The Finding of The Book and Other Poems By William Alexander |
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SIR TESCELIN'S REMONSTRANCE
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 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
116
SIR TESCELIN'S REMONSTRANCE
I would much rather rest with my rough race
Close to the altar in the church I built;
I would the villagers should see my face
And Aleth's marble under a canopy gilt,
Whispering—‘This was a joyous knight and just,
They say he is a thousand years in dust.
Close to the altar in the church I built;
I would the villagers should see my face
And Aleth's marble under a canopy gilt,
Whispering—‘This was a joyous knight and just,
They say he is a thousand years in dust.
‘A thousand years he wears his shirt of mail,
And his good hound is couchant at his feet;
If that tough cheek of his be deathly pale,
'Tis but the stone that makes such paleness meet,
And in his calm eye, come what tide soe'er,
Is sure regard of everlasting prayer.
And his good hound is couchant at his feet;
If that tough cheek of his be deathly pale,
'Tis but the stone that makes such paleness meet,
117
Is sure regard of everlasting prayer.
‘Yet is it certain what monks say—that souls
Are lost in circles of light as in a flood,
That the saints worship day and night in stoles,
Posed without end in marble attitude,
Or like the angels on a vestment shown
Stitched in a sapphire prayer before the throne?
Are lost in circles of light as in a flood,
That the saints worship day and night in stoles,
Posed without end in marble attitude,
Or like the angels on a vestment shown
Stitched in a sapphire prayer before the throne?
‘All the night long Sir Tescelin looks to the east,
And the sweet lady by him never stirs.
But when the thin moon wanes down to her least,
And dawn plays faint about his marble spurs,
Doth he not sometimes seem to waken? Hist!
Doth the white falcon flutter on his fist?
And the sweet lady by him never stirs.
But when the thin moon wanes down to her least,
And dawn plays faint about his marble spurs,
Doth he not sometimes seem to waken? Hist!
Doth the white falcon flutter on his fist?
‘All the night long he prays, I have no doubt,
When o'er the October moon the big clouds whirl,
And ever and anon she cometh out
With fleece of rainbow and of mother-o'pearl—
Her flying touch some minutes' space being still
White on the broken waters by the mill.
When o'er the October moon the big clouds whirl,
And ever and anon she cometh out
With fleece of rainbow and of mother-o'pearl—
118
White on the broken waters by the mill.
‘But is not yon stiff hound about to yawn?
The lady to hear mass as is her wont?
Are not the rustics going to the lawn
To see the gallants gathering for the hunt?’
Ah! this is idle talk, for well know I
Such things are not in that eternity.
The lady to hear mass as is her wont?
Are not the rustics going to the lawn
To see the gallants gathering for the hunt?’
Ah! this is idle talk, for well know I
Such things are not in that eternity.
But what and if my appointed time draws near,
And I and all I have is doomed to death;
And what and if for all that I hold dear,
The grace of the fashion of it vanisheth;
And if this poor old heart at last must go
Like a tree broken by its weight of snow—
And I and all I have is doomed to death;
And what and if for all that I hold dear,
The grace of the fashion of it vanisheth;
And if this poor old heart at last must go
Like a tree broken by its weight of snow—
May I not die upon my Aleth's bed,
With shadows of the long familiar trees
Making their chequer-work upon my head,
Amid the humming of my yellow bees,
Where to the sun my peacocks spread their stains
Upon my castle terrace of Fontaines?
With shadows of the long familiar trees
Making their chequer-work upon my head,
Amid the humming of my yellow bees,
Where to the sun my peacocks spread their stains
Upon my castle terrace of Fontaines?
The father of St. Bernard. The Saint prayed, ‘I would be saved, O Lord, but not alone.’ He pleaded that the whole family should be given to him and drawn into his Cistercian house—six brothers, a sister, his mother, Lady Aleth, and his father. All came to him, his father last. No doubt the free spirit of the Burgundian noble revolted against the monastic life, and after the lapse of so many years one can still pity the old man.
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |