The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

The bells in many a giddy ring
Run down the wind to greet the King,
Who comes to feast for service done,
With Earl De Vere at Kensington,
And brings with him his constant grace
Queen Eleanor, that angel's face.

In many-footed order free
First ride his guards, all staid to see;
In midst of whom the trumpets blow,
Straight as power and glory go;
And then his lords and knights, each one
A manly splendour in the sun;
And then his lofty self appears,
Calmer for the shouts he hears,
With his Queen the courteous-eyed,
Like strength and sweetness side by side;
And thus, his banner steering all,
Rides the King to Earl-Mount Hall.

Meantime, ere yet the sovereign pair
Were threading London's closer air,
An humbler twain, heart link'd as they,
Were hearing larks and scenting hay,
And coming too, to Earl-Mount Hall
Through many a green lane's briery wall,
Many a brier and many a rose,
And merrily ever the palfrey goes,
Merrily though he carrieth two,
And one hath sometimes great ado
To sit while o'er the ruts he goes,
Nor clasp the other doubly close,
Who cannot choose but turn, and then—
Why, if none see, he clasps again.

“Ah,” thinks the lady, as she looks
Through tears and smiles with half-rebukes,
“Ah, must my father break his heart?
For surely now we never part.”

Behind, some furlong off, and 'twixt
Those winding oaks with poplars mix'd,
Come two upon a second steed,
Male, too, and female; not indeed
The female young and fair as t' other:
She is the page's honour'd mother.
Much talk they on the road;—at least
Much talks the mother; while the beast
Pulls at the hedges as he goes,
Pricking oft his tossing nose;
And the page, though listening, sees
Newts in the brooks and nests in trees.
Lastly a hound, tongue-lolling, courses
To and fro 'twixt both the horses,
Giving now some weasel chase,
And loving now his master's face,
And so with many a turn and run
Goes twenty furlongs to their one.

This riding double was no crime
In the first great Edward's time;
No brave man thought himself disgrac'd
By two fair arms about his waist;
Nor did the lady blush vermilion,
Dancing on the lover's pillion.
Why? Because all modes and actions
Bow'd not then to Vulgar Fractions;
Nor were tested all resources
By the power to purchase horses.

Many a steed yet won had he,
Our lover, in his chivalry;
For, in sooth, full half his rents
Were ransoms gain'd in tournaments;

But all, save these, were gone at present.—
Ah! the green lane still was pleasant.

Hope was theirs. For one sweet hour
Did they, last night, in bliss devour
Each other's questions, answers, eyes,
Nor ever for divine surprise
Could take a proper breath, much less
The supper brought in hastiness
By the glad little gaping page;
While rose meantime his mother sage
To wait upon the lady sweet,
And snore discreetly on the seat
In the oriel of the room,
Whence gleam'd her night-cap through the gloom.
Then parted they to lie awake
For transport, spite of all heart-ache:
For heaven's in any roof that covers,
Any one same night, two lovers;
They may be divided still;
They may want, in all but will;
But they know that each is there,
Each just parted, each in prayer;
Each more close, because apart,
And every thought clasp'd heart to heart.

Alas! in vain their hearts agree:
Good must seem good, as well as be;
And lest a spot should stain his flower
For blushing in a brideless bower,
Sir William with the lark must rise,
And bear,—but whither bear?—his prize:
Not to Sir Grey's, for that were scorn;
Not to Sir Guy's, to live forlorn;
Not to some abbey's jealous care,
For Heaven would try to wed her there;
But to a dame that serv'd the Queen,
His aunt, and no mean dame I ween,—
A dame of rank, a dame of honour,
A dame (may earth lie green upon her!)

That felt for nature, love, and truth,
And hated old age pawing youth:
One that at no time held wrong right,
Yet somehow took a dear delight,
By secret measures, sweet and strong,
In giving right a zest of wrong.
To her Sir William brings his Anne
Three hours before the feast began,
But first has sent his page to spy
How day has dawn'd with old Sir Guy.
The page scarce vanish'd, reappears,
His eyes wide open as their ears,
And tells how all the beards are there:
All;—every mump of quivering hair,
Come back with groan, and back with stare,
To set Sir Guy upon the rack,
And find the lady not come back.

“Now God bless all their groans and stares,
And eke their most irreverend hairs!”
Cries the good dame, the Lady Maud,
Laughing with all her shoulders broad:—
“My budget bursteth sure with this!
This were a crowning galliardise
For king himself to tell in hall,
Against his lords' wit groweth small.”
And rustling in her vestments broad,
Forth sails the laughing Lady Maud
To tell the King and tell the Queen;
But first she kiss'd sweet Anne between
The sighing lips and downcast eyes,
And said, “Old breaking hearts are lies.”

Three hours have come, three hours have gone;
King Edward, with his crownet on,
Sits highest where the feast is set;
With wine the sweetest lips are wet;
The music makes a heaven above,
And underneath is talk of love.

The King look'd out from where he sat,
And cried “Sir Guy de Paul!” Thereat
The music stopp'd with awe and wonder,
Like discourse when speaks the thunder;
And the feasters, one and all,
Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul.

“How chanceth it, Sir Guy de Paul,
Your daughter graceth not the call
To the feast at Earl-Mount Hall?
My friends here boast her like the Queen:
What maketh such a face unseen?”

“Sir,” quoth Sir Guy, “a loyal breast
Hath brought a man here sore distress'd.
My daughter, through device, 'tis fear'd,
Of some false knight, hath disappear'd.”

“Hah!” quoth the King, “since when, I pray?
They tell me 'twas but yesterday
That she was mark'd, for two long hours,
Praying behind her window-flowers.”

“Alas! sir, 'twas at night.—Forgive
My failing speech. I scarcely live
Till I have sought her high and low,
And know, what then the King shall know.”

“Now God confound all snares, and bring
Base hearts to sorrow!” cried the King;
“Myself will aid thee, and full soon.
Ho! master bard, good Rafe de Boon,
Pinch thy fair harp, and make it tell
Of those old thieves who slept so well.”

The minstrel bowed with blushing glee;
His harp into his arms took he,
And rous'd its pulses to a mood
Befitting love and hardihood.

Then, with his ready wit sincere,
He sang to every tingling ear,
How fifteen brave old beards, one night,
Bore off one lady in a fright;
With what amazing knees they kept
Their saddles, and how fiercely slept;
And how a certain palfrey chose
To leave them to their proud repose,
And through the wildering night-time bear
The lady to her lover's care.
He nam'd no names, he drew no face,
Yet not a soul mistook the case;
Till by degrees, boards, tap'stries, rafters,
Echoed the King's and feasters' laughters;
And once again, all Earl-Mount Hall
Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul.

But how the laughter raged and scream'd,
When lo! these fifteen beards all stream'd
In at the great door of the hall!
Those very grey-beards, one and all,
By the King's command in thrall,
All mounted and all scar'd withal,
And scarlet as Sir Guy de Paul!
By heavens! 'twas “merry in the hall,”
When every beard but those “wagg'd all.”

Out spoke the King with wrathful breath,
Smiting the noise as still as death:
“Are these the suitors to destroy
My projects with new tales of Troy?
These the bold knights and generous lords
To wed our heiresses and wards?
Now, too, while Frenchman and while Scot
Have cost us double swords, God wot!
Are these replenishers of nations?
Begetters of great generations?
Out with them all! and bring to light
A fitter and a fairer sight.”

Queen Eleanor glanc'd down the hall,
She pitied old Sir Guy de Paul,
Who, while these doters went their way,
Knew neither how to go nor stay,
But sate bent close, his shame to smother,
Rubbing one hand upon the other.
A page she sent him, bright and mild,
Who led him forth, like his own child.

Out went the beards by a side door;
The great one roll'd apart once more,
And, as the King had given command,
In rode a couple, hand in hand,
Who made the stillness stiller:—he
A man to grace all jeopardy;
And all a lovely comfort, she.
The stalwart youth bestrode a steed,
A Barbary, the King's own breed;
The lady grac'd her palfrey still,
Sweet beast, that ever hath his will,
And paceth now beside his lord,
Straight for the King at the high board,
Till sharp the riders halt, and wait
The speaking of the crowned state,—
The knight with reverential eyes,
Whose grateful hope no claim implies:
The lady in a bashful glow,
Her bosom billowing to and fro.

“Welcome! Sir William de la Barre,”
The monarch cried; “a right good star
For ladies' palfreys led astray;
And welcome his fair flower of May.
By heavens! I will not have my knights
Defrauded of their lady rights.
I give thee, William de la Barre,
For this thy bride, and that thy scar
Won from the big-limb'd traitor Pole,
The day thou dash'dst out half his soul

And lett'st his ransom free, for ruth
(For which thou wert a foolish youth,)
All those good meadows, lately his,
Down by the Brent, where thy hall is,
And all thy rights in that same hall,
Together with the osieries all
That skirt the streams by down and dale,
From Hendon into Perivale.
And now dismount. And hark ye, there,
Sir Priest, my chaplain Christopher,
(See how the honest body dries
The tears of claret in his eyes!)—
Come and betroth these friends of mine,
Till at the good Earl's chapel shrine
Thy holy magic make them one:
The King and Queen will see it done.
But first a royal health to all
The friends we leave in this fair hall;
And may all knights' and ladies' horses
Take, like the palfrey, vigorous courses!”

With princely laughter rose the King,
Rose all, the laughter echoing,
Rose the proud wassail, rose the shout
By the trumpets long stretch'd out;
You would have thought that roof and all
Rose in that heart-lifted hall.
On their knees are two alone;
The palfrey and the barb have gone:
And then arose those two beside,
And the music from its pride
Falls into a beauteous prayer,
Like an angel quitting air;
And the King and his soft Queen
Smile upon those two serene,
Whom the priest, accosting bland,
Puts, full willing, hand in hand.
Ah scarcely even King and Queen
Did they then perceive, I ween,
Nor well to after-memory call,
How they went from out that hall.

What more? Sir Guy, and then Sir Grey,
Died each upon a fine spring day;
And, in their hatred of things small,
Left him, now wanting nothing, all:
(All which, at least, that mighty claw
Permitted them, yclept the law.)
The daughter wept, and wept the more
To think her tears would soon be o'er;
Sir William neither wept nor smil'd,
But grac'd the father for the child,
And sent, to join the funeral shows,
Bearing scutcheons, bearing woes,
The palfrey; and full well he goes;
Oh! merrily well the palfrey goes;
Grief great as any there he knows,
Yet merrily ever the palfrey goes.