? . . and is there a smile on it?
‘White Mary above, be the guardian and guide of him!
They plighted us twain,
Yet we parted in pain,
And ah! that so soon I should clasp him again!’
Wan, wan, is her cheek, with dim torchlight the while on it—
Does she dream? . . Has the face changed? . . and is there a smile on it?
She holds his cold hand to her heart, and doth call on him,
Drop by drop, warm and scented, her tender tears fall on him;
The nuns, sable-gown'd,
Chanting low, stand around;
Clerk John bites his lips, with his eyes on the ground . .
‘Dear heart, that we meet but in woe such as this again!’
Then she kisses his lips!—Does she dream? . . Did he kiss again?
Drop by drop, warm and scented, her tender tears fall on him;
The nuns, sable-gown'd,
Chanting low, stand around;
Clerk John bites his lips, with his eyes on the ground . .
‘Dear heart, that we meet but in woe such as this again!’
Then she kisses his lips!—Does she dream? . . Did he kiss again?
Who opens the door with a terrible shout at once?—
A great wind sweeps in, and the lights are blown out at once!
The Abbess screams low,
Moan the nuns in a row,
Thro' the porch sweeps the wind and the sleet and the snow,
But the moon thro' the quaint-colour'd windows is beaming now,—
And wonderful shapes round the bier gather gleaming now!—
A great wind sweeps in, and the lights are blown out at once!
The Abbess screams low,
Moan the nuns in a row,
Thro' the porch sweeps the wind and the sleet and the snow,
But the moon thro' the quaint-colour'd windows is beaming now,—
And wonderful shapes round the bier gather gleaming now!—
The sable pall-bearers and pages are new-arrayed,
In armour that glitters like golden dew arrayed!
How chill the moon glows!
How it blows! how it snows!
Yet May Margaret's cheek is as red as a rose!
And ‘a miracle,’ murmurs the Abbess so holy now,
For shiningly vested the dead rises slowly now!
In armour that glitters like golden dew arrayed!
How chill the moon glows!
How it blows! how it snows!
Yet May Margaret's cheek is as red as a rose!
And ‘a miracle,’ murmurs the Abbess so holy now,
For shiningly vested the dead rises slowly now!
He draweth May Margaret's sweet blushing cheek to him,
She kisses him softly, yet strives not to speak to him;
The nuns sable-gown'd
Shiver dismally round,
As he lifteth the great sable pall from the ground,
And turneth it deftly, and flingeth it over her,—
And a mantle of ermine doth clothe her and cover her!
She kisses him softly, yet strives not to speak to him;
The nuns sable-gown'd
Shiver dismally round,
As he lifteth the great sable pall from the ground,
And turneth it deftly, and flingeth it over her,—
And a mantle of ermine doth clothe her and cover her!
On the floor of the chapel their foot-falls sound hollow now,
Clerk John and the rest very silently follow now . . .
Hark! is it the beat
Of horses' feet?
Or the wild wind whistling in snow and in sleet?
Down the aisles of the chapel the wild echoes die away,
While fast in the snow-storm the happy ones hie away!
Clerk John and the rest very silently follow now . . .
Hark! is it the beat
Of horses' feet?
Or the wild wind whistling in snow and in sleet?
Down the aisles of the chapel the wild echoes die away,
While fast in the snow-storm the happy ones hie away!
‘Saints,’ crieth the Abbess, ‘pour down your dole on us!
To take our sweet sister the devil hath stole on us!’
And the nuns, in a row,
Murmur slyly and low—
‘Ah! would he might come unto us also!’
And they look at the bier, with the tingle of sin on them,
And the moon blushes faintly, still glimmering in on them.
To take our sweet sister the devil hath stole on us!’
And the nuns, in a row,
Murmur slyly and low—
‘Ah! would he might come unto us also!’
And they look at the bier, with the tingle of sin on them,
And the moon blushes faintly, still glimmering in on them.
Ay, fast in the snow-storm gallop the lovers now!
Young Roland's warm castle their merriment covers now!
To the bower they have run,
For the bridal is done,
And the jolly old priest hath made them one:
‘May all who love true,’ cries the youth, ‘win such kisses, dear,
Die such death,—and be tomb'd in a bower such as this is, dear!’
Young Roland's warm castle their merriment covers now!
To the bower they have run,
For the bridal is done,
And the jolly old priest hath made them one:
‘May all who love true,’ cries the youth, ‘win such kisses, dear,
Die such death,—and be tomb'd in a bower such as this is, dear!’
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |