 | [Poems by Moody in] William Vaughn Moody : A Study by David Dodds Henry |  |
I
(Count Bertram speaks.)
Was it not glorious? the street
One blaze of banners, flags, and flowers,
The stone bridge to my charger's feet
Made soft with woven stuffs, white showers
Of roses from the crowded roofs
Left him no spot to plant his hoofs
One blaze of banners, flags, and flowers,
The stone bridge to my charger's feet
Made soft with woven stuffs, white showers
Of roses from the crowded roofs
Left him no spot to plant his hoofs
That was not snowed knee-deep with bloom
Plucked by our burgher-girls to crown
Me, who dared bid the old proud town,
Bowed low so long in wrath and gloom,
Rise up and shake her neck and feel
Fall off the riven ring of steel.
Plucked by our burgher-girls to crown
Me, who dared bid the old proud town,
Bowed low so long in wrath and gloom,
Rise up and shake her neck and feel
Fall off the riven ring of steel.
My life's one dream had come about;
Our town was free; Duke Leon dead;
In five days I should go to wed
His daughter, and so wipe quite out
The old stain, banish every trace
Of the old hatred and disgrace.
Our town was free; Duke Leon dead;
In five days I should go to wed
His daughter, and so wipe quite out
The old stain, banish every trace
Of the old hatred and disgrace.
Why was it then, that when I threw
My glance to one low balustrade,
The whole rich city seemed to fade
Before a mere girl's face, that drew
All meaning from the earth and skies
And held it in her lips and eyes?
My glance to one low balustrade,
The whole rich city seemed to fade
Before a mere girl's face, that drew
All meaning from the earth and skies
And held it in her lips and eyes?
A streak of sunlight sifting through
The gnarled magnolia's rose pink dome
Above the wall, cared not to roam
The musky under-glooms of blue,
When once it found and kissed to flame
The hair that held her face in frame.
The gnarled magnolia's rose pink dome
Above the wall, cared not to roam
The musky under-glooms of blue,
When once it found and kissed to flame
The hair that held her face in frame.
246
Did twenty thousand people strain
Their throats, my name on high to raise?
It all seemed cheap beside the praise
Her calm brow gave me, while a band
Of white-robed boys placed in my hand
The broidered banner of our land.
Their throats, my name on high to raise?
It all seemed cheap beside the praise
Her calm brow gave me, while a band
Of white-robed boys placed in my hand
The broidered banner of our land.
Only a moment one may guess,
The spell had strength to hold me: then
I rose up. I was lord of men
Who freed my city from distress;
Round me my grateful people bowed—
And she was one face in the crowd.
The spell had strength to hold me: then
I rose up. I was lord of men
Who freed my city from distress;
Round me my grateful people bowed—
And she was one face in the crowd.
A face to stare at, doubtlessly,
And I almost a stranger, so
I plucked Count Armon's sleeve to know
Her name and state. He screened his eye
With one broad gauntlet from the sun:
‘Angelle, the sole uncloistered nun
And I almost a stranger, so
I plucked Count Armon's sleeve to know
Her name and state. He screened his eye
With one broad gauntlet from the sun:
‘Angelle, the sole uncloistered nun
‘Our town boasts,’ laughed he, ‘calm and cold
As marble martyr in her niche:
'Twas she who worked your banner's rich,
Soft blazoning. A shame, I hold,
Such eyes should dim their violet fire
On paltry needle-work, for hire!”
As marble martyr in her niche:
'Twas she who worked your banner's rich,
Soft blazoning. A shame, I hold,
Such eyes should dim their violet fire
On paltry needle-work, for hire!”
That task at least (I dared have said)
Was not for hire: each burning thread
Which caught the sun above my head
Was stained her very heart's core red.
Each stitch, I knew, had been a prayer,
Each pin thrust a thanksgiving, there.
Was not for hire: each burning thread
Which caught the sun above my head
Was stained her very heart's core red.
Each stitch, I knew, had been a prayer,
Each pin thrust a thanksgiving, there.
How had I thought to ride away!
About me birds and brooks and bees,
Above me milk-white orchard trees,
And in my heart a tune so gay
The quail's low drum, the throstle's throat,
Were discord to its meanest note.
About me birds and brooks and bees,
Above me milk-white orchard trees,
And in my heart a tune so gay
The quail's low drum, the throstle's throat,
Were discord to its meanest note.
And now—how leans her cheek death pale
Against her idle wheel tonight?
What deems she of earth's bale and blight,
Of all earth's bitter blight and bale?
Three days, and then I ride away—
Why has my bread turned stone, I say?
Against her idle wheel tonight?
What deems she of earth's bale and blight,
Of all earth's bitter blight and bale?
Three days, and then I ride away—
Why has my bread turned stone, I say?
| [Poems by Moody in] William Vaughn Moody : A Study by David Dodds Henry | |