 | The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
72
LEGENDS AND LYRICS.
GARNAUT HALL.
A. D. 1598.
Here or hereafter? In the body here,
Or in the soul hereafter, do we writhe,
Atoning for the malice of our lives?
Of the uncounted millions that have died,
Not one has slipped the napkin from his chin
And loosed the jaw to tell us: even he,
The intrepid Captain, who gave life to find
A doubtful way through clanging worlds of ice,—
A fine inquisitive spirit, you would think,
One to cross-question Fate complacently,
Less for his own sake than for Science's,—
Not even he, with his rich gathered lore,
Returns from that dark journey down to death.
Here or hereafter? Only this I know,
That, whatsoever happen afterwards,
Some men do penance on this side the grave.
Thus Regnald Garnaut for his cruel heart.
Or in the soul hereafter, do we writhe,
Atoning for the malice of our lives?
Of the uncounted millions that have died,
Not one has slipped the napkin from his chin
And loosed the jaw to tell us: even he,
The intrepid Captain, who gave life to find
A doubtful way through clanging worlds of ice,—
A fine inquisitive spirit, you would think,
One to cross-question Fate complacently,
Less for his own sake than for Science's,—
Not even he, with his rich gathered lore,
Returns from that dark journey down to death.
Here or hereafter? Only this I know,
That, whatsoever happen afterwards,
Some men do penance on this side the grave.
Thus Regnald Garnaut for his cruel heart.
Owner and lord was he of Garnaut Hall,
A relic of the Norman conquerors,—
A quaint, rook-haunted pile of masonry,
From whose top battlement, a windy height,
Regnald could view his twenty prosperous farms;
His creaking mill, that, perched upon a cliff,
With outspread wings seemed ever taking flight;
The red-roofed cottages, the high-walled park,
The noisy aviary, and, nearer by,
The snow-white Doric parsonage,—all his own.
And all his own were chests of antique plate,
Horses and hounds and falcons, curious books,
Chain-armor, helmets, Gobelin tapestry,
And half a mile of painted ancestors.
Lord of these things, he wanted one thing more,
Not having which, all else to him was dross.
A relic of the Norman conquerors,—
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From whose top battlement, a windy height,
Regnald could view his twenty prosperous farms;
His creaking mill, that, perched upon a cliff,
With outspread wings seemed ever taking flight;
The red-roofed cottages, the high-walled park,
The noisy aviary, and, nearer by,
The snow-white Doric parsonage,—all his own.
And all his own were chests of antique plate,
Horses and hounds and falcons, curious books,
Chain-armor, helmets, Gobelin tapestry,
And half a mile of painted ancestors.
Lord of these things, he wanted one thing more,
Not having which, all else to him was dross.
For Agnes Vail, the curate's only child,—
A little Saxon wild-flower that had grown
Unheeded into beauty day by day,
And much too delicate for this rude world,—
With that intuitive wisdom of the pure,
Saw that he loved her beauty, not herself,
And shrank from him, and when he came to speech
Parried his meaning with a woman's wit.
And Regnald's tender vanity was hurt.
‘Why, then,’ snarled he, ‘if I had asked the Queen
To pick me some fair woman from the Court,
'T were but the asking. A blind curate's girl,
It seems, is somewhat difficult,—must have,
To feed her pride, our coronet withal!’
And Agnes from that day avoided him,
Clinging more closely to the old man's side;
And in the chapel never raised an eye,
But knelt there like a mediæval saint,
Her holiness her buckler and her shield,—
That, and the golden floss of her long hair.
A little Saxon wild-flower that had grown
Unheeded into beauty day by day,
And much too delicate for this rude world,—
With that intuitive wisdom of the pure,
Saw that he loved her beauty, not herself,
And shrank from him, and when he came to speech
Parried his meaning with a woman's wit.
And Regnald's tender vanity was hurt.
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To pick me some fair woman from the Court,
'T were but the asking. A blind curate's girl,
It seems, is somewhat difficult,—must have,
To feed her pride, our coronet withal!’
And Agnes from that day avoided him,
Clinging more closely to the old man's side;
And in the chapel never raised an eye,
But knelt there like a mediæval saint,
Her holiness her buckler and her shield,—
That, and the golden floss of her long hair.
And Regnald felt that somehow he was foiled,—
Foiled, but not beaten. He would have his way.
Meanwhile he chafed; but shortly after this
Regnald received the sorest hurt of all.
For, one eve, lounging idly in the close,
Watching the windows of the parsonage,
He heard low voices in the alder-trees,
Voices he knew, and one that sweetly said,
‘Thine!’ and he paused with choking heart, and saw
Eustace, his brother, and fair Agnes Vail
In the soft moonrise lingering with claspt hands.
The two past on, and Regnald hid himself
Among the brushwood, where his vulpine eyes
Dilated in the darkness as they past.
There, in the dark, he lay a bitter hour
Gnawing his nails, and then arose unseen
And crept away with murder in his soul.
Foiled, but not beaten. He would have his way.
Meanwhile he chafed; but shortly after this
Regnald received the sorest hurt of all.
For, one eve, lounging idly in the close,
Watching the windows of the parsonage,
He heard low voices in the alder-trees,
Voices he knew, and one that sweetly said,
‘Thine!’ and he paused with choking heart, and saw
Eustace, his brother, and fair Agnes Vail
In the soft moonrise lingering with claspt hands.
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Among the brushwood, where his vulpine eyes
Dilated in the darkness as they past.
There, in the dark, he lay a bitter hour
Gnawing his nails, and then arose unseen
And crept away with murder in his soul.
Eustace! curse on him, with his handsome eyes!
Regnald had envied Eustace many a day,
Envied his fame, and that exceeding grace
And courtliness which he had learned at Court
Of Sidney, Raleigh, Essex, and the rest:
For when their father, lean Sir Egbert, died,
Eustace, whose fortune dangled at his thigh,—
A Damask blade,—had hastened to the Court
To line his purse, perchance to build a name;
And catching there the passion of the time,
He, with a score of doughty Devon lads,
Sailed with bold Drake into the Spanish seas;
Returning whence, with several ugly scars,—
Which made him lovelier in women's eyes,—
And many a chest of ingots,—not the less
These latter made him lovely,—sunned himself,
Sometimes at Court, sometimes at Garnaut Hall,—
At Court, by favor of the Virgin Queen,
For great Elizabeth had smiled on him.
Regnald had envied Eustace many a day,
Envied his fame, and that exceeding grace
And courtliness which he had learned at Court
Of Sidney, Raleigh, Essex, and the rest:
For when their father, lean Sir Egbert, died,
Eustace, whose fortune dangled at his thigh,—
A Damask blade,—had hastened to the Court
To line his purse, perchance to build a name;
And catching there the passion of the time,
He, with a score of doughty Devon lads,
Sailed with bold Drake into the Spanish seas;
Returning whence, with several ugly scars,—
Which made him lovelier in women's eyes,—
And many a chest of ingots,—not the less
These latter made him lovely,—sunned himself,
Sometimes at Court, sometimes at Garnaut Hall,—
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For great Elizabeth had smiled on him.
So Regnald, who was neither good nor brave
Nor graceful, liked not Eustace from the start,
And this night hated him. With angry brows,
He sat in a bleak chamber of the Hall,
His fingers toying with his poniard's point
Abstractedly. Three times the ancient clock,
Bolt-upright like a mummy in its case,
Doled out the hour: at length the round red moon,
Rising above the sombre walnut-trees,
Looked in on Regnald nursing his dark thought,
Looked in on the stiff portraits on the wall,
And dead Sir Egbert's empty coat-of-mail.
Nor graceful, liked not Eustace from the start,
And this night hated him. With angry brows,
He sat in a bleak chamber of the Hall,
His fingers toying with his poniard's point
Abstractedly. Three times the ancient clock,
Bolt-upright like a mummy in its case,
Doled out the hour: at length the round red moon,
Rising above the sombre walnut-trees,
Looked in on Regnald nursing his dark thought,
Looked in on the stiff portraits on the wall,
And dead Sir Egbert's empty coat-of-mail.
A quick step sounded on the gravel-walk,
And then came Eustace, humming a sea-song,
Of how the Grace of Devon, with ten guns,
And Master Raleigh on the quarter-deck,
Bore down and tackled the great galleon,
Madre de Dios, raked her fore and aft,
And took her bullion,—singing, light at heart,
His first love's first kiss warm upon his lip.
Straight onward came young Eustace to his death!
For hidden behind the arras near the stair
Stood Regnald, like the Dæmon in the play,
Grasping his rapier part-way down the blade
To strike the foul blow with its heavy hilt.
Straight on came Eustace,—blithely ran the song,
‘Old England's darlings are her hearts of oak.’
The lights were out, and not a soul astir,
Or else the dead man's scabbard, as it clashed
Against the marble pavement when he fell,
Had brought a witness. Not a breath or sound,
Only the sad wind wailing in the tower,
Only the mastiff growling in his sleep,
Outside the gate, and pawing at his dream.
And then came Eustace, humming a sea-song,
Of how the Grace of Devon, with ten guns,
And Master Raleigh on the quarter-deck,
Bore down and tackled the great galleon,
Madre de Dios, raked her fore and aft,
And took her bullion,—singing, light at heart,
His first love's first kiss warm upon his lip.
77
For hidden behind the arras near the stair
Stood Regnald, like the Dæmon in the play,
Grasping his rapier part-way down the blade
To strike the foul blow with its heavy hilt.
Straight on came Eustace,—blithely ran the song,
‘Old England's darlings are her hearts of oak.’
The lights were out, and not a soul astir,
Or else the dead man's scabbard, as it clashed
Against the marble pavement when he fell,
Had brought a witness. Not a breath or sound,
Only the sad wind wailing in the tower,
Only the mastiff growling in his sleep,
Outside the gate, and pawing at his dream.
Now in a wing of that old gallery,
Hung with the relics of forgotten feuds,
A certain door, which none but Regnald knew,
Was fashioned like the panels of the wall,
And so concealed by carven grapes and flowers
A man could search for it a dozen years
And swear it was not, though his touch had been
Upon the very panel where it was.
The secret spring that opened it unclosed
An inner door of iron-studded oak,
Guarding a narrow chamber, where, perchance,
Some bygone lord of Garnaut Hall had hid
His threatened treasure, or, most like, bestowed
Some too adventurous antagonist.
Sealed in the compass of that stifling room,
A man might live, at best, but half an hour.
Hung with the relics of forgotten feuds,
A certain door, which none but Regnald knew,
Was fashioned like the panels of the wall,
And so concealed by carven grapes and flowers
A man could search for it a dozen years
And swear it was not, though his touch had been
Upon the very panel where it was.
The secret spring that opened it unclosed
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Guarding a narrow chamber, where, perchance,
Some bygone lord of Garnaut Hall had hid
His threatened treasure, or, most like, bestowed
Some too adventurous antagonist.
Sealed in the compass of that stifling room,
A man might live, at best, but half an hour.
Hither did Regnald bear his brother's corse
And set it down. Perhaps he paused to gaze
A moment on the quiet moonlit face,
The face yet beautiful with new-told love!
Perhaps his heart misgave him,—or, perhaps—
Now, whether 't was some dark avenging Hand,
Or whether 't was some fatal freak of wind,
We may not know, but suddenly the door
Without slammed to, and there was Regnald shut
Beyond escape, for on the inner side
Was neither spring nor bolt to set him free!
And set it down. Perhaps he paused to gaze
A moment on the quiet moonlit face,
The face yet beautiful with new-told love!
Perhaps his heart misgave him,—or, perhaps—
Now, whether 't was some dark avenging Hand,
Or whether 't was some fatal freak of wind,
We may not know, but suddenly the door
Without slammed to, and there was Regnald shut
Beyond escape, for on the inner side
Was neither spring nor bolt to set him free!
Mother of Mercy! what were a whole life
Of pain and penury and conscience-smart
To that half-hour of Regnald's with his Dead?
Of pain and penury and conscience-smart
To that half-hour of Regnald's with his Dead?
79
—The joyous sun rose over the white cliffs
Of Devon, sparkled through the walnut-trees,
And broke the death-like slumber of the Hall.
The keeper fetched their breakfast to the hounds;
The smart, young ostler whistled in the stalls;
The pretty housemaid tripped from room to room;
And grave and grand behind his master's chair,
But wroth within to have the partridge spoil,
The senile butler waited for his lord.
But neither Regnald nor young Eustace came.
And when 't was found that neither slept at Hall
That night, their couches being still unprest,
The servants stared. And as the day wore on,
And evening came, and then another day,
And yet another, till a week had gone,
The wonder spread, and riders sent in haste
Scoured the country, dragged the neighboring streams,
Tracked wayward footprints to the great chalk bluffs,
But found not Regnald, lord of Garnaut Hall.
The place that knew him knew him never more.
Of Devon, sparkled through the walnut-trees,
And broke the death-like slumber of the Hall.
The keeper fetched their breakfast to the hounds;
The smart, young ostler whistled in the stalls;
The pretty housemaid tripped from room to room;
And grave and grand behind his master's chair,
But wroth within to have the partridge spoil,
The senile butler waited for his lord.
But neither Regnald nor young Eustace came.
And when 't was found that neither slept at Hall
That night, their couches being still unprest,
The servants stared. And as the day wore on,
And evening came, and then another day,
And yet another, till a week had gone,
The wonder spread, and riders sent in haste
Scoured the country, dragged the neighboring streams,
Tracked wayward footprints to the great chalk bluffs,
But found not Regnald, lord of Garnaut Hall.
The place that knew him knew him never more.
The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew.
And Agnes Vail, the little Saxon rose,
Waxed pale and paler, till the country-folk
Half guessed her fate was somehow intertwined
With that dark house. When her pure soul had past,—
Just as a perfume floats from out the world,—
Wild tales were told of how the brothers loved
The self-same maid, whom neither one would wed
Because the other loved her as his life;
And that the two, at midnight, in despair,
From one sheer cliff plunged headlong in the sea.
And when, at night, the hoarse east-wind rose high,
Rattled the lintels, clamoring at the door,
The children huddled closer round the hearth
And whispered very softly with themselves,
‘That 's Master Regnald looking for his Bride!’
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Waxed pale and paler, till the country-folk
Half guessed her fate was somehow intertwined
With that dark house. When her pure soul had past,—
Just as a perfume floats from out the world,—
Wild tales were told of how the brothers loved
The self-same maid, whom neither one would wed
Because the other loved her as his life;
And that the two, at midnight, in despair,
From one sheer cliff plunged headlong in the sea.
And when, at night, the hoarse east-wind rose high,
Rattled the lintels, clamoring at the door,
The children huddled closer round the hearth
And whispered very softly with themselves,
‘That 's Master Regnald looking for his Bride!’
The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew.
Decay and dolor settled on the Hall.
The wind went howling in the dismal rooms,
Rustling the arras; and the wainscot-mouse
Gnawed through the mighty Garnauts on the wall,
And made a lodging for her glossy young
In dead Sir Egbert's empty coat-of-mail;
The griffon dropt from off the blazoned shield;
The stables rotted; and a poisonous vine
Stretched its rank nets across the lonely lawn.
For no one went there,—'t was a haunted spot.
A legend killed it for a kindly home,—
A grim estate, which every heir in turn
Left to the orgies of the wind and rain,
The newt, the toad, the spider, and the mouse.
Decay and dolor settled on the Hall.
The wind went howling in the dismal rooms,
Rustling the arras; and the wainscot-mouse
Gnawed through the mighty Garnauts on the wall,
And made a lodging for her glossy young
In dead Sir Egbert's empty coat-of-mail;
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The stables rotted; and a poisonous vine
Stretched its rank nets across the lonely lawn.
For no one went there,—'t was a haunted spot.
A legend killed it for a kindly home,—
A grim estate, which every heir in turn
Left to the orgies of the wind and rain,
The newt, the toad, the spider, and the mouse.
The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew.
And once, 't is said, the Queen reached out her hand
And let it rest on Cecil's velvet sleeve,
And spoke: ‘I prithee, Cecil, tell us now,
Was 't ever known what happened to those men,—
Those Garnauts?—Were they never, never found?’
The weasel face had fain looked wise for her,
But no one of that century ever knew.
And once, 't is said, the Queen reached out her hand
And let it rest on Cecil's velvet sleeve,
And spoke: ‘I prithee, Cecil, tell us now,
Was 't ever known what happened to those men,—
Those Garnauts?—Were they never, never found?’
The weasel face had fain looked wise for her,
But no one of that century ever knew.
The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew.
And in that year King James the Second died
The land changed owners, and the new-made lord
Sent down his workmen to revamp the Hall
And make the waste place blossom as the rose
By chance, a workman in the eastern wing,
Fitting the cornice, stumbled on a door,
Which creaked, and seemed to open of itself;
And there within the chamber, on the flags,
He saw two figures in outlandish guise
Of hose and doublet,—one stretched out full-length,
And one half fallen forward on his breast,
Holding the other's hand with vice-like grip:
One face was calm, the other sad as death,
With something in it of a pleading look,
As might befall a man that dies at prayer.
Amazed, the workman hallooed to his mates
To see the wonder; but ere they could come,
The figures crumbled and were shapeless dust.
And in that year King James the Second died
The land changed owners, and the new-made lord
Sent down his workmen to revamp the Hall
And make the waste place blossom as the rose
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Fitting the cornice, stumbled on a door,
Which creaked, and seemed to open of itself;
And there within the chamber, on the flags,
He saw two figures in outlandish guise
Of hose and doublet,—one stretched out full-length,
And one half fallen forward on his breast,
Holding the other's hand with vice-like grip:
One face was calm, the other sad as death,
With something in it of a pleading look,
As might befall a man that dies at prayer.
Amazed, the workman hallooed to his mates
To see the wonder; but ere they could come,
The figures crumbled and were shapeless dust.
91
CASTLES.
There is a picture in my brain
That only fades to come again,—
The sunlight, through a veil of rain
To leeward, gilding
A narrow stretch of brown sea-sand,
A lighthouse half a league from land,
And two young lovers, hand in hand,
A castle-building.
That only fades to come again,—
The sunlight, through a veil of rain
To leeward, gilding
A narrow stretch of brown sea-sand,
A lighthouse half a league from land,
And two young lovers, hand in hand,
A castle-building.
Upon the budded apple-trees
The robins sing by twos and threes,
And ever at the faintest breeze
Down drops a blossom;
And ever would that lover be
The wind that robs the burgeoned tree,
And lifts the soft tress daintily
On Beauty's bosom.
The robins sing by twos and threes,
And ever at the faintest breeze
Down drops a blossom;
And ever would that lover be
The wind that robs the burgeoned tree,
And lifts the soft tress daintily
On Beauty's bosom.
Ah, graybeard, what a happy thing
It was, when life was in its spring,
To peep through love's betrothal ring
At Fields Elysian,
To move and breathe in magic air,
To think that all that seems is fair,—
Ah, ripe young mouth and golden hair,
Thou pretty vision!
It was, when life was in its spring,
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At Fields Elysian,
To move and breathe in magic air,
To think that all that seems is fair,—
Ah, ripe young mouth and golden hair,
Thou pretty vision!
Well, well, I think not on these two
But the old wound breaks out anew,
And the old dream, as if 't were true,
In my heart nestles;
Then tears come welling to my eyes
For yonder, all in saintly guise,
As 't were, a sweet dead woman lies
Upon the trestles!
But the old wound breaks out anew,
And the old dream, as if 't were true,
In my heart nestles;
Then tears come welling to my eyes
For yonder, all in saintly guise,
As 't were, a sweet dead woman lies
Upon the trestles!
93
ROBIN BADFELLOW.
Four bluish eggs all in the moss!
Soft-lined home on the cherry-bough!
Life is trouble, and love is loss,—
There 's only one robin now!
Soft-lined home on the cherry-bough!
Life is trouble, and love is loss,—
There 's only one robin now!
O robin up in the cherry-tree,
Singing your soul away,
Great is the grief befallen me,
And how can you be so gay?
Singing your soul away,
Great is the grief befallen me,
And how can you be so gay?
Long ago when you cried in the nest,
The last of the sickly brood,
Scarcely a pin-feather warming your breast,
Who was it brought you food?
The last of the sickly brood,
Scarcely a pin-feather warming your breast,
Who was it brought you food?
Who said, ‘Music, come fill his throat,
Or ever the May be fled?’
Who was it loved the wee sweet note
And the bosom 's sea-shell red?
Or ever the May be fled?’
Who was it loved the wee sweet note
And the bosom 's sea-shell red?
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Who said, ‘Cherries, grow ripe and big,
Black and ripe for this bird of mine?’
How little bright-bosom bends the twig,
Sipping the black-heart's wine!
Black and ripe for this bird of mine?’
How little bright-bosom bends the twig,
Sipping the black-heart's wine!
Now that my days and nights are woe,
Now that I weep for love's dear sake,—
There you go singing away as though
Never a heart could break!
Now that I weep for love's dear sake,—
There you go singing away as though
Never a heart could break!
95
THE LILY OF LOCH-INE.
She was very, very fair,
Like a Saint in her blonde hair,—
Like Raphael's Madonna,
With a certain shade of care
And a glory breaking on her!
Like a Saint in her blonde hair,—
Like Raphael's Madonna,
With a certain shade of care
And a glory breaking on her!
In the kirkyard let her lie,
Let the thistles and the burs
Cover up the twofold life,
The sinless life and hers.
God have mercy on that day
When the grave gives up the Dead
And the World shall pass away.
Let the thistles and the burs
Cover up the twofold life,
The sinless life and hers.
God have mercy on that day
When the grave gives up the Dead
And the World shall pass away.
Now Sir Rohan sails the sea,
Loud he laughs above his wine,
And he never, never thinks
Of the Lily of Loch-Ine.
God have mercy on that day
When the grave gives up the Dead
And the World shall pass away.
Loud he laughs above his wine,
And he never, never thinks
Of the Lily of Loch-Ine.
God have mercy on that day
When the grave gives up the Dead
And the World shall pass away.
96
DECEMBER. 1863.
Only the sea intoning,
Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning
Over the lonely house.
Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning
Over the lonely house.
Darkest of all Decembers
Ever my life has known,
Sitting here by the embers,
Stunned and helpless, alone,—
Ever my life has known,
Sitting here by the embers,
Stunned and helpless, alone,—
Dreaming of two graves lying
Out in the damp and chill;
One where the buzzard, flying,
Pauses at Malvern Hill:
Out in the damp and chill;
One where the buzzard, flying,
Pauses at Malvern Hill:
The other,—alas! the pillows
Of that uneasy bed
Rise and fall with the billows
Over our sailor's head.
Of that uneasy bed
Rise and fall with the billows
Over our sailor's head.
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Theirs the heroic story,—
Died, by frigate and town!
Theirs the Calm and the Glory,
Theirs the Cross and the Crown.
Died, by frigate and town!
Theirs the Calm and the Glory,
Theirs the Cross and the Crown.
Mine to linger and languish
Here by the wintry sea.
Ah, faint heart! in thy anguish,
What is there left to thee?
Here by the wintry sea.
Ah, faint heart! in thy anguish,
What is there left to thee?
Only the sea intoning,
Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning
Over the lonely house.
Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning
Over the lonely house.
| The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |