University of Virginia Library

UNFINISHED ROMANCES

THE FOLK OF THE MOUNTAIN DOOR

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

[Erst was the earth]

[The carle.]

“Yea,” said the king, “and dost thou say that winter hath come into my hall on the Name-day of my first-born?” “Not so,” said the carle.

“What is amiss then?” said the king. Then the carle sang again:

[Spring came of old]

[The ancient man.]
Spring came of old
In the days of gold,
In the thousandth year
Of the thousands dear,
When we twain met
And the mead was wet
With the happy tears
Of the best of the years.
But no cloud hung over
The eyes of the sun
That looked down on the lover
Ere eve was begun.
Oft, oft came the greeting
Of spring and her bliss
To the mead of our meeting,
The field of our kiss.
Is spring growing older?
Is earth on the wane
As the bold and the bolder
That come not again?

[King, hast thou thought]

[The old man.]
King, hast thou thought
How nipped and nought
Is last year's rose
Of the snow-filled close?
Or dost thou find
Last winter's wind
Will yet avail
For thy hall-glee's tale?
E'en such and no other
If spoken tonight
Were the name of the brother
Of war-gods of might.
Yea the word that hath shaken
The walls of the house
When the warriors half waken
To battle would rouse
Ye should drowse if ye heard it
Nor turn in the chair.
O long long since they feared it
Those foemen of fear!
Unhelpful, unmeaning
Its letters are left;
For the man overweening
Of manhood is reft.

[Pour, white-armed ones]

[The old man.]
Pour, white-armed ones,
As the Rhine flood runs!
And O thanes in hall
I bid you all
Rise up, and stand
With the horn in hand,
And hearken and hear
The old name and the dear.
To HOST-LORD the health is
Who guarded of old
The House where the wealth is
The Home of the gold.
And again the Tree bloometh
Though winter it be
And no heart of man gloometh
From mountain to sea.
Come thou Lord, the rightwise,
Come Host-lord once more
To thy Hall-fellows, fightwise
The Folk of the Door!

[Wide is the land]

[The carle.]

Quoth the king, “I have heard tell of the Fair Fountain and the Dale of the Tower; though I have never set eyes thereon, and I deem it will be hard to find. But dost thou mean that our son who is born the Father of the Folk shall dwell there during that while of peril?”

Again sang the carle:

THE STORY OF THE FLOWER

[The prose links have been written by the Editor, May Morris, to carry on the story between the extracts.

The story tells that one evening men sat at meat in the fair hall of the Baron of the Leas, and that after supper the talk fell upon the draft of armories and how they came about.

And divers minds hereof were told
Of which were bravest to behold
And which were noblest of renown.
Then said a chapman of the town
That to his mind the boar, the bear,
The pard, the lion and such deer,
The erne and slaughter-fowl—such-like
Of living things that rend and strike
Were meetest arms for barony,
“And therewithal meseems,” quoth he,
“That helm and sword and bow and spear
Are charges good for lords to bear,
But nought methinks of flowers and trees,
Apples and grapes: things such as these
For lads and damsels are but meet
Amidst their toying dainty-sweet.”
Some laughed, some scowled, for lo! upon
The stone hall's chimney was there done
The armour of the Lords of Leas,
And there amidst of carven trees
Upon the shield of silver white
Blossom and stem was done aright
A rose new-slipped; and one cried out
“What, carle! and wilt thou sit and flout
The noblest shield in all the land
When with my lord's meat thy fool's hand
Is e'en yet greasy? Hold thy peace!”
And much the blame of men encrease
About the carle. Till there stood up
An ancient squire, and filled his cup,
And cried, “My masters, fill ye now
And drink unto the goodly bough,
The Leasome Rose, that I have seen
Besprent with red about the green
In many a death-begirded hour.
Hail O thou shield, hail O Flower!”
Therewith he drank and all stood up
And joyfully they drained the cup;
All cried “All hail the Flower!” and then
Loud for awhile was talk of men
About this goodly ancient shield
And all its deeds on fold and field,
And many an idle tale was told
Of how it first was borne of old
And who begat it. Till once more
Arose the squire the old and hoar
And stilled the noise and spake: “Ye tell
Of many a thing ye know not well,
But would ye hush and hearken me
I know a goodly history
Of this same battle-token old
That seldom yet hath all been told,
Therein forsooth is all the tale
That unto any may avail,
The story of the Flower of yore.”

So the old squire told of the valiancy of the present lord, on whom Kings had bestowed great gifts and bidden him take a new shield, or crown his rose with gold, or take

An augment for his honour's sake,
A sword in chief above the rose;
But ever he naysaid all those
And still in the old wonted way
The ancient flower he bears today,
And e'en so oft and o'er again
His fathers did and thought no gain
Of any gift on field or bower
That changed one whit the ancient flower.

Then he began to tell of the old days of the House of Leas and of Sir Hugh the pious and noble knight, whom all men loved and trusted; he told them of his great piety, how that

Oft in choir long would he sit
And sing the hours; the cross bare he
Full oft at the Epiphany
Or other feast. He would light down
From off his horse if midst the town
He met God's body, and would kneel
In mire and clay to pray for hele.
Shortly to say, such wise he did
His holiness might not be hid
Till some men blamed him that he fared
Unlike a knight with war-sword bared
But rather as a clerk—forsooth
A many mocked him for his youth
Amidst the church as cast away,
But rich men, mighty men, were they;
The mouths of poor men had no word
Save blessings for the holy lord.
Withal this while he yet was young
He had not 'scaped the slanderous tongue
As in my tale now shall ye hear.

Therewith he told them of the mighty Lord of Lyon, feared by all the country-side, and of his noble wife, who was loved by all men,

Yet was she lovelier than their love.

Seven years had they been married yet had no child,

Wherefore he sat all gloomy-great
And ill-content his own heart ate
And by that meat was evil fed
So that strange fancies filled his head
Concerning his ill hap, until
This last fear all his heart must fill,
That by his wife he was beguiled.
Yoland
Now led him holding his bare hand
Unto the dais, and after them,
His foot nigh touching her gold hem,
Went Geoffrey till at last they came
Unto the pillared seat of fame
Wherein she set him by her side.
And as of some new-wedded bride
So were her hands and lips and eyes,
And all her garments' braveries,
Girdle and gown and wreathing flower,
Seemed made for nothing but that hour
Ere yet the bridal bed is seen.
The hall-folk said she ne'er had been
So proud and joyous—not e'en when
The pest was heavy upon men
And 'twixt the living and the dead
With naked feet and uncrowned head,
Betwixt the March snow and the sun
She stood until her will was done
And all the saints who loved her well
Had slaked the death and shut back hell.
She turned not to him straight but brake
A slip from off the bush where green
The barbs about the rose unseen
Were growing, and she said, “See now,
The rose-buds into flowers shall grow
Unless the world shall end ere June;
But who knows through what watery moon,
What rending south-west wind, what storm,
What plague-struck noon to bring the worm,
What bitter nippings from the north
The flower [shall] pass ere it come forth
Ruddy and wide and summer-sweet?”
The spray fell down unto her feet
E'en as she spake. But he knelt down
And kissed the gold hem of her gown
And kissed her feet the while his hand
Took up the spray; still did she stand
Nor bent to him. He rose and she
Looking afar stood quietly,
And he drew closer and more close
Holding that promise of the rose.
So the days wore
And nought there is to tell of more
Till unpeace fell upon the land
And other tiding came to hand.
For so it fell upon a day
That men-at-arms must come our way,
A score belike. How it befell
I know not: strange it is to tell
But true: our dame bade not hide
But sitting by the hearth abide
And heed not aught nor speak at all
Whatever matter might befall.
So sat I trembling. There and then
Into the cottage came three men
Clattering in arms, the while outside
A-horseback did the rest abide.
And now the gayest of the three
Looking about and close to me
Yet saw me not: but as for him
Though steel-clad now in breast and limb
I knew him for the selfsame lord,
Who now again took up the word:
“Well dame, now are we come to take
The damsel, even for her sake
And thine; and here I bring the gold.”
And straightway on the board he told
Twenty gold pieces. The dame smiled
And said “Well, ye should have the child
If she were here, as she is not.
A merchant hath thy treasure got;
I sold her yesterday at eve.”
I saw the fair lord's breast upheave
And his cheeks redden: “Whereaway
Went then thy chapman yesterday?”
She said “Why hide the man's abode?
Unto Much Allerton he rode.”
Then hastily the knight turned round
And out was he and off the ground
And spurring hard or ere there came
The very last word from the dame;
And after him his meiny went,
Clattering and clashing. “Nought is spent
The peril yet,” then muttered she;
“They will be wiser presently
And come aback.” Withal she spake:
“My child, thy rock and spindle take
And sit without the door and spin,
Nor heed thou what man cometh in.”
So did I wondering; sore afeard,
Until again the noise I heard
Of horse-hoofs drawing near the close,
And lo the knight and two of those
Who followed him; straight he gat
From off his horse nor heeded what
Was by the door. I heard him say,
“Dame, thou art wise enough today,
Yet we grow wiser than we were.
Methinks ye have the damsel here.”
“Yea?” said she; “not so over-great
Is this poor house but thou mayst wait
Whiles your men seek it up and down.”
He knit his brows into a frown
Yet reddened too, and said, “We deem,
I and my men, that as a dream
Were things before us even now,
And that ye showed us but a show
Of what things were. We deem that there
Amidmost of the hearthside chair
Knee close to knee the damsel sat,
And seemed thy white-haired blue-eyed cat.”
The dame laughed out: “Well well, Sir Knight,
Still may ye see the self-same sight
And for thy money mayst thou take
The beast and keep her for my sake.”
He looked and scowled and then once more
He strode out through the open door
And gat to horse and rode away.
Then the dame called me in to say:
“Child, haste thee, strip thee to the skin
And stand beside the door within
And stir not, whatso thou mayst hear,
Nay loiter not for shame or fear.”
What might I do but as she bade
But scarce stood I a naked maid
Beside the door-post ere once more
The armour clashed about the door
And in the knight strode. “Dame,” he said,
“Ye play a close game by my head—
Where is the damsel?” “Nay by now
E'en at Much Allerton, I trow,”
The dame said, “thou mayst win her yet
If swiftly unto horse ye get.”
Then wild with wrath the fair knight spake
“Beware dame lest the fire we take
And burn the house and thee and all.”
“Yea, that the nighest way I call
For finding a lost love,” she said,
“Now ye grow wiser than well sped.”
“Dame,” said he, “yet I know thy guile.
When I departed hence erewhile
There sat she by the doorway side
And seemed to be thy yellow cat
Purring; nor stayed I aught thereat
But lo the hem of a grey gown
E'en as I turned seemed slipping down
About the beast—Where is she now?”
“Well, thou art wise enough to know,”
She said, “there doth she yet abide,
Go take her for thy lovely bride.”
Wood-wrath he grew and cried, “Well then,
Now shall ye burn, witch. Ho my men,
Take ye the brands from off the hearth
And burn up all to utter dearth,
And let your spears thrust through what e'er
Shall come abroad to greet you there.”
His men 'gan stir, but therewithal
They heard a sudden trumpet-call
A blast of war, shrill loud and nigh;
And therewith 'gan one man to cry
“The King!—the King!” and down he cast
The kindled brand and gat him fast
From out the house; and all the rout
Delayed no whit but hurried out
From house and orchard. Yea the lord
Drew from its sheath his gleaming sword
And hewed hard at the Dame, and I
Scarce kept aback a frightened cry.
Nought happed of scathe save to our chair
That lost its old life then and there
Beneath the edges: while once more
The horn blew louder than before.
The knight turned cursing and strode out,
And past the garth we heard his shout
Unto his fleeing men. But for me
I stood there quaking timorously
Till from the Dame I heard a voice
Shrill yet but weak: “Child, rejoice
That thou art free: a phantom sound
Shall chase them o'er the grassy ground
And the bare rocks, o'er wet and dry,
Nor shall they come back hastily.
But draw nigh, sweetheart: for no more
May my craft hide thee as before.
Come hither then and hear me, maid.”
So did I even as she bade
And found her lying down alow
Hard by the hearth now scarce aglow.
I knelt down by her and she said:
“No more again till I am dead
Shall such-like power from me go forth
Although my will may yet be worth
Thy blessing when the daisies grow
Above me: hearken—for I go
The longest and the roughest way
That any stout Eve's daughter may.”
I wept because I loved her well,
And lonely fear upon me fell:
But she went on, “Short now is the space
For weeping. I have seen thy face
A little while and now no more;
But long years lie thy life before,
Happy belike. Lo here the key
Of the great chest that unto thee
I opened on the day I showed
The treasure which therein abode,
The raiment of the great on earth
That many an orchard-croft is worth.
Go do it on without delay,
Time will be furthermore to say
What thou shalt do.” E'en so I did
And my poor peasant's body hid
In that rich raiment of a queen
Where scarce for glistening gold were seen
The silken blossoms of the loom.
I came back lighting up the gloom
And knelt again. Again she said:
“What wilt thou do when I am dead?
Is that thy thought? Thou shalt do well
And oft of thee the folk shall tell
For days to come. Day wears apace,
I with it; get thee from this place
And through the wood go speedily
Nor bide thou the last breath of me—
I know my way.
Stay not for night
When in the wood thou art—aright
Shalt thou be led; but still press on
Till miles of woodland way be won
And miles of thicket lie between
This house where erst thou hast been seen.
And so my heart is telling me
That ere dawn one shall meet with thee,
A mighty man, who shall behold
Thy beauty and more worth than gold
Shall deem thee, and shall bid thee come
Yet in all honour to his home.
If thou naysay him then is gone
Thy luck of life and all is done.
Speak gently to him, yet I bid
That nought of all thy life be hid,
Yea tell him all the very truth—
Yet nothing shall he trow forsooth
Thy simple tale, but deem of thee
That thou of some great house shall be.
What more? My sight is waxing dim
Yet seems to see thee wed with him—
And this moreover shall I tell
That art thou faring less than well
Then may it help thee somewhat yet
My name not wholly to forget.
Sad is this sundering now may be
But e'en what was awrought for me
By days thy fellowship made sweet.
Depart now, let me see thy feet
Pass o'er the threshold ere I die.”
Dull sorrow on my heart did lie
As I rose up from her, yet so
Her bidding I was wont to do
Nor knew I how to naysay this.
My lips yet felt her clammy kiss
As I went forth most sick at heart
From all that peacefulness to part
Yet nought afeard, because the wood
To me had been a friend full good
For many a year by day and night.

Falling asleep in the forest after her wandering, and waking in the morning with the first beams of the sun athwart the greensward, the maiden came upon a man in fair raiment lying asleep. Deeming that this would be he of whom her dame has told, she stood and waited until her fate thought good to wake him up to look on her.

Hearken again:
That lord strove with his speech in vain
A little while, then spake and said
“Who art thou—thou the unafraid
As by the eyes of thee I deem?
Or art thou e'en as thou dost seem
Or hast thou taken for a while
A woman's semblance to beguile
Good knights unto the fairies' land,
That thou before me there dost stand
So lovely and unmoved and strange?
I looked on him. Fain had I been
To flee adown the woodland green
So cold I felt to his desire,
For sooth to say I knew the fire
Was in his barm at sight of me.
Yet what the carline bade me be
That must I strive for; so I stayed
Abiding what should be, and said,
“By me thou shalt not be beguiled:
Nought am I but a cot-carle's child
And if I seem aught else today
Because of this fair-wrought array
Then am I nowise what I seem.”
Doubtful he looked, yet did I deem
Wistful the more. “And canst thou then
Lead me to some abode of men,
Gold shalt thou have to thy content
If so thou wilt.” Therewith there went
Some new thing through my heart, some scorn
Of all his hope so soon outworn
Of Queens and fays. Were my will free
I should have mocked him openly
In bitter words, but bound I was
And so belike no change did pass
Across the face he deemed so fair.
—O love, my babble mayst thou bear?
If thou couldst know how sweet it is
That these my lips that feel thy kiss
Still sweet upon them thus should tell
The things that in my life befell!

Thus did Yoland tell Sir Hugh of the Leas of her meeting with the strange lord and of how he doubted her word and of how his hunger for her grew apace.

“Well,” said he, “each new word belies
Thy story of churl's miseries,
So sweet thou speakest, wise withal
As one who knows the earlfolk's hall
And hath not learned to fear and quake
Though terror on the world awake.”
Quoth I, “My tale is told to thee,
If thou believ'st not, let it be;
It is too wearisome to say
The selfsame thing in one same way.”
Then eagerly he took my hand
And held it. “Where in all the land
Are cot-carle's children made like this?”
So spake he and I felt his kiss
Upon my hand. And then he said,
“Lady, I see that now is dead
Thy tale of beggar-maid and cot,
But as to whence thou art and what,
Thy pleasure is to keep it hid;
So will I do as thou dost bid
But will not cover up my name
Nor hide from thee my house of fame:
No King nor Duke, no Earl of might,
But am I the Lord Lyon hight.”
With swelling pride he spake the word,
But I who knew of king or lord
Nor name nor fame, changed face no whit
For all his boast, but smiled on it
For thinking had he known how true
My tale was, what then would he do.
“Yea,” said he: “'tis but as I thought,
Thou changest thy demeanour nought
Though thou hast heard a name whereat
Great ones have quaked, and they that sat
On the spear-guarded thrones of earth.
Surely I see that thou art worth
All thou hast won which is to be
The earthly friend and mate of me,
My bedfellow, my very wife,
The lady of a glorious life.”