Selections from Songs of a Bayadere and Songs of a Troubadour By Evelyn Douglas [i.e. J. E. Barlas] |
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 | FROM
Songs of a Troubadour. |
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 | Selections from Songs of a Bayadere and Songs of a Troubadour |  |
25
FROM Songs of a Troubadour.
(1890.)
27
The Priest of Love.
In Sicily in the days of art
A painter prince held sway,
Who loved one lady with all his heart
And dreamed of her night and day.
A painter prince held sway,
Who loved one lady with all his heart
And dreamed of her night and day.
She was a girl of scarce thirteen,
And he was but a youth;
Yet he sware none other should be his queen,
And kept his oath with truth.
And he was but a youth;
Yet he sware none other should be his queen,
And kept his oath with truth.
And still as she grew he built her a home,
That the years less long might seem,
Out on an island, girt with the foam,
Beautiful as a dream.
That the years less long might seem,
Out on an island, girt with the foam,
Beautiful as a dream.
28
And he called the masters from every part,
Of temper, and tint, and tone,
Who moulded in metal miraculous art,
Or wrought it in colour or stone,
Of temper, and tint, and tone,
Who moulded in metal miraculous art,
Or wrought it in colour or stone,
All carvers of wood and silver and gold,
All weavers that loved the loom,
To make her a palace of perfect mould,
And fill it with tender bloom.
All weavers that loved the loom,
To make her a palace of perfect mould,
And fill it with tender bloom.
And he sent for marbles out of the isles,
Rose-red and white as snow,
And made a dome that shone for miles
In the ruddy evening glow.
Rose-red and white as snow,
And made a dome that shone for miles
In the ruddy evening glow.
And the palace grew, and the maiden grew
In stature and beauty and grace
Year by year—for shape and for hue,
A wonderful woman's face.
In stature and beauty and grace
Year by year—for shape and for hue,
A wonderful woman's face.
29
And ever of marbles from far-off isles,
Like music soft and slow,
Rose fluted pillars and fretted piles,
And hung in the wave below,
Like music soft and slow,
Rose fluted pillars and fretted piles,
And hung in the wave below,
With many a cupola poised above,
And many a sculptured frieze,
That filled with anguish of hopeless love
The amorous ocean breeze.
And many a sculptured frieze,
That filled with anguish of hopeless love
The amorous ocean breeze.
And he hung rich arras about the place,
Wrought in a distant clime,
With love, and passion, and war, and the chase,
And gods of the olden time;
Wrought in a distant clime,
With love, and passion, and war, and the chase,
And gods of the olden time;
And he steeped his brush in the hues of love,
His soul in the poet's themes,
And filled the walls and the ceilings above
With forms as fair as dreams;
His soul in the poet's themes,
And filled the walls and the ceilings above
With forms as fair as dreams;
30
And he melted his heart to heavenly hues,
And bathed the grainèd glass
In burning reds and beautiful blues,
And greens as soft as grass;
And bathed the grainèd glass
In burning reds and beautiful blues,
And greens as soft as grass;
And he fetched rare marbles from far-off isles
For the sculptors, as white as snow,
Who made them smile immortal smiles,
With love immortal glow.
For the sculptors, as white as snow,
Who made them smile immortal smiles,
With love immortal glow.
And the palace grew and the maiden grew
In beauty side by side;
And when both were perfect in form and hue,
And ready—the maiden died.
In beauty side by side;
And when both were perfect in form and hue,
And ready—the maiden died.
Then he shut himself up in the palace alone,
With the statues and his despair,
And his young dead bride as cold as stone,
And fired it, and perished there.
With the statues and his despair,
And his young dead bride as cold as stone,
And fired it, and perished there.
31
And the red flame shone to the far-off isles
Over the ocean-flow,
And the sky was red for miles and miles,
And the sea lay red below.
Over the ocean-flow,
And the sky was red for miles and miles,
And the sea lay red below.
32
The Broken Lute.
There was a gallant troubadour
Who loved his lady and his lute;
But she was false, and then he tore
The strings, and struck his darling mute.
Who loved his lady and his lute;
But she was false, and then he tore
The strings, and struck his darling mute.
It nevermore shall sound her praise;
Far from his breast it sleeps apart:
And when they ask, the poet says—
“I broke it when she broke my heart.”
Far from his breast it sleeps apart:
And when they ask, the poet says—
“I broke it when she broke my heart.”
33
The Troubadour Monk.
When the thin bell to vespers calls,
And shines the evening star,
He looks out from the convent walls
Across the window-bar;
He hears the organ's muttered growl
Through the open chapel door—
The gloomy monk in the ebon cowl,
That was a troubadour.
And shines the evening star,
He looks out from the convent walls
Across the window-bar;
He hears the organ's muttered growl
Through the open chapel door—
The gloomy monk in the ebon cowl,
That was a troubadour.
Then will he take down with a sigh
The lute that oft hath played
A prelude 'neath a balcony
Unto a serenade;
A moment on the mute strings brood,
And pass his fingers o'er—
The phantom in the night-black hood,
That was a troubadour.
The lute that oft hath played
A prelude 'neath a balcony
Unto a serenade;
A moment on the mute strings brood,
And pass his fingers o'er—
The phantom in the night-black hood,
That was a troubadour.
34
“Ah shadows from the cloister flung,
To song and love denied!
Hard narrow hearts to live among,
With the great warm world outside!
Ah tuneless throats, dull eyes that scowl!
Ah hymns of saintly lore,
That I must mutter in my cowl,
Who was a troubadour!
To song and love denied!
Hard narrow hearts to live among,
With the great warm world outside!
Ah tuneless throats, dull eyes that scowl!
Ah hymns of saintly lore,
That I must mutter in my cowl,
Who was a troubadour!
“The moon shines fair, the sky is bright;
On such a night as this,
When all the windows were alight,
I saw young lovers kiss;
White hands, where latticed panes lay ope,
Drew curtains by the score,
To hear this dumb thing in a cope,
That was a troubadour.
On such a night as this,
When all the windows were alight,
I saw young lovers kiss;
White hands, where latticed panes lay ope,
Drew curtains by the score,
To hear this dumb thing in a cope,
That was a troubadour.
35
“The moon shines fair, the deep skies dream;
On such a night as this
I heard steel clash and women scream
And jealous curses hiss;
I heard the nightingale, the owl,
Heard love, and hate, and more—
All life's loud tide, till death's dumb cowl
Stifled the troubadour.
On such a night as this
I heard steel clash and women scream
And jealous curses hiss;
I heard the nightingale, the owl,
Heard love, and hate, and more—
All life's loud tide, till death's dumb cowl
Stifled the troubadour.
“Ah to sing now the songs I sung,
To walk the warm world wide,
The lute across my shoulder slung,
A sharp sword at my side!
The zither-string, the rapier-stroke!
To sing, to love once more—
Love? No; forever 'neath the cloak
Must hide the troubadour.
To walk the warm world wide,
The lute across my shoulder slung,
A sharp sword at my side!
The zither-string, the rapier-stroke!
To sing, to love once more—
Love? No; forever 'neath the cloak
Must hide the troubadour.
36
“False hope of peace to which I clung,
Love left, song laid aside!
Poor darkened mind, poor lute unstrung,
And thou, my poor false bride!
Mad monks that chant, mad dogs that howl,
Mad moonlight on the floor!
Mad grinning death's-head in a cowl,
That was a troubadour.”
Love left, song laid aside!
Poor darkened mind, poor lute unstrung,
And thou, my poor false bride!
Mad monks that chant, mad dogs that howl,
Mad moonlight on the floor!
Mad grinning death's-head in a cowl,
That was a troubadour.”
37
The Serenade.
I.
O lady, in your dim sweet dreams,
Like far-off woods my singing seems,
Like woods, and winds, and far-off streams,
Sea-murmurs mingled with moonbeams.
Like far-off woods my singing seems,
Like woods, and winds, and far-off streams,
Sea-murmurs mingled with moonbeams.
O lady mine, the cold stars shine;
My heart is heavy; I cannot weep.
For mercy's sake, for love's, awake!
Or else forever I must sleep.
My heart is heavy; I cannot weep.
For mercy's sake, for love's, awake!
Or else forever I must sleep.
O lady love, in slumber laid,
Listen to my serenade.
Listen to my serenade.
38
II.
You cannot hear what my lute saith,
But I can hear your soft, calm breath.
Sweet sleep is yours that lingereth,
But I must sleep in lasting death.
But I can hear your soft, calm breath.
Sweet sleep is yours that lingereth,
But I must sleep in lasting death.
O lady mine, the chill stars shine,
My heart is heavy, and I must weep;
For mercy's sake, for love's, awake!
I fain would kiss thee ere I sleep.
My heart is heavy, and I must weep;
For mercy's sake, for love's, awake!
I fain would kiss thee ere I sleep.
O lady love, in slumber laid,
Listen to my serenade.
Listen to my serenade.
39
The Gift.
What shall I send my lady fair
To mind her of my love?
A ribbon-string, a lock of hair,
A garter, fan, or glove?
To mind her of my love?
A ribbon-string, a lock of hair,
A garter, fan, or glove?
A falcon, keen-eyed as the day,
To sit upon her wrist,
And flap his wings and fly away
When she may cry, “Hist! hist!”
To sit upon her wrist,
And flap his wings and fly away
When she may cry, “Hist! hist!”
A Spanish steed as white as milk,
True to her least command,
All in a net of golden silk,
To feed out of her hand?
True to her least command,
All in a net of golden silk,
To feed out of her hand?
40
A strong sleuth-hound of kingly breed
To come unto her call,
Deep-jowled, of matchless strength and speed,
To see her safe through all?
To come unto her call,
Deep-jowled, of matchless strength and speed,
To see her safe through all?
A soft, a tender cooing dove
To nestle in her breast,
And mind her of my absent love
When she is in her nest?
To nestle in her breast,
And mind her of my absent love
When she is in her nest?
A lute of deep and tender tone
Her fingers fair can play,
That she may not be quite alone
When I am far away?
Her fingers fair can play,
That she may not be quite alone
When I am far away?
A mirror fair of silver sheen
Encased in mother-o'-pearl,
To let her beauty well be seen
When she would set a curl?
Encased in mother-o'-pearl,
To let her beauty well be seen
When she would set a curl?
41
A missal with a clasp of gold
And plates like coloured glass,
For her dainty little hand to hold
When she would go to mass?
And plates like coloured glass,
For her dainty little hand to hold
When she would go to mass?
A silken veil of silver hue
Which she can drop or lift,
To hide her blushing face from view
When she would go to shrift?
Which she can drop or lift,
To hide her blushing face from view
When she would go to shrift?
A string of amber beads to count
Her pretty sins, ywis,
And reckon up the long amount
Of her infidelities?
Her pretty sins, ywis,
And reckon up the long amount
Of her infidelities?
A coil of pearls to clasp her neck,
That mocks their dusky hues,
To hide each little purple speck
Where a kiss has left a bruise?
That mocks their dusky hues,
To hide each little purple speck
Where a kiss has left a bruise?
42
A fan, when lovers round her swarm,
O'er which to dart her glance,
Or to hide her blushing cheek when warm
In the pauses of the dance?
O'er which to dart her glance,
Or to hide her blushing cheek when warm
In the pauses of the dance?
A cushion, where at feet of her
Some lute-player may kneel?
A pen to write a love letter?
A Cupid on a seal?
Some lute-player may kneel?
A pen to write a love letter?
A Cupid on a seal?
A withered rose that should be fair,
Heart-cankered in the bud?—
Ah, no, a tress of my dead hair
Dabbled in my heart's blood.
Heart-cankered in the bud?—
Ah, no, a tress of my dead hair
Dabbled in my heart's blood.
43
The Death of Garth.
King Sigmund sailed forth in the foam
Unto a far-off strand,
And brought a strange king's daughter home,
A wonder to the land.
Unto a far-off strand,
And brought a strange king's daughter home,
A wonder to the land.
“Now, call ye Garth, my minstrel fair,
To play before my queen;
For well I wot, though white his hair,
Such eyes he hath not seen.”
To play before my queen;
For well I wot, though white his hair,
Such eyes he hath not seen.”
White was the poet's hair; the shade
Deep on his brows had grown;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
Deep on his brows had grown;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
44
For he had sung and he had fought
Until his hair was white;
But never seen the eyes he sought,
Save in the dreams of night.
Until his hair was white;
But never seen the eyes he sought,
Save in the dreams of night.
The harp was brought, the bard obeyed,
And bowed before the throne;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
And bowed before the throne;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
But when he raised his voice to sing,
His eyes to hers, with pain
His hand was numbed upon the string,
The song within his brain.
His eyes to hers, with pain
His hand was numbed upon the string,
The song within his brain.
Then cried the king: “Is song divine?
Can age prevail o'er art?
Go, fetch a bowl of royal wine
To cheer the poet's heart.”
Can age prevail o'er art?
Go, fetch a bowl of royal wine
To cheer the poet's heart.”
45
“It is not age,” the poet said,
“Not age,” he cried,—“despair!
For I shall soon be with the dead,
And, ah! she is too fair.”
“Not age,” he cried,—“despair!
For I shall soon be with the dead,
And, ah! she is too fair.”
They brought the wine; the minstrel quaffed,
But ere he lipped the bowl,
He cast a poison in the draught
That freed his tortured soul.
But ere he lipped the bowl,
He cast a poison in the draught
That freed his tortured soul.
And now he treads the deathless plain
And drinks the deathless air,
Chanting his lonely last refrain—
“For, ah! she is too fair.”
And drinks the deathless air,
Chanting his lonely last refrain—
“For, ah! she is too fair.”
46
The Lady's Secret.
There lived a lady long ago,
Whose beauty dazzled many lands;
Her bosom was as white as snow,
But whiter were her lovely hands.
Whose beauty dazzled many lands;
Her bosom was as white as snow,
But whiter were her lovely hands.
Not till her death it reached men's ears
Why those white hands made all hearts ache.
She washed them in love's hopeless tears
And blood of men slain for her sake.
Why those white hands made all hearts ache.
She washed them in love's hopeless tears
And blood of men slain for her sake.
47
The Little Page.
Up in the morning rose the queen,
And the morning of her age,
And forth into the forest green
Rode with her little page.
And the morning of her age,
And forth into the forest green
Rode with her little page.
He was a lonely orphan boy,
Son of a gentle sire,
And she had taken pride and joy
To rear him for her squire.
Son of a gentle sire,
And she had taken pride and joy
To rear him for her squire.
And often in his childish way—
He was not yet fourteen—
“How can I thank you?” he would say,
“So kind to me you've been.”
He was not yet fourteen—
“How can I thank you?” he would say,
“So kind to me you've been.”
48
And he was generous and brave
And true as tempered steel;
He loved to sing her a gentle stave,
And at her feet to kneel.
And true as tempered steel;
He loved to sing her a gentle stave,
And at her feet to kneel.
Up in the morning rose the queen,
And took her little page,
A gentle child of scarce fourteen,
From noble parentage.
And took her little page,
A gentle child of scarce fourteen,
From noble parentage.
And forth she fared with merry cheer
To ply the royal art;
And aiming at a fallow deer
She pierced the poor boy's heart.
To ply the royal art;
And aiming at a fallow deer
She pierced the poor boy's heart.
Then from the ground with smile so sweet
He struggled to her side,
And lay down bleeding at her feet,
And kissed her hand, and died.
He struggled to her side,
And lay down bleeding at her feet,
And kissed her hand, and died.
49
And dying, in his childish way—
He was not yet fourteen—
“How shall I thank you?” he did say,
“So kind to me you've been.
He was not yet fourteen—
“How shall I thank you?” he did say,
“So kind to me you've been.
“And many a kind act you have done,
And loyal I have been;
But this of all the kindest one,
The best for me, my queen.”
And loyal I have been;
But this of all the kindest one,
The best for me, my queen.”
50
Lute and Sword.
A Song of Chatelar.
No knight, no lord
With titles varnished,
My lute, my sword
I keep untarnished.
Poet and soldier, thy fair hand
I kiss, and wait for thy command.
With titles varnished,
My lute, my sword
I keep untarnished.
Poet and soldier, thy fair hand
I kiss, and wait for thy command.
My humble suit
Can ne'er deserve thee;
My sword, my lute
May haply serve thee.
Lady, I lay them at thy feet;
Dispose of them as is but meet.
Can ne'er deserve thee;
My sword, my lute
May haply serve thee.
Lady, I lay them at thy feet;
Dispose of them as is but meet.
51
Lady, a word,
A lifted finger!
Hand, lute, sword
Shall never linger.
Lady, I am not mine, but thine;
My spirit kneels at thy pure shrine.
A lifted finger!
Hand, lute, sword
Shall never linger.
Lady, I am not mine, but thine;
My spirit kneels at thy pure shrine.
Trembling and mute,
Thy name unnamèd;
With sword and lute,
Abashed, ashamèd
I wait. Nor think nor plead can I;
Speak for me; bid me live or die.
Thy name unnamèd;
With sword and lute,
Abashed, ashamèd
I wait. Nor think nor plead can I;
Speak for me; bid me live or die.
Beloved, adored,
I dare not woo thee.
Life, lute, soul, sword
I offer to thee.
Lady, I lay them at thy feet,
Dispose of them as is but meet.
I dare not woo thee.
Life, lute, soul, sword
I offer to thee.
Lady, I lay them at thy feet,
Dispose of them as is but meet.
(1888.)
52
The Last Serenade.
The moonlight sleeps upon the lake,
And music on my heart.
O lady mine, awake, awake,
For love is where thou art.
The ripple sobs below the boat,
The swan sleeps on the castle moat,
The water-lilies round me float,
And yet we are apart.
And music on my heart.
O lady mine, awake, awake,
For love is where thou art.
The ripple sobs below the boat,
The swan sleeps on the castle moat,
The water-lilies round me float,
And yet we are apart.
The stars are out, the love-bird calls,
Men sleep, the hour is late;
The shadow of the castle falls
Across my heart like fate.
The wind awakes among the woods,
And murmurs from the solitudes,
The heart-sick owl i' the ivy broods,
And I am here and wait.
Men sleep, the hour is late;
The shadow of the castle falls
Across my heart like fate.
The wind awakes among the woods,
And murmurs from the solitudes,
The heart-sick owl i' the ivy broods,
And I am here and wait.
(1888.)
53
The Ballad of the Loyal Traitor.
In Britain dwelt an ancient king
Who had a lovely wife
And one fair squire who wore his ring
And loved him as his life.
Who had a lovely wife
And one fair squire who wore his ring
And loved him as his life.
Now, so it happed, a treason loath
To that his squire fell known,
Of twenty knights who sware an oath
To slay him on his throne.
To that his squire fell known,
Of twenty knights who sware an oath
To slay him on his throne.
And when to hall those traitors came
To do their evil part,
The squire came twixt the king and them
Who stabbed him to the heart.
To do their evil part,
The squire came twixt the king and them
Who stabbed him to the heart.
54
The king bowed low his hoary head,
And tore his beard so white;
“Ah, would,” he cried, “that I were dead,
Not thou, my brave boy-knight!”
And tore his beard so white;
“Ah, would,” he cried, “that I were dead,
Not thou, my brave boy-knight!”
The queen sat pale upon her throne;
“And he so young!” she cried,
“And woman's love he hath not known,
And now death is his bride.”
“And he so young!” she cried,
“And woman's love he hath not known,
And now death is his bride.”
The young maids combed his rich black hair,
And wept for very love.
The good leech laid the heart-wound bare
And found—the young queen's glove.
And wept for very love.
The good leech laid the heart-wound bare
And found—the young queen's glove.
Then to his feet the king did start,
His silver beard gan rend:
“Would that the knife had pierced my heart,
Not the treachery of my friend!”
His silver beard gan rend:
“Would that the knife had pierced my heart,
Not the treachery of my friend!”
55
Then fell the king upon his face,
Hid in his purple weeds:
“Better the wound that kills disgrace
Than love that lives and bleeds.”
Hid in his purple weeds:
“Better the wound that kills disgrace
Than love that lives and bleeds.”
56
The Black Troubadour.
'Neath trellised window and porch in bloom,
White roses clamber o'er,
In jetty mantle and sable plume
Carols the troubadour.
White roses clamber o'er,
In jetty mantle and sable plume
Carols the troubadour.
He sings to her of love and art,
The joy to sin and roam;
He steals away her virgin heart
From her father's quiet home.
The joy to sin and roam;
He steals away her virgin heart
From her father's quiet home.
'Neath trellised window and porch in bloom,
Red roses ramble o'er,
In sable feather and cloak of gloom
Stands Sin, the troubadour.
Red roses ramble o'er,
In sable feather and cloak of gloom
Stands Sin, the troubadour.
57
He wheedles her with honeyed lies,
Till at heaven's last low verge
The sun sets blushing, the stars arise;
And then he chants a dirge.
Till at heaven's last low verge
The sun sets blushing, the stars arise;
And then he chants a dirge.
Under the window and porch in bloom
Life's roses riot o'er,
In black hearse-feather and pall from the tomb
Sings Death, the troubadour.
Life's roses riot o'er,
In black hearse-feather and pall from the tomb
Sings Death, the troubadour.
| Selections from Songs of a Bayadere and Songs of a Troubadour | |