 | Poems (1885) |  |
126
THE STRATFORD PILGRIMS.
“Ah! the troop at the Tabard Inn,
Manciple, Miller, and Frankelyn,
Tightening the girths, and draining the ale,
And away on their wild ride by river and dale!
Gone, Dan Chaucer! gone, but for thee
Is the clatter of that gay companie,
The rattle and ring of stirrup and spur,
Floating of plume, and folding of fur,
With the round of tales that held from town
To the sweet green slopes of the broad South Down.
Certes! with such it were pleasant indeed
To patter an Ave, or finger a bead,
And forth each dawn by the cock to wend
From shrine to shrine unto Albion's end;
But their day is done, and their course is run,
None goeth forth on a pilgrimage—none!”
Manciple, Miller, and Frankelyn,
Tightening the girths, and draining the ale,
And away on their wild ride by river and dale!
Gone, Dan Chaucer! gone, but for thee
Is the clatter of that gay companie,
The rattle and ring of stirrup and spur,
Floating of plume, and folding of fur,
With the round of tales that held from town
To the sweet green slopes of the broad South Down.
Certes! with such it were pleasant indeed
To patter an Ave, or finger a bead,
And forth each dawn by the cock to wend
From shrine to shrine unto Albion's end;
127
None goeth forth on a pilgrimage—none!”
“Well! but the woods are as green as then,
And the sunshine as splendid on grey rock and glen;
The linnet and missel-thrush sing, I trow,
With as rich a trill in their little throats now;
Rivers will ripple, and beech-boughs wave,
And the meadows be decked in a dress as brave,
And the great glad sky build a roof as blue,
Tho' it overarch only pilgrims two.
Sweetheart, come! let us do as they
Did in old time on as fair a day:
We lack but a chapel whereunto to wend,
A shrine and a saint for our journey's end;
And of that gay ride—the shrine, God wot,
Is the dusty goal that I envy them not.”
And the sunshine as splendid on grey rock and glen;
The linnet and missel-thrush sing, I trow,
With as rich a trill in their little throats now;
Rivers will ripple, and beech-boughs wave,
And the meadows be decked in a dress as brave,
And the great glad sky build a roof as blue,
Tho' it overarch only pilgrims two.
Sweetheart, come! let us do as they
Did in old time on as fair a day:
We lack but a chapel whereunto to wend,
A shrine and a saint for our journey's end;
And of that gay ride—the shrine, God wot,
Is the dusty goal that I envy them not.”
“Nay, pardie!” quoth she that I love,
“Fit for thy mood as the hand for the glove,
Or the hilt of his sword for the soldier's fist,
Or a poet to be praised, or a lip to be kissed,
Far on yon path, by the emerald lea,
Fair Avon glideth adown to the sea;
By the walls of a church, beneath whose stones
Sleeps dust sacred as saintly bones,—
His whom thou lovest.”
“Fit for thy mood as the hand for the glove,
Or the hilt of his sword for the soldier's fist,
Or a poet to be praised, or a lip to be kissed,
128
Fair Avon glideth adown to the sea;
By the walls of a church, beneath whose stones
Sleeps dust sacred as saintly bones,—
His whom thou lovest.”
“Right good!” I said,
And forth a foot to the lea I led,
With staff and scrip and a spirit in tune
To the merry noise of a midsummer noon:—
Two we were of one heart and age
Going a pious pilgrimage.
And forth a foot to the lea I led,
With staff and scrip and a spirit in tune
To the merry noise of a midsummer noon:—
Two we were of one heart and age
Going a pious pilgrimage.
Sooth! I doubt if palmers as gay
Ever set forth on so fair a way.
Sooth! I doubt if a day so rare
Ever made pilgrimage half so fair.
But, certes! never did palmers go
To holier shrine than where he lies low,
Who miracles wrought for heart and eye:
The wonder of Imogen's constancy,
The airy marvels of Prospero's isle,
The magic of Queen Cleopatra's smile;
Her barge that burned on the glowing water,
The patience and faith of Lear's leal daughter,
The Roman Portia's fond, firm heart,
And the Veronese lovers death did not part.
Something I laughed, Heav'n 'ield it me,
At Beckett and Benedict saints,—not he!
So came we on where the wayfarer sees
Far Warwick fading behind the trees,
And Guy's great castle behind the town,
That “setter up,” and that “puller down.”
For “Stratford—ho!” our green road lay,
And I spake with my heart in the ancient day:
“Sweet! thou art fair for a prioress,
And I am an ‘Oxenforde clerke,’ no less;
Tell out some fable of ancient day!
I rede you to prove that woman may
Be as true as man!”—“Benedicite!”
“Hearken my story and judge,” quoth she.
Ever set forth on so fair a way.
Sooth! I doubt if a day so rare
Ever made pilgrimage half so fair.
But, certes! never did palmers go
To holier shrine than where he lies low,
Who miracles wrought for heart and eye:
The wonder of Imogen's constancy,
The airy marvels of Prospero's isle,
The magic of Queen Cleopatra's smile;
129
The patience and faith of Lear's leal daughter,
The Roman Portia's fond, firm heart,
And the Veronese lovers death did not part.
Something I laughed, Heav'n 'ield it me,
At Beckett and Benedict saints,—not he!
So came we on where the wayfarer sees
Far Warwick fading behind the trees,
And Guy's great castle behind the town,
That “setter up,” and that “puller down.”
For “Stratford—ho!” our green road lay,
And I spake with my heart in the ancient day:
“Sweet! thou art fair for a prioress,
And I am an ‘Oxenforde clerke,’ no less;
Tell out some fable of ancient day!
I rede you to prove that woman may
Be as true as man!”—“Benedicite!”
“Hearken my story and judge,” quoth she.
130
Vernier.
If ever thou shalt follow silver Seine
Through his French vineyards and French villages,
For love of love and pity turn aside
At Vernier, and bear to linger there!
The gentle river doth so—lingering long
Round the dark marshland, and the pool Grand'mer,
And then with slower ripple steals away
Down from his merry Paris. Do thou this;
'Tis kind to keep a memory of the dead,—
The bygone, silent dead; and these lie there,
Buried a twenty fathoms in the pool,
Whose rough cold wave is closed above their grave,
Like the black cover of an ancient book
Over a tearful story.
Through his French vineyards and French villages,
For love of love and pity turn aside
At Vernier, and bear to linger there!
The gentle river doth so—lingering long
Round the dark marshland, and the pool Grand'mer,
And then with slower ripple steals away
Down from his merry Paris. Do thou this;
'Tis kind to keep a memory of the dead,—
The bygone, silent dead; and these lie there,
Buried a twenty fathoms in the pool,
Whose rough cold wave is closed above their grave,
Like the black cover of an ancient book
Over a tearful story.
Very lovely
Was Julie de Montargis: even now—
After six hundred years are dead with her,
Her village name—the name a stranger hears—
Is, “La plus belle des belles;”—they tell him yet,
The glossy night-black pansies of the land
Lost depth in her dark hair; and that she owned
The noble Norman eye—the violet eye,
Almost—so far and fine its lashes drooped—
Darkened to purple:
Was Julie de Montargis: even now—
After six hundred years are dead with her,
Her village name—the name a stranger hears—
Is, “La plus belle des belles;”—they tell him yet,
The glossy night-black pansies of the land
131
The noble Norman eye—the violet eye,
Almost—so far and fine its lashes drooped—
Darkened to purple:
All the country-folk
Went lightly to their work at sight of her;
And all their children learned a grace by heart,
And said it with small lips when she went by,
The Lady of the Castle.
Went lightly to their work at sight of her;
And all their children learned a grace by heart,
And said it with small lips when she went by,
The Lady of the Castle.
Dear past words
Was all this beauty and this gentleness
Unto her first love and her playfellow,
Roland le Vavasour.
Was all this beauty and this gentleness
Unto her first love and her playfellow,
Roland le Vavasour.
Too dear to leave,
Save that his knightly vow to pluck a palm,
And bear the cross broidered above his heart,
To where upon the cross Christ died for him,
Led him away from loving.
Save that his knightly vow to pluck a palm,
And bear the cross broidered above his heart,
To where upon the cross Christ died for him,
Led him away from loving.
But a year,
And they shall meet—alas! to those that joy,
It is a pleasant season, all too short,
Made of white winter and of scarlet spring,
With fireside comfort and sweet summer-nights:
But parted lovers count the minutes up,
And see no sunshine.
And they shall meet—alas! to those that joy,
It is a pleasant season, all too short,
Made of white winter and of scarlet spring,
132
But parted lovers count the minutes up,
And see no sunshine.
Julie heeded none,
When she had belted on her Roland's sword,
Buckled his breastplate, and upon her lip
Taken his last long kisses.
When she had belted on her Roland's sword,
Buckled his breastplate, and upon her lip
Taken his last long kisses.
Listen now!
She was no light-o'-love, to change and change,
And, deeply written on her heart, she kept
The night and hour the star of Love should see
A true love-meeting. Walking by the pool,
Many a time she longed to wear a wing,
As fleet and white as the swift sea-bird spread,
That she might hover over Roland's sails,
Follow him to the field, and in the battle
Shield the hot Syrian sun from dazing him:
High on the turret many an autumn eve,
When the light, merry swallow tried his plumes
For foreign flight, she gave him messages,—
Fond messages of love, for Palestine,
Unto her knight. What wonder, loving so,
She greeted well the brother that he sent
From Ascalon with spoils—Claude Vavasour?
Could she do less?—he had so deft a hand
Upon the mandolin, and sang so well
What Roland did so bravely; nay, in sooth,
She had not heart to frown upon his songs,
When they sang other love and other deeds
Than Roland's, being brother to her lord.
Yet sometimes was she grave and sad of eye,
For knowledge of the spell her glance could work
Upon its watcher. Ah! he came to serve,
And stayed to love her; and she knew it soon,
Past all concealment. Oftentimes his eyes,
Fastened upon her face, fell suddenly,
For brother-love and shame; but, once and twice,
Julie had seen them, through her tender tears,
Fixed on some messenger from Holy Land
With wild significance, the drawn white lips
Working for grief, because she smiled again.
She was no light-o'-love, to change and change,
And, deeply written on her heart, she kept
The night and hour the star of Love should see
A true love-meeting. Walking by the pool,
Many a time she longed to wear a wing,
As fleet and white as the swift sea-bird spread,
That she might hover over Roland's sails,
Follow him to the field, and in the battle
Shield the hot Syrian sun from dazing him:
High on the turret many an autumn eve,
When the light, merry swallow tried his plumes
For foreign flight, she gave him messages,—
Fond messages of love, for Palestine,
Unto her knight. What wonder, loving so,
133
From Ascalon with spoils—Claude Vavasour?
Could she do less?—he had so deft a hand
Upon the mandolin, and sang so well
What Roland did so bravely; nay, in sooth,
She had not heart to frown upon his songs,
When they sang other love and other deeds
Than Roland's, being brother to her lord.
Yet sometimes was she grave and sad of eye,
For knowledge of the spell her glance could work
Upon its watcher. Ah! he came to serve,
And stayed to love her; and she knew it soon,
Past all concealment. Oftentimes his eyes,
Fastened upon her face, fell suddenly,
For brother-love and shame; but, once and twice,
Julie had seen them, through her tender tears,
Fixed on some messenger from Holy Land
With wild significance, the drawn white lips
Working for grief, because she smiled again.
He spake no love—he breathed no passionate tale,
Till there came one who told how Roland's sword,
From heel to point, dripped with the Paynim blood;
How Ascalon had watched, and Joppa's lists,
And Gaza, and Nicæa's noble fight,
His chivalry; and how, with palm-branch won,
Bringing his honours and his wounds a-front,
His prow was cleaving Genoa's sapphire sea,
Bound homewards. Then, the last day of the year,
Claude brought his unused charger to the gate,
Sprang to the broad strong back, and reined its rage
Into a marble stillness. Yet more still,
Young Claude le Vavasour, thy visage was,
More marble-white.
Till there came one who told how Roland's sword,
134
How Ascalon had watched, and Joppa's lists,
And Gaza, and Nicæa's noble fight,
His chivalry; and how, with palm-branch won,
Bringing his honours and his wounds a-front,
His prow was cleaving Genoa's sapphire sea,
Bound homewards. Then, the last day of the year,
Claude brought his unused charger to the gate,
Sprang to the broad strong back, and reined its rage
Into a marble stillness. Yet more still,
Young Claude le Vavasour, thy visage was,
More marble-white.
She stood to see him pass,
And their yes met; and, full of tears were hers
To mark his suffering; and she called his name,
And came below the gate; but he bowed low,
And thrust the vizor close over his face,
So riding on.
And their yes met; and, full of tears were hers
To mark his suffering; and she called his name,
And came below the gate; but he bowed low,
And thrust the vizor close over his face,
So riding on.
Before St. Ouen's shrine
That night the lady watched—a sombre night,
With fleeting gleams of fitful moonlight sent
'Twixt driving clouds: the grey stone statues gleamed
Through the gloom ghost-like; the still effigies
Of knight and abbess had a show of life,
Lit by pale crimsons and faint amethysts
That fell along them from the oriels;
And if she broke the silence with a step,
It seemed the echo lent them speech again
To speak in ghostly whispers; while, o'er all,
With a weird paleness midnight might not hide,
Straight from the wall St. Ouen looked upon her,
Knitting his granite brows, bidding her hope
No lover's kiss that night—no loving kiss—
None—though there came the whisper of her name,
And a chill sleety blast of wintry wind
Moaning about the tombs, and striking her,
For fear, down to her knees.
That night the lady watched—a sombre night,
With fleeting gleams of fitful moonlight sent
'Twixt driving clouds: the grey stone statues gleamed
135
Of knight and abbess had a show of life,
Lit by pale crimsons and faint amethysts
That fell along them from the oriels;
And if she broke the silence with a step,
It seemed the echo lent them speech again
To speak in ghostly whispers; while, o'er all,
With a weird paleness midnight might not hide,
Straight from the wall St. Ouen looked upon her,
Knitting his granite brows, bidding her hope
No lover's kiss that night—no loving kiss—
None—though there came the whisper of her name,
And a chill sleety blast of wintry wind
Moaning about the tombs, and striking her,
For fear, down to her knees.
That opened porch
Brought more than wind and whisper; there were steps,
And the dim wave of a white gaberdine—
Horribly dim; and then the voice again,
As though the dead called Julie. Was it dead,
The form which, at the holy altar foot,
Stood spectral in the flickering window-lights?
It does not turn, nor speak, nor seek for her,
But passes thro' the chancel, grim and still!
Ah, Holy Mother! dead—and in its hand
The pennon of Sir Roland, and the palm,
Both laid so stilly on the altar front;
A presence like a knight, clad in close mail
From spur to crest, yet from his armed heel
No footfall; a white face, white as the stones,
Lit by the moonlight long enough to know
How the dead kept his tryst; and It was gone,
Leaving the lady on the flags, ice-cold.
Brought more than wind and whisper; there were steps,
And the dim wave of a white gaberdine—
Horribly dim; and then the voice again,
As though the dead called Julie. Was it dead,
The form which, at the holy altar foot,
Stood spectral in the flickering window-lights?
136
But passes thro' the chancel, grim and still!
Ah, Holy Mother! dead—and in its hand
The pennon of Sir Roland, and the palm,
Both laid so stilly on the altar front;
A presence like a knight, clad in close mail
From spur to crest, yet from his armed heel
No footfall; a white face, white as the stones,
Lit by the moonlight long enough to know
How the dead kept his tryst; and It was gone,
Leaving the lady on the flags, ice-cold.
Oh, gentle River! thou that knowest all,
Tell them how for a while she mourned her Knight;
How her grief withered all the rose-bloom off,
And wrote its record on her fading cheek;
And say, bright River! lest they do her wrong,
All the sad story of those twenty moons,
The true-love dead—the true-love that lived on—
Her clinging memories, and Claude's generous praise,
Claude's silent service, and her tearful thanks;
And ask them, River, for Saint Charity,
To think not too much wrong, that so she gave,
Her heart being given and gone, her hand to him,
The Brother of her Lord.—
Tell them how for a while she mourned her Knight;
How her grief withered all the rose-bloom off,
And wrote its record on her fading cheek;
And say, bright River! lest they do her wrong,
All the sad story of those twenty moons,
The true-love dead—the true-love that lived on—
Her clinging memories, and Claude's generous praise,
Claude's silent service, and her tearful thanks;
137
To think not too much wrong, that so she gave,
Her heart being given and gone, her hand to him,
The Brother of her Lord.—
Now banish care!
Soothe it with flutings, startle it with drums!
Trick it with gold and velvets, till it glow
Into a seeming pleasure. Ah, vain! vain!
When the bride weeps, what wedding-gear is gay?
And since the dawn she weeps—at orisons
She wept—and while her women clasped the zone,
Among its jewels fell her mocking tears.
Now at the altar all her answers sigh;
Wilt thou?—Ah! fearful altar-memories—
Ah! spirit-lover—if he saw me now!
Wilt thou?—“Oh me! if that he saw me now!”
He doth, he doth! beneath St. Ouen there,
As white and still—yon monk whose cowl is back!
Wilt thou?—“Ah, dear love, listen and look up.”
He doth—ah God! with hollow eyes a-fire.
Wilt thou?—pale quivering lips, pale bloodless lips—
“I will not—never—never—Roland—never!”
So went the bride a-swoon to Vernier;
So doffed each guest his silken braveries;
So followed Claude, heart-stricken and amazed,
And left the Chapel. But the monk left last,
And down the hill-side, swift and straight and lone,
Sandals and brown serge brushed the yellow broom,
Till to the lake he came and loosed his skiff,
And paddled to the lonely island-cell
Midway over the wavelets. Long ago
The people of the lonely water knew
He came alone to dwell there—'twas the night
Of Lady Julie's vigil; ever since
The simple fishers left their silver tithe
Of lake-fish for him on the wave-worn flags,
Wherefrom he wandered not, save when that day
He went unasked, and marred the bridal show,—
Wherefore none knew, nor how,—save two alone,
A lady swooning—and a monk at prayers.
Soothe it with flutings, startle it with drums!
Trick it with gold and velvets, till it glow
Into a seeming pleasure. Ah, vain! vain!
When the bride weeps, what wedding-gear is gay?
And since the dawn she weeps—at orisons
She wept—and while her women clasped the zone,
Among its jewels fell her mocking tears.
Now at the altar all her answers sigh;
Wilt thou?—Ah! fearful altar-memories—
Ah! spirit-lover—if he saw me now!
Wilt thou?—“Oh me! if that he saw me now!”
He doth, he doth! beneath St. Ouen there,
As white and still—yon monk whose cowl is back!
Wilt thou?—“Ah, dear love, listen and look up.”
He doth—ah God! with hollow eyes a-fire.
Wilt thou?—pale quivering lips, pale bloodless lips—
“I will not—never—never—Roland—never!”
138
So doffed each guest his silken braveries;
So followed Claude, heart-stricken and amazed,
And left the Chapel. But the monk left last,
And down the hill-side, swift and straight and lone,
Sandals and brown serge brushed the yellow broom,
Till to the lake he came and loosed his skiff,
And paddled to the lonely island-cell
Midway over the wavelets. Long ago
The people of the lonely water knew
He came alone to dwell there—'twas the night
Of Lady Julie's vigil; ever since
The simple fishers left their silver tithe
Of lake-fish for him on the wave-worn flags,
Wherefrom he wandered not, save when that day
He went unasked, and marred the bridal show,—
Wherefore none knew, nor how,—save two alone,
A lady swooning—and a monk at prayers.
And now not Castle-gates, nor cell, nor swoon,
Nor splashing waters, nor the flooded marsh,
Can keep these two apart. The Chapel-bells
Ring Angelus and Even-song, and then
Sleep, like her waiting maidens—only Blanche,
Her foster-sister, lying at the gate,
Dreaming of roving spirits—starts at one,
And marvels at the night-gear, poorly hid,
And overdone with pity at her plaint,
Lets her dear Lady forth, and watches her
Gleaming from crag to crag—but lost at last,
A white speck on the night.
Nor splashing waters, nor the flooded marsh,
139
Ring Angelus and Even-song, and then
Sleep, like her waiting maidens—only Blanche,
Her foster-sister, lying at the gate,
Dreaming of roving spirits—starts at one,
And marvels at the night-gear, poorly hid,
And overdone with pity at her plaint,
Lets her dear Lady forth, and watches her
Gleaming from crag to crag—but lost at last,
A white speck on the night.
More watchful eyes
Follow her flying;—down the water-path,
Mad at his broken bridals, sore amazed
With fear and pain, Claude tracks the wanderer—
Waits, while the wild white fingers loose the cord—
But when she drove the shallop through the lake
Straight for the island-cell, he brooked no stay,
But doffed his steel-coat on the reedy rim,
And gave himself to the quick-plashing pool,
And swimming in the foam her fleetness made,
Strove after—sometimes losing his white guide,
Down-sinking in the dark wash of the waves.
Together to the island-cell they come,
The shallop and the swimmer—she alone
Thrusts at the wicket,—enters wet and wild.
What sees he there under the crucifix?
What holds his eyesight to the ivied loop?
Oh, Claude!—oh furious heart! be still, or break!
The Monk and Julie kneeling, not at prayer!
She kisses him with warm, wild, eager lips—
Weeps on his heart—that woman, nearly wived,
And “Sweetest love,” she saith, “I thought thee dead.”
And he—who is he that he fondles so
In his her shaking hands, and bends adown,
Crying, “Ah, my lost love! it was no ghost
That left the palm-branch; but I saw thee not
In the dim moonlight of the midnight aisle;
And heard their talk of Claude, and held thee false,
These many erring days.” Now, gaze no more,
Claude, Claude, for thy soul's peace! She binds the brand
About his gaberdine, with close caress;
She fondles the thin neck, and clasps thereon
The gorget! then the breast-piece and the helm
Her quick hands fasten. “Come away,” she cries,
“Thou Knight, and take me from them all for thine.
Come, true-love! come.” The pebbles, water-washed,
Grate with the gliding of the shallop's keel,
Scarce bearing up those twain.
Follow her flying;—down the water-path,
Mad at his broken bridals, sore amazed
With fear and pain, Claude tracks the wanderer—
Waits, while the wild white fingers loose the cord—
But when she drove the shallop through the lake
Straight for the island-cell, he brooked no stay,
But doffed his steel-coat on the reedy rim,
And gave himself to the quick-plashing pool,
And swimming in the foam her fleetness made,
Strove after—sometimes losing his white guide,
Down-sinking in the dark wash of the waves.
140
The shallop and the swimmer—she alone
Thrusts at the wicket,—enters wet and wild.
What sees he there under the crucifix?
What holds his eyesight to the ivied loop?
Oh, Claude!—oh furious heart! be still, or break!
The Monk and Julie kneeling, not at prayer!
She kisses him with warm, wild, eager lips—
Weeps on his heart—that woman, nearly wived,
And “Sweetest love,” she saith, “I thought thee dead.”
And he—who is he that he fondles so
In his her shaking hands, and bends adown,
Crying, “Ah, my lost love! it was no ghost
That left the palm-branch; but I saw thee not
In the dim moonlight of the midnight aisle;
And heard their talk of Claude, and held thee false,
These many erring days.” Now, gaze no more,
Claude, Claude, for thy soul's peace! She binds the brand
About his gaberdine, with close caress;
She fondles the thin neck, and clasps thereon
The gorget! then the breast-piece and the helm
141
“Thou Knight, and take me from them all for thine.
Come, true-love! come.” The pebbles, water-washed,
Grate with the gliding of the shallop's keel,
Scarce bearing up those twain.
Frail boat, be strong!
Three lives are thine to keep—ah, Lady pale,
Choose of two lovers—for the other comes
With a wild bound that shakes the rotten plank.
Moon! shine out clear for Claude's avenging blow!
She glitters on a quiet face and form
That shuns it not,—yet stays the lifted death.
“My brother Roland!”—“Claude, ah, brother mine!”—
“I thought thee dead!”—“I would that I had died
Ere this had come!”—“Just God! but she is thine!”—
“He wills her not for either! look, we fill,
The current drifts us, and the oars are gone,
I will leap forth!”—“Now by the breast we sucked,
So shalt thou not: let the black waters break
Over a broken heart!”—“Nay, tell him no;
Bid him to save thee, Julie—I will leap!”
So strove they sinking, sinking—Julie bending
Between them; and those brothers over her
With knees and arms close locked for leave to die
Each for the other;—while the Moon shone down,
Silvering their far-off home, and the black wave
That struck, and rose, and floated over them,
Hushing their death-cries, hiding their kind strife,
Ending the love of those great troubled hearts
With silence, save for lapping of the lake.
Three lives are thine to keep—ah, Lady pale,
Choose of two lovers—for the other comes
With a wild bound that shakes the rotten plank.
Moon! shine out clear for Claude's avenging blow!
She glitters on a quiet face and form
That shuns it not,—yet stays the lifted death.
“My brother Roland!”—“Claude, ah, brother mine!”—
“I thought thee dead!”—“I would that I had died
Ere this had come!”—“Just God! but she is thine!”—
“He wills her not for either! look, we fill,
The current drifts us, and the oars are gone,
I will leap forth!”—“Now by the breast we sucked,
So shalt thou not: let the black waters break
Over a broken heart!”—“Nay, tell him no;
Bid him to save thee, Julie—I will leap!”
So strove they sinking, sinking—Julie bending
142
With knees and arms close locked for leave to die
Each for the other;—while the Moon shone down,
Silvering their far-off home, and the black wave
That struck, and rose, and floated over them,
Hushing their death-cries, hiding their kind strife,
Ending the love of those great troubled hearts
With silence, save for lapping of the lake.
“Verily!” spake I, “a troubled dame!
Sweet! grand' merci for this same!
Tender and fair is the chronicle
That Vernier taught thee featly to tell!
Tenderer, fairer its lessons seem
From lips which speak and eyes which beam
So true a truth, and so fast a faith,
Oh Love, whom I love for life and for death!—
But thou in thy turn have heed to me;
I know a story of constancy
Where woman was changeful, and man was true:
Peradventure, Kate! I shall tell it through
Before we come where Shakespeare's bones
Make holy walking of Stratford stones!
Sweet! grand' merci for this same!
Tender and fair is the chronicle
That Vernier taught thee featly to tell!
Tenderer, fairer its lessons seem
From lips which speak and eyes which beam
So true a truth, and so fast a faith,
Oh Love, whom I love for life and for death!—
But thou in thy turn have heed to me;
I know a story of constancy
Where woman was changeful, and man was true:
Peradventure, Kate! I shall tell it through
143
Make holy walking of Stratford stones!
“Nay, but recount!” she softly said,
Doubtfully tossing a wilful head:
And hand in hand, in the shade of the limes,
I told this tale of the Saracen times.
Doubtfully tossing a wilful head:
And hand in hand, in the shade of the limes,
I told this tale of the Saracen times.
KING SALADIN.
Long years ago—so writes Boccaccio
In such Italian gentleness of speech
As finds no echo in this northern air
To counterpart its music—long ago,
When Saladin was Soldan of the East,
The kings let cry a general crusade;
And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy
The idle lances of the North and West
Rode all that spring, as all the spring runs down
Into a lake, from all its hanging hills,
The clash and glitter of a hundred streams.
In such Italian gentleness of speech
As finds no echo in this northern air
To counterpart its music—long ago,
When Saladin was Soldan of the East,
The kings let cry a general crusade;
And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy
The idle lances of the North and West
Rode all that spring, as all the spring runs down
Into a lake, from all its hanging hills,
The clash and glitter of a hundred streams.
Whereof the rumour reached to Saladin;
And that swart king—as royal in his heart
As any crownèd champion of the Cross—
That he might fully, of his knowledge, learn
The purpose of the lords of Christendom,
And when their war and what their armament,
Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy.
Wherefore, with wise and trustful Amirs twain,
All habited in garbs that merchants use,
With trader's band and gipsire on the breasts
Which best loved mail and dagger, Saladin
Set forth upon his journey perilous.
And that swart king—as royal in his heart
144
That he might fully, of his knowledge, learn
The purpose of the lords of Christendom,
And when their war and what their armament,
Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy.
Wherefore, with wise and trustful Amirs twain,
All habited in garbs that merchants use,
With trader's band and gipsire on the breasts
Which best loved mail and dagger, Saladin
Set forth upon his journey perilous.
In that day, lordly land was Lombardy!
A sea of country-plenty, islanded
With cities rich; nor richer one than thou,
Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn—
With ear that little recked the matin-bell,
But a keen eye to measure wall and fosse—
The Soldan rode; and all day long he rode
For Pavia; passing basilic, and shrine,
And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not
Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse.
All day he rode; yet at the wane of day
No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire,
Nor Tessin's sparkle underneath the stars
Promised him Pavia; but he was 'ware
Of a gay company upon the way,
Ladies and lords, with horses, hawks, and hounds;
Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered by the wind
Of merry race for home. “Go!” said the king
To one that rode upon his better hand,
“And pray these gentles of their courtesy
How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates
What hour they close them?” Then the Saracen
Set spur, and being joined to him that seemed
First of the hunt, he told the message—they
Checking their jangling bits, and chiding down
The unfinished laugh, to listen—but by this
Came up the king, his bonnet in his hand,
Theirs doffed to him: “Sir Trader,” Torel said
(Messer Torello 'twas, of Istria),
“They shut the Pavian gate at even-song,
And even-song is sung.” Then, turning half,
Muttered, “Pardie, the man is worshipful,
A stranger too!” “Fair lord!” quoth Saladin,
“Please you to stead some weary travellers,
Saying where we may lodge, the town so far
And night so near.” “Of my heart, willingly,”
Made answer Torel, “I did think but now
To send my knave an errand—he shall ride
And bring you into lodgment—oh! no thanks,
Our Lady keep you!” then with whispered hest
He called their guide and sped them. Being gone,
Torello told his purpose, and the band,
With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains,
Rode for his hunting-palace, where they set
A goodly banquet underneath the planes,
And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon
Welcomed those wondering strangers, thereto led
Unwitting, by a world of winding paths;
Messer Torello, at the inner gate,
Waiting to take them in—a winsome host,
Stamped current with God's image for a man
Chief among men, truthful, and just, and free
A sea of country-plenty, islanded
With cities rich; nor richer one than thou,
Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn—
With ear that little recked the matin-bell,
But a keen eye to measure wall and fosse—
The Soldan rode; and all day long he rode
For Pavia; passing basilic, and shrine,
And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not
Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse.
All day he rode; yet at the wane of day
No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire,
145
Promised him Pavia; but he was 'ware
Of a gay company upon the way,
Ladies and lords, with horses, hawks, and hounds;
Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered by the wind
Of merry race for home. “Go!” said the king
To one that rode upon his better hand,
“And pray these gentles of their courtesy
How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates
What hour they close them?” Then the Saracen
Set spur, and being joined to him that seemed
First of the hunt, he told the message—they
Checking their jangling bits, and chiding down
The unfinished laugh, to listen—but by this
Came up the king, his bonnet in his hand,
Theirs doffed to him: “Sir Trader,” Torel said
(Messer Torello 'twas, of Istria),
“They shut the Pavian gate at even-song,
And even-song is sung.” Then, turning half,
Muttered, “Pardie, the man is worshipful,
A stranger too!” “Fair lord!” quoth Saladin,
“Please you to stead some weary travellers,
146
And night so near.” “Of my heart, willingly,”
Made answer Torel, “I did think but now
To send my knave an errand—he shall ride
And bring you into lodgment—oh! no thanks,
Our Lady keep you!” then with whispered hest
He called their guide and sped them. Being gone,
Torello told his purpose, and the band,
With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains,
Rode for his hunting-palace, where they set
A goodly banquet underneath the planes,
And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon
Welcomed those wondering strangers, thereto led
Unwitting, by a world of winding paths;
Messer Torello, at the inner gate,
Waiting to take them in—a winsome host,
Stamped current with God's image for a man
Chief among men, truthful, and just, and free
There he, “Well met again, fair sirs! Our knave
Hath found you shelter better than the worst:
Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed,
Grace our poor supper here.” Then Saladin,
Whose sword had yielded ere his courtesy,
Answered, “Great thanks, Sir Knight, and this much blame,
You spoil us for our trade! two bonnets doffed,
And travellers' questions holding you afield,
For such you give us this.” “Sir! not your meed,
Nor worthy of your breeding; but in sooth
That is not out of Pavia.” Thereupon
He led them to fair chambers decked with all
Makes tired men glad; lights, and the marble bath,
And flasks that sparkled, liquid amethyst,
And grapes, not dry as yet from evening dew.
Hath found you shelter better than the worst:
Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed,
Grace our poor supper here.” Then Saladin,
147
Answered, “Great thanks, Sir Knight, and this much blame,
You spoil us for our trade! two bonnets doffed,
And travellers' questions holding you afield,
For such you give us this.” “Sir! not your meed,
Nor worthy of your breeding; but in sooth
That is not out of Pavia.” Thereupon
He led them to fair chambers decked with all
Makes tired men glad; lights, and the marble bath,
And flasks that sparkled, liquid amethyst,
And grapes, not dry as yet from evening dew.
Thereafter at the supper-board they sat;
Nor lacked it, though its guest was reared a king,
Worth provend in crafts of cookery,
Pastel, pasticcio—all set forth on gold;
And gracious talk and pleasant courtesies,
Spoken in stately Latin, cheated time
Till there was none but held that stranger-sir,
For all his chapman's dress of cramasie,
Goodlier than silks could make him. Presently
Talk rose upon the Holy Sepulchre:
“I go myself,” said Torel, “with a score
Of better knights—the flower of Pavia—
To try our steel against King Saladin's.
Sirs! ye have seen the countries of the Sun,
Know you the Soldan?” Answer gave the king,
“The Soldan we have seen—'twill push him hard
If, which I nothing doubt, you Pavian lords
Are valorous as gentle;—we, alas!
Be Cyprus merchants making trade to France—
Dull sons of Peace.” “By Mary!” Torel cried,
“But for thy word, I ne'er heard speech so fit
To lead the war, nor saw a hand that sat
Liker a soldier's where thy sword should be;
But sure I hold you sleepless!” Then himself
Playing the chamberlain, with torches borne,
Led them to restful beds, commending them
To sleep and God, Who hears—Allah or God—
When good men do his creatures charities.
Nor lacked it, though its guest was reared a king,
Worth provend in crafts of cookery,
Pastel, pasticcio—all set forth on gold;
And gracious talk and pleasant courtesies,
Spoken in stately Latin, cheated time
Till there was none but held that stranger-sir,
For all his chapman's dress of cramasie,
Goodlier than silks could make him. Presently
Talk rose upon the Holy Sepulchre:
148
Of better knights—the flower of Pavia—
To try our steel against King Saladin's.
Sirs! ye have seen the countries of the Sun,
Know you the Soldan?” Answer gave the king,
“The Soldan we have seen—'twill push him hard
If, which I nothing doubt, you Pavian lords
Are valorous as gentle;—we, alas!
Be Cyprus merchants making trade to France—
Dull sons of Peace.” “By Mary!” Torel cried,
“But for thy word, I ne'er heard speech so fit
To lead the war, nor saw a hand that sat
Liker a soldier's where thy sword should be;
But sure I hold you sleepless!” Then himself
Playing the chamberlain, with torches borne,
Led them to restful beds, commending them
To sleep and God, Who hears—Allah or God—
When good men do his creatures charities.
At dawn the cock, and neigh of saddled steeds,
Broke the king's dreams of battle—not their own,
But goodly jennets from Torello's stalls,
Caparisoned to bear them; he their host
Up, with a gracious radiance like the sun,
To bid them speed. Beside him in the court
Stood Dame Adalieta; comely she,
And of her port as queenly, and serene
As if the braided gold about her brows
Had been a crown. Mutual good-morrow given,
Thanks said and stayed, the lady prayed her guest
To take a token of his sojourn there,
Marking her good-will, not his worthiness;
“A gown of miniver—these furbelows
Are silk I spun—my lord wears ever such—
A housewife's thought! but those ye love are far;
Wear it as given for them.” Then Saladin—
“A precious gift, Madonna, past my thanks;
And—but thou shalt not hear a ‘no’ from me—
Past my receiving; yet I take it; we
Were debtors to your noble courtesy
Out of redemption—this but bankrupts us.”
“Nay, sir,—God shield you!” said the knight and dame:
And Saladin, with phrase of gentilesse
Returned, or ever that he rode alone,
Swore a great oath in guttural Arabic,
An oath by Allah—startling up the ears
Of those three Christian cattle they bestrode—
That never yet was princelier-natured man,
Nor gentler lady;—and that time should see
For a king's lodging quittance royal repaid.
Broke the king's dreams of battle—not their own,
But goodly jennets from Torello's stalls,
Caparisoned to bear them; he their host
149
To bid them speed. Beside him in the court
Stood Dame Adalieta; comely she,
And of her port as queenly, and serene
As if the braided gold about her brows
Had been a crown. Mutual good-morrow given,
Thanks said and stayed, the lady prayed her guest
To take a token of his sojourn there,
Marking her good-will, not his worthiness;
“A gown of miniver—these furbelows
Are silk I spun—my lord wears ever such—
A housewife's thought! but those ye love are far;
Wear it as given for them.” Then Saladin—
“A precious gift, Madonna, past my thanks;
And—but thou shalt not hear a ‘no’ from me—
Past my receiving; yet I take it; we
Were debtors to your noble courtesy
Out of redemption—this but bankrupts us.”
“Nay, sir,—God shield you!” said the knight and dame:
And Saladin, with phrase of gentilesse
Returned, or ever that he rode alone,
150
An oath by Allah—startling up the ears
Of those three Christian cattle they bestrode—
That never yet was princelier-natured man,
Nor gentler lady;—and that time should see
For a king's lodging quittance royal repaid.
It was the day of the Passaggio:
Ashore the war-steeds champed the burnished bits;
Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring chains:
The town was out; the Lombard armourers—
Red-hot with riveting the helmets up,
And whetting axes for the heathen heads—
Cooled in the crowd which filled the squares and streets
To speed God's soldiers. At the nones that day
Messer Torello to the gate came down,
Leading his lady;—sorrow's hueless rose
Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier
Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares,
Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes,
“Goest thou, lord of mine?” “Madonna, yes!”
Said Torel, “for my soul's weal and the Lord
Ride I to-day: my good name and my house
Reliant I intrust thee, and—because
It may be they shall slay me, and because,
Being so young, so fair, and so reputed,
The noblest will entreat thee—wait for me,
Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day;
Then, if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice,
And if I be not come, hold me for dead;
Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave
Against thy heart.” “Good my lord!” answered she,
“Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go;
Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will,
Though my one love, Torel of Istria,
Live, or ------” “Sweet, comfort thee! San Pietro speed!
I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees
Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives,
Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it,
Look thee, I free it —” “Nay!” she said, “but I,
A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain,
Give that gift back, and with it this poor ring:
Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight
Be merciful and win, thinking of me.”
Then she, with pretty action, drawing on
Her ruby, buckled over it his glove—
The great steel glove—and through the helmet bars
Took her last kiss;—then let the chafing steed
Have its hot will and go.
Ashore the war-steeds champed the burnished bits;
Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring chains:
The town was out; the Lombard armourers—
Red-hot with riveting the helmets up,
And whetting axes for the heathen heads—
Cooled in the crowd which filled the squares and streets
To speed God's soldiers. At the nones that day
Messer Torello to the gate came down,
Leading his lady;—sorrow's hueless rose
Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier
Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares,
Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes,
“Goest thou, lord of mine?” “Madonna, yes!”
151
Ride I to-day: my good name and my house
Reliant I intrust thee, and—because
It may be they shall slay me, and because,
Being so young, so fair, and so reputed,
The noblest will entreat thee—wait for me,
Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day;
Then, if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice,
And if I be not come, hold me for dead;
Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave
Against thy heart.” “Good my lord!” answered she,
“Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go;
Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will,
Though my one love, Torel of Istria,
Live, or ------” “Sweet, comfort thee! San Pietro speed!
I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees
Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives,
Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it,
Look thee, I free it —” “Nay!” she said, “but I,
A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain,
152
Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight
Be merciful and win, thinking of me.”
Then she, with pretty action, drawing on
Her ruby, buckled over it his glove—
The great steel glove—and through the helmet bars
Took her last kiss;—then let the chafing steed
Have its hot will and go.
But Saladin,
Safe back among his lords at Lebanon,
Well wotting of their quest, awaited it,
And held the Crescent up against the Cross.
In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades
Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month
Wasted afield; but yet the Christians
Won nothing nearer to Christ's sepulchre;
Nay, but gave ground. At last, in Acre pent,
On their loose files, enfeebled by the war,
Came stronger smiter than the Saracen—
The deadly Pest: day after day they died,
Pikeman and knight-at-arms; day after day
A thinner line upon the leaguered wall
Held off the heathen:—held them off a space;
Then, over-weakened, yielded, and gave up
The city and the stricken garrison.
Safe back among his lords at Lebanon,
Well wotting of their quest, awaited it,
And held the Crescent up against the Cross.
In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades
Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month
Wasted afield; but yet the Christians
Won nothing nearer to Christ's sepulchre;
Nay, but gave ground. At last, in Acre pent,
On their loose files, enfeebled by the war,
Came stronger smiter than the Saracen—
The deadly Pest: day after day they died,
Pikeman and knight-at-arms; day after day
A thinner line upon the leaguered wall
153
Then, over-weakened, yielded, and gave up
The city and the stricken garrison.
So to sad chains and hateful servitude
Fell all those purple lords—Christendom's stars,
Once high in hope as soaring Lucifer,
Now low as sinking Hesper: with them fell
Messer Torello—never one so poor
Of all the hundreds that his bounty fed
As he in prison—ill-entreated, bound,
Starved of sweet light, and set to shameful tasks;
And that great load at heart to know the days
Fast flying, and to live accounted dead.
One joy his gaolers left him,—his good hawk;
The brave, gay bird that crossed the seas with him:
And often, in the mindful hour of eve,
With tameless eye and spirit masterful,
In a feigned anger checking at his hand,
The good grey falcon made his master cheer.
Fell all those purple lords—Christendom's stars,
Once high in hope as soaring Lucifer,
Now low as sinking Hesper: with them fell
Messer Torello—never one so poor
Of all the hundreds that his bounty fed
As he in prison—ill-entreated, bound,
Starved of sweet light, and set to shameful tasks;
And that great load at heart to know the days
Fast flying, and to live accounted dead.
One joy his gaolers left him,—his good hawk;
The brave, gay bird that crossed the seas with him:
And often, in the mindful hour of eve,
With tameless eye and spirit masterful,
In a feigned anger checking at his hand,
The good grey falcon made his master cheer.
One day it chanced Saladin rode afield
With shawled and turbaned Amirs, and his hawks—
Lebanon-bred, and mewed as princes lodge—
Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist,
And slighted call. The Soldan, quick in wrath,
Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer,
And seek some wight who knew the heart of hawks,
To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh—
“There is a Frank in prison by the sea,
Far-seen herein.” “Give word that he be brought,”
Quoth Saladin, “and bid him set a cast:
If he hath skill, it shall go well for him.”
With shawled and turbaned Amirs, and his hawks—
154
Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist,
And slighted call. The Soldan, quick in wrath,
Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer,
And seek some wight who knew the heart of hawks,
To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh—
“There is a Frank in prison by the sea,
Far-seen herein.” “Give word that he be brought,”
Quoth Saladin, “and bid him set a cast:
If he hath skill, it shall go well for him.”
Thus, by the winding path of circumstance,
One palace held, as prisoner and prince,
Torello and his guest: unwitting each,
Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake
Of that goshawk and this—signors in serge,
And chapmen crowned, who knows?—till on a time
Some trick of face, the manner of some smile,
Some gleam of sunset from the glad days gone,
Caught the king's eye, and held it. “Nazarene!
What native art thou?” asked he. “Lombard I,
A man of Pavia.” “And thy name?” “Torel,
Messer Torello called in happier times,
Now best uncalled.” “Come hither, Christian!”
The Soldan said, and led the way, by court
And hall and fountain, to an inner room
Rich with king's robes: therefrom he reached a gown,
And “Know'st thou this?” he asked. “High lord! I might
Elsewhere,” quoth Torel, “here 'twere mad to say
Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave
Who shared our board.” “Nay, but that gown is this,
And she the giver, and the trader I,”
Quoth Saladin; “I! twice a king to-day,
Owing a royal debt and paying it.”
Then Torel, sore amazed, “Great lord, I blush,
Remembering how the Master of the East
Lodged sorrily.” “It's Master's Master thou!”
Gave answer Saladin, “come in and see
What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home;
Come forth and take thy place, Saladin's friend!”
Therewith into the circle of his lords,
With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave;
And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him
First of the full divan. “Orient lords,”
So spake he,—“let the one who loves his king
Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king;
He is my brother:” then the night-black beards
Swept the stone floor in ready reverence,
Agas and Amirs welcoming Torel:
And a great feast was set, the Soldan's friend
Royally garbed, upon the Soldan's hand,
Shining, the bright star of the banqueters.
One palace held, as prisoner and prince,
Torello and his guest: unwitting each,
Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake
Of that goshawk and this—signors in serge,
And chapmen crowned, who knows?—till on a time
Some trick of face, the manner of some smile,
Some gleam of sunset from the glad days gone,
Caught the king's eye, and held it. “Nazarene!
What native art thou?” asked he. “Lombard I,
A man of Pavia.” “And thy name?” “Torel,
155
Now best uncalled.” “Come hither, Christian!”
The Soldan said, and led the way, by court
And hall and fountain, to an inner room
Rich with king's robes: therefrom he reached a gown,
And “Know'st thou this?” he asked. “High lord! I might
Elsewhere,” quoth Torel, “here 'twere mad to say
Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave
Who shared our board.” “Nay, but that gown is this,
And she the giver, and the trader I,”
Quoth Saladin; “I! twice a king to-day,
Owing a royal debt and paying it.”
Then Torel, sore amazed, “Great lord, I blush,
Remembering how the Master of the East
Lodged sorrily.” “It's Master's Master thou!”
Gave answer Saladin, “come in and see
What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home;
Come forth and take thy place, Saladin's friend!”
Therewith into the circle of his lords,
With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave;
And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him
156
So spake he,—“let the one who loves his king
Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king;
He is my brother:” then the night-black beards
Swept the stone floor in ready reverence,
Agas and Amirs welcoming Torel:
And a great feast was set, the Soldan's friend
Royally garbed, upon the Soldan's hand,
Shining, the bright star of the banqueters.
All which, and the abounding grace and love
Shown him by Saladin, a little held
The heart of Torel from its Lombard home
With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced
He sat beside the king in audience,
And there came one who said, “Oh, Lord of lords,
That galley of the Genovese which sailed
With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea.”
“Gone down!” cried Torel. “Ay! what recks it, friend,
To fall thy visage for?” quoth Saladin;
“One galley less to ship-stuffed Genoa!”
“Good my liege!” Torel said, “it bore a scroll
Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived;
For in a year, a month, and day, not come,
I bade them hold me dead; and dead I am,
Albeit living, if my lady wed,
Perchance constrained.” “Certes,” spake Saladin,
“A noble dame—the like not won, once lost—
How many days remain?” “Ten days, my prince,
And twelvescore leagues between my heart and me:
Alas! how to be passed?” Then Saladin—
“Lo! I am loath to lose thee—wilt thou swear
To come again if all go well with thee,
Or come ill speeding?” “Yea, I swear, my king,
Out of true love,” quoth Torel, “heartfully.”
Then Saladin, “Take here my signet-seal;
My admiral will loose his swiftest sail
Upon its sight; and cleave the seas, and go
And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends
A gift, remindful of her courtesies.”
Shown him by Saladin, a little held
The heart of Torel from its Lombard home
With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced
He sat beside the king in audience,
And there came one who said, “Oh, Lord of lords,
That galley of the Genovese which sailed
With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea.”
“Gone down!” cried Torel. “Ay! what recks it, friend,
To fall thy visage for?” quoth Saladin;
157
“Good my liege!” Torel said, “it bore a scroll
Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived;
For in a year, a month, and day, not come,
I bade them hold me dead; and dead I am,
Albeit living, if my lady wed,
Perchance constrained.” “Certes,” spake Saladin,
“A noble dame—the like not won, once lost—
How many days remain?” “Ten days, my prince,
And twelvescore leagues between my heart and me:
Alas! how to be passed?” Then Saladin—
“Lo! I am loath to lose thee—wilt thou swear
To come again if all go well with thee,
Or come ill speeding?” “Yea, I swear, my king,
Out of true love,” quoth Torel, “heartfully.”
Then Saladin, “Take here my signet-seal;
My admiral will loose his swiftest sail
Upon its sight; and cleave the seas, and go
And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends
A gift, remindful of her courtesies.”
Passed were the year, and month, and day; and passed
Out of all hearts but one Sir Torel's name,
Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians:
For Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves,
A lovely widow, much too gay for grief,
Made peals from half a hundred campaniles
To ring a wedding in. The seven bells
Of Santo Pietro, from the nones to noon,
Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out;
Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound,
Cracked itself dumb. Thereat the sacristan,
Leading his swinked ringers down the stairs,
Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys
Jingling their little peal about his belt—
Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch,
A foreign signor, browned with southern suns,
Turbaned and slippered, as the Muslims use,
Plucked by the cope. “Friend,” quoth he—'twas a tongue
Italian true, but in a Muslim mouth—
“Why are your belfries busy—is it peace
Or victory, that so ye din the ears
Of Pavian lieges?” “Truly, no liege thou!”
Grunted the sacristan, “who knowest not
That Dame Adalieta weds to-night
Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel's widow she,
That died i' the chain?” “To-night!” the stranger said.
“Ay, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night!
And you shall see a goodly Christian feast
If so you pass their gates at even-song,
For all are asked.”
158
Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians:
For Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves,
A lovely widow, much too gay for grief,
Made peals from half a hundred campaniles
To ring a wedding in. The seven bells
Of Santo Pietro, from the nones to noon,
Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out;
Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound,
Cracked itself dumb. Thereat the sacristan,
Leading his swinked ringers down the stairs,
Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys
Jingling their little peal about his belt—
Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch,
A foreign signor, browned with southern suns,
Turbaned and slippered, as the Muslims use,
Plucked by the cope. “Friend,” quoth he—'twas a tongue
Italian true, but in a Muslim mouth—
“Why are your belfries busy—is it peace
Or victory, that so ye din the ears
Of Pavian lieges?” “Truly, no liege thou!”
159
That Dame Adalieta weds to-night
Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel's widow she,
That died i' the chain?” “To-night!” the stranger said.
“Ay, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night!
And you shall see a goodly Christian feast
If so you pass their gates at even-song,
For all are asked.”
No more the questioner,
But folded o'er his face the Eastern hood,
Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words
Had struck him home. “So quite forgot!—so soon!—
And this the square wherein I gave the joust,
And that the loggia, where I fed the poor;
And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!—
They robe her for a bridal. Can it be?
Clean out of heart, with twice six flying moons,
The heart that beat on mine as it would break,
That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false—
Well! I will sit, wife, at thy wedding-feast,
And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie.”
But folded o'er his face the Eastern hood,
Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words
Had struck him home. “So quite forgot!—so soon!—
And this the square wherein I gave the joust,
And that the loggia, where I fed the poor;
And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!—
They robe her for a bridal. Can it be?
Clean out of heart, with twice six flying moons,
The heart that beat on mine as it would break,
That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false—
Well! I will sit, wife, at thy wedding-feast,
And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie.”
160
So in the stream of gallant guests that flowed
Feastward at eve, went Torel; passed with them
The outer gates, crossed the great courts with them,
A stranger in the walls that called him lord.
Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright,
And rose-leaves strewed to where within the doors
The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood,
A-glitter from his forehead to his foot,
Speaking fair welcomes. He, a courtly sir,
Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him sweet,
Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat
Upon the dais. Then the feast began,
And wine went free as wit, and music died—
Outdone by merrier laughter:—only one
Nor ate nor drank, nor spoke nor smiled; but gazed
On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls,
Who sate so cold and still, and sad of cheer,
At the bride-feast.
Feastward at eve, went Torel; passed with them
The outer gates, crossed the great courts with them,
A stranger in the walls that called him lord.
Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright,
And rose-leaves strewed to where within the doors
The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood,
A-glitter from his forehead to his foot,
Speaking fair welcomes. He, a courtly sir,
Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him sweet,
Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat
Upon the dais. Then the feast began,
And wine went free as wit, and music died—
Outdone by merrier laughter:—only one
Nor ate nor drank, nor spoke nor smiled; but gazed
On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls,
Who sate so cold and still, and sad of cheer,
At the bride-feast.
But of a truth, Torel
Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down,
And knew her loyal to her memories.
Then to a little page who bore the wine,
He spake, “Go tell thy lady thus from me:
In mine own land, if any stranger sit
A wedding-guest, the bride, out of her grace,
In token that she knows her guest's good-will,
In token she repays it, brims a cup,
Wherefrom he drinking she in turn doth drink;
So is our use.” The little page made speed
And told the message. Then that lady pale—
Ever a gentle and a courteous heart—
Lifted her troubled eyes and smiled consent
On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched,
Stood the brimmed gold; “Bear this,” she said, “and pray
He hold a Christian lady apt to learn
A kindly lesson.” But Sir Torel loosed
From off his finger—never loosed before—
The ring she gave him on the parting day;
And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard
Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.—
So she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink;
And—something in the Cyprus touching them—
Glanced—gazed—the ring!—her ring!—Jove! how she eyes
The wistful eyes of Torel!—how, heartsure,
Under all guise knowing her lord returned,
She springs to meet him coming!—telling all
In one great cry of joy.
Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down,
And knew her loyal to her memories.
161
He spake, “Go tell thy lady thus from me:
In mine own land, if any stranger sit
A wedding-guest, the bride, out of her grace,
In token that she knows her guest's good-will,
In token she repays it, brims a cup,
Wherefrom he drinking she in turn doth drink;
So is our use.” The little page made speed
And told the message. Then that lady pale—
Ever a gentle and a courteous heart—
Lifted her troubled eyes and smiled consent
On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched,
Stood the brimmed gold; “Bear this,” she said, “and pray
He hold a Christian lady apt to learn
A kindly lesson.” But Sir Torel loosed
From off his finger—never loosed before—
The ring she gave him on the parting day;
And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard
Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.—
So she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink;
And—something in the Cyprus touching them—
162
The wistful eyes of Torel!—how, heartsure,
Under all guise knowing her lord returned,
She springs to meet him coming!—telling all
In one great cry of joy.
Good Lord! the rout,
The storm of questions! stilled, when Torel spake
His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife
Maugre the wasted feast, and woful groom.
All hearts save his were light to see Torel;
But Adalieta's lightest, as she plucked
The bridal-veil away. Something therein—
A lady's dagger—small, and bright, and fine—
Clashed out upon the marble. “Wherefore that?”
Asked Torel; answered she, “I knew you true;
And I could live, so long as I might wait;
But they—they pressed me hard! my days of grace
Ended to-night—and I had ended too,
Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come.”
The storm of questions! stilled, when Torel spake
His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife
Maugre the wasted feast, and woful groom.
All hearts save his were light to see Torel;
But Adalieta's lightest, as she plucked
The bridal-veil away. Something therein—
A lady's dagger—small, and bright, and fine—
Clashed out upon the marble. “Wherefore that?”
Asked Torel; answered she, “I knew you true;
And I could live, so long as I might wait;
But they—they pressed me hard! my days of grace
Ended to-night—and I had ended too,
Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come.”
163
“God quit all gentle lovers,” quoth she,
“And give them grace for their constancy,
For this, from Boccace, sheweth, of both,
That true-love ever begetteth troth!
Peace have they now in the changeless rest
Where he is gone, whom thou lovest best,
The Master of poets, whose own words prove
It ‘never ran smooth,’ the ‘course of love!’
Since here is Stratford, and yonder wave
Is lilied Avon's, which girdles his grave!”
“And give them grace for their constancy,
For this, from Boccace, sheweth, of both,
That true-love ever begetteth troth!
Peace have they now in the changeless rest
Where he is gone, whom thou lovest best,
The Master of poets, whose own words prove
It ‘never ran smooth,’ the ‘course of love!’
Since here is Stratford, and yonder wave
Is lilied Avon's, which girdles his grave!”
So came we, two of one heart and age
Making our pious pilgrimage!
Making our pious pilgrimage!
| Poems (1885) | |