 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
64
Fitz-Hartil.
1825.
[_]
[The hint—for it is no more—of this tale may be found in Whitaker's “History of Craven.” It is to the effect that a young man, residing in the village of Hartlington, was roused from sleep one night, by a voice that cried, “Rise, and save life!” He ran to where the voice seemed to come from, and had the pleasure of saving the honour and perhaps the life of a lady, who, tradition says, was one of the Clifford family. I have altered the name of the hero from Fitz-Harcla, in deference to the wish of my friend, James Henry Dixon, Esq., author of several beautiful songs, and editor of “Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England,” a gentleman whose taste in all literary matters is not to be neglected with safety.
There was a time when Craven saw,
From fair St. Ives to Outershaw,
One forest stretch o'er hill and vale,
Unlimited by fence or pale,
Where free by dell and greenwood glade,
The deer of stout De Clifford strayed.
From peasant's bolt or outlaw's spear,
That lord to save his forest deer,
Had many a ranger tried and bold
In Lodges scattered o'er the wold.
From fair St. Ives to Outershaw,
One forest stretch o'er hill and vale,
Unlimited by fence or pale,
Where free by dell and greenwood glade,
The deer of stout De Clifford strayed.
From peasant's bolt or outlaw's spear,
That lord to save his forest deer,
Had many a ranger tried and bold
In Lodges scattered o'er the wold.
Of these blithe guardians of the game
Lived one—Fitz-Hartil was his name.
The Wharf in fury and in foam,
Impetuous, passed his sylvan home.
For length of wind, and length of limb,
No ranger trod the wild like him.
No boar so fierce in Barden dell,
But he with hunting spear could quell;
There lived not man beneath the sun
Whom he, in deadly strife, would shun.
On to the distant mark in view
His cross-bow's bolt unerring flew;
His arrow, fledged with gray goose wing,
The eagle from the cloud could bring,
Or, at a hundred paces' stand,
Divide the hazel's slender wand.
In brief, 'twas said the feats so long
Preserved in Sherwood's tale and song,
And long unrivalled, shrunk at length
Before Fitz-Hartil's skill and strength.
Lived one—Fitz-Hartil was his name.
The Wharf in fury and in foam,
Impetuous, passed his sylvan home.
For length of wind, and length of limb,
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No boar so fierce in Barden dell,
But he with hunting spear could quell;
There lived not man beneath the sun
Whom he, in deadly strife, would shun.
On to the distant mark in view
His cross-bow's bolt unerring flew;
His arrow, fledged with gray goose wing,
The eagle from the cloud could bring,
Or, at a hundred paces' stand,
Divide the hazel's slender wand.
In brief, 'twas said the feats so long
Preserved in Sherwood's tale and song,
And long unrivalled, shrunk at length
Before Fitz-Hartil's skill and strength.
The sun was set. The tints of eve
The western sky began to leave.
Like thread of silver, faint and far,
The new Moon hung beside her star.
Of hawthorn-blossoms, bursting round,
Of wild flowers, viewless on the ground,
The soft gale breathed. Fitz-Hartil stood
Delighted 'mid the fresh green wood.
He stood—no maiden had a part
In the young Ranger's simple heart;
The evening star 'twas his to spy
Without a dream of Beauty's eye;
The flowers might blossom—scent nor streak
Told him of Beauty's breath or cheek;
And yet that night, in loitering mood,
Amid the grove Fitz-Hartil stood!
The western sky began to leave.
Like thread of silver, faint and far,
The new Moon hung beside her star.
Of hawthorn-blossoms, bursting round,
Of wild flowers, viewless on the ground,
The soft gale breathed. Fitz-Hartil stood
Delighted 'mid the fresh green wood.
He stood—no maiden had a part
In the young Ranger's simple heart;
The evening star 'twas his to spy
Without a dream of Beauty's eye;
The flowers might blossom—scent nor streak
Told him of Beauty's breath or cheek;
And yet that night, in loitering mood,
Amid the grove Fitz-Hartil stood!
A deeper and a deeper shade
Fell round him. Wondering why he stayed.
He called his dog, and hastened on;
But not ten paces had he gone,
When a tall rock, abrupt and gray,
Arose and barred his further way.
The Ranger paused—no spot of ground
To him was strange for leagues around,
And well he weened no day had e'er
Looked on the rock ascending there;
Yet there it was; immense—and dim—
And thrown betwixt his path and him!
Fell round him. Wondering why he stayed.
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But not ten paces had he gone,
When a tall rock, abrupt and gray,
Arose and barred his further way.
The Ranger paused—no spot of ground
To him was strange for leagues around,
And well he weened no day had e'er
Looked on the rock ascending there;
Yet there it was; immense—and dim—
And thrown betwixt his path and him!
While yet he wondered, from the rock
Sounds of the dance and music broke,
Music so soft, so sweet as ne'er
Before had charmed Fitz-Hartil's ear!
And then, too, with the mirthful din,
A beam of light—shot from within—
Showed to the Ranger, half-entranced,
The elfin forms of those that danced!
—The Youth to many a fairy tale
Had listened in his native dale
With doubt, if not with scorn; but here
Fitz-Hartil saw, and saw with fear;
For the ‘good neighbours,’ well he knew,
Though often kind, malignant too.
He crossed himself, and tried to say
An Ave Mary as he may;
Then peeped, 'twixt joy and fear, to see
The fairies at their revelry.
Sounds of the dance and music broke,
Music so soft, so sweet as ne'er
Before had charmed Fitz-Hartil's ear!
And then, too, with the mirthful din,
A beam of light—shot from within—
Showed to the Ranger, half-entranced,
The elfin forms of those that danced!
—The Youth to many a fairy tale
Had listened in his native dale
With doubt, if not with scorn; but here
Fitz-Hartil saw, and saw with fear;
For the ‘good neighbours,’ well he knew,
Though often kind, malignant too.
He crossed himself, and tried to say
An Ave Mary as he may;
Then peeped, 'twixt joy and fear, to see
The fairies at their revelry.
Wide—lofty—long—the cavern seemed,
But there no lamp nor taper gleamed;
Along the sides, and overhead,
Brilliants, as thick as dew-drops, shed
A rich and tender light, as though
Ten thousand glow worms lent their glow!
In that undazzling light serene
Were tiny knights and ladies seen,
Arrayed in garb of forest green,
Who, fast as gnats in sunshine glance,
Blended the ever-varying dance!
But there no lamp nor taper gleamed;
Along the sides, and overhead,
Brilliants, as thick as dew-drops, shed
A rich and tender light, as though
Ten thousand glow worms lent their glow!
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Were tiny knights and ladies seen,
Arrayed in garb of forest green,
Who, fast as gnats in sunshine glance,
Blended the ever-varying dance!
As gazed Fitz-Hartil curiously
The minstrels ceased their minstrelsy.
The dancers at the sign divide,
Disposed in ranks on every side,
Leaving all clear the space between—
And the young Ranger's eye hath seen
A pair upon a natural dais
Of turf and flowers assume their place;
The one a knight, with gems and gold
Glittering upon his mantle's fold,
And one a lady young and fair,
With what seemed jewels in her hair,
And o'er whose shoulders, freshly wreathed,
Garlands of wild-flowers bloomed and breathed!
The minstrels ceased their minstrelsy.
The dancers at the sign divide,
Disposed in ranks on every side,
Leaving all clear the space between—
And the young Ranger's eye hath seen
A pair upon a natural dais
Of turf and flowers assume their place;
The one a knight, with gems and gold
Glittering upon his mantle's fold,
And one a lady young and fair,
With what seemed jewels in her hair,
And o'er whose shoulders, freshly wreathed,
Garlands of wild-flowers bloomed and breathed!
Fitz-Hartil gazed, admiring, till
He saw set forth by fairy skill
What served for table, raised between
The rows, and all of turf so green;
Which soon was decked by nimble hands
With cups—like shells from Ocean's sands;
When now one rose, and wildly rung
The echoing cavern as she sung:
He saw set forth by fairy skill
What served for table, raised between
The rows, and all of turf so green;
Which soon was decked by nimble hands
With cups—like shells from Ocean's sands;
When now one rose, and wildly rung
The echoing cavern as she sung:
Song.
We have been at the sea, where the billows foamed free,
To gather the pearls for our hall;
Their love-lighted lamps, from hawthorns and swamps,
The glow worms have brought at our call.
To gather the pearls for our hall;
Their love-lighted lamps, from hawthorns and swamps,
The glow worms have brought at our call.
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The bee we have spoiled—her stinging we foiled—
Of the very best hoard to-day;
And the milk from the dam that she meant for the lamb,
We have drained and brought it away.
Of the very best hoard to-day;
And the milk from the dam that she meant for the lamb,
We have drained and brought it away.
But noble and great, with honours and state,
That man shall suddenly be,
Whose dairy unsealed the butter shall yield
That pleases our fair Ladye.
That man shall suddenly be,
Whose dairy unsealed the butter shall yield
That pleases our fair Ladye.
And yellow as gold, or the king-cup's fold,
And sweet as the dews of May,
The butter must be to please our Ladye
In the eve of her bridal day!
And sweet as the dews of May,
The butter must be to please our Ladye
In the eve of her bridal day!
“To Burnsall go!” Fitz-Hartil cried,
“And from my Dairy be supplied!”
He spoke forgetful, and a space
His heart beat quick, when all the place
Echoed as from a thousand lips—
“Thanks, mortal, thanks! In dark eclipse
No more shall rest thy merit! Be
A son of immortality!
Rich in thy life, and in thy death
Encircled with Affection's breath,
And borne to distant times along
By warm tradition, and by song!
—Mortal, approach, and let this token
Confirm the promise we have spoken;
Withdraw, and all that we have said
Shall turn to curses on thy head!”
Forward the bold Fitz-Hartil went,
Much marvelling no impediment
Of rock opposed his step. He took
The proffered cup, though tremour shook
His outstretched hand and pallid lip—
St. Mary! will Fitz-Hartil sip?
He sipped, rash youth! and saw no more,
But sank upon the cavern floor.
“And from my Dairy be supplied!”
He spoke forgetful, and a space
His heart beat quick, when all the place
Echoed as from a thousand lips—
“Thanks, mortal, thanks! In dark eclipse
No more shall rest thy merit! Be
A son of immortality!
Rich in thy life, and in thy death
Encircled with Affection's breath,
And borne to distant times along
By warm tradition, and by song!
—Mortal, approach, and let this token
Confirm the promise we have spoken;
Withdraw, and all that we have said
Shall turn to curses on thy head!”
Forward the bold Fitz-Hartil went,
Much marvelling no impediment
Of rock opposed his step. He took
The proffered cup, though tremour shook
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St. Mary! will Fitz-Hartil sip?
He sipped, rash youth! and saw no more,
But sank upon the cavern floor.
Morn with her warm and rosy beam
Awakened him as from a dream.
The birds sang sweet, the freshening breeze
Opened the flowers and stirred the trees.
Amazed he rose. The rock immense,
The cavern's wild magnificence,
Were vanished all; and sunbeams played
Upon a vacant forest glade!
He called his dog—it came not nigh;
He wound his horn with summons high;
Then, thoughtful, through the lonely strath
He slowly traced his homeward path.
His simple mind bewildered all,
He strove the vision to recall:
The rock—the cave—the light—the song—
The charmèd cup—the fairy throng
Came o'er his mind in rich confusion;
It could not be!—'twas all delusion!
Some fairy tale, in memory kept,
Had formed the picture while he slept.
He came to this conclusion wise
Just as his cottage met his eyes—
Its woodbined casement glancing bright,
Its azure smoke ascending light,
Its opening door from which a train
Of dogs their welcome barked amain,
All blithe—save one, whose drooping plight
Betrayed the recreant of the night.
Awakened him as from a dream.
The birds sang sweet, the freshening breeze
Opened the flowers and stirred the trees.
Amazed he rose. The rock immense,
The cavern's wild magnificence,
Were vanished all; and sunbeams played
Upon a vacant forest glade!
He called his dog—it came not nigh;
He wound his horn with summons high;
Then, thoughtful, through the lonely strath
He slowly traced his homeward path.
His simple mind bewildered all,
He strove the vision to recall:
The rock—the cave—the light—the song—
The charmèd cup—the fairy throng
Came o'er his mind in rich confusion;
It could not be!—'twas all delusion!
Some fairy tale, in memory kept,
Had formed the picture while he slept.
He came to this conclusion wise
Just as his cottage met his eyes—
Its woodbined casement glancing bright,
Its azure smoke ascending light,
Its opening door from which a train
Of dogs their welcome barked amain,
All blithe—save one, whose drooping plight
Betrayed the recreant of the night.
70
Long since Fitz-Hartil's sire had been
Interred in Burnsall's churchyard green.
His mother, Mistress of the dome,
Industrious, ruled the Ranger's home;
And much alarm the good old dame
Had suffered till Fitz-Hartil came.
Yet her inquiries led him not
To mention of the fairy grot—
He told of being, and he smiled,
O'erta'en by sleep in forest wild;
And how he slept till morning broke,
And hungry as a greyhound woke.
Interred in Burnsall's churchyard green.
His mother, Mistress of the dome,
Industrious, ruled the Ranger's home;
And much alarm the good old dame
Had suffered till Fitz-Hartil came.
Yet her inquiries led him not
To mention of the fairy grot—
He told of being, and he smiled,
O'erta'en by sleep in forest wild;
And how he slept till morning broke,
And hungry as a greyhound woke.
The matron then produced her cheer—
A pasty, like a peel, of deer;
Of rich and unskimmed milk a bowl;
A mighty cheese supports the whole.
“Butter, and then,”—the Ranger cried,
“Butter—St. Mark!” the dame replied,
“The pantry, though so stored last night,
Of butter now is empty quite!
Thieves! thieves!”—then dread denouncings ran,
And hearty was the housewife's ban.
—Much mused Fitz-Hartil now, yet nought
Allowed to 'scape of what he thought.
'Twas plain his 'venture, though it seem
So wild, had been no idle dream;
He had beheld the fairy throng,
Tasted their cheer, and heard their song!
Where might it end?—Hopes new and bright
Danced in the Ranger's mental sight.
A pasty, like a peel, of deer;
Of rich and unskimmed milk a bowl;
A mighty cheese supports the whole.
“Butter, and then,”—the Ranger cried,
“Butter—St. Mark!” the dame replied,
“The pantry, though so stored last night,
Of butter now is empty quite!
Thieves! thieves!”—then dread denouncings ran,
And hearty was the housewife's ban.
—Much mused Fitz-Hartil now, yet nought
Allowed to 'scape of what he thought.
'Twas plain his 'venture, though it seem
So wild, had been no idle dream;
He had beheld the fairy throng,
Tasted their cheer, and heard their song!
Where might it end?—Hopes new and bright
Danced in the Ranger's mental sight.
When spring's green buds to leaves had grown,
And wild-brier roses all were blown,
On couch of heath, with thoughtful mind,
One night Fitz-Hartil lay reclined.
The moon looked in with calmest beam;
And, but for Wharf's resounding stream,
Upon the muser's ear arose
No sound to break the still repose.
—At once was dimmed the mooshine's fall,
At once a voice was heard to call:
“Fitz-Hartil rise, and come away!
The cause forbids a moment's stay—
A precious life's in jeopardy—
Up, up at once, and follow me!”
Upsprung the youth. With hurried hand
He seized, and buckled on his brand,
His quiver fixed, and round him threw
His mighty bow of trusty yew,—
Then followed, with his swiftest stride,
The flying footsteps of his guide,
Who, as they crossed the dewy plain,
Sung, sweetly wild, the sequent strain:
And wild-brier roses all were blown,
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One night Fitz-Hartil lay reclined.
The moon looked in with calmest beam;
And, but for Wharf's resounding stream,
Upon the muser's ear arose
No sound to break the still repose.
—At once was dimmed the mooshine's fall,
At once a voice was heard to call:
“Fitz-Hartil rise, and come away!
The cause forbids a moment's stay—
A precious life's in jeopardy—
Up, up at once, and follow me!”
Upsprung the youth. With hurried hand
He seized, and buckled on his brand,
His quiver fixed, and round him threw
His mighty bow of trusty yew,—
Then followed, with his swiftest stride,
The flying footsteps of his guide,
Who, as they crossed the dewy plain,
Sung, sweetly wild, the sequent strain:
Song.
'Tis lovely! for on high
A thin mist veils the sky,
And gives richnesss to the mild yellow moon;
And the gentle light of day
Seems scarcely gone away,
But mingles with the summer night's noon!
A thin mist veils the sky,
And gives richnesss to the mild yellow moon;
And the gentle light of day
Seems scarcely gone away,
But mingles with the summer night's noon!
'Tis lovely! for the wood
Throws its shadows on the flood,
And the flood lies so calm and so pure—
In its depth it seems to show
Yet a sweeter world below,
More delicately bright or obscure!
Throws its shadows on the flood,
And the flood lies so calm and so pure—
In its depth it seems to show
Yet a sweeter world below,
More delicately bright or obscure!
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Away—away—away!
There is night and there is day,
And villains veil their crimes from the one;
But guilt that shuns the light,
Will do its deed by night—
Away, happy youth, hasten on!
There is night and there is day,
And villains veil their crimes from the one;
But guilt that shuns the light,
Will do its deed by night—
Away, happy youth, hasten on!
Such was the strain his leader sung,
Fitz-Hartil knew the fairy's tongue.
Fitz-Hartil knew the fairy's tongue.
They paused where trees a shadow made;
A shriek was heard from neighbouring shade;
And soon the Ranger's eye could mark,
Beneath a pine-tree broad and dark,
A lady struggling in the gripe
Of ruffians—“Mortal! fate is ripe,”
Exclaimed the fairy. “Bend thy bow,
And lay the shameless villains low;
And if no meed thy effort crown,
'Twill be because thou art a—clown.
This chance thy kindness gains from me;
Farewell—the rest depends on thee.”
His trusty bow Fitz-Hartil drew,
The whizzing dart unwavering flew;
One ruffian fell, the other fled—
But one more arrow, vengeful, sped!
A stifled groan, a shiver more,
And life and agony are o'er!
A shriek was heard from neighbouring shade;
And soon the Ranger's eye could mark,
Beneath a pine-tree broad and dark,
A lady struggling in the gripe
Of ruffians—“Mortal! fate is ripe,”
Exclaimed the fairy. “Bend thy bow,
And lay the shameless villains low;
And if no meed thy effort crown,
'Twill be because thou art a—clown.
This chance thy kindness gains from me;
Farewell—the rest depends on thee.”
His trusty bow Fitz-Hartil drew,
The whizzing dart unwavering flew;
One ruffian fell, the other fled—
But one more arrow, vengeful, sped!
A stifled groan, a shiver more,
And life and agony are o'er!
Fitz-Hartil ran and raised the maid
Extended in the pine-tree's shade.
He waked her from a death-like swoon,
Then stood astonished—for the Moon
Showed him, with life's returning glow,
The eye of light, the neck of snow,
The lovely brow, the sunny hair
Of bold De Clifford's daughter fair!
—Oft had he seen her with his lord,
By thronging knights almost adored,
On palfrey light with silver bells
Urge the gay chase in Craven's dells;
Himself the while, amid such stir,
Not all unmarked of them and her.
His archer skill, his bearing bold,
By all that saw them were extolled;
And she has said he walked the earth
With the free step of lofty birth.
Extended in the pine-tree's shade.
He waked her from a death-like swoon,
Then stood astonished—for the Moon
Showed him, with life's returning glow,
The eye of light, the neck of snow,
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Of bold De Clifford's daughter fair!
—Oft had he seen her with his lord,
By thronging knights almost adored,
On palfrey light with silver bells
Urge the gay chase in Craven's dells;
Himself the while, amid such stir,
Not all unmarked of them and her.
His archer skill, his bearing bold,
By all that saw them were extolled;
And she has said he walked the earth
With the free step of lofty birth.
Glad was, I ween, the lady fair
To waken in the Ranger's care.
With voice more mellow than the tone
Of redbreast in the woods alone,
She thanked him for her life, or yet
More dear, her honour; spoke of debt
Immense, which far as favours may,
Her sire would, she was sure, repay.
Fitz-Hartil said what any one
So placed, so feeling, might have done,
But with a grace unknown to all
Save those who move in courtly hall—
Such is th' effect of fairy charm!
The lady took his proffered arm,
And as they traced the moonlight wold,
Her 'venture to her saviour told.
To waken in the Ranger's care.
With voice more mellow than the tone
Of redbreast in the woods alone,
She thanked him for her life, or yet
More dear, her honour; spoke of debt
Immense, which far as favours may,
Her sire would, she was sure, repay.
Fitz-Hartil said what any one
So placed, so feeling, might have done,
But with a grace unknown to all
Save those who move in courtly hall—
Such is th' effect of fairy charm!
The lady took his proffered arm,
And as they traced the moonlight wold,
Her 'venture to her saviour told.
“The wretch your timely arrow sent
Unshrived, alas! to punishment,
Of high and noble lineage came,
And bore, himself, a noble name.
But what is name, or fame—if vice
Deprives the jewel of its price?
This worthless heart to win he strove,
And felt, or feigned, the warmth of love.
Fitz-Hartil, hear my soul avow
I hated him I pity now!
Piqued by my scorn, this evening he
Stole on my walk's green privacy,
Seized both my hands with sudden clasp—
Stifled my shriek with rudest grasp—
And bore me through the forest shades;
That other wretch—his menial—aids.
Some angel sent thee, sure, in time
To mar the meditated crime!”
Unshrived, alas! to punishment,
Of high and noble lineage came,
And bore, himself, a noble name.
But what is name, or fame—if vice
Deprives the jewel of its price?
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And felt, or feigned, the warmth of love.
Fitz-Hartil, hear my soul avow
I hated him I pity now!
Piqued by my scorn, this evening he
Stole on my walk's green privacy,
Seized both my hands with sudden clasp—
Stifled my shriek with rudest grasp—
And bore me through the forest shades;
That other wretch—his menial—aids.
Some angel sent thee, sure, in time
To mar the meditated crime!”
Such was her tale. Romances light
Have made to us the story trite;
But to Fitz-Hartil it was new,
And strange, and villanous, and true—
And as he walked, emotions high
Now flushed his brow, now dewed his eye!
'Tis whispered, too—though scarce I dare
My credit in the tale declare—
That while they towards his cottage stepped,
And while by turns he chafed and wept,
The lady, by his feeling swayed,
The secret of her soul betrayed.
It might be so. In days of old
The language of the heart was told.
I only know, a modern dame
Would pause—before she did the same.
Have made to us the story trite;
But to Fitz-Hartil it was new,
And strange, and villanous, and true—
And as he walked, emotions high
Now flushed his brow, now dewed his eye!
'Tis whispered, too—though scarce I dare
My credit in the tale declare—
That while they towards his cottage stepped,
And while by turns he chafed and wept,
The lady, by his feeling swayed,
The secret of her soul betrayed.
It might be so. In days of old
The language of the heart was told.
I only know, a modern dame
Would pause—before she did the same.
I may not linger in my lay
To track them as they wend their way.
'Twere meeter here to tell of all
That happed in Skipton's castle-hall.
Where mourned with lamentation wild
De Clifford for his vanished child;
How horsemen thence wére hurried forth
To east, to west, to south, to north,
And all returning as they went
Increased the clamour and lament.
'Twere better still, had I the power,
To paint the joy at matin hour,
When, leaning on Fitz-Hartil's arm,
Returned the maid devoid of harm;
When bold De Clifford heard her tell
The 'venture o'er as it befell—
Heard her most eloquent justice do
To the young Ranger's courage true—
And vowed, by every saint above,
To guerdon well the deed of love.
To track them as they wend their way.
'Twere meeter here to tell of all
That happed in Skipton's castle-hall.
Where mourned with lamentation wild
De Clifford for his vanished child;
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To east, to west, to south, to north,
And all returning as they went
Increased the clamour and lament.
'Twere better still, had I the power,
To paint the joy at matin hour,
When, leaning on Fitz-Hartil's arm,
Returned the maid devoid of harm;
When bold De Clifford heard her tell
The 'venture o'er as it befell—
Heard her most eloquent justice do
To the young Ranger's courage true—
And vowed, by every saint above,
To guerdon well the deed of love.
Fitz-Hartil's to the greenwood gone
To sigh by cliff and stream alone.
The lady, in her father's bower,
Sighs, too, or weeps away the hour.
Her cheek is pale; her eyes of blue
Have lost the glance they lately threw;
Her harp is seldom touched; her lute
Is now at eve in turret mute.
De Clifford sees a shadow dim
The fairest light that shines for him!
—The young were summoned to his hall,
Tried were the banquet and the ball;
But nought, beyond the moment, e'er
Her heart's despondence seemed to cheer.
At length the truth, by all discerned
Or guessed, the startled father learned—
“Blows the wind thence?” De Clifford cried,
“My daughter be my Ranger's bride?
Where then were that pure blood sent down
From many a Chief of high renown?
Sullied by that of peasants?—No!
But gaining thence a healthier flow.
Courage and Worth th'ennoblers are,
Not the vain ribbon, string, or star.
For once at least, though sneer the proud,
A Peasant's worth shall be allowed;
For once shall Rank his hosts remove,
And leave the field to conquering Love!”
To sigh by cliff and stream alone.
The lady, in her father's bower,
Sighs, too, or weeps away the hour.
Her cheek is pale; her eyes of blue
Have lost the glance they lately threw;
Her harp is seldom touched; her lute
Is now at eve in turret mute.
De Clifford sees a shadow dim
The fairest light that shines for him!
—The young were summoned to his hall,
Tried were the banquet and the ball;
But nought, beyond the moment, e'er
Her heart's despondence seemed to cheer.
At length the truth, by all discerned
Or guessed, the startled father learned—
“Blows the wind thence?” De Clifford cried,
“My daughter be my Ranger's bride?
Where then were that pure blood sent down
From many a Chief of high renown?
Sullied by that of peasants?—No!
76
Courage and Worth th'ennoblers are,
Not the vain ribbon, string, or star.
For once at least, though sneer the proud,
A Peasant's worth shall be allowed;
For once shall Rank his hosts remove,
And leave the field to conquering Love!”
Brightly the summer sunbeams fell
On Skipton's tower and fair chapelle
When, blushing, to the altar's side,
Fitz-Hartil led his lovely bride.
—All o'er the path they walked upon
Were fresh and dewy flowers bestrown;
But, to the wonder of the train,
The hands that strewed unseen remain;
Though still, as on the Bridal passed,
Fresh blooms descended thick and fast!
None but Fitz-Hartil knew what fair
And friendly hands were busy there—
A happy omen thence he drew,
Which many a brilliant year proved true.
On Skipton's tower and fair chapelle
When, blushing, to the altar's side,
Fitz-Hartil led his lovely bride.
—All o'er the path they walked upon
Were fresh and dewy flowers bestrown;
But, to the wonder of the train,
The hands that strewed unseen remain;
Though still, as on the Bridal passed,
Fresh blooms descended thick and fast!
None but Fitz-Hartil knew what fair
And friendly hands were busy there—
A happy omen thence he drew,
Which many a brilliant year proved true.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |