Griselda A Tragedy: And Other Poems. By Edwin Arnold |
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| VERNIER. |
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 | Griselda |  |
189
VERNIER.
I. [[Part I.]]
If ever thou shalt follow silver Seine
Through his French vineyards and French villages,
Oh! for the love of pity turn aside
At Vernier, and bear to linger there—
The gentle river doth so—lingering long
Round the dark moorland, and the pool Grand'mer,
And then with slower ripple steals away
Down from his merry Paris. Do thou this;
'Tis kind and piteous to bewail the dead,—
The joyless, sunless dead; and these lie there,
Buried full fifty fathoms in the pool,
Whose rough dark 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,
Oh! for the love of pity turn aside
At Vernier, and bear to linger there—
The gentle river doth so—lingering long
Round the dark moorland, and the pool Grand'mer,
And then with slower ripple steals away
Down from his merry Paris. Do thou this;
'Tis kind and piteous to bewail the dead,—
The joyless, sunless dead; and these lie there,
Buried full fifty fathoms in the pool,
Whose rough dark wave is closed above their grave,
Like the black cover of an ancient book
Over a tearful story.
196
Very lovely
Was Julie de Montargis: even now—
Now that 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 golden lilies of the land
Lost lustre in her hair; and that she owned
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. Very dear
Was all this beauty and this gentleness
Unto her first love and her playfellow,
Roland le Vavasour.
Was Julie de Montargis: even now—
Now that 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 golden lilies of the land
Lost lustre in her hair; and that she owned
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. Very dear
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. 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 kisses and sweet summer-nights:
But parted lovers count its 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.
Save that his knightly vow to pluck a palm,
And bear the cross broidered above his heart,
197
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 kisses and sweet summer-nights:
But parted lovers count its 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.
Listen now!
She was no light-o'-love, to change and change,
And very deeply in her heart she kept
The night and hour St. Ouen's shrine should see
A true-love meeting. Walking by the pool,
Many a time she longed to wear a wing,
As fleet and white as wore the white-winged gull,
That she might hover over Roland's sails,
Follow him to the field, and in the battle
Keep 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,
Though 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 pity of the spell her glance could work
Upon its watcher. Oh! he came to serve,
And stayed to love her; and she knew it now,
Past all concealment. Oftentimes his eyes,
Fastened upon her face, fell suddenly,
For brother-love and shame; but oftener
Julie could see them, through her tender tears,
Fixed on some messenger from Holy Land
With wild significance, the thin white lips
Working for grief, because she smiled again.
She was no light-o'-love, to change and change,
And very deeply in her heart she kept
The night and hour St. Ouen's shrine should see
A true-love meeting. Walking by the pool,
Many a time she longed to wear a wing,
As fleet and white as wore the white-winged gull,
That she might hover over Roland's sails,
Follow him to the field, and in the battle
198
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,
Though 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 pity of the spell her glance could work
Upon its watcher. Oh! he came to serve,
And stayed to love her; and she knew it now,
Past all concealment. Oftentimes his eyes,
Fastened upon her face, fell suddenly,
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Julie could see them, through her tender tears,
Fixed on some messenger from Holy Land
With wild significance, the thin 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 seen, and Joppa's list,
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. Ah! more still,
Young Claude le Vavasour, thy visage was,
More marble-white. She stood to see him pass,
And their eyes met; and, ah! but hers were wet
To see his suffering; and she called his name,
And came below the gate; but he bowed down,
And thrust the vizor close over his face,
And so rode on.
Till there came one who told how Roland's sword,
From heel to point, dripped with the Paynim blood;
How Ascalon had seen, and Joppa's list,
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. Ah! more still,
Young Claude le Vavasour, thy visage was,
200
And their eyes met; and, ah! but hers were wet
To see his suffering; and she called his name,
And came below the gate; but he bowed down,
And thrust the vizor close over his face,
And so rode on.
Before St. Ouen's shrine
That night the lady watched—a sombre night,
With no sweet stars to say God heard or saw
Her prayers and tears: the grey stone statues gleamed
Through the gloom ghost-like; the still effigies
Of knight and abbess had a show of life,
Lit by the crimsons and the 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; and o'er all,
With a weird paleness midnight might not hide,
Straight from the wall St. Ouen looked upon her,
With his grim granite frown, 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 midnight wind
Moaning about the tombs, and striking her
For fear down to her knees.
That night the lady watched—a sombre night,
With no sweet stars to say God heard or saw
Her prayers and tears: the grey stone statues gleamed
Through the gloom ghost-like; the still effigies
Of knight and abbess had a show of life,
Lit by the crimsons and the 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; and o'er all,
With a weird paleness midnight might not hide,
Straight from the wall St. Ouen looked upon her,
201
No lover's kiss that night—no loving kiss—
None—though there came the whisper of her name,
And a chill sleety blast of midnight 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 spectral window-lights?
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, pale as the stones,
Turned upon Julie, long enough to know
How truly tryst was kept; and all 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 spectral window-lights?
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, pale as the stones,
202
How truly tryst was kept; and all was gone,
Leaving the lady on the flags, ice-cold.
II. Part II.
Oh, gentle River! thou that knowest all,
Tell them how loyally she mourned her love;
How her grief withered all the rose-bloom off,
And wrote its record on her patient cheek;
And say, sweet 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 faithful memories, and Claude's generous praise,
Claude's silent service, and her tearful thanks;
And ask them, River, for Saint Charity,
To think no wrong, that at the end she gave,
Her heart being given and gone, her hand to him,
Slight thanks for strong deservings.—
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 brilliants fell her brighter 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!
Tell them how loyally she mourned her love;
How her grief withered all the rose-bloom off,
And wrote its record on her patient cheek;
And say, sweet 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 faithful memories, and Claude's generous praise,
Claude's silent service, and her tearful thanks;
And ask them, River, for Saint Charity,
To think no wrong, that at the end she gave,
Her heart being given and gone, her hand to him,
Slight thanks for strong deservings.—
Banish care,
Soothe it with flutings, startle it with drums,
203
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 brilliants fell her brighter 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 the skiff,
And paddled to the lonely island-cell
Midway over the waters. Long ago
He came at night 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 a bridal show,—
Wherefore none knew, nor how,—save two alone,
A lady swooning—and a monk at prayers.
So doffed each guest his silken braveries,
204
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 the skiff,
And paddled to the lonely island-cell
Midway over the waters. Long ago
He came at night 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 a 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 one,
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,
Letteth her Lady forth, and watches her
Gleaming from crag to crag—and lost at last,
A white speck on the night.
Nor splashing waters, nor the flooded marsh,
Can keep these two apart—the Chapel-bells
Ring Angelus and Even-song, and then
205
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,
Letteth her Lady forth, and watches her
Gleaming from crag to crag—and lost at last,
A white speck on the night.
More watchful eyes
Follow her flying—down the water-path,
Mad at the 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 wild wash of the waves.
Together to the dreary 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 loving heart! be still, and 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—what is he that he takes and clasps
In his her shaking hands, and bends adown,
Crying, “Ah, my sweet love! it was no ghost
That left the palm-branch; but I saw thee not,
And heard their talk of Claude, and held thee false,
These many erring days.” Oh, gaze no more,
Claude, Claude, for thy soul's peace! She binds the brand
About his gaberdine, with wild 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 the 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 wild wash of the waves.
206
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 loving heart! be still, and 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—what is he that he takes and clasps
In his her shaking hands, and bends adown,
Crying, “Ah, my sweet love! it was no ghost
That left the palm-branch; but I saw thee not,
And heard their talk of Claude, and held thee false,
These many erring days.” Oh, gaze no more,
Claude, Claude, for thy soul's peace! She binds the brand
About his gaberdine, with wild caress;
207
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.
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 fair for an avenging blow!
She glitters on a quiet face and form
That shuns it not, but stays the lifted death.
“My brother Roland!—Claude, dear brother mine.—
I thought thee dead.—I would that I had died
Ere this had come.—Nay, 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;—and the Moon shone down,
Silvering their far-off home, and the great wave
That struck, and rose, and floated over them,
Hushing their death-cries, hiding their kind strife,
Ending the earnest love of three great hearts
With silence, and the splash of even waves.
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 fair for an avenging blow!
She glitters on a quiet face and form
That shuns it not, but stays the lifted death.
“My brother Roland!—Claude, dear brother mine.—
I thought thee dead.—I would that I had died
Ere this had come.—Nay, 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,
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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;—and the Moon shone down,
Silvering their far-off home, and the great wave
That struck, and rose, and floated over them,
Hushing their death-cries, hiding their kind strife,
Ending the earnest love of three great hearts
With silence, and the splash of even waves.
So they who died for love, live in love now,
And God in heaven doth keep the gentle souls
Whom Earth hath lost, and one poor Poet mourns.
And God in heaven doth keep the gentle souls
Whom Earth hath lost, and one poor Poet mourns.
Blackwood's Magazine, 1855.
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