Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

So spake the gentle Lady Maude:
“He loves me not!—He said,
‘Nay wed me unto whom ye list,
Now Margaret is dead;
But, dearer than the reddest rose
In bride-bower blushing brave,
Is the little daisy flower that grows
Upon my true love's grave.
And on my lips the kiss I took
So cold from hers, will cling,
For marriage-bell, for priest and book,
For spousal troth and ring.
So if in kiss of loveless lip,
In clasp of loveless hand,
There lie a spell old feud to quell,
And quench strife's smouldering brand;
If loveless bonds can fetter hate,
Be then this bridal sped:
Yet in an evil fate ye mate
The Living with the Dead.’”

So spake the Lady Maude, and fast her tears fell down like rain:
“Ten long—ten silent years my breast hath striven with this pain,
And flung it off a while, then ta'en the weary load again;
Ten years—ten years that I have lived the noble Guilbert's wife,
Have crept uncheered by look of love, unmarked by word of strife;
Within the house an honoured dame—a lady unreproved,
Within the heart a slighted wife—a woman unbeloved!
Long, long ago, I thought this woe would cease, or I should prove
How patient grief wins quietness, how patient love wins love;
Long, long ago, I thought this woe would cease, or I should be
Love-lifted up to happy life, death-gathered to the free.
The smile of love, the smile of death, oh! wondrous sweet they be,
The brethren's and the father's kiss, and neither were for me.

“The brethren's and the father's love; oh! Father, having Thine,
And can we seek aught else for joy, or in our sadness pine

To rest on one another's breast; oh! Father, can it be
That we can need each other still?—each other—having Thee?
Yet even so hast Thou been pleased to weave us in one woof,
To bind us in one golden sheaf, that none may stand aloof
From these sweet sacred bands, and say, ‘In having One above
So have I all;’ that none may scorn his human brother's love
That Thou art mindful of, and thus since Thou hast loved us, none
That loves Thee best, may ever rest in loving Thee alone!”

So spake she calmer: “He who made best knoweth how we feel,
So dare I show Him of the thoughts that never I unseal
To human ear, in very fear lest censure should lie cold
With our dead fathers in their graves, heaped o'er them with the mould,
Or follow on my living lord; nay, rather let this blame
Be mine that dared to give him more than he hath cared to claim.

And yet small blame, for who e'er lived with him that loved him not?
And never sign or word of mine hath wearied him, I wot,
For from the first my heart its lot accepted, understood;
I saw that of the things he had he gave me what he could.
No lady in the Marches sees for pleasure or for state
So fair a train of servitors upon her bidding wait;
I never lacked for page in bower, for minstrel in the hall,
For gentle merlin on my wrist, or palfrey in the stall,
Robe, gaud, and gem, each costly gift that on love's altar lies,
Were mine, but never with them that which only sanctifies;
And he perhaps who gave them all did never guess or know
(For loving hearts run fast, and eyes unloving read them slow),
That I had cast them from me fain, so might I but have found
The greeting that he gave to serf, the look he gave his hound,
The smile and largesse he flung down unto a vassal old,—
Fain had I gathered up the one and doubled him the gold.

“I am not fair as Marg'ret was; yet faces have grown bright
That nature made not so, methinks, when seen by household light;
And in the heart a mirror set hath shown them forth approved
In every look; not only they, the lovely are the loved!
For never hath my name been borne on tilt or tourney's din,
Nor minstrel ta'en it for his song, a sweeter praise to win;
Yet children leaving brighter dames have run in haste to press
Their rosy cheeks against my own, yes, children! they could bless
With unsought tenderness. Methinks a child upon my knee
Had been a pleader winning love both for itself and me;
A child's soft touch, perchance, had stirred the springs of feeling so,
That even to my lips had risen its strong, calm overflow.
Yes, even so, yet well I know these thoughts but bring unrest,
They strive, but may not better that by God marked out for best—
For me the best; for every path, the sun-lit and the dim,
The flower-strewn as the thorny Way alike have led to Him;

Yet finding Love's sweet fountain closed, it even thus befell
That searching farther on I found Life's clear upspringing Well.”

So spake she fervent: “I have learned by knocking at Heaven's gate
The meaning of one golden word that shines above it, ‘Wait!’
For with the Master whom to serve is not to ride or run,
But only to abide His Will, ‘Well waited is well done.’
So waiting, on my heart sweet words, like fragments of a song
Down floated from a happy place, have whispered ‘Not for long.’
So be it; yet before I go, if I might but require
One boon, if God would answer me in this my heart's desire,
Then would I ask, through toil, through pain, through death itself, to see
My husband's eyes, before mine close, look once with love on me.
Then with this arrow that hath long through strength of pain upborne
The breast that hid it, would my soul be gently, gently drawn
Forth by a loving hand, that so my spirit as it passed
Might breathe one slow and soft and low ‘At last, at last, at last!’”

II. SECOND PART.

All night beneath a double weight, and followed by a track
Of fire that flashed along the dark, the steed, with ears laid back
As if he heard a cry behind, and was aware that death
Or life was laid upon his speed, bore on with deepdrawn breath
And nostrils quivering wide, until at length the stars withdrawn
Had melted out into the dusk that comes before the dawn.
Then cheerly to his steed outspoke the rider of the twain
That bore the nobler, knightlier mien, and slackened girth and rein:
“Three rivers hast thou set between the foemen and our flight;
Now softly, gallant Roland, now, for soon by this good light,
Slow breaking pale o'er moor and dale, above the eastern hill,
Soon shall I see my castle rise: art weary, or art chill,
Thou gentle youth, that tremblest so? Nay, only with the cold
I ween, for thou approved hast been for steadfast and for bold.

Small speech has passed between us yet, small guerdon hast thou shared
Of thanks as yet for all that thou for me hast done and dared;
But One shall thank thee, for I wot that on my lady's 'hest
(A gentle lady, true and kind!) thou camest on this quest.
Yet tell me now, where foundest thou the strength, and where the skill
To win at me, to set me free,—so young, so tender still?”
Then answered faint and low the Page, as one that strives to speak
In spite of very feebleness: “Thou seest I am weak;
So took I twain for counsellors that have been held from old
More strong than any under heaven, and one of them was Gold.”

Long thoughtful paused the Knight, but not above the Page's word
That fell perchance upon his ear (so deep he mused) unheard.
Then spake he: “When at first I heard thy sweet, low-warbled song,
That night by night came floating light around my dungeon strong,—

Now far and faint, as if it woke and died among the stars,
Now nearer, like a friend's kind voice beneath my prison bars,—
I thought some spirit of the blest watched o'er me from above,
And mourned for me, itself set free from all of earth but Love.”
But sudden spake the Page, and clenched his hand, “To thee it seemed
That Love dwells only with the Dead; yet have the living deemed
That they could also love, I ween.” No further word he said,
But ever fainter came his breath, and lower sank his head.
“Now rest on me, thou gentle youth, for thou art sorely spent;
So lean thy head upon my breast;” and ever as they went
Still firmer round his drooping form Lord Guilbert did enfold
His stalwart arm, and strove to wrap and shield him from the cold,
And whispered oft, “How farest thou?” and still the answer fell
As from a soul that moaned in sleep, “Yea, with me it is well.”

So fared they on in silence, till at length, as clearer broke
A glimmer on the hill's dusk edge, the boy, as one that woke,

Half roused from heavy dreams, spake slow,—“This dawn to me breaks dim;
I pray thee lift me off from steed ere yet my senses swim,
And bear me to the little well that springs beneath the hill,—
Thou knowest it?” But then the Knight spake soothingly and still,—
“A little, little space, dear youth, yet bear thee up, be strong;
My gentle lady waits for us.” “Nay, she hath waited long,
So may she tarry yet a while. Oh, bear me to the place
Where now I hear the waters flow—I ask it of thy grace!”

Then kind, as one with feebleness that will contend no more,
The good Knight lifted him from steed, and tenderly him bore,
Light as an infant in his arms, and passive as the dead,
Adown the grassy, woodland path, with firm and cautious tread;
And after them a sunbeam slid, a glitter struck all through
The dell, thrid deep with gossamers and films besprent with dew;

On swift and silent sped the knight, yet at each step he trod
He startled up the happy things beloved of Sleep and God,
And through the rustling grass and leaves a hum, a twitter broke,
As if the Soul within them hid half-stirred before it woke.
So gliding swift 'twixt heavy boughs that stooping seemed to sign
With wet, cool finger on their brows a benison divine,
They gained a rocky, moss-grown stair; and where the fountain sprung,
One moment as above its deep dark mirror Guilbert hung,
He saw each wild-wood flower and fern that grew around the place,—
And looking upward from its depths a white and deathly face!

There smiled she on him in the light that never yet was cast
By earthly dawn. “Thou knowest me! thou knowest me, at last!”
But all his soul grew wild; from lips as pale as were her own,
He murmured, “Blind as ever; blind, that only now have known—

Death, death!” But with a quiet mien she spake, “Not death, but life,
The winning of a long-sought boon, the ending of a strife;”
And laid her head upon his breast, like one that wearied sore,
Sighs deep, yet well content to know the struggle comes no more.
He looked at her, he smote his hands together with a cry—
“True heart and sweet, that hast not spared for one like me to die,—
O live for me!” “Yea, would I fain, for what is death to prove
What life bears feeble witness to—the steadfast strength of love;”
So spake she tenderly: “yet One above shall choose for me,
That chooseth best,—for each is blest,—to live, to die, for thee!”

“Oh come unto thy place at last!” and to his heart, smit through
With love and anguish, Guilbert then the dying woman drew;
Two human hearts that Life had held apart with severance keen,
Together met and mingled fast with only Death between.

At length she raised a calm, glad face, and looking upward drew
A long, deep, blissful breath—again—again—for now she knew
The token,—it was Pain and Life together that withdrew.
The sun brake solemn. “There,” she spake, “I see the golden gate,
But not the word that shone for me so long above it—‘Wait!’
Now with this sprinkling on my soul, this Baptism, I go
Where evermore from shore to shore the blissful waters flow;
I see them flash in sudden light, I hear them as they roll,
The billows of the flood wherewith our God makes glad the soul;
There, by that river of delight, on goodly branches grow
All fruits of pleasantness and peace, we failed to find below;
All blossoms withered in our heat, or blighted by our frost;
All things we missed and did not mourn; all things we loved and lost:
There, O my husband! there this love of mine, that was not given
To bless thee on the earth, will bide, stored up for thee in heaven!”