The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once on a time, rhymeth the rhyme,
In Swabia-land once on a time,
There was a nobleman sojourning,
Unto whose nobleness everything
Of virtue and high-hearted excellence
Worthy his line and his large pretence
With plentiful measure was meted out:
The land rejoiced in him round about.
He was like a prince in his governing—
In his wealth he was like a king;
But most of all by the fame far-flown
Of his great knightliness was he known,
North and south, upon land and sea.
By his name he was Henry of the Lea.

508

All things whereby the truth grew dim
Were held as hateful foes with him:
By solemn oath was he bounden fast
To shun them while his life should last.
In honour all his days went by:
Therefore his soul might look up high
To honourable authority.

A paragon of all graciousness,
A blossoming branch of youthfulness,
A looking-glass to the world around,
A stainless and priceless diamond,
Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath,
A home when the tyrant menaceth,
A buckler to the breast of his friend,
And courteous without measure or end;
Whose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell;
Of precious wisdom a limpid well,
A singer of ladies every one,
And very lordly to look upon
In feature and bearing and countenance:—
Say, failed he in anything, perchance,
The summit of all glory to gain
And the lasting honour of all men?

Alack! the soul that was up so high
Dropped down into pitiful misery;
The lofty courage was stricken low,
The steady triumph stumbled in woe,
And the world-joy was hidden in the dust,
Even as all such shall be and must.
He whose life in the senses centreth
Is already in the shadow of death.
The joys, called great, of this under-state
Burn up the bosom early and late;
And their shining is altogether vain,
For it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain.
The torch that flames for men to see
And wasteth to ashes inwardly
Is verily but an imaging
Of man's own life, the piteous thing.
The whole is brittleness and mishap:
We sit and dally in Fortune's lap
Till tears break in our smiles betwixt,
And the shallow honey-draught be mix'd
With sorrow's wormwood fathom-deep.
Oh! rest not therefore, man, nor sleep:—
In the blossoming of thy flower-crown
A sword is raised to smite thee down.

Even with Earl Henry it was thus:
Though gladsome and very glorious
Was the manner of his life, yet God
Upon his spirit's fulness trod.
The curse that fell was heavy and deep—
A thunderbolt in the hour of sleep.
His body, whose beauty was so much,
Was turned unto loathing and reproach,—
Full of foul sores, increasing fast,
Which grew into leprosy at last.

509

Ages ago the Lord even so
Ordained that Job should be brought low,
To prove him if in such distress
He would hold fast his righteousness.
The great rich Earl, who otherwhile
Met but man's praise and woman's smile,
Was now no less than out-thrust quite.
The day of the world hath a dark night.
What time Lord Henry wholly knew
The stound that he was come into,
And saw folk shun him as he went,
And his pains food for merriment,
Then did he, as often it is done
By those whom sorrow falleth on—
He wrapped not round him as a robe
The patience that was found in Job.
For holy Job meet semblance took,
And bowed him under God's rebuke,
Which had given to him the world's reverse,
And the shame, and the anguish, and the curse,
Only to snatch away his soul
From emptiness and earth's control:
Therefore his soul had triumphing
Inmostly at the troublous thing.

In such wise Henry bore him not;
Its duteousness his heart forgot;
His pride waxed hard and kept its place,
But the glory departed from his face,
And that which was his strength grew weak.
The hand that smote him on the cheek
Was all too heavy. It was night
Now, and his sun withdrew its light.
To the pride of his uplifted thought
Much woe the weary knowledge brought
That the pleasant way his feet did wend
Was all passed o'er and had an end.
The day wherein his years had begun
Went in his mouth with a malison.
As the ill grew stronger and more strong,
There was but hope bore him along:
Even yet to hope he was full fain
That gold might help him back again
Thither whence God had cast him out.
Ah! weak to strive and little stout
'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possess'd.
North and south, and east and west,
Far and wide from every side,
Mediciners well proved and tried
Came to him at the voice of his woe;
But, mused and pondered they everso,
They could but say, for all their care,
That he must be content to bear
The burthen of the anger of God:
For him there was none other road.
Already was his heart nigh down,
When yet to him one chance was shown;
For in Salerno dwelt, folk said,
A leach who still might lend him aid,
Albeit unto his body's cure
All such had been as nought before.

510

Up rose fresh-hearted the sick man,
And sought the great physician,
And told him all, and prayed him hard,
With the proffer of a rich reward,
To take away his grief's foul cause.
Then said the leach without a pause,
“There is one means might healing yield,
Yet will you ever be unheal'd.”

And Henry said, “Say on; define
Your thoughts; your words are as thick wine.
Some means may bring recovery?—
I will recover! Verily,
Unto your will my will shall bend,
So this mine anguish pass and end.”

Then said the leach, “Give ear to me:
Thus stands it with your misery.
Albeit there be a means of health,
From no man shall you win such wealth;
Many have it, yet none will give;
You shall lack it all the days you shall live;—
Strength gets it not; valour gains it not;
Nor with gold nor with silver is it bought.
Then, since God heedeth not your plaint,
Accept God's will and be content.”

“Woe's me!” did Henry's speech begin;
“Your pastime do you take herein,
To snatch the last hope from my sight?
Riches are mine, and mine is might,—
Why cast away such golden chance
As waiteth on my deliverance?
You shall grow rich in succouring me:
Tell me the means, what they may be.”

Quoth the leach, “Then know them, what they are;
Yet still all hope must stand afar.
Truly if the cure for your care
Might be gotten anyway anywhere,
Did it hide in the furthest parts of earth,
This-wise I had not sent you forth.
But all my knowledge hath none avail;
There is but one thing would not fail:—
An innocent virgin for to find,
Chaste, and modest, and pure in mind,
Who, to save you from death, might choose
Her own young body's life to lose:
The heart's blood of the excellent maid—
That and nought else can be your aid.
But there is none will be won thereby
For the love of another's life to die.”

'Twas then poor Henry knew indeed
That from his ill he might not be freed,
Sith that no woman he might win
Of her own will to act herein.
Thus gat he but an ill return
For the journey he made unto Salerne,

511

And the hope he had upon that day
Was snatched from him and rent away.
Homeward he hied him back: full fain
With limbs in the dust he would have lain.
Of his substance—lands and riches both—
He rid himself; even as one doth
Who the breath of the last life of his hope
Once and for ever hath rendered up.
To his friends he gave, and to the poor;
Unto God praying evermore
The spirit that was in him to save,
And make his bed soft in the grave.
What still remained, aside he set
For Holy Church's benefit.
Of all that heretofore was his
Nought held he for himself, I wis,
Save one small house, with byre and field:
There from the world he lived conceal'd,—
There lived he and awaited Death,
Who, being awaited, lingereth.
Pity and ruth his troubles found
Alway through all the country round.
Who heard him named, had sorrow deep,
And for his piteous sake would weep.