Griselda :: :: University of Virginia Library

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,

203

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!

So went the bride a-swoon to Vernier,
So doffed each guest his silken braveries,

204

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.

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

205

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.

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.

206

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;

207

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.

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,

208

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.

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.