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THE GOLDEN THREAD.
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An Incident so narrated in a very early French Fabliau.— (See Sir Walter Scott's “Essay on Romantic Literature.”)
“Sans espoir, sans peur.”
—Ancient motto of the House of Burgundy.
(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
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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,
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A little song that he had made.
THE SQUIRE'S SONG.
“Store hath she of gifts meet
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.
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 spoken soft,
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 gold it may not be,
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!
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;
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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!
“Dayes of peace and dayes of strife
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
Knit up my life with longing vain,
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!”
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
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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!”
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