University of Virginia Library

SIR BRASIL'S FALCON.

The hunt was o'er. The last thin bugle-note
Had stole away among the friendly trees,
Declining gently on its weary way,
And dying in their arms. The exhausted hounds
Besmeared with wild-boar's blood lay down, and licked
Their sanguine coats; or, growling, strove to scare
With lazy paw the floating globes of flies
That buzzed around them lured with scent of gore.
The horses, bridle-tethered to the trees,
With flanks thin drawn, where lay the hardened sweat
In glistening furrows, champed the cruel bit,
Or nibbled at the leaves. Beneath the shade
Of a great chestnut that obscured the sun
The hunters, gathered in a little group,
Talked of the chase; and pleasant stories ran
Of perils, magnified with sportsman's boasts,
And huge leaps taken in the heat of chase.
Then hearty laughs at some green youth's mishap
Went round the circle like a jocund ring
Of sparkling merriment. The men were gay
In joyance of rude strength. Their eyes were bold;
Their white teeth glistened through their nut-brown beards
Like foam-beads in dark ale. Their skins were tanned
By honest wind and sun, and every limb
Was large and fit for use. These men were rough
As prickly-pear or pomegranate, but they
Were ripe, and honest-fruited at the core.
Then in each pause a silver bowl went round,
Filled with red wine, and every hunter drank,
‘Health to St. Hubert, our good patron saint!’
And passed the wine bowl on, until it came
To where Sir Brasil sat. And he outspoke,
‘You know, my friends, I live not to drink wine,
Since that sad day when in the Holy Land
The Emir made me quaff my brother's blood
Disguised as wine. I cannot join your revel.
Pardon me, comrades, I will seek some stream,
Hid in the twilight of this leafy glade,
And drink your healths in a more homely draught.’
Then rose he 'mid good-natured jeers and smiles
At such faint-heartedness in belted knight,
And, yielding in return mock courtesies,
He leashed his favorite falcon to his wrist,
And, girding on his sword, straight took his way,
Along the silent glades.
There was no water
In all the summer woods. The insatiate sun
Had drunk all up, and robbed each secret spring,
Save the round beads of dew that nestling dwelt
Deep in the bottom of the foxglove's bells.
There was no water. Beds of vanished streams
Mocked him with memories of lucid waves,
That rose and fell before his fancy's eye
In glassy splendor. As the soothing wind
Stole softly o'er the leaves, it gave low tones,
That sounded in Sir Brasil's sharpened ear
Like distant ripplings of a pleasant stream;
But there was none. The umbered soil was dry,
And the hare rustled through parched, crisping grass.
Sir Brasil sighed: his brow was hot,—his tongue
Beat dry against his teeth. His upmost thought
Was water,—water, clear, and bright, and cool!
A storm-cock flew across the glade; his beak
Was red with berries of the mountain ash,
That had lain hidden from the by-gone frost
Deep in some cranny of the gaping earth.
Then quoth Sir Brasil, ‘I will follow him,
For I have heard that birds do fly to springs,
As sands of steel of magnets.’ So he struck
A bee's line through the woods, and followed him.
Thick grew the brambles, for there was no path
For dainty feet; but gnarléd roots of oak
Pushed earth aside and twined in curving cords
Like snakes at play. Pale wild-flowers grew in crowds,
Like captive fays, o'er whom the giant trees
Kept watch and ward. Through the green canopy
That stretched o'erhead, stray, vagrant sunbeams stole,
Turning with fairy power the withered leaves
To evanescent gold. Lizards, with skins
Like lapis-lazuli, peeped with glittering eyes
Between the crevices of mouldering trees.
The hum of bees 'round many a trunk foretold
The heavy honeycomb that lay within,
Concealed with cunning passages and doors
Of deftly-woven moss. The bright jay chattered,
And the bold robin gazed with mute surprise
On the strange shape whose daring seemed to make
The woods his own, while on Sir Brasil went,
Stumbling o'er roots, embraced by brambly arms,
And leaving fragments of his rich attire
Fluttering on thorny boughs, that many a day
Held in great awe the timid woodland birds.
The sun grew low. It was three hours beyond
The middle day, when, lo! Sir Brasil stepped
With hooded falcon leashed upon his wrist,
Cloak torn in shreds, and plume that hung awry,
Beyond the limit of the lonely wood,
And found himself upon the rugged brink
Of a dried water-course. It was a dank
And dismal place. The broad, misshapen trees
Were bare anatomies, with scarce a leaf
To clothe their withered bones. Huge, fleshy weeds
Grew in black groups along the ragged edge
Of a tall, beetling cliff, whose steep face sloped
With slabs of rock, adown whose pallid sides
The thin, white moss spread like a leprosy.
Along the base of this pale cliff there ran
The channel of some fitful winter stream
Long fled. The smooth, round pebbles paved
The empty bed, and all the secret rocks
Lay bare and dry. Some there were quaintly holed,
And eaten through by the soft, toothless waves,
And some were strangely carved, and smoothly hewn,
With watery chisels, into phantasm forms.
There was no stream. No limpid water went
With trickling step along the stony course.
The ousel had forsook the place, and sought
Another stream to dipple with its wings.
The heron stood no longer by the brink.
The azure of the halcyon flashed no more
From bank to bank. The tall brown-tufted reeds,
That sung so softly to the evening wind,
Had withered all, and lay in matted heaps
Upon the arid earth. Sir Brasil sighed,
“There is no water here, I am athirst.
O, I would give a broad piece for one drop
To cool my parching throat!” As said he this,
The sunlight flashed upon some glittering point
That shone like diamond. Hastening forward, he
Beheld from out the crevice of a rock
A sluggish flow, that trickled drop by drop,
Of dark, green water. So reluctantly
It oozéd through the fissure, that it seemed
Like the last lifeblood of a river-god
Ebbing in lingering drops from out his heart!
“My faith!” Sir Brasil said, “though not as clear
As wave of Castaly or Hippocrene,
Thou art right welcome,—for my throat is dry,
And I am faint with thirst; and thou, poor bird,
Shalt share my luck, and quaff this scanty spring.”
So saying to the falcon on his wrist,
He loosed its leashes and unlaced its hood,
And let its bold eye gaze abroad again
Upon the sunny world. The joyous bird
Gave one far skyward glance; another swept
The wide horizon round, then preening all
His plumes, and ruffling them toward the sun,
He pecked the knight with a love-softened beak,
And nestled to his arm.
Then Brasil straight
Unloosed a silken belt from which there swung
A golden bugle. Taking it, he stopped
The jewelled mouthpiece with a plug of moss;
Then, stooping, held the inverted bell beneath
The slowly falling stream. With toil and pain
He gathered each slow drop, and watched them rise
By hair's-breadth after hair's-breadth, till he saw
The dear draught level with the golden rim;
Then joyously he raised it to his lips,
And cried, “Here 's to thee, goddess of the stream!
Locked in the heart of this cold rock. Alone,
Forsaken by the fickle waves that made
The current of thy life, thou art most desolate,
And weep'st all day those trickling drops, which are
Thy tears. In them I pledge me to thy grief!”
But as he raised the golden bugle up
Toward his lips, the falcon with swift stroke
Of his long pinion dashed it from his hand,
And all the precious draught ran waste on earth.
Sir Brasil frowned. “How now, bold bird?” he cried,
“Thou dost not know how toilsomely I filled
That scanty measure, or thou never wouldst
Have wasted it. Next time take better heed,
Or thou wilt rue it.” Once again Sir Brasil
With weary hand and long delay filled up
The golden measure, and as he did raise
It to his lips, the falcon with one stroke
Of his swift pinion dashed it to the earth.
Sir Brasil swore, “Now by the sacred cup
Which Christ did drink of, I will wring thy neck,
Thou foolish bird, an thou do that again!”
A third time did he stoop, and, horn in hand,
Bend his broad back to catch the sluggish stream;
A third time did he raise the bugle up
Toward his lips; a third time with swift wing
The falcon dashed the measure from his hand.
Then flashed Sir Brasil's eye with humid fire,
Quivered his thin-drawn lip, and paled his cheek,
And with an ungloved hand he smote the bird
Full in the throat. It fluttered on his wrist,
And drew its jesses taut; with panting strength
Spread out its arrowy wings convulsively,
As if 't would flee right sunward from black death,
Then drew them close. The silver Milan bells,
That quivered on its legs, rattled a chime
Of mortal melody that smote the sky,
Its old domain. Its curved beak opened wide,
Agape for air. Its large, round, golden eye
Turned one long look of sad, reproachful love
Full on Sir Brasil; then, with a faint gasp,
That stifling burst from its choked, swollen throat,
It fluttering fell. The silken jesses slipped;
Its proud head bent in death's last agony;
And, tumbling from his wrist, it gasped and died!
The stern knight bit his lip as he looked down;
He loved the bird, but had a hasty hand,
And hastier temper. “Well-a-day!” he said,
“The bird was mulish and deserved its fate.
Yet would I had not killed it!” Then he took
With mournful hand his bugle, and a sigh
Fluttered between his lips, like some sad bird
From prison flying blindly. “Well!” he said,
“'T is weary work filling these sluggish draughts;
Each takes an hour at least. I'll to the source
Of this thin stream, and ravish it with lips
As eager as e'er pressed the Sabine maid,
When Roman youth grew hot. I'll dip my horn,
And raise it diamond-dripping from the wave,
And as I drink, the abundant stream shall well
Over the brim, and trickle down my beard,
Like morning dew. I'll quaff with thirsty joy,
And when I 've drank I'll fling the lucid lees
On the dry leaves, and arid flowers, that they
May share the moist delight!” And with these words
He sought the secret windings of the stream,
And followed them.
Starkly the falcon lay;
The dry leaves rattled with a stealthy sound;
The beetle hummed, the insects in the grass
Made silver whisperings; the mouse crept out
From underneath the sod, and, timid, gazed
On the proud foe that lay so stiff and strange.
Half fearing stratagem, it dared not move,
But pricked its ears, and oped its glittering eyes
Enchained with wonder, till a lizard slim
Darted from out the grass, and boldly brushed
The falcon's lifeless wing. Then did the mouse
Believe its foe was dead. Then did it play
Around the corpse, and gaze into its eyes,
Those large, round golden eyes, that from the clouds
Could pierce the crouching vermin of the earth
With overhanging death!
The dry leaves fell;
The water dropped; the insects in the grass
Hummed their sharp songs that sounded in the ear
Like tiny silver tinklings. In the midst
Of all this fair monotony of life
Lay the dead falcon!
With much weary toil
Sir Brasil traced the windings of the stream,
Through rock defiles, as wild as sculptured dreams
Where naked horrors frowned. Through oozy swamps
Coated with marish oil in which the sun
Made slimy rainbows; through forsaken beds
Of ancient streams; o'er massive boulder stones,
Humped with old age, and coated with gray moss;
O'er trunks of rotting trees that in the night
Lit with pale splendor the dark paths around,
And slept in light; o'er sharp volcanic soil
That crackled 'neath the tread; o'er naked plains,
Where the sad wind could find not even a stone
To whet its breath on, but went babbling round
With dull, blunt edge,—Sir Brasil took his way
With weary foot, and tongue that often wagged
In sanctimonious oath. A full, slow hour
Had passed, and e'en the knight, though faint with thirst,
Was nigh to turn upon his steps and wend
Back through the woods, when, lo! like sapphires seen
Through the smoke-curling clouds of maiden's hair,
Gleamed something blue. It twisted as it shone,
And glanced in distance like an azure spray.
As speeds the Arab after five days' thirst
To the green oasis,—that desert's teat
At which its children suck,—so Brasil sped,
And nerved his flagging limbs to reach the spot
So distant and so dear.
“At last!” he cried,
“At last, at last, the water glads my sight!
O, I will lave, and drink, and lave again,
Until my very bones the moisture feel,
And half my blood is water!” And he ran
Like a young deer; but as he nearer came,
A poisonous vapor seemed to load the air,
And foul mephitic clouds that clogged each sense
Hovered oppressively with leaden wings.
Sir Brasil staggered on. The poisoned air
Smote on his brain like an invisible sword,
And clove his consciousness. He raved, and reeled,
And threw his arms aloft, and tried to pray,
And spoke pet words to his dead falcon, as
It were alive; then suddenly he seemed
With one great effort to regain himself,
And onward strode.
But as he neared the place
Whence shot the sapphire gleam, a horrid sight
Burst on his view. Lo! coiling on a mound
A huge, green serpent lay. Tier upon tier
Of emerald scales that glistered into blue
Swept upwards in grand spirals. His great head
Lay open-jawed, and hanging o'er the brink
Of a steep rock, while slavering from his mouth
A stream of distilled poison, green and rank,
Trickled in sluggish drops, that at the base
Gathered themselves into an oily stream,
And flowed away.
Sir Brasil's heart grew sick;
For now he saw what he would fain have drunk,
And what the falcon wasted, was the venom
That slavered from the serpent on the rock,
And, filtering through some secret stony way,
Welled out below in green and sluggish drops
Of withering poison. Now like a fierce wind
Remorse howled through his soul, and hunted thought
Fled from its scorching breath. His nature swung
Naked and desolate as a gibbet corpse
From which the flesh drops piecemeal. He did feel
That death should fly him, as a ghost of guilt
More horrid than himself. He felt that God
Held not within his arsenal of curses
One great enough for him; that earth's green skin
Crept, as he trode, as shudders human flesh
When loathsome beings touch it. He grew white
As the swamp-lily, and upon his cheek
Stood beads of dew, round and distinct as those
That morning winds brush from the shivering trees.
His strong frame shook; short sobbings dry and fierce
Rang in his throat, and on his swelling chest
The silken doublet rose and fell amain,
Like bellying sail that labors with the wind.
He tore his long, fair curls, and cast them down
And stamped upon them, whilst he cursed himself
For his deep cruelty to so fair a bird.
Then he took counsel with himself, and thought
If it were good to turn his dagger in
And sheathe it in his heart; but, lo! within
His soul a spirit rose—like those that flit
From out deep fountains in the even-time
To warn us of dark ills—and spread a mist
Betwixt him and the thought of foul self-murder.
Straightway he turned, and said unto himself,
“The guilty, by the avenging will of God,
Are dragged by secret force toward the spot
Where lie their victims. I will hasten back
To where my dead bird lies by the steep bank,
And mark each footstep with a moan, as monks
Mark rosaries with prayers.”—So saying went,
With ashen cheek, slow step, and muttering lips,
Straight to the spot where the dead falcon lay.
A little while he stood regarding it
With a drear wistful look; then, stooping down,
He smoothed its ruffled plumage with his hand,
Closed its round, staring eyes, and gently folded
Its stiffened wings along its breast; then broke
Into a lamentation wild.
“O bird,
My soul is darkened in thy death! strong grief
Winds like a snake about my heart, and crushes it
In its chill clasp. I never yet did feel
Such bitter wrath against mine own right hand
As I do now. To think that this fond hand,
On which so oft thou lovingly hast sat,
Should turn against thee, and with one foul blow
Dash all thy life away! O, 't was a deed
Becoming some vile lackey, whose coarse wrath
Is blinded by thick blood; but not a knight,
Whose blood was filtered through three thousand years,
And to cross swords with whom might surely make
The foe a gentleman! I mind me well
The day we came together. Thou wert young,
Scarce fledged, and with thy talons yet ungrown;
But there was courage in thee, and one day,
When thou didst see a heron in the sky,
Thou beat'st thy breast against the window-pane,
And all the falcon sparkled in thine eyes!
Then 't was my pride to deck thee splendidly.
Thy silver bells, wrought in old Milan's town,
Were shrill as whistle, and the ascending tones
Were modulated cunningly. Thy hood
Of purple cramoise, worked with threads of gold,
Came from that maiden's hand whom I do prize
Beyond all other women. Then thy food
Was dainty in its kind, as thou hadst been
The merlin of an emperor. I did love thee;
All proves that I did love thee; and I would
Have chopped this right hand from its arm before
It should have hurt thee wittingly; but I
Am hot, and when thy persevering wing
Stretched between me and death, it angered me,
And I—I—O, I cannot think of it,
Except I curse myself, and wish myself
Accursed by God and man!
O, never more
Will thy silk jesses twine around my wrist!
No more will we two wander in the dawn,
When the wild-flowers are necklaced all with dew,
And the wet grass pulses with morning life,
To watch a sedge of herons by the stream,
Or listen for the bittern's lonely boom
Rising from out the reeds! No more, no more,
When the game springs from out the sedgy pool
And soars aloft, shall I tear off thy hood,
Unloose thy jesses, and then launch thee forth
Upon the deadly race. I ne'er shall see
Thee rise in airy spirals to the clouds,
While the wide heron labors far below,
Till when almost a speck, with sudden swoop,
Like a live thunderbolt, thou dashest down
Full on the foe, and, striking at his heart,
Fall'st fastened to thy victim!
How tell
The maiden fair who worked thy purple hood
And loved to stroke thy feathers i' the sun,—
How shall I tell my crime? Why, she would loathe me,
And wave me from her sight with crushing look,
And shut me from her heart. I should be held
By all good knights, and ladies fair, a dastard
Who raised his hand against a loving bird,
And killed it for its love. I cannot home!
The first quest I should hear would be, ‘Where is
Thy falcon, Brasil?’ and could I reply,
‘Three times it saved my life, fair dame,
Therefore I slew it.’ O, no home for me!
Here in this lonely glade I'll lay me down
Close to my murdered bird—and then—and then—
Let what will come.”
The shades of evening fell,
The invisible dews dropped spirit-like on earth;
The woods were silent, and, when the white moon
Came riding o'er their tops, she sadly saw
The knight beside the falcon.