University of Virginia Library

1. PART FIRST.

'Tis June, and a bright sun burneth all,
Sir William hath gallop'd from Hendon Hall
To Kensington, where in a thick old wood
(Now its fair Gardens) a mansion stood,
Half like fortress, and half like farm,
A house which had ceas'd to be threaten'd with harm.
The gates frown'd still, for the dignity's sake,
With porter, portcullis, and bit of a lake;
But ivy caress'd their warm old ease,
And the young rooks chuckled across the trees,
And burning below went the golden bees.
The spot was the same, where on a May morn
The Rose that toppeth the world was born.
Sir William hath gallop'd, and well was bent
His palfrey to second a swift intent;
And yet, having come, he delayeth his knock,
E'en though a sweet maiden counteth the clock
Till she meet his eye from behind the chair,
Where sitteth Sir Guy with his old white hair.
But the youth is not rich; and day by day
Sir Guy groweth cold, and hath less to say,
And daunteth his wit with haws and hums,
Coughing with grandeur, and twirling his thumbs,
Till visiting turneth to shame and gall,
And Sir William must speak what endangereth all.
Now for any deed else, in love or in war,
Knight bolder was none than the knight De la Barre
(So styled by the king, from a traitor tall,
Whom he pitch'd over barriers, armour and all);
Short distance made he betwixt point and hilt;
He was not a man that at tourney and tilt
Sat bowing to every fair friend he could spy,
Or bearing his fame with a fine cold eye;
A hundred sweet eyes might be watching his own;
He thought but of two, and of steeds to be thrown;
And the trumpets no sooner blew mights to mights,
Than crash went his onset and down went knights.
And thus in his love for sweet Anne de Paul,
Though forc'd to some stealths, 'twas honest withal:
He wooed, though the old man ever was by,
With talk such as fixeth a maiden's eye,
With lore and with legends, earnest of heart,
And an art that applied them, sprung out of no art,
Till stealth for his sake seem'd truth's own right,
And at an old casement long clos'd, one night,
Through boughs never dry, in a pathless nook,
Love's breathless delight in his vows she took.
Ah! never thenceforth, by sunniest brook,
Did the glittering cherry-trees beat the look
Of the poor-growing stems in the pathless nook.
But, alas! to plead love unto loving eyes,
And to beg for its leave of the worldly wise,
All humility sweet on the one side lies,
And all on the other that mortifies.
Sir William hath swallow'd a sigh at last,
Big as his heart, and the words have pass'd:
“I love your daughter, Sir Guy,” quoth he,
“And though I'm not rich, yet my race may be;
A race with a scutcheon as old as the best,
Though its wealth lies at Acre in holy rest.
Mine uncle, your friend, so blithe and old,
Hath nobody nigher to leave his gold:
The king hath been pleas'd to promise my sword
The picking of some great Frenchman's hoard;
And sire, meantime, should not blush for wife;
Soft as her hand should fare her life;
My rents, though small, can support her state,
And I'd fight for the rest till I made them great.
Vouchsafe to endure that I seek her love:
I know she resembles the blest above;
Her face would paint sweeter a monarch's bower,
Though glory and grace were in every flower:
But angels on monarchs themselves look down,
And love is to love both coffer and crown.”
Sir William ended, he scarce knew why,
(But 'twas pity of self, to move pity thereby,)
With a sad, perchance with an abject sigh,
And stoop'd and kiss'd the hand of Sir Guy:
Steady and sharp was the old man's eye.
“Sir William, no doubt, is a bold young knight,”
Quoth he, “and my daughter a beauty bright;
And a beauty bright and a bold young man
Have suited, I wot, since the world began.
But the man that is bold and hath money beside,
Cometh best arm'd for a beauteous bride.
The court will be riding this way next week,
To honour the earl's fat chimney reek;
And softly will many a bold bright eye
Fall on the face no face comes nigh.
You speak of mirth, and you speak of age,
Not in a way very civil or sage.
Your kinsman, the friend whom you call so old,
But ten years less than myself hath told:
And I count not this body so ancient still,
As to warrant green years to talk of my will.
Let him come if he please (I shall greet the friend)
And show me which way his post-obits tend,
And then we can parley of courtings best;
Till when, I advise you to court his chest.”
Sir William he boweth as low as before,
And after him closeth the soft room door,
And he moaneth a moan, and half staggereth he;
He doubteth which way the stairs may be.
But the lower his bow, and the deeper his moan,
The redder the spot in his cheek hath grown,
And he loatheth the kiss to the hard old hand.
“May the devil,” thought he, “for his best new brand,
Pluck it, and strike to his soul red-hot!
Why scorn me, and mock me? and why, like a sot,
Must I stoop to him, low as his own court-plot?
Will any one tell us,—will Nature declare,—
How father so foul can have daughter so fair?
But her mother of angels dreamt in her sorrow,
And hence came this face—this dimpled May-morrow.”
And as he thought thus, from a door there stole
A hand in a tremble, a balm to his soul;
And soft though it trembled, it close wrung his,
And with it a letter;—and gone it is.
Sir William hath dash'd in the forest awhile,
His being seems all a hasty smile:
And there, by green light and the cooing of doves,
He readeth the letter of her he loves,
And kisseth and readeth again and again;
His bridle is dropp'd on his palfrey's mane,
Who turneth an ear, and then, wise beast,
Croppeth the herbage,—a prudent feast:
For Sir William no sooner hath read nine times,
Than he deemeth delay the worst of crimes:
He snatcheth the bridle, and shakes it hard,
And is off for his life on the loud green sward;
He foameth up steep, and he hisseth in stream,
And saluteth his uncle like one in a dream.
“Sir William, Sir William, what chase is this?
Have you slain a fat buck, or stolen a kiss;
And is all the world, on account of his wife,
After poor dripping Sir William's life!”
“Most honour'd of kinsmen,” Sir William cried,
“Nought have I stolen, but hope of a bride;
Her father, no Christian like her, but a Jew,
Would make me disburse; which grieveth her too.
You know who she is, but have yet to know,
What a rose in the shade of that rock could grow;
What fulness of beauty, on footstalk light;
What a soul for sweet uncle to love at sight.
Ah! Sir, she loveth your own blithe fame,
And dareth, she saith, in your sister's name
Entreat me the loan of some fields of corn,
Which her dowry shall buy on the bridal morn.
I blush, dear uncle; I drop mine eyelids;
Yet who should blush when a lady bids?
'Tis lending me bliss; 'tis lending me life
And she'll kiss you withal, saith the rosy wife.”
“Ah, ha,” quoth Sir Grey, with his twinkling eyes:
“The lass, I see, is both merry and wise;
I call her to mem'ry, an earnest child,
Now looking straight at you, now laughing wild:
'Tis now—let me see—five long years ago,
And that's a good time for such buds to blow.
Well, dry your outside, and moisten your in;
This wine is a bud of my oldest bin;
And we'll talk of the dowry, and talk of the day,
And see if her bill be good, boy, eh?”
Sir Grey didn't say, You're my sister's son,
I have left you my gold, and your work is done,—
He hated to speak of his gold, like death;
And he lov'd a good bill as he lov'd his breath;
And yet, for all that, Sir Grey, I trow,
Was a very good man, as corn-dealers go.
So the lover hath seiz'd the new old hand,
And kiss'd it as though it had given the land,
And invok'd on its bounty such bliss from above,
Thought he, “Of a truth I am mean in love.”
But free was his fervour from any such vice;
For when obligation's more fitting than nice,
We double the glow of our thanks and respect,
To hide from th' obliger his own defect.