 | Camera obscura |  |
II. PART II. POEMS ON LEGENDARY SUBJECTS.
L'ENVOI.
A lute that hath not many strings.
A little bird above it sings,
And singing soars and claps his wings;
Sing, little bird: when thou art mute,
The music dies within my lute.
I hear a voice expected long,
That bids an after-silence fill
The space that once was filled with song.
Then fold thy wings upon my breast
Upon my heart, and give it rest.
THE MAN WITH THREE FRIENDS.
(A Story told in the “Gesta Romanorum.”)
That slept, there came a heavy cry,
“Awake! arise! for thou hast slain
A man.” “Yea, have I to mine own pain,”
And malice am I that naught forecast
As is the babe innocent.
I hated not, in times past,
Him whom unwittingly I slew.”
Is hard,” they said; “for thou must die,
Unless with the Judge thou can'st find grace.
Friends soothfast for thee to plead?”
One whom in word, and will, and deed
From my youth I have served, and loved before
Mine own soul, and for him striven;
To him was all I got given;
And the longer I lived, I have loved him more.
I love as I love my own heart well,
And the third, I cannot now call
To mind that ever loved at all
He hath been of me, or in aught served;
And yet, maybe, he hath well deserved
That I should love him with the rest.
Said the first, “And art thou so sore bestead?
See, I have gained of cloth good store,
So will I give thee three ells and more
(If more thou needest) when thou art dead,
“I have friends many, and little room.”
“We will go with thee to the place of doom:
There must we leave thee evermore.”
But the third only answered, “Yea;”
And while the man spake, all to start soon,
Knelt down and buckled on his shoon,
And said, “By thee in the Judgment Hall
I will stand, and hear what the Judge decree;
And if it be death, I will die with thee,
Or for thee, as it may befall.”
DARIA.
In Calderon's drama, Los Dos Amantes del Cielo, Daria, a beautiful Roman girl, eventually a Christian convert and martyr, declares, while yet Pagan, that she will never love until she finds some one who has died to prove his love for her.
Yet only proud perchance in being fair,
And in her speech, and in her smiling free,
As Rose to summer air;
Another damsel sat who sweetly sung;
And one who Love's fond ancient chronicle
Read; and these three were young,
But she I speak of, read not, neither sung,
But deemed she ministered enough delight
In being fair and young.
“Now am I weary of the vows and sighs
Of lovers that to die for me are fain,
Yet find I none who dies.”
Or sadness—which, I knew not then, nor she:
Deep words are spoken, deepest thoughts confessed,
By hearts in careless glee.
Find one who for my love indeed had died,
Then let him come to ask for love again,
And I will be his bride!”
But then most fair, methought, in being meek;
And yet the same was she whom otherwhere
I heard so proudly speak.
As is the dove's, and dove-like still caressed
One tender note, as if returning oft
To what it loveth best.
By that sweet olden promise, One who died
For me and for my love now have I found,
I quit no more His side.”
BASILIDES.
Ye urge me, O my fellow-soldiers; lo!
I swear not by the gods nor Cæsar! So
These lips of mine are sealed unto a troth
Their steadfast pledge. “Thou art a Christian?” “Yea.
No more Basilides! Such name I bore
But yesterday—a man with other men
Who bowed the knee to all that men adore;
Who lied, who sued, sung, flattered, jested, swore
By Cæsar and the Gods; a soldier proud
To track the crimson tunic through the fray,
And raise the loud a-la-la! in the crowd
Of slaves the foremost slave! These things away
Are past for ever. Yea! a Christian? Yea!
Of night she came, with solemn stillness round.
White robed I saw her stand with roses crowned,
And in her hand were roses white and red.
‘Look up, Basilides! Dost mind thee now
Of her, by thee and by thy soldiers led
From prison unto death? Dost mind thee how
Thou spakest to her then? Of words she said
Dost mind thee? I am come to quit that vow.
Or shame, I knew not. If the burning mesh,
Death by the lion's hated paw, abhorred
Embrace,—then shrank my spirit, shrank my flesh;
I heard of many wheels the grind and roll,
Of many beasts I felt the sudden spring,
From countless eyes athirst to drink my soul
I, turning, met the unrelenting glare
Of the blue sword-gleam round me, met the stare
Of the blue distant heaven unpitying;
Then in thine eye one moment seeking mine
I pity read, and gentlest tenderness;
What words thou spakest then in my distress
I heard not, but my hands I felt in thine
One moment caught and held amid the press—
‘Look up,’ she said, ‘Basilides, behold
These hands of mine! their grasp is laid on thee
For evermore! I quit thee not, be bold,’
She spake again, ‘for soon shalt thou be free.
With many spells? a slave art thou within
The dark Ergastulum each night shut in?
By day the thrall of legion-masters, sunk
Care not for these thy fetters, nor thy stains
Regard; a Mighty One for thee hath striven:
Strong is he, pitiful, to him thy chains
Are reeds; the past is past, effaced, forgiven,
Thine is the God by fire that answereth.
His feet within the furnace glow and move,
His eyes are flame that kindle flame, his breath
Lights up the stream of fire unquenchable
That unconsumed, consumeth; who can dwell
With everlasting burnings? They who love.’
Lie in my heart. Basilides no more
Am I, and yet Basilides the same
But yesterday who flattered, jested, swore
By Cæsar and the Gods. Gods! now I name
One God whom I adore, and Him obey,
One God in heaven who lives, on earth who died,
And lo! He liveth! Him the crucified
Who lives for evermore! A Christian, yea!”
THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD.
The flag of Sigurd, the northern warrior, carried victory with it, but brought death to its bearer.
Though from my youth I have loved the sheep,
And the lambs, as they strayed in the valleys low,
Or clomb the upland pastures steep,
But none were given to me to keep!
I stood on the hill when the dawn brake red,
Through the darkling glen the foe drew nigh,
They came on swift, with a stealthy tread;
I gave the earliest warning cry!
Then flashed the falchion, the arrow flew;
I did not fight, nor yield, nor fly,
I held up the flag the whole day through—
Wrap it round me when I die!
Though oft with my shining sickle bared
I have wrought with the reapers, row by row,
And joined the shout as they homeward fared:
I was not by when the land was shared!
I stood at noon when the maidens dread
Came forth ere the battle, to choose the slain,
And at nightfall the raven's foot was red,
And the wolves were met on the darkening plain.
Then hewed the hanger, the sword smote sore,
I held up the flag till the day went by;
It was glued to my straining clasp with gore—
Wrap it round me when I die!
No torque of the beaten gold, no red
Rich broidered mantle, wrung from the foe,
Or flung down by chief as the banquet sped;
I have only watched, and toiled, and bled!
I stand at eve on the vessel's prow,
My heart is wounded, and I have striven
So long that my arm is weary now,
And the flag I bear is stained and riven;
'Twixt a sullen sea and a stormy sky
I hold up the flag in the sight of all—
Wrap it round me when I die!
THE SONG OF ROLAND.
Before the battle of Hastings, Taillefer, a famous Norman minstrel and champion, advanced on horseback in front of the invading host, and tossing his sword in the air, caught it again as he galloped forward to the charge, and gave the signal for onset by singing “The Song of Roland,” that renowned nephew of Charlemagne's of whom (Sir Walter Scott says) romance tells us so much and history so little.
The following poem is a literal translation from the Basque. It was found by La Tour d'Auvergne, in 1794, in a convent of Font Arabia, and is still preserved among the mountaineers of the Pyrenees, under many variations. It commemorates the combat at the defile of Roncesvalles (here called Altibicar), spoken of by Dante as “la dolorosa rotta,” where, through the treachery of Ganelon, thirty thousand brave Gauls, under the command of Charlemagne, were slaughtered, and where Roland fell. There is a savage grandeur in the simplicity, not without art, with which the numbers of the foe, so carelessly reckoned at the opening of the poem, are counted downwards at its close. It gives the gloomy and ominous effect of a muffled drum, or the measured, backward tread of a great multitude.
This song was imitated in 1803 by Alexandre Duval, with a reference to events then passing.
C'est le cri du soldat sans gloire.
Le héros cherche les périls;
Sans le péril qu'est la victoire?
Ayons tous, O braves amis,
De Roland l'âme noble et fière;
Il ne comptait ses ennemis
Qu'étendus morts sur la poussière.”
And the dog, who is asleep at his master's feet, is roused, and barks till all the mountains of Altibicar resound.
The noise draws nearer; it comes from the hills of Ibaneta, cleaving the rocks from right to left; it is the dull roar of an advancing army. Our people have already given it answer from the heights; they have blown their horns of buffalo, and the Basque is sharpening his arrows.
“They are coming! they are coming, oh; what a forest of lances! What waving of many-coloured
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, and thousands more.”
“It is but losing time to count them; let us join our strong arms; let us tear out our rocks and hurl them down upon their heads; let us crush them; let us kill.”
What business have these men from the north among our mountains? Why should they come to trouble our peace? When God made the mountains, He did not mean them to be overpassed by men.
Then the rocks, loosened, rush down of their own accord; they fall upon the troops beneath; blood flows, limbs quiver. Oh, what a heap of broken bones! What a sea of blood is there!
Roland lifts the Olifant to his mouth, and blows it with all his might. The mountains around him
Charles hears it, and his companions hear it too. “Ah,” says the king, “our people are now fighting.” But Ganelon (the traitor) makes answer—“Had any other said so, he would have been set down at once as a liar.”
Alas for Roland! with great force, with great effort, with great pain, he blows the horn again! Blood flows from his mouth; his head is cloven; still the sound of the horn is carried to a great distance.
Charles hears it just at the moment of his landing; the Duke Naismo hears it, as well as all the French.
“Ah,” says the king, “I hear the horn of Roland; I know he would not blow it if he were not overtaken by the enemy.” But Ganelon again makes answer, “The sound has nothing to do with fighting. We know the pride of the Count. He is only jousting with his peers; let us mount and ride onwards; why should we delay to set forth? we have yet a long road before us.”
But now blood flows faster from the lips of
Charles bids the trumpets sound. The French come down upon us, clad in mail of steel. The hills are lofty, the darkness thick, the valleys deep, the descents rugged! Before the army and behind it the trumpets bray. King Charles is troubled, as he spurs onwards; his white beard shakes upon his breast. Too late! Run, run for it, ye who have yet strength or a horse left. Run, King Charles, with thy plume of black feathers and thy scarlet cloak, run! Thy nephew, thy pride, thy beloved, has bitted the dust below thee; he was brave, but it has brought him little profit.
And now, Escualdunachi, let us leave the cliffs,
let us go down quickly and let fly our arrows at the
flying. See how they run! they run! Where is
now the forest of lances? Where the many-coloured
banners waving in the midst of them? No more
flashing of their armour, it is too deeply stained
with blood! How many of them are there? Count
them well, my boy—count them. “Twenty, nineteen,
eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen,
thirteen twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six,
five, four, three, two, one,—One! no, there is not
In the night the vultures will come down to feast upon their mangled flesh, and their bones will lie there, and be white for ever.
The famous horn (so named) of Roland, of which Turpin reports, that its sound was heard by Charlemagne at the distance of eight miles.
We must remember that this is the composition of one hostile both to Charlemagne and Roland, the elect heroic pair, the sight of whose companionship in Paradise made Dante glad.
Vide moverse un altro roteando
E' letizia era dal paleo
Cosi per Carlo-magno ed Orlando.”
The name of the great Paladin is honoured, however, not only among the Pyrenees, but in many fragments of Spanish songs, one of which is thus concluded: “Oh, Orlando! hast thou commended, hast thou commended thy soul to God? We have beheld thee, and whoever saw thee in battle, felt himself sweat with fear! Well we know that thou didst slay thy thousands, both among the Moors and our own people. Bernardo, however, thou didst not slay. Shall those be vanguished, Roland, thunderbolt of war? Honour to the brave, of whatever country! No, Roland, thou shalt be slain, but never vanquished!”
THE DEATH OF “THE PANDAVAS, OR FIVE PIOUS HEROES.”
Conclusion of the Mahabharata. (Translated from the French.)
Then turning to his god-like brethren spakeThe wise Yudhishthira—“The world grows old:
Enough our eyes have seen, our hands have striven,
Our hearts endured enough, the time has come.”
The brave Arjuna said—“The time has come;”
Then the five brethren and the faithful wife
Set forth upon their journey to the shore
Of life eternal; to this world they said
Farewell, and gave their wealth among their friends.
With oil anointed, rudely clad with bark,
And followed by their dog, so fared they on:
And still Arjuna held his jewelled bow
Brake forth, and stayed their passage; they must part
With all; Arjuna flung his mighty bow,
God-loved, God-given, aside; and northward now
They moved, now southward, till their footsteps reached
The mighty Himalaya; climbing it
Draupadi sunk, the first to pass away,
Found weakest as a woman, weak through love
Of her Arjuna; then those brethren fell,
Fleet-footed, fair, and lithe Sahadeva,
Too proud of wisdom, and of beauty vain
Nakula; then at last Arjuna sank,
Too dear to him the strife, the loud acclaim
Of victory; then rude Bhimasena
Sunk, turning to his brother—“See, I fall,
Thy favoured, tell me wherefore?” “Feasts by thee
Were too much loved, too boastful thou of strength,
Disdaining others.” So at length the wise
Yudhishthira ascends the mount alone,
None following save
This dog, it seems, was his own father Dharma in disguise; but on this point Mr. Monier Williams (see his “Indian Epic Poetry”) says the original is somewhat obscure. On entering heaven, Yudhishthira, to his surprise, sees nothing of his brothers or Draupadi, whom he imagined had gone there before him. As he refuses to remain in heaven without them, an angel is sent to conduct him across the Indian Styx (Vaitarini) to the hell where they are supposed to be. This is found to be a dense wood, whose leaves are sharp swords. The way to it is strewed with mutilated corpses, hideous shapes flit round, there is a horror of thick darkness; the wicked are burning in blazing fire. Suddenly he hears the voices of his brothers and companions imploring him to assuage their torments and not to desert them. His resolution is taken. Deeply affected, he bids the angel leave him to share their miseries. This is his last trial. The whole scene vanishes, it having been a mere chimera planned to test his constancy to the uttermost. He is now directed to bathe in the heavenly Ganges, and, having plunged into the sacred stream, he enters the real heaven, where, in company with Draupadi and his brothers, he finds that rest and happiness which were unattainable on earth.
Indra comes forth to lift him on his car.
I enter not without them into heaven.”
So spake the steadfast prince; but Indra said,
“Grieve not for them, they too shall follow when
Their earthly vesture, falling to decay,
Hath left their spirits naked, left them pure;
Unchanged thou only unto Heaven mayst pass,
As mortal harvesting immortal joys.”
“And must my dog be left to perish here?”
The hero asked, and Indra answered—“Heaven
Thou mayst not enter, entering not alone.
And wilt thou then resign it for a dog,
Thou who hast left thy brethren, left thy wife
Already?” “Nay,” Yudhishthira replied,
“They left me, parted from my side by death
I left not, leave not any one behind.”
Then sudden, 'twixt them while they spake appeared
Dharma, of Justice bright unwavering lord:
“Come to my heart, my son, indeed my son,
Proved worthy of thy sire in speaking thus
Of this thy poor companion; for a dog
A place in Heaven where none shall equal thee;
Where hast thou not been loving not been true?
By thee were none oppressed, forsaken none;
And when the moment met thee, testing all,
It found thee, left thee upright, left thee strong;
Above the weakness of a mortal lot,
Upborne by greatness of a human heart.
Now are the worlds imperishable thine,
The way is thine, the path supreme, unknown,
Untrodden save by steps of Deity.
The gift of Vishnu, before coming into whose possession, it had belonged successively to every Divinity in heaven.
THE GOLDEN THREAD.
An Incident so narrated in a very early French Fabliau.— (See Sir Walter Scott's “Essay on Romantic Literature.”)
(Listen, gentles, for delight)
Dwelt a fair lady bright,
That unto knight, page, and thrall,
Aged nurse and seneschal,
Gave upon a certain day
Gifts kind, and unto each
Somewhat spake of gentle speech
That suiteth gift kind and free.
But when she came to one who long
As page, upon his bended knee
Served her both with sword and song,
And as knight did yet aspire
To serve and guard her, not for hire,
But all for love and loyalty;
Were it all her gifts were spent,
Or were it but in merry sport,
Or love, that love to hide thought,
I know not, guess not what she meant,
That do but tell the tale I heard;
She paused, and spake never word
Nor gave look, but slowly drew
From out her scarf a golden thread,
And lightly to the squire threw.
And he for answer quickly took
His dagger forth, and lightly strook
Across his breast a wound red
And in it laid the golden thread,
Nor spake word nor gave look,
But in the days when the green leaf
Springeth, and singeth each that can
Sing, be it bird or man,
For gladness either, or for grief;
Full softly for his heart's relief,
A little song that he had made.
THE SQUIRE'S SONG.
That gave to me the golden thread;
Store hath she of wordes sweet
That with it nevêr word said.
How may be, then, this riddle read?
She did not speak her meaning plain,
But if she meant her gift for pain
It suiteth well,” he said, “with me.
What man that liveth but pain knoweth?
And if for love, I ween it groweth
In gentle hearts full speedily.
I would that she had smiled,” he said,
“As oft she speaketh, smileth oft,
That gave to me the golden thread.
And yet her gift with my degree
Suits, that am a lowly squire;
The cloth of frieze is not for me,
In that so highly I aspire.
I prize the gift I did not choose!
Contented well with my estate
I stand, I serve, I run, I wait.
Content am I to win, to lose,
To bear through all a heart elate,
To bear through all a wounded breast;
And foeman's hand that seeks,” he said,
“My heart to strike or sweet friend's head
That fain thereon would lean to rest,
Must strike it through the golden thread,
Must lean upon a wound red!
Pass,” he said, “and heat and cold,
And ever with my hearte's life
Is wrought the little thread of gold.
It is not with me as of old;
My careless dayes of youth and glee
Are gone for ever, such a bold
Sweet surmise to felicitie
Hath neighboured me, and unto pain
And neared it to a purpose high;
And still runneth, till life flit by,
Through all my dayes a wound red,
Runneth still a golden thread!”
A LEGEND OF TOULOUSE.
I read, remembered well—
A legend that in deepest ruth
And awe I read, and held for truth,
Is this that now I tell;
A legend was it of a youth,
Who, as it then befell,
From out his evil soul the trace
Had blotted out of guiding grace,
Abjured both heaven and hell;
That once unto a meadow fair,
(Heaven shield the desperate!)
Impelled by some dark secret snare,
Repaired, and to the burning sky
Of summer noon flung up on high,
A dagger meant for God's own heart,
Words that make desolate.
A hand, the dagger's hilt
That caught, and then fell presently
Five drops, for mortal guilt
From Christ's dear wounds once freely spilt;
And then a little leaf there fell
To that youth's foot through miracle—
A leaf whereon was plain
These words, these only words enwrit,
Enwritten not in vain,
Oh! miserere mei; then
A mourner, among mourning men,
A sinner, sinner slain
Through love and grace abounding, he
Sank down on lowly bended knee,
Looked up to heaven and cried,
“Have mercy, mercy, Lord, on me
For His dear sake, who on the tree
Shed forth those drops and died!
THAIS.
So narrated in “The Fathers of the Desert.”
One of our Brethren saw in vision fair
Four mighty Angels stand, and duteous spread
In the high heavens, with nice, exactest care
Of love that lightened its own task, a bed;
Then thought he now, “Great Antony is dead,
The desert's Father; and they thus prepare
To welcome him: or it may be the blest
Hilarion hath entered into rest
With many years and vigils overspent;
Hath any of our company away
Passed in the night?” Then one made answer, “Yea,
Thais the penitent.”
| Camera obscura | |