The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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Narrative Poems.
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
1
Narrative Poems.
THE STORY OF RIMINI;
OR, FRUITS OF A PARENT'S FALSEHOOD.
1814—RECAST.
CANTO I.
Argument.
—Giovanni Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, has won by his victories the hand of the Princess Francesca, daughter of the reigning Count of Ravenna; and is expected, with a gorgeous procession, to come and marry her. She has never yet seen him. The procession arrives, and is described.
'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier day
Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And April, with his white hands wet with flowers,
Dazzles the bride-maids, looking from the towers:
Green vineyards and fair orchards, far and near,
Glitter with drops; and heaven is sapphire clear,
And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow,
And odours from the citrons come and go,
And all the landscape—earth, and sky, and sea—
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.
Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And April, with his white hands wet with flowers,
Dazzles the bride-maids, looking from the towers:
Green vineyards and fair orchards, far and near,
Glitter with drops; and heaven is sapphire clear,
And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow,
And odours from the citrons come and go,
And all the landscape—earth, and sky, and sea—
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.
'Tis nature, full of spirits, wak'd and lov'd.
E'en sloth, to-day, goes quick and unreprov'd;
For where's the living soul, priest, minstrel, clown,
Merchant, or lord, that speeds not to the town?
Hence happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light;
Come gleaming up—true to the wish'd-for day—
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
E'en sloth, to-day, goes quick and unreprov'd;
For where's the living soul, priest, minstrel, clown,
Merchant, or lord, that speeds not to the town?
Hence happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light;
2
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
And well may all the world come crowding there,
If peace returning, and processions rare,
And, to crown all, a marriage in the spring
Can set men's hearts and fancies on the wing;
For, on this beauteous day, Ravenna's pride—
The daughter of their prince—becomes a bride;
A bride to ransom an exhausted land;
And he, whose victories have obtain'd her hand,
Has taken with the dawn—so flies report—
His promis'd journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanni, Lord of Rimini.
If peace returning, and processions rare,
And, to crown all, a marriage in the spring
Can set men's hearts and fancies on the wing;
For, on this beauteous day, Ravenna's pride—
The daughter of their prince—becomes a bride;
A bride to ransom an exhausted land;
And he, whose victories have obtain'd her hand,
Has taken with the dawn—so flies report—
His promis'd journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanni, Lord of Rimini.
The road, that way, is lined with anxious eyes,
And false announcements and fresh laughters rise.
The horseman hastens through the jeering crowd,
And finds no horse within the gates allow'd;
And who shall tell the drive there, and the din?
The bells, the drums, the crowds yet squeezing in,
The shouts, from mere exuberance of delight,
The mothers with their babes in sore affright,
The bands of troops making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;
Minstrels, and friars, and beggars many a one
That pray, and roll their blind eyes in the sun,
And all the buzzing throngs, that hang like bees
On roofs, and walls, and tops of garden trees?
With tap'stries bright the windows overflow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go,
Till by their work the charmers take their seats,
Themselves the sweetest pictures in the streets,
In colours by light awnings beautified;
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow:
Smiling and laughing some, and some serene,
But all with flowers, and all with garlands green,
And most in flattering talk impatient for the scene.
And false announcements and fresh laughters rise.
The horseman hastens through the jeering crowd,
And finds no horse within the gates allow'd;
And who shall tell the drive there, and the din?
The bells, the drums, the crowds yet squeezing in,
The shouts, from mere exuberance of delight,
The mothers with their babes in sore affright,
The bands of troops making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;
Minstrels, and friars, and beggars many a one
That pray, and roll their blind eyes in the sun,
And all the buzzing throngs, that hang like bees
On roofs, and walls, and tops of garden trees?
With tap'stries bright the windows overflow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go,
Till by their work the charmers take their seats,
Themselves the sweetest pictures in the streets,
In colours by light awnings beautified;
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow:
Smiling and laughing some, and some serene,
But all with flowers, and all with garlands green,
And most in flattering talk impatient for the scene.
3
At length the approaching trumpets, with a start
On the smooth wind, come dancing to the heart;
The crowd are mute; and, from the southern wall,
A lordly blast gives welcome to the call.
Then comes the crush; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rds the palace drive,
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square:
For there Count Guido is to hold his state,
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate.
But far too well the square has been supplied;
And, after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turn'd and nothing gain'd,
The order, first found easiest, is maintain'd,
Leaving the pathways only for the crowd,
The space within for the procession proud.
On the smooth wind, come dancing to the heart;
The crowd are mute; and, from the southern wall,
A lordly blast gives welcome to the call.
Then comes the crush; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rds the palace drive,
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square:
For there Count Guido is to hold his state,
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate.
But far too well the square has been supplied;
And, after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turn'd and nothing gain'd,
The order, first found easiest, is maintain'd,
Leaving the pathways only for the crowd,
The space within for the procession proud.
For in this manner is the square set out:—
The sides, path-deep, are crowded round about,
And fac'd with guards, who keep the horse-way clear;
And, round a fountain in the midst, appear—
Seated with knights and ladies, in discourse—
Rare Tuscan wits and warbling troubadours,
Whom Guido (for he lov'd the Muses' race)
Has set there to adorn his public place.
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses,—trees of wit and love;
And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene,
The lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact; till, at its height o'errun,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.
The sides, path-deep, are crowded round about,
And fac'd with guards, who keep the horse-way clear;
And, round a fountain in the midst, appear—
Seated with knights and ladies, in discourse—
Rare Tuscan wits and warbling troubadours,
Whom Guido (for he lov'd the Muses' race)
Has set there to adorn his public place.
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses,—trees of wit and love;
And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene,
The lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact; till, at its height o'errun,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.
There, with the wits and beauties, you may see,
As in some nest of faëry poetry,
Some of the chiefs, the noblest in the land,—
Hugo, and Borso of the Liberal Hand,
And Gino, and Ridolfo, and the flower
Of jousters, Everard of the Sylvan Tower;
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well
Repaid the Black-Band robbers, Lionel;
With more that have pluck'd beards of Turk and Greek,
And made the close Venetian lower his sails and speak.
As in some nest of faëry poetry,
Some of the chiefs, the noblest in the land,—
Hugo, and Borso of the Liberal Hand,
And Gino, and Ridolfo, and the flower
Of jousters, Everard of the Sylvan Tower;
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well
Repaid the Black-Band robbers, Lionel;
4
And made the close Venetian lower his sails and speak.
There, too, in thickest of the bright-eyed throng,
Stands a young father of Italian song—
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race;
The poet looks out in his earnest face:
He with the pheasant's plume—there—bending now:
Something he speaks around him with a bow,
And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes,
Break round him into smiles and grateful blushes.
Stands a young father of Italian song—
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race;
The poet looks out in his earnest face:
He with the pheasant's plume—there—bending now:
Something he speaks around him with a bow,
And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes,
Break round him into smiles and grateful blushes.
Another start of trumpets, with reply;
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid,
And sits;—the courtiers fall on either side;
But every look is fixed upon the bride,
Who seems all thought at first, and hardly hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage glow,
A home to leave and husband yet to see
Are mix'd with thoughts of lofty charity:
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands, harder still.
With that a keen and quivering sense of tears
Scarce moves her sweet, proud lip, and disappears;
A smile is underneath, and breaks away,
And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day.
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid,
And sits;—the courtiers fall on either side;
But every look is fixed upon the bride,
Who seems all thought at first, and hardly hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage glow,
A home to leave and husband yet to see
Are mix'd with thoughts of lofty charity:
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands, harder still.
With that a keen and quivering sense of tears
Scarce moves her sweet, proud lip, and disappears;
A smile is underneath, and breaks away,
And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day.
What need I tell of cheeks, and lips, and eyes,
The locks that fall, and bosom's balmy rise?
Beauty's whole soul is hers, though shadow'd still
With anxious thought, and doubtful maiden will;
A lip for endless love, should all prove just;
An eye that can withdraw into as deep distrust.
The locks that fall, and bosom's balmy rise?
Beauty's whole soul is hers, though shadow'd still
With anxious thought, and doubtful maiden will;
A lip for endless love, should all prove just;
An eye that can withdraw into as deep distrust.
While thus with earnest looks the people gaze,
Another shout the neighb'ring quarters raise:
The train are in the town, and gathering near
With noise of cavalry and trumpets clear,
A princely music unbedinn'd with drums;
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes;
And now it fills, and now it shakes the air,
And now it bursts into the sounding square;
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice,
Each thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbour's voice.
Then with a long-drawn breath the clangours die,
The palace trumpets give a last reply,
And clustering hoofs succeed, with stately stir
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture,—
The most majestic sound of human will:
Nought else is heard sometime, the people are so still.
Another shout the neighb'ring quarters raise:
5
With noise of cavalry and trumpets clear,
A princely music unbedinn'd with drums;
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes;
And now it fills, and now it shakes the air,
And now it bursts into the sounding square;
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice,
Each thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbour's voice.
Then with a long-drawn breath the clangours die,
The palace trumpets give a last reply,
And clustering hoofs succeed, with stately stir
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture,—
The most majestic sound of human will:
Nought else is heard sometime, the people are so still.
First come the trumpeters, clad all in white,
Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright.
By four and four they ride, on horses gray;
And as they sit along their easy way,
To the steed's motion yielding as they go,
Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow.
Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright.
By four and four they ride, on horses gray;
And as they sit along their easy way,
To the steed's motion yielding as they go,
Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow.
The heralds next appear, in vests attir'd,
Of stiffening gold with radiant colours fir'd;
And then the pursuivants who wait on these,
All dress'd in painted richness to the knees;
Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield,
Charg'd with three heads upon a golden field.
Of stiffening gold with radiant colours fir'd;
And then the pursuivants who wait on these,
All dress'd in painted richness to the knees;
Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield,
Charg'd with three heads upon a golden field.
Twelve ranks of squires come after, twelve in one,
With forked pennons lifted in the sun,
Which tell, as they look backward in the wind,
The bearings of the knights that ride behind.
Their horses are deep bay; and every squire
His master's colour shows in his attire.
With forked pennons lifted in the sun,
Which tell, as they look backward in the wind,
The bearings of the knights that ride behind.
Their horses are deep bay; and every squire
His master's colour shows in his attire.
These past, and at a lordly distance, come
The knights themselves, and fill the quickening hum—
The flower of Rimini. Apart they ride,
Two in a rank, their falchions by their side,
But otherwise unarm'd, and clad in hues
Such as their ladies had been pleas'd to chuse,
Bridal and gay,—orange, and pink, and white,—
All but the scarlet cloak for every knight;
Which thrown apart, and hanging loose behind,
Rests on the horse, and ruffles in the wind.
The horses, black and glossy every one,
Supply a further stately unison—
A solemn constancy of martial show;
Their frothy bits keep wrangling as they go.
The bridles red, and saddle-cloths of white,
Match well the blackness with its glossy light,
While the rich horse-cloths, mantling half the steed,
Are some of them all thick with golden thread;
Others have spots, on grounds of different hue—
As burning stars upon a cloth of blue;
Or heart's-ease purple with a velvet light,
Rich from the glary yellow, thickening bright;
Or silver roses in carnation sewn,
Or flowers in heaps, or colours pure alone:
But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress
The forward march with loitering stateliness.
The knights themselves, and fill the quickening hum—
The flower of Rimini. Apart they ride,
Two in a rank, their falchions by their side,
But otherwise unarm'd, and clad in hues
Such as their ladies had been pleas'd to chuse,
6
All but the scarlet cloak for every knight;
Which thrown apart, and hanging loose behind,
Rests on the horse, and ruffles in the wind.
The horses, black and glossy every one,
Supply a further stately unison—
A solemn constancy of martial show;
Their frothy bits keep wrangling as they go.
The bridles red, and saddle-cloths of white,
Match well the blackness with its glossy light,
While the rich horse-cloths, mantling half the steed,
Are some of them all thick with golden thread;
Others have spots, on grounds of different hue—
As burning stars upon a cloth of blue;
Or heart's-ease purple with a velvet light,
Rich from the glary yellow, thickening bright;
Or silver roses in carnation sewn,
Or flowers in heaps, or colours pure alone:
But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress
The forward march with loitering stateliness.
The crowd, with difference of delight, admire
Horseman and horse, the motion and the attire.
Some watch the riders' looks as they go by,
Their self-possess'd though pleas'd observancy;
And some their skill admire, and careless heed,
Or body curving to the rearing steed,
Or patting hand that best persuades the check,
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck.
Others are bent upon the horses most,—
Their shape, their breed, the glory of their host:
The small bright head, free nostrils, fetlocks clean,
The branching veins ridging the glossy lean,
The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb,
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam.—
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.
Horseman and horse, the motion and the attire.
Some watch the riders' looks as they go by,
Their self-possess'd though pleas'd observancy;
And some their skill admire, and careless heed,
Or body curving to the rearing steed,
Or patting hand that best persuades the check,
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck.
Others are bent upon the horses most,—
Their shape, their breed, the glory of their host:
The small bright head, free nostrils, fetlocks clean,
The branching veins ridging the glossy lean,
The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb,
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam.—
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.
And now the Princess, pale and with fix'd eye,
Perceives the last of those precursors nigh,
Each rank uncovering as they pass in state,
Both to the courtly fountain and the gate;
And then a second interval succeeds
Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds
Milk-white and azure-draped, Arabian bred,
Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led.
In every limb is seen their faultless race,
A fire well-temper'd, and a free left grace:
Slender their spotless shapes, and greet the sight
With freshness after all those colours bright;
And as with easy pitch their steps they bear,
Their yielding heads have half a loving air,
These for a princely present are divin'd,
And show the giver is not far behind.
Perceives the last of those precursors nigh,
7
Both to the courtly fountain and the gate;
And then a second interval succeeds
Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds
Milk-white and azure-draped, Arabian bred,
Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led.
In every limb is seen their faultless race,
A fire well-temper'd, and a free left grace:
Slender their spotless shapes, and greet the sight
With freshness after all those colours bright;
And as with easy pitch their steps they bear,
Their yielding heads have half a loving air,
These for a princely present are divin'd,
And show the giver is not far behind.
The talk increases now, and now advance,
Space after space, with many a sprightly prance,
The pages of the court, in rows of three;
Of white and crimson in their livery.
Space after space, and still the train appear;
A fervent whisper fills the general ear—
“Ah—yes—no! 'tis not he, but 'tis the squires
Who go before him when his pomp requires.”
And now his huntsman shows the lessening train,
Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain;
And now his banner comes, and now his shield,
Borne by the squire that waits him to the field;
And then an interval,—a lordly space;—
A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place.
The Princess, from a distance, scarcely knows
Which way to look; her colour comes and goes,
And, with an impulse like a piteous plea,
She lays her hand upon her father's knee,
Who looks upon her with a laboured smile,
Gathering it up into his own the while,
When some one's voice, as if it knew not how
To check itself, exclaims, “The Prince! now, now!”
And on a milk-white courser, like the air,
A glorious figure springs into the square:—
Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout,
And rolls the trembling walls and peopled roofs about.
Space after space, with many a sprightly prance,
The pages of the court, in rows of three;
Of white and crimson in their livery.
Space after space, and still the train appear;
A fervent whisper fills the general ear—
“Ah—yes—no! 'tis not he, but 'tis the squires
Who go before him when his pomp requires.”
And now his huntsman shows the lessening train,
Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain;
And now his banner comes, and now his shield,
Borne by the squire that waits him to the field;
And then an interval,—a lordly space;—
A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place.
The Princess, from a distance, scarcely knows
Which way to look; her colour comes and goes,
And, with an impulse like a piteous plea,
She lays her hand upon her father's knee,
Who looks upon her with a laboured smile,
Gathering it up into his own the while,
When some one's voice, as if it knew not how
To check itself, exclaims, “The Prince! now, now!”
And on a milk-white courser, like the air,
A glorious figure springs into the square:—
Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout,
And rolls the trembling walls and peopled roofs about.
8
Never was nobler finish of fair sight,—
'Twas like the coming of a shape of light;
And many a lovely gazer, with a start,
Felt the quick pleasure smite across her heart.
The Princess, who at first could scarcely see,
Though looking still that way from dignity,
Gathers new courage as the praise goes round,
And bends her eyes to learn what they have found.
And see—his horse obeys the check unseen,
And, with an air 'twixt ardent and serene,
Letting a fall of curls about his brow,
He takes, to all, his cap off with a bow.
Then for another, and a deafening shout,
And scarfs are wav'd, and flowers come pouring out;
And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air
Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair,
And whisks their garments and their shining hair.
'Twas like the coming of a shape of light;
And many a lovely gazer, with a start,
Felt the quick pleasure smite across her heart.
The Princess, who at first could scarcely see,
Though looking still that way from dignity,
Gathers new courage as the praise goes round,
And bends her eyes to learn what they have found.
And see—his horse obeys the check unseen,
And, with an air 'twixt ardent and serene,
Letting a fall of curls about his brow,
He takes, to all, his cap off with a bow.
Then for another, and a deafening shout,
And scarfs are wav'd, and flowers come pouring out;
And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air
Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair,
And whisks their garments and their shining hair.
With busy interchange of wonder glows
The crowd, and loves his bravery as he goes;
But on his shape the gentler sight attends,
Moves as he passes, as he bends him bends,—
Watches his air, his gesture, and his face,
And thinks it never saw such manly grace;
So fine are his bare throat, and curls of black,—
So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back,
His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance,
So heap'd with strength, and turn'd with elegance;
But, above all, so meaning in his look,
As easy to be read as open book;
And such true gallantry the sex descries
In the grave thanks within his cordial eyes.
His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be
Vex'd and made proud by that cool mastery,
Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care,
Reaching with stately step at the fine air;
And now and then, sideling his restless pace,
Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place,
And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill;
The princely rider on his back sits still,
And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at his will.
Surprise, relief, a joy scarce understood—
Something, in truth, of very gratitude,
And fifty feelings undefin'd and new,
Dart through the bride, and flush her faded hue.
“Could I but once,” she thinks, “securely place
A trust for the contents on such a case—
On such a mind, now seemingly beheld—
This chance of mine were hardly one compell'd.”
And see! the stranger looking with delight
Tow'rds the sweet fountain with its circle bright,
And bending, as he looks, with frequent thanks,
Beckons a follower to him from the ranks,
And loos'ning, as he speaks, from its light hold,
A princely jewel with its chain of gold,
Sends it, in token he had lov'd him long,
To the young master of Italian song.
The poet starts, and with a lowly grace
Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face,
Looks after his new friend, who scarcely gone
In the wide turning, bows, and passes on.
The crowd, and loves his bravery as he goes;
But on his shape the gentler sight attends,
Moves as he passes, as he bends him bends,—
Watches his air, his gesture, and his face,
And thinks it never saw such manly grace;
So fine are his bare throat, and curls of black,—
So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back,
His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance,
So heap'd with strength, and turn'd with elegance;
But, above all, so meaning in his look,
As easy to be read as open book;
And such true gallantry the sex descries
In the grave thanks within his cordial eyes.
His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be
Vex'd and made proud by that cool mastery,
Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care,
Reaching with stately step at the fine air;
And now and then, sideling his restless pace,
Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place,
And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill;
The princely rider on his back sits still,
And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at his will.
9
Something, in truth, of very gratitude,
And fifty feelings undefin'd and new,
Dart through the bride, and flush her faded hue.
“Could I but once,” she thinks, “securely place
A trust for the contents on such a case—
On such a mind, now seemingly beheld—
This chance of mine were hardly one compell'd.”
And see! the stranger looking with delight
Tow'rds the sweet fountain with its circle bright,
And bending, as he looks, with frequent thanks,
Beckons a follower to him from the ranks,
And loos'ning, as he speaks, from its light hold,
A princely jewel with its chain of gold,
Sends it, in token he had lov'd him long,
To the young master of Italian song.
The poet starts, and with a lowly grace
Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face,
Looks after his new friend, who scarcely gone
In the wide turning, bows, and passes on.
This is sufficient for the destined bride:
She took an interest first, but now a pride;
And as the Prince comes riding to the place,
Baring his head, and raising his fine face,
She meets his full obeisance with an eye
Of self-permission and sweet gravity;
He looks with touch'd respect, and gazes and goes by.
She took an interest first, but now a pride;
And as the Prince comes riding to the place,
Baring his head, and raising his fine face,
She meets his full obeisance with an eye
Of self-permission and sweet gravity;
He looks with touch'd respect, and gazes and goes by.
CANTO II.
Argument.
—The Prince is discovered not to be Giovanni Malatesta, but his brother Paulo, whom he has sent as his proxy. Francesca, nevertheless, is persuaded to be affianced, and goes with him to Rimini. Description of the journey, and of the Ravenna Pine-Forest.
I pass the followers, and their closing state;
The court was enter'd by an outer gate;
The Count and Princess had retir'd before,
In time to greet his guest at the hall door:
But something seem'd amiss, and there ensued
Deep talk among the spreading multitude,
Who stood in groups, or pac'd the measur'd street,
Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat.
Nor ceas'd the wonder, as the day increas'd,
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast;
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd,
Nothing to answer that procession proud,
But a blank look, as if no court had been—
Silence without, and secrecy within;
And nothing heard by listening at the walls,
But now and then a bustling through the halls,
Or the dim organ rous'd at gathering intervals.
The court was enter'd by an outer gate;
The Count and Princess had retir'd before,
In time to greet his guest at the hall door:
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Deep talk among the spreading multitude,
Who stood in groups, or pac'd the measur'd street,
Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat.
Nor ceas'd the wonder, as the day increas'd,
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast;
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd,
Nothing to answer that procession proud,
But a blank look, as if no court had been—
Silence without, and secrecy within;
And nothing heard by listening at the walls,
But now and then a bustling through the halls,
Or the dim organ rous'd at gathering intervals.
The truth was this:—The bridegroom had not come,
But sent his brother Paulo in his room.
The former, said to have a handsome face,
Though lame of foot, (“some victory's very grace;”—
So Guido call'd it,) yet was stern and proud,
Little gallant, and had a chilling cloud
Hanging forever on his blunt address,
Which he mistook for sov'reign manliness:—
But more of this too soon. The father knew
The Prince's faults; and he was conscious too,
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepar'd
To do her duty where appeal was barr'd,
She had a sense of marriage, just and free,
And where the lover wooed but ruggedly,
Might pause, for aught he knew, and fail to strike
A chord her own sweet music so unlike.
The old man, therefore, not unkind at heart,
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art,
And little form'd for sentiments like these
Which seem'd to him mere maiden niceties,
(For lovers of the Muse, alas! could then
As well as now, be but half-loving men,)
Had thought at once to gratify the pride,
Of his stern neighbour, and secure the bride,
By telling him, that if, as he had heard,
Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word,
And he might send and wed her by a third;
Only the Count thus farther must presume,
For both their sakes, that still a prince must come.
The bride meantime was told, and not unmov'd,
To look for one no sooner seen than lov'd;
And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought
Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
Despatch'd the wish'd-for prince, who was a man
Noble as eye had seen since earth began,
The effect was perfect, and the future wife
Caught in the elaborate snare—perhaps for life.
But sent his brother Paulo in his room.
The former, said to have a handsome face,
Though lame of foot, (“some victory's very grace;”—
So Guido call'd it,) yet was stern and proud,
Little gallant, and had a chilling cloud
Hanging forever on his blunt address,
Which he mistook for sov'reign manliness:—
But more of this too soon. The father knew
The Prince's faults; and he was conscious too,
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepar'd
To do her duty where appeal was barr'd,
She had a sense of marriage, just and free,
And where the lover wooed but ruggedly,
Might pause, for aught he knew, and fail to strike
A chord her own sweet music so unlike.
The old man, therefore, not unkind at heart,
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art,
And little form'd for sentiments like these
Which seem'd to him mere maiden niceties,
(For lovers of the Muse, alas! could then
As well as now, be but half-loving men,)
Had thought at once to gratify the pride,
Of his stern neighbour, and secure the bride,
By telling him, that if, as he had heard,
Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word,
And he might send and wed her by a third;
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For both their sakes, that still a prince must come.
The bride meantime was told, and not unmov'd,
To look for one no sooner seen than lov'd;
And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought
Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
Despatch'd the wish'd-for prince, who was a man
Noble as eye had seen since earth began,
The effect was perfect, and the future wife
Caught in the elaborate snare—perhaps for life.
One truth, however, craft was forc'd to tell,
And chance, alas! supported it too well.
She saw, when they were hous'd, in Guido's face
A look of stupified surprise take place;
Of anger next, of candour in a while,
And then 'twas told her with a begging smile,
That Prince Giovanni, to his deep chagrin,
Had been delay'd by troubles unforeseen,
But rather than delay his day of bliss,
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss,)
Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead;
“Who,” said old Guido, with a nodding head,
“May well be said to represent his brother,
For when you see the one, you know the other.”
And chance, alas! supported it too well.
She saw, when they were hous'd, in Guido's face
A look of stupified surprise take place;
Of anger next, of candour in a while,
And then 'twas told her with a begging smile,
That Prince Giovanni, to his deep chagrin,
Had been delay'd by troubles unforeseen,
But rather than delay his day of bliss,
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss,)
Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead;
“Who,” said old Guido, with a nodding head,
“May well be said to represent his brother,
For when you see the one, you know the other.”
By this time Paulo join'd them where they stood,
And seeing her in some uneasy mood,
Chang'd the mere cold respects his brother sent
To such a strain of cordial compliment,
And gave her thanks, in terms, and with a face,
So fill'd with attribution of all grace,—
That air, in short, which sets you at your ease
Without implying your perplexities,—
That what with the surprise in every way,
The hurry of the time, the appointed day,
The very shame which now appear'd increas'd
Of begging leave to have her hand releas'd—
And above all, those tones, and words, and looks
Which seem'd to realize the dreams of books,
And help'd her genial fancy to conclude
That fruit of such a stock must all be good,
She knew no longer how she could oppose.
Quick was the plighted troth; and at the close
The proxy, turning 'mid the general hush,
Kiss'd her sweet lips, betwixt a rosy blush.
And seeing her in some uneasy mood,
Chang'd the mere cold respects his brother sent
To such a strain of cordial compliment,
And gave her thanks, in terms, and with a face,
So fill'd with attribution of all grace,—
That air, in short, which sets you at your ease
Without implying your perplexities,—
That what with the surprise in every way,
The hurry of the time, the appointed day,
The very shame which now appear'd increas'd
Of begging leave to have her hand releas'd—
And above all, those tones, and words, and looks
Which seem'd to realize the dreams of books,
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That fruit of such a stock must all be good,
She knew no longer how she could oppose.
Quick was the plighted troth; and at the close
The proxy, turning 'mid the general hush,
Kiss'd her sweet lips, betwixt a rosy blush.
Two days and nights ensued. At length, a state
Of trumpets issued from the palace gate,
The banners of their brass with favours tied,
And with a blast proclaimed the affianc'd bride.
But not a word the people's silence broke,
Till something of a gift the herald spoke,
And bringing the good coin by handfuls out,
Scatter'd the ready harvest round about;
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry,
And “largess! largess!” claps against the sky,
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Rimini.
Of trumpets issued from the palace gate,
The banners of their brass with favours tied,
And with a blast proclaimed the affianc'd bride.
But not a word the people's silence broke,
Till something of a gift the herald spoke,
And bringing the good coin by handfuls out,
Scatter'd the ready harvest round about;
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry,
And “largess! largess!” claps against the sky,
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Rimini.
The rest, however, still were looking on,
Sullen and mute, and scarce the noise was gone,
When riding from the gate with banners rear'd,
Again the gorgeous visitors appear'd.
The Prince was in his place; and in a car,
Before him, glistening like a farewell star,
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes,
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries;
For some too shrewdly guess'd, and some were vex'd
At the dull time, and some the whole perplex'd,
And all great pity thought it to divide
Two that seem'd made for bridegroom and for bride.
Ev'n she, whose wits this strange abrupt event
Had over-borne in pure astonishment,
Could scarce at times a wilder'd cry forbear
At leaving her own home and native air;
Till passing now the limits of the town,
And on the last few gazers looking down,
She saw by the road-side an aged throng,
Who wanting power to bustle with the strong,
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go,
And gather'd there, an unconcerted show.
Bending they stood, with their old foreheads bare,
And the winds finger'd with their reverend hair.
“Farewell, farewell, my friends!” she would have cried,
But in her throat the leaping accents died,
And waving with her hand a vain adieu,
She dropt her veil, and in her grief withdrew,
And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue.
Sullen and mute, and scarce the noise was gone,
When riding from the gate with banners rear'd,
Again the gorgeous visitors appear'd.
The Prince was in his place; and in a car,
Before him, glistening like a farewell star,
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes,
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries;
For some too shrewdly guess'd, and some were vex'd
At the dull time, and some the whole perplex'd,
And all great pity thought it to divide
Two that seem'd made for bridegroom and for bride.
Ev'n she, whose wits this strange abrupt event
Had over-borne in pure astonishment,
Could scarce at times a wilder'd cry forbear
At leaving her own home and native air;
Till passing now the limits of the town,
And on the last few gazers looking down,
She saw by the road-side an aged throng,
Who wanting power to bustle with the strong,
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go,
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Bending they stood, with their old foreheads bare,
And the winds finger'd with their reverend hair.
“Farewell, farewell, my friends!” she would have cried,
But in her throat the leaping accents died,
And waving with her hand a vain adieu,
She dropt her veil, and in her grief withdrew,
And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue.
The morn was sweet, as when they journey'd last;—
The smoke from cottage-tops ran bright and fast,
And every tree in passing, one by one,
Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun:
For leafy was the road, with tall array,
On either side, of mulberry and bay,
And distant snatches of blue hills between;
And there the alder was with its bright green,
And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot,
That like a feather waves from head to foot,
With ever and anon majestic pines;
And still, from tree to tree, the early vines
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.
The smoke from cottage-tops ran bright and fast,
And every tree in passing, one by one,
Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun:
For leafy was the road, with tall array,
On either side, of mulberry and bay,
And distant snatches of blue hills between;
And there the alder was with its bright green,
And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot,
That like a feather waves from head to foot,
With ever and anon majestic pines;
And still, from tree to tree, the early vines
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.
Nor long the Princess kept her from the view
Of the dear scenes her happy childhood knew;
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears,
With dreaming eye fix'd down, and half-shut ears,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound
Of hoofs thick reckoning and the wheel's moist round,
A call of “slower,” from the farther part
Of the check'd riders, woke her with a start,
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare,
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air.
Of the dear scenes her happy childhood knew;
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears,
With dreaming eye fix'd down, and half-shut ears,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound
Of hoofs thick reckoning and the wheel's moist round,
A call of “slower,” from the farther part
Of the check'd riders, woke her with a start,
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare,
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air.
'Tis down a hill they go, gentle indeed,
And such as with a bold and playful speed
Another time they would have scorn'd to heed;
But now they take a lady down the hill,
And feel they should consult her gentle will.
And such as with a bold and playful speed
Another time they would have scorn'd to heed;
But now they take a lady down the hill,
And feel they should consult her gentle will.
And now with thicker shades the pines appear,—
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear;
And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil,
The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil.
Here first the silence of the country seems
To come about her with its listening dreams;
And full of anxious thoughts, half-freed from pain,
She fell into her musing mood again;
Leaving the others, who had pass'd that way
In careless spirits of the first blithe day,
To look about, and mark the reverend scene,
For awful tales renown'd and everlasting green.
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear;
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The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil.
Here first the silence of the country seems
To come about her with its listening dreams;
And full of anxious thoughts, half-freed from pain,
She fell into her musing mood again;
Leaving the others, who had pass'd that way
In careless spirits of the first blithe day,
To look about, and mark the reverend scene,
For awful tales renown'd and everlasting green.
A heavy spot the forest looks at first,
To one grim shade condemn'd, and sandy thirst,
Chequer'd with thorns, and thistles run to seed,
Or plashy pools half-cover'd with green weed,
About whose sides the swarming insects fry
In the hot sun, a noisome company;
But, entering more and more, they quit the sand
At once, and strike upon a grassy land,
From which the trees as from a carpet rise
In knolls and clumps, in rich varieties.
The knights are for a moment forc'd to rein
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again,
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large
To scour the space, and give the winds a charge,
Or pulling tight the bridles as they pass,
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass:
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade,
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade;
Some baring to the cool their placid brows,
Some looking upward through the glimmering boughs
Or peering into spots that inwardly
Open green glooms, and half-prepared to see
The lady cross it, that as stories tell,
Ran loud and torn before the knight of hell.
Various the trees and passing foliage here,—
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper,
With briony between in trails of white,
And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light,
And, moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark,
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark;
And still the pine, flat-topp'd, and dark, and tall,
In lordly right predominant o'er all.
Anon the sweet birds, like a sudden throng
Of happy children, ring their tangled song
From out the greener trees; and then a cloud
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud
Like savages at ships; and then again
Nothing is heard but their own stately train,
Or ring-dove that repeats his pensive plea,
Or startled gull up-screaming toward the sea.
But scarce their eyes encounter living thing
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering,
Or a few cattle looking up askance
With ruminant meek mouths and sleepy glance,
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent,
Passing, half wond'ring—half indifferent—
Yet turning at the last to look once more;
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before.
To one grim shade condemn'd, and sandy thirst,
Chequer'd with thorns, and thistles run to seed,
Or plashy pools half-cover'd with green weed,
About whose sides the swarming insects fry
In the hot sun, a noisome company;
But, entering more and more, they quit the sand
At once, and strike upon a grassy land,
From which the trees as from a carpet rise
In knolls and clumps, in rich varieties.
The knights are for a moment forc'd to rein
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again,
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large
To scour the space, and give the winds a charge,
Or pulling tight the bridles as they pass,
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass:
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade,
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade;
Some baring to the cool their placid brows,
Some looking upward through the glimmering boughs
Or peering into spots that inwardly
Open green glooms, and half-prepared to see
The lady cross it, that as stories tell,
Ran loud and torn before the knight of hell.
Various the trees and passing foliage here,—
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper,
With briony between in trails of white,
And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light,
And, moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark,
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark;
15
In lordly right predominant o'er all.
Anon the sweet birds, like a sudden throng
Of happy children, ring their tangled song
From out the greener trees; and then a cloud
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud
Like savages at ships; and then again
Nothing is heard but their own stately train,
Or ring-dove that repeats his pensive plea,
Or startled gull up-screaming toward the sea.
But scarce their eyes encounter living thing
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering,
Or a few cattle looking up askance
With ruminant meek mouths and sleepy glance,
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent,
Passing, half wond'ring—half indifferent—
Yet turning at the last to look once more;
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before.
So ride they pleas'd;—till now the couching sun
Levels his final look through shadows dun;
And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face,
Seems come to look into the silvering place.
Then woke the bride indeed, for then was heard
The sacred bell by which all hearts are stirr'd,—
The tongue 'twixt heav'n and earth, the memory mild,
Which bids adore the Mother and her Child.
The train are hush'd; they halt; their heads are bare;
Earth for a moment breathes angelic air.
Francesca weeps for lowliness and love;
Her heart is at the feet of Her who sits above.
Levels his final look through shadows dun;
And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face,
Seems come to look into the silvering place.
Then woke the bride indeed, for then was heard
The sacred bell by which all hearts are stirr'd,—
The tongue 'twixt heav'n and earth, the memory mild,
Which bids adore the Mother and her Child.
The train are hush'd; they halt; their heads are bare;
Earth for a moment breathes angelic air.
Francesca weeps for lowliness and love;
Her heart is at the feet of Her who sits above.
Softly they move again through beam and shade;
Till now by stragglers met, and watch-dogs bay'd,
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon
Emerge into the full and day-like moon:
Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed,
They start them freshly with a homeward speed.
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots,
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots,
And turning last a sudden corner, see
The moonlit towers of wakeful Rimini.
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below
With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright,
Sleeping along with face against the light.
A hollow trample now,—a fall of chains,—
The bride has enter'd,—not a voice remains;—
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.
Till now by stragglers met, and watch-dogs bay'd,
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon
Emerge into the full and day-like moon:
Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed,
They start them freshly with a homeward speed.
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots,
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots,
16
The moonlit towers of wakeful Rimini.
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below
With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright,
Sleeping along with face against the light.
A hollow trample now,—a fall of chains,—
The bride has enter'd,—not a voice remains;—
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.
CANTO III.
Argument.
—Effects of the sight and manners of her husband upon the bride. His character. Paulo discovers the part he had been led to play. Result of the discovery to him and Francesca. Giovanni is called away from Rimini by a revolt. Description of a garden, and of a summerhouse.
Weak were the moon to welcome princely trains:—
Thousands of lights, thousands of faces, strains
Of music upon music, roaring showers,
High as the roofs, of blessings mix'd with flowers;
Through these, with one huge hopeful wild accord,
The gentle lady of a fiery lord
Is welcom'd, and is borne straight to the halls
That hold his presence in the palace walls;
And there, as pale as death, the future wife
Looks on his face that is to sway her life.
It stoop'd; she knelt; a kiss was on her brow;
And two huge hands rais'd her she scarce knew how.
Thousands of lights, thousands of faces, strains
Of music upon music, roaring showers,
High as the roofs, of blessings mix'd with flowers;
Through these, with one huge hopeful wild accord,
The gentle lady of a fiery lord
Is welcom'd, and is borne straight to the halls
That hold his presence in the palace walls;
And there, as pale as death, the future wife
Looks on his face that is to sway her life.
It stoop'd; she knelt; a kiss was on her brow;
And two huge hands rais'd her she scarce knew how.
Oh, foolish, false old man! now boast thine art,
That has undone thee in a daughter's heart.
That has undone thee in a daughter's heart.
Great was the likeness that the brothers bore;
The lie spoke truth in that, and lied the more.
Not that the face on which the lady stared
Was hideous; nay, 'twas handsome; yet it scared.
The likeness was of race, the difference dire—
The brows were shadow'd with a stormy fire;
The handsome features had a wild excess,
That discommended e'en the handsomeness;
And though a smile the lip now gentlier warm'd,
The whole big face o'erhung a trunk deform'd,—
Warp'd in the shoulder, broken at the hip,
Though strong withal, nor spoilt for soldiership;
A heap of vigour planted on two stands
Of shapeless bone, and hung with giant hands.
The lie spoke truth in that, and lied the more.
Not that the face on which the lady stared
Was hideous; nay, 'twas handsome; yet it scared.
The likeness was of race, the difference dire—
The brows were shadow'd with a stormy fire;
The handsome features had a wild excess,
That discommended e'en the handsomeness;
17
The whole big face o'erhung a trunk deform'd,—
Warp'd in the shoulder, broken at the hip,
Though strong withal, nor spoilt for soldiership;
A heap of vigour planted on two stands
Of shapeless bone, and hung with giant hands.
Compare with this the shape that fetch'd the bride!
Compare the face now gazing by its side!
A face, in which was nothing e'en to call
A stamp exclusive and professional:
No courtier's face, and yet the smile was there;
No scholar's, yet the look was deep and rare;
No soldier's, for the power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refin'd:
A countenance, in short, seem'd made to show
How far the genuine flesh and blood would go;
A morning glass of unaffected nature,
Something that baffled looks of loftier feature,—
The visage of a glorious human creature.
Compare the face now gazing by its side!
A face, in which was nothing e'en to call
A stamp exclusive and professional:
No courtier's face, and yet the smile was there;
No scholar's, yet the look was deep and rare;
No soldier's, for the power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refin'd:
A countenance, in short, seem'd made to show
How far the genuine flesh and blood would go;
A morning glass of unaffected nature,
Something that baffled looks of loftier feature,—
The visage of a glorious human creature.
Nevertheless, the cripple foremost there,
Stern gainer by a crafty father's care,
But ignorant of the plot, and aught beside,
Except that he had won a peerless bride,—
This vision, dress'd beyond its own dress'd court
To cloak defects that still belied its port,
Gave the bewilder'd beauty what was meant
For thanks so gracious, flattery so content,
And spoke in tones so harsh, yet so assur'd,
So proud of a good fortune now secur'd,
That her low answers, for mere shame, implied
Thanks for his thanks, and pleasure in his pride;
And so the organ blew, and the priest read,
And under his grim gaze the life-long words were said.
Stern gainer by a crafty father's care,
But ignorant of the plot, and aught beside,
Except that he had won a peerless bride,—
This vision, dress'd beyond its own dress'd court
To cloak defects that still belied its port,
Gave the bewilder'd beauty what was meant
For thanks so gracious, flattery so content,
And spoke in tones so harsh, yet so assur'd,
So proud of a good fortune now secur'd,
That her low answers, for mere shame, implied
Thanks for his thanks, and pleasure in his pride;
And so the organ blew, and the priest read,
And under his grim gaze the life-long words were said.
A banquet follow'd, not in form and state,
But small, and cheerful, and considerate;
Her maidens half-enclos'd her; and her lord
With such mild grace presided at the board,
And time went flowing in a tide so fair,
That from the calm she felt a new despair.—
Suddenly her eyes clos'd, her lips turn'd white,
The maidens in alarm enclos'd her quite,
And the Prince rose, but with no gentle looks;
He bade them give her air, with sharp rebukes,
Grasp'd her himself with a suspicious force,
And altogether show'd a mood so coarse,
So hasty, and to love so ill attun'd,
That, with her own good will, the lady swoon'd.
But small, and cheerful, and considerate;
Her maidens half-enclos'd her; and her lord
With such mild grace presided at the board,
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That from the calm she felt a new despair.—
Suddenly her eyes clos'd, her lips turn'd white,
The maidens in alarm enclos'd her quite,
And the Prince rose, but with no gentle looks;
He bade them give her air, with sharp rebukes,
Grasp'd her himself with a suspicious force,
And altogether show'd a mood so coarse,
So hasty, and to love so ill attun'd,
That, with her own good will, the lady swoon'd.
Alas for wrongs that nature does the frame!
The pride she gives compensates not the shame.
And yet why moot those puzzles? 'tis the pride,
And not the shape, were still the thing to hide.
Spirits there are (I've known them) that like gods
Who dwelt of old in rustical abodes,
Have beam'd through clay the homeliest, bright and wise,
And made divinest windows of the eyes.
Two fiends possessed Giovanni's,—Will and Scorn;
And high they held him, till a third was born.
He strove to hide the secret from himself,—
But his shape rode him like some clinging elf
At once too scorn'd and dreaded to be own'd.
Valour, and wit, and victory enthron'd,
Might bind, he thought, a woman to his worth,
Beyond the threads of all the fops on earth;
But on his secret soul the fiend still hung,
Darken'd his face, made sour and fierce his tongue,
And was preparing now a place for thee
In his wild heart, O murderous Jealousy!
The pride she gives compensates not the shame.
And yet why moot those puzzles? 'tis the pride,
And not the shape, were still the thing to hide.
Spirits there are (I've known them) that like gods
Who dwelt of old in rustical abodes,
Have beam'd through clay the homeliest, bright and wise,
And made divinest windows of the eyes.
Two fiends possessed Giovanni's,—Will and Scorn;
And high they held him, till a third was born.
He strove to hide the secret from himself,—
But his shape rode him like some clinging elf
At once too scorn'd and dreaded to be own'd.
Valour, and wit, and victory enthron'd,
Might bind, he thought, a woman to his worth,
Beyond the threads of all the fops on earth;
But on his secret soul the fiend still hung,
Darken'd his face, made sour and fierce his tongue,
And was preparing now a place for thee
In his wild heart, O murderous Jealousy!
Not without virtues was the Prince. Who is?
But all were marr'd by moods and tyrannies.
Brave, decent, splendid, faithful to his word,
Late watching, busy with the first that stirr'd,
Yet rude, sarcastic, ever in the vein
To give the last thing he would suffer,—pain,
He made his rank serve meanly to his gall,
And thought his least good word a salve for all.
Virtues in him of no such marvellous weight
Claim tow'rd themselves the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for th' immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience, so design'd to keep
Stern central watch, though fancied fast asleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self there lies
Cored, after all, in our complacencies,
That no suspicion touch'd his temper more
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He overwhelm'd it with a weight of scorn,
Was proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ungenerous for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience or the genial spirit;
And so he made, 'twixt daring and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,—
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the small,
Left him at last unlovable with all.
But all were marr'd by moods and tyrannies.
Brave, decent, splendid, faithful to his word,
Late watching, busy with the first that stirr'd,
Yet rude, sarcastic, ever in the vein
To give the last thing he would suffer,—pain,
He made his rank serve meanly to his gall,
And thought his least good word a salve for all.
19
Claim tow'rd themselves the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for th' immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience, so design'd to keep
Stern central watch, though fancied fast asleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self there lies
Cored, after all, in our complacencies,
That no suspicion touch'd his temper more
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He overwhelm'd it with a weight of scorn,
Was proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ungenerous for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience or the genial spirit;
And so he made, 'twixt daring and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,—
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the small,
Left him at last unlovable with all.
What sort of life the bride and bridegroom led
From that first jar the history hath not said:
No happy one, to guess from looks constrain'd,
Attentions over-wrought, and pleasures feign'd.
The Prince, 'twas clear, was anxious to imply
That all was love and grave felicity;
The least suspicion of his pride's eclipse
Blacken'd his lowering brow, and blanch'd his lips,
And dreadful look'd he underneath his wrath;—
Francesca kept one tranquil-seeming path,
Mild with her lord, generous to high and low,—
But in her heart was anger too, and woe.
From that first jar the history hath not said:
No happy one, to guess from looks constrain'd,
Attentions over-wrought, and pleasures feign'd.
The Prince, 'twas clear, was anxious to imply
That all was love and grave felicity;
The least suspicion of his pride's eclipse
Blacken'd his lowering brow, and blanch'd his lips,
And dreadful look'd he underneath his wrath;—
Francesca kept one tranquil-seeming path,
Mild with her lord, generous to high and low,—
But in her heart was anger too, and woe.
20
Paulo meantime, the Prince that fetch'd the bride,
(Oh, shame that lur'd him from a brother's side!)
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare,
That gave her up to his admiring care.
Some babbler, may-be, of old Guido's court,
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport;
But to his heart the fatal flattery went,
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent,
And ran back in his mind, with sudden spring,
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, everything,
E'en what before had seem'd indifference,
And read them over in another sense.
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain,
To think how fanciful he was, and vain;
And with half angry, half regretful sigh,
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye,
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look
About him for his falcon or his book;
Scorning that ever he should entertain
One thought that in the end might give his brother pain.
Not that he lov'd him much, or could; but still
Brother was brother, and ill visions ill.
(Oh, shame that lur'd him from a brother's side!)
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare,
That gave her up to his admiring care.
Some babbler, may-be, of old Guido's court,
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport;
But to his heart the fatal flattery went,
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent,
And ran back in his mind, with sudden spring,
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, everything,
E'en what before had seem'd indifference,
And read them over in another sense.
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain,
To think how fanciful he was, and vain;
And with half angry, half regretful sigh,
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye,
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look
About him for his falcon or his book;
Scorning that ever he should entertain
One thought that in the end might give his brother pain.
Not that he lov'd him much, or could; but still
Brother was brother, and ill visions ill.
This start, however, came so often round,—
So often fell he in deep thought, and found
Occasion to renew his carelessness,
Yet every time the little power grown less,
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclined,
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd;
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would come about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her soul-rich looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day,
And she became companion of his thought;—
Oh wretched sire! thy snare has yet but half been wrought.
So often fell he in deep thought, and found
Occasion to renew his carelessness,
Yet every time the little power grown less,
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclined,
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd;
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would come about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her soul-rich looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day,
And she became companion of his thought;—
Oh wretched sire! thy snare has yet but half been wrought.
Love by the object lov'd is soon discern'd,
And grateful pity is love half return'd.
Of pity for herself the rest was made,
Of first impressions and belief betray'd;
Of all which the unhappy sire had plann'd
To fix his dove within the falcon's hand.
Bright grew the morn whenever Paulo came;
The only word to write was either's name;
Soft in each other's presence fell their speech;
Each, though they look'd not, felt they saw but each;
'Twas day, 'twas night, as either came or went,
And bliss was in two hearts, with misery strangely blent.
And grateful pity is love half return'd.
21
Of first impressions and belief betray'd;
Of all which the unhappy sire had plann'd
To fix his dove within the falcon's hand.
Bright grew the morn whenever Paulo came;
The only word to write was either's name;
Soft in each other's presence fell their speech;
Each, though they look'd not, felt they saw but each;
'Twas day, 'twas night, as either came or went,
And bliss was in two hearts, with misery strangely blent.
Oh, now ye gentle hearts, now think awhile,
Now while ye still can think and still can smile;
Thou, Paulo, most;—whom, though the most to blame,
The world will visit with but half the shame.
Bethink thee of the future days of one
Who holds her heart the rightest heart undone.
Thou holdest not thine such. Be kind and wise;—
Where creeps the once frank wisdom of thine eyes?
To meet e'en thus may cost her many a tear:
“Meet not at all!” cries Fate, to all who love and fear.
Now while ye still can think and still can smile;
Thou, Paulo, most;—whom, though the most to blame,
The world will visit with but half the shame.
Bethink thee of the future days of one
Who holds her heart the rightest heart undone.
Thou holdest not thine such. Be kind and wise;—
Where creeps the once frank wisdom of thine eyes?
To meet e'en thus may cost her many a tear:
“Meet not at all!” cries Fate, to all who love and fear.
A fop there was, rich, noble, well receiv'd,
Who, pleas'd to think the Princess inly griev'd,
Had dar'd to hope, beside the lion's bower,
Presumptuous fool! to play the paramour.
Watching his time one day, when the grim lord
Had left her presence with an angry word,
And giving her a kind, adoring glance,
The coxcomb feign'd to press her hand by chance;
The Princess gaz'd a moment with calm eyes,
Then bade him call the page that fann'd away the flies.
Who, pleas'd to think the Princess inly griev'd,
Had dar'd to hope, beside the lion's bower,
Presumptuous fool! to play the paramour.
Watching his time one day, when the grim lord
Had left her presence with an angry word,
And giving her a kind, adoring glance,
The coxcomb feign'd to press her hand by chance;
The Princess gaz'd a moment with calm eyes,
Then bade him call the page that fann'd away the flies.
For days, for weeks, the daring coward shook
At dreams of daggers in the Prince's look,
Till finding nothing said, the shame and fright
Turn'd his conceited misery to spite.
The lady's silence might itself be fear;
What if there lurk'd some wondrous rival near?
He watch'd.—He watch'd all movements, looks, words, sighs,
And soon found cause to bless his shabby eyes.
At dreams of daggers in the Prince's look,
Till finding nothing said, the shame and fright
Turn'd his conceited misery to spite.
The lady's silence might itself be fear;
What if there lurk'd some wondrous rival near?
He watch'd.—He watch'd all movements, looks, words, sighs,
And soon found cause to bless his shabby eyes.
22
It chanc'd alas! that for some tax abhorr'd,
A conquer'd district fell from its new lord;
Black as a storm the Prince the frontier cross'd
In fury to regain his province lost,
Leaving his brother, who had been from home
On state affairs, to govern in his room.
Right zealous was the brother; nor had aught
Yet giv'n Giovanni one mistrusting thought.
He deem'd his consort cold as wintriest night,
Paulo a kind of very fop of right;
For though he cloak'd his own unshapeliness,
And thought to glorify his power, with dress,
He held all virtues, not in his rough ken,
But pickthank pedantries in handsome men.
A conquer'd district fell from its new lord;
Black as a storm the Prince the frontier cross'd
In fury to regain his province lost,
Leaving his brother, who had been from home
On state affairs, to govern in his room.
Right zealous was the brother; nor had aught
Yet giv'n Giovanni one mistrusting thought.
He deem'd his consort cold as wintriest night,
Paulo a kind of very fop of right;
For though he cloak'd his own unshapeliness,
And thought to glorify his power, with dress,
He held all virtues, not in his rough ken,
But pickthank pedantries in handsome men.
The Prince had will'd, however, that his wife
Should lead, till his return, a closer life,
She therefore disappear'd; not pleas'd, not proud
To have her judgment still no voice allow'd;
Not without many a gentle hope repress'd,
And tears; yet conscious that retreat was best.
Besides, she lov'd the place to which she went—
A bower, a nest, in which her grief had spent
Its calmest time: and as it was her last
As well as sweetest, and the fate comes fast
That is to fill it with a dreadful cry,
And make its walls ghastly to passers by,
I'll hold the gentle reader for a space
Ling'ring with piteous wonder in the place.
Should lead, till his return, a closer life,
She therefore disappear'd; not pleas'd, not proud
To have her judgment still no voice allow'd;
Not without many a gentle hope repress'd,
And tears; yet conscious that retreat was best.
Besides, she lov'd the place to which she went—
A bower, a nest, in which her grief had spent
Its calmest time: and as it was her last
As well as sweetest, and the fate comes fast
That is to fill it with a dreadful cry,
And make its walls ghastly to passers by,
I'll hold the gentle reader for a space
Ling'ring with piteous wonder in the place.
A noble range it was, of many a rood,
Wall'd and tree-girt, and ending in a wood.
A small sweet house o'erlook'd it from a nest
Of pines:—all wood and garden was the rest,
Lawn, and green lane, and covert:—and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
With here and there a swan, the creature born
To be the only graceful shape of scorn.
The flower-beds all were liberal of delight;
Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,
Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms
Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,
And orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And midst the flow'rs, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmer'd with show'ring light.
So now you stood to think what odours best
Made the air happy in that lovely nest;
And now you went beside the flowers, with eyes
Earnest as bees, restless as butterflies;
And then turn'd off into a shadier walk
Close and continuous, fit for lover's talk;
And then pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward, o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet.
At last you enter'd shades indeed, the wood,
Broken with glens and pits, and glades far-view'd,
Through which the distant palace now and then
Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken;
A land of trees,—which reaching round about
In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out;
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and darted in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in ev'ry part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats,—
With bow'ring leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully,—
Places of nestling green, for poets made,
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
Wall'd and tree-girt, and ending in a wood.
A small sweet house o'erlook'd it from a nest
Of pines:—all wood and garden was the rest,
Lawn, and green lane, and covert:—and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
With here and there a swan, the creature born
To be the only graceful shape of scorn.
The flower-beds all were liberal of delight;
Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,
23
Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,
And orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And midst the flow'rs, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmer'd with show'ring light.
So now you stood to think what odours best
Made the air happy in that lovely nest;
And now you went beside the flowers, with eyes
Earnest as bees, restless as butterflies;
And then turn'd off into a shadier walk
Close and continuous, fit for lover's talk;
And then pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward, o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet.
At last you enter'd shades indeed, the wood,
Broken with glens and pits, and glades far-view'd,
Through which the distant palace now and then
Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken;
A land of trees,—which reaching round about
In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out;
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and darted in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in ev'ry part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats,—
With bow'ring leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully,—
24
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way,
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,—
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:—
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping orchards,—fig, and almond trees,
Cherry and pine, with some few cypresses;
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still,
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill,
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with fruits and flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, half of citron bowers;
And in the middle of those golden trees,
Half seen amidst the globy oranges,
Lurk'd a rare summer-house, a lovely sight,—
Small, marble, well-proportion'd creamy white,
Its top with vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,—
And a young bay-tree either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Ting'd as it enter'd by the vine-leaves thin.
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,—
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:—
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping orchards,—fig, and almond trees,
Cherry and pine, with some few cypresses;
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still,
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill,
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with fruits and flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, half of citron bowers;
And in the middle of those golden trees,
Half seen amidst the globy oranges,
Lurk'd a rare summer-house, a lovely sight,—
Small, marble, well-proportion'd creamy white,
Its top with vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,—
And a young bay-tree either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Ting'd as it enter'd by the vine-leaves thin.
It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill,
Spar'd from the rage of war, and perfect still;
By some suppos'd the work of fairy hands,—
Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,
Alcina or Morgana,—who from fights
And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
And liv'd with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
But 'twas a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carv'd a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverent eyes,
Of sylvan drinks and foods, simple and sweet,
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about ran, on a line with this,
In like relief, a world of pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs themselves;
Some by the water-side, on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,—some in the stream at play,—
Some pelting the young Fauns with buds of May,—
Or half asleep pretending not to see
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters glide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
Spar'd from the rage of war, and perfect still;
By some suppos'd the work of fairy hands,—
Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,
Alcina or Morgana,—who from fights
And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
And liv'd with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
But 'twas a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carv'd a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverent eyes,
25
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about ran, on a line with this,
In like relief, a world of pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs themselves;
Some by the water-side, on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,—some in the stream at play,—
Some pelting the young Fauns with buds of May,—
Or half asleep pretending not to see
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters glide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
Ah, happy place! balm of regrets and fears,
E'en when thy very loveliness drew tears!
The time is coming, when to hear thee nam'd
Will be to make Love, Guilt, Revenge's self asham'd.
E'en when thy very loveliness drew tears!
The time is coming, when to hear thee nam'd
Will be to make Love, Guilt, Revenge's self asham'd.
All the sweet range, wood, flower-bed, grassy plot,
Francesca lov'd, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, often with looks
More sorrowful by far, yet sweeter too;
Sometimes with firmer comfort, which she drew
From sense of injury's self, and truth sustain'd:
Sometimes with rarest resignation, gain'd
From meek self-pitying mixtures of extremes
Of hope and soft despair, and child-like dreams,
And all that promising calm smile we see
In Nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you might hear
Sometimes, when everything was hush'd and clear,
Her sweet, rich voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin.
The gardeners, and the rest, who serv'd the place,
And bless'd whenever they beheld her face,
Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncover'd,
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
Francesca lov'd, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, often with looks
More sorrowful by far, yet sweeter too;
Sometimes with firmer comfort, which she drew
From sense of injury's self, and truth sustain'd:
Sometimes with rarest resignation, gain'd
From meek self-pitying mixtures of extremes
Of hope and soft despair, and child-like dreams,
And all that promising calm smile we see
In Nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you might hear
Sometimes, when everything was hush'd and clear,
Her sweet, rich voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin.
The gardeners, and the rest, who serv'd the place,
And bless'd whenever they beheld her face,
26
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
Oh weak old man! Love, saintliest life, and she,
Might all have dwelt together, but for thee.
Might all have dwelt together, but for thee.
One day,—'twas on a gentle, autumn noon,
When the cicale cease to mar the tune
Of birds and brooks—and morning work is done,
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,—
The Princess came to her accustomed bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour;
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
When the cicale cease to mar the tune
Of birds and brooks—and morning work is done,
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,—
The Princess came to her accustomed bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour;
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
She tried as usual for the trial's sake,
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,—
Too much reliev'd,—too much inclin'd to draw
A careless joy from everything she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,—
Too much reliev'd,—too much inclin'd to draw
A careless joy from everything she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.
Painfully clear those rising thoughts appear'd,
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd:
And turning from the trees her thoughtful look,
She reach'd o'erhead, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,
As though she had been wrapt since morning there.
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd:
And turning from the trees her thoughtful look,
She reach'd o'erhead, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,
As though she had been wrapt since morning there.
27
'Twas “Launcelot of the Lake,” a bright romance,
That like a trumpet made young pulses dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more:—
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
In hopes King Arthur might resent his wrong;
How reaching by himself a hill ere long,
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its calm white face; and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt overwound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he lov'd, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reach'd a lake, and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo! with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
Like stone thereat the mother stood, alas!—
The fairy of the place the lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was called) became
Her pupil, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play'd his part
So rarely, and display'd so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:—
And here, such interest in the tale she took,
Francesca's eyes went deeper in the book.
That like a trumpet made young pulses dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more:—
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
In hopes King Arthur might resent his wrong;
How reaching by himself a hill ere long,
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its calm white face; and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt overwound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he lov'd, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reach'd a lake, and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo! with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
Like stone thereat the mother stood, alas!—
The fairy of the place the lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was called) became
Her pupil, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play'd his part
So rarely, and display'd so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:—
And here, such interest in the tale she took,
Francesca's eyes went deeper in the book.
Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other on the table, half enwreath'd
In the thick tresses over which she breath'd.
So sat she fix'd, and so observ'd was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,—
Paulo,—who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
Twice had he seen her since the Prince was gone,
On some small matter needing unison;
Twice linger'd, and convers'd, and grown long friends;
But not till now where no one else attends.—
“May I come in?” said he:—it made her start,—
That smiling voice;—she colour'd, press'd her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said,—“O yes,—certainly.”
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure.
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this sat down to read the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embrac'd
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Came with a touch together thrillingly,
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other on the table, half enwreath'd
In the thick tresses over which she breath'd.
28
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,—
Paulo,—who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
Twice had he seen her since the Prince was gone,
On some small matter needing unison;
Twice linger'd, and convers'd, and grown long friends;
But not till now where no one else attends.—
“May I come in?” said he:—it made her start,—
That smiling voice;—she colour'd, press'd her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said,—“O yes,—certainly.”
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure.
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this sat down to read the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embrac'd
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Came with a touch together thrillingly,
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smil'd upon Launcelot, when he kiss'd her first:—
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kiss'd her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.—
Oh then she wept,—the poor Francesca wept;
And pardon oft he pray'd; and then she swept
The tears away, and look'd him in the face,
And, well as words might save the truth disgrace,
She told him all, up to that very hour,
The father's guile, th' undwelt-in bridal bower,—
And wish'd for wings on which they two might soar
Far, far away, as doves to their own shore,
With claim from none.—That day they read no more.
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smil'd upon Launcelot, when he kiss'd her first:—
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kiss'd her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.—
Oh then she wept,—the poor Francesca wept;
And pardon oft he pray'd; and then she swept
The tears away, and look'd him in the face,
And, well as words might save the truth disgrace,
She told him all, up to that very hour,
The father's guile, th' undwelt-in bridal bower,—
29
Far, far away, as doves to their own shore,
With claim from none.—That day they read no more.
CANTO IV.
Argument.
—The lovers are betrayed to the Prince. He slays them, and sends their bodies in one hearse to Ravenna.
But other thoughts, on other wings than theirs,
Came bringing them, ere long, their own despairs.
The spiteful fop I spoke of, he that set
His eyes at work to pay his anger's debt,—
This idiot, prying from a neighb'ring tower,
Had watch'd the lover to the lady's bower,
And flew to make a madman of her lord,
Just then encamp'd with loss, a shame his soul abhorr'd.
Came bringing them, ere long, their own despairs.
The spiteful fop I spoke of, he that set
His eyes at work to pay his anger's debt,—
This idiot, prying from a neighb'ring tower,
Had watch'd the lover to the lady's bower,
And flew to make a madman of her lord,
Just then encamp'd with loss, a shame his soul abhorr'd.
Pale first, then red, his eyes upon the stretch,
Then deadly white, the husband heard the wretch,
Who in soft terms, almost with lurking smile,
Ran on, expressing his “regret” the while.
The husband, prince, cripple, and brother heard;
Then seem'd astonish'd at the man; then stirr'd
His tongue but could not speak; then dash'd aside
His chair as he arose, and loudly cried,
“Liar and madman! thou art he was seen
Risking the fangs which thou hast rush'd between.
Regorge the filth in thy detested throat.”
And at the word, with his huge fist he smote
Like iron on the place, then seized him all,
And dash'd in swoon against the bleeding wall.
Then deadly white, the husband heard the wretch,
Who in soft terms, almost with lurking smile,
Ran on, expressing his “regret” the while.
The husband, prince, cripple, and brother heard;
Then seem'd astonish'd at the man; then stirr'd
His tongue but could not speak; then dash'd aside
His chair as he arose, and loudly cried,
“Liar and madman! thou art he was seen
Risking the fangs which thou hast rush'd between.
Regorge the filth in thy detested throat.”
And at the word, with his huge fist he smote
Like iron on the place, then seized him all,
And dash'd in swoon against the bleeding wall.
'Twas dusk:—he summon'd an old chieftain stern,
Giving him charge of all till his return,
And with one servant got to horse and rode
All night, until he reached a lone abode
Not far from the green bower. Next day at noon,
Through a bye-way, free to himselfe alone,
Alone he rode, yet ever in disguise,
His hat pull'd over his assassin eyes,
And coming through the wood, there left his horse,
Then down amid the fruit-trees, half by force,
Made way; and by the summer house's door,
Which he found shut, paus'd till a doubt was o'er.
Paus'd, and gave ear. There was a low sweet voice:—
The door was one that open'd without noise;
And opening it, he look'd within, and saw,
Nought hearing, nought suspecting, not in awe
Of one created thing in earth or skies,
The lovers, interchanging words and sighs,
Lost in the heaven of one another's eyes.
“To thee it was my father wedded me,”
Francesca said:—“I never lov'd but thee.
The rest was ever but an ugly dream.”—
“Damn'd be the soul that says it,” cried a scream.
Horror is in the room,—shrieks,—roaring cries,
Parryings of feeble palms—blindly shut eyes:—
What, without arms, avail'd grief, strength, despair?
Or what the two poor hands put forth in prayer?
Hot is the dagger from the brother's heart,
Deep in the wife's:—dead both and dash'd apart,
Mighty the murderer felt as there they lay;
Mighty, for one huge moment, o'er his prey;
Then, like a drunken man, he rode away.
Giving him charge of all till his return,
And with one servant got to horse and rode
All night, until he reached a lone abode
Not far from the green bower. Next day at noon,
Through a bye-way, free to himselfe alone,
Alone he rode, yet ever in disguise,
His hat pull'd over his assassin eyes,
30
Then down amid the fruit-trees, half by force,
Made way; and by the summer house's door,
Which he found shut, paus'd till a doubt was o'er.
Paus'd, and gave ear. There was a low sweet voice:—
The door was one that open'd without noise;
And opening it, he look'd within, and saw,
Nought hearing, nought suspecting, not in awe
Of one created thing in earth or skies,
The lovers, interchanging words and sighs,
Lost in the heaven of one another's eyes.
“To thee it was my father wedded me,”
Francesca said:—“I never lov'd but thee.
The rest was ever but an ugly dream.”—
“Damn'd be the soul that says it,” cried a scream.
Horror is in the room,—shrieks,—roaring cries,
Parryings of feeble palms—blindly shut eyes:—
What, without arms, avail'd grief, strength, despair?
Or what the two poor hands put forth in prayer?
Hot is the dagger from the brother's heart,
Deep in the wife's:—dead both and dash'd apart,
Mighty the murderer felt as there they lay;
Mighty, for one huge moment, o'er his prey;
Then, like a drunken man, he rode away.
To tell what horror smote the people's ears,
The questionings, the amaze, the many tears,
The secret household thoughts, the public awe,
And how those ran back shrieking, that first saw
The beauteous bodies lying in the place,
Bloody and dead in midst of all their grace,
Would keep too long the hideous deed in sight;
Back was the slayer in his camp that night;
And fell next day with such a desperate sword
Upon the rebel army at a ford,
As sent the red news rolling to the sea,
And steadied his wild nerves with victory.
At court as usual then he reappear'd,
Fierce, but self-centred, willing to be fear'd;
Nor, saving once, at a lone chamber-door,
Utter'd he word of those now seen no more,
Nor dull'd his dress, nor shunn'd the being seen,
But look'd, talk'd, reign'd, as they had never been.
The questionings, the amaze, the many tears,
The secret household thoughts, the public awe,
And how those ran back shrieking, that first saw
The beauteous bodies lying in the place,
Bloody and dead in midst of all their grace,
Would keep too long the hideous deed in sight;
Back was the slayer in his camp that night;
And fell next day with such a desperate sword
Upon the rebel army at a ford,
As sent the red news rolling to the sea,
And steadied his wild nerves with victory.
At court as usual then he reappear'd,
Fierce, but self-centred, willing to be fear'd;
Nor, saving once, at a lone chamber-door,
Utter'd he word of those now seen no more,
31
But look'd, talk'd, reign'd, as they had never been.
Nevertheless, his shame and misery still,
Only less great than his enormous will,
Darken'd his heart; and in the cloud there hung,
Like some small haunting knell for ever rung,
Words which contain'd a dawning mystery,
“It was to thee my father wedded me.”
The silence of his pride at length he broke,
With handmaid then, and then with priest he spoke,
And, sham'd beyond all former shame, yet rais'd
From Jealousy's worst hell, his fancy gaz'd
On the new scene that made his wrath less wild—
The sire ensnaring his devoted child.
Him foremost he beheld in all the past,
And him he now ordain'd to gather all at last.
Only less great than his enormous will,
Darken'd his heart; and in the cloud there hung,
Like some small haunting knell for ever rung,
Words which contain'd a dawning mystery,
“It was to thee my father wedded me.”
The silence of his pride at length he broke,
With handmaid then, and then with priest he spoke,
And, sham'd beyond all former shame, yet rais'd
From Jealousy's worst hell, his fancy gaz'd
On the new scene that made his wrath less wild—
The sire ensnaring his devoted child.
Him foremost he beheld in all the past,
And him he now ordain'd to gather all at last.
One dull day, therefore, from the palace-gate,
A blast of trumpets blew, like voice of fate,
And all in sable clad forth came again
A remnant of the former sprightly train,
With churchmen intermixt; and closing all,
Was a blind hearse, hung with an ermined pall,
And bearing on its top, together set,
A prince's and princess's coronet.
Simply they came along, amidst the sighs
And tears of those who looked with wondering eyes:
Nor bell they had, nor choristers in white,
Nor stopp'd, as most expected, within sight;
But pass'd the streets, the gates, the last abode,
And tow'rds Ravenna held their silent road.
A blast of trumpets blew, like voice of fate,
And all in sable clad forth came again
A remnant of the former sprightly train,
With churchmen intermixt; and closing all,
Was a blind hearse, hung with an ermined pall,
And bearing on its top, together set,
A prince's and princess's coronet.
Simply they came along, amidst the sighs
And tears of those who looked with wondering eyes:
Nor bell they had, nor choristers in white,
Nor stopp'd, as most expected, within sight;
But pass'd the streets, the gates, the last abode,
And tow'rds Ravenna held their silent road.
Before it left, the Prince had sent swift word
To the old Duke of all that had occurr'd:
“And though I shall not,” (so concluded he)
“Otherwise touch thine age's misery,
“Yet as I would that both one grave should hide,
“Which must and shall not be, where I reside,
“'Tis fit, though all have something to deplore,
“That he who join'd them first, should keep to part no more.”
To the old Duke of all that had occurr'd:
“And though I shall not,” (so concluded he)
“Otherwise touch thine age's misery,
“Yet as I would that both one grave should hide,
“Which must and shall not be, where I reside,
“'Tis fit, though all have something to deplore,
“That he who join'd them first, should keep to part no more.”
32
The wretched father, who, when he had read
This letter, felt it wither his gray head,
And ever since had pac'd about his room,
Trembling, and seiz'd as with approaching doom,
Had given such orders as he well could frame
To meet devoutly whatsoever came;
And, as the news immediately took flight,
Few in Ravenna went to sleep that night,
But talk'd the business over, and review'd
All that they knew of her, the fair and good;
And so with wond'ring sorrow, the next day,
Waited till they should see that sad array.
This letter, felt it wither his gray head,
And ever since had pac'd about his room,
Trembling, and seiz'd as with approaching doom,
Had given such orders as he well could frame
To meet devoutly whatsoever came;
And, as the news immediately took flight,
Few in Ravenna went to sleep that night,
But talk'd the business over, and review'd
All that they knew of her, the fair and good;
And so with wond'ring sorrow, the next day,
Waited till they should see that sad array.
The days were then at close of autumn,—still,
A little rainy, and, towards nightfall, chill;
There was a fitful moaning air abroad;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose trunks, wet, bare, and cold, seem'd ill at ease.
The people, who, from reverence, kept at home,
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard
But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr'd,
Till tow'rds the vesper hour; and then, 'twas said,
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read;
And others said, that they could hear a sound
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still nothing came:—till on a sudden, just
As the wind open'd in a rising gust,
A voice of chaunting rose, and, as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers, who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turn'd aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roll'd.
A little rainy, and, towards nightfall, chill;
There was a fitful moaning air abroad;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose trunks, wet, bare, and cold, seem'd ill at ease.
The people, who, from reverence, kept at home,
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard
But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr'd,
Till tow'rds the vesper hour; and then, 'twas said,
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read;
And others said, that they could hear a sound
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still nothing came:—till on a sudden, just
As the wind open'd in a rising gust,
A voice of chaunting rose, and, as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers, who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turn'd aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roll'd.
But of the older people few could bear
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The bier approaching, slow and steadily,
On which those two in senseless coldness lay,
Who, but some brief years since,—it seem'd a day,—
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind;
In sunny manhood he,—she honor'd, fair, and kind.
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The bier approaching, slow and steadily,
33
Who, but some brief years since,—it seem'd a day,—
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind;
In sunny manhood he,—she honor'd, fair, and kind.
They say, that when Duke Guido saw them come
Bringing him thus, in that one dismal sum,
The whole amount of all for which his heart
Had sunk the father's in the schemer's part,
He rose, in private where he sate; and seem'd
As though he'd walk to them, like one that dream'd,
Right from the window, crying still “My child!”
And from that day thenceforth he never smiled.
Bringing him thus, in that one dismal sum,
The whole amount of all for which his heart
Had sunk the father's in the schemer's part,
He rose, in private where he sate; and seem'd
As though he'd walk to them, like one that dream'd,
Right from the window, crying still “My child!”
And from that day thenceforth he never smiled.
On that same night, those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave, under a tree.
There, side by side, and hand in hand they lay,
In the green ground; and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betroth'd, used to go there, to pray.
Were buried in one grave, under a tree.
There, side by side, and hand in hand they lay,
In the green ground; and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betroth'd, used to go there, to pray.
CORSO AND EMILIA.
FRAGMENT OF THE STORY OF ANOTHER VICTIM TO PARENTAL DUPLICITY.
1814.
It has surpris'd me often, as I write,
How I, who have of late known small delight,
Should thus pursue a mournful theme, and make
My very solace of distress partake;
Now too, while rains autumnal, as I sing,
Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing,
And all the climate presses on my sense;
But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence,
And leafy dreams afford me, and a feeling
Which I should else disdain, tear-dipp'd and healing;
And shows me, more than what it first design'd,
How little upon earth our home we find,
Or close th' intended course of erring humankind.
How I, who have of late known small delight,
Should thus pursue a mournful theme, and make
My very solace of distress partake;
Now too, while rains autumnal, as I sing,
Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing,
And all the climate presses on my sense;
But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence,
And leafy dreams afford me, and a feeling
Which I should else disdain, tear-dipp'd and healing;
34
How little upon earth our home we find,
Or close th' intended course of erring humankind.
Sorrow, they say, to one with true-touch'd ear,
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere,
A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be,
Distils the next note more deliciously.
'Tis hard to think it, till the note be heard,
A joy too often and too long deferr'd.
Yet come it will, hereafter, if not here;
And good meantime comes best from many a tear.
Tales like the present, of a real woe,
From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow:
The woes were few, were brief, have long been past;
The warnings they bequeath spread wide and last.
And even they, whose shatter'd hearts and frames
Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crush'd perfumes exhaling to the sky?
Or weeping clouds, that but awhile are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to bright and green?
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere,
A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be,
Distils the next note more deliciously.
'Tis hard to think it, till the note be heard,
A joy too often and too long deferr'd.
Yet come it will, hereafter, if not here;
And good meantime comes best from many a tear.
Tales like the present, of a real woe,
From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow:
The woes were few, were brief, have long been past;
The warnings they bequeath spread wide and last.
And even they, whose shatter'd hearts and frames
Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crush'd perfumes exhaling to the sky?
Or weeping clouds, that but awhile are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to bright and green?
Three months have pass'd;—how pass'd, remains unknown;
But never now, companion'd or alone,
Comes the sweet lady to her summer bower.
Corso did once, arm'd with the sterner power
Of a man's grief. He saw it; but how look'd
The bow'r at him! His presence felt rebuk'd.
It seem'd as if the hopes of his young heart,
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art,
Had all been a fop's dream, or at the best
Poor weak half virtues that could stand no test,
And that on waking from his idle fit,
He found himself (how could he think of it!)
A selfish boaster, and a hypocrite.
But never now, companion'd or alone,
Comes the sweet lady to her summer bower.
Corso did once, arm'd with the sterner power
Of a man's grief. He saw it; but how look'd
The bow'r at him! His presence felt rebuk'd.
It seem'd as if the hopes of his young heart,
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art,
Had all been a fop's dream, or at the best
Poor weak half virtues that could stand no test,
And that on waking from his idle fit,
He found himself (how could he think of it!)
A selfish boaster, and a hypocrite.
That thought before had griev'd him, but the pain
Cut sharp and sudden, now it came again.
Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick,
And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick;
And pale he stood, and seem'd to burst all o'er
Into moist anguish never felt before,
And with a dreadful certainty to know
His peace was gone, and all to come was woe;
Come too to her! doom'd, and by him, to bear,
In the dire lot, poor woman's direr share!—
It seem'd as if horrors thus heap'd must find
Some props, or they would crush his brain-sick mind:
And find they did, not what the worse disease
Of want of charity calls sophistries,—
Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain,—
But humble guesses, helping to sustain.
He thought of things, whose love we seldom heed,
Till sin or sorrow make the help a need,—
Of habit, circumstance, design, degree,
Merit, and will, and boundless charity;
And these, although they push'd down, as they rose,
His self-respect, and all those morning shows
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Push'd with them too the worst of hopeless guilt;
Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That sacrifice of self would earn them grace,
Help'd to restore him to his wonted life,
Though restless still, and with his looks at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And greeting his blithe courser, ride away,
Seemingly blithe as he, gazing about
On tow'r and cot, to force his thoughts without;
And when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade,
And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh,
Or pluck the grass beside him with vague eye,
And almost envy the poor beast, that went
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content.
But thus, at least, he exercis'd his blood,
And kept it livelier than inaction could;
And thus he earned for his thought-working head
The power of sleeping when he went to bed,
And was enabled still to wear away
That task of loaded hearts, another day.
Cut sharp and sudden, now it came again.
Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick,
And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick;
35
Into moist anguish never felt before,
And with a dreadful certainty to know
His peace was gone, and all to come was woe;
Come too to her! doom'd, and by him, to bear,
In the dire lot, poor woman's direr share!—
It seem'd as if horrors thus heap'd must find
Some props, or they would crush his brain-sick mind:
And find they did, not what the worse disease
Of want of charity calls sophistries,—
Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain,—
But humble guesses, helping to sustain.
He thought of things, whose love we seldom heed,
Till sin or sorrow make the help a need,—
Of habit, circumstance, design, degree,
Merit, and will, and boundless charity;
And these, although they push'd down, as they rose,
His self-respect, and all those morning shows
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Push'd with them too the worst of hopeless guilt;
Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That sacrifice of self would earn them grace,
Help'd to restore him to his wonted life,
Though restless still, and with his looks at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And greeting his blithe courser, ride away,
Seemingly blithe as he, gazing about
On tow'r and cot, to force his thoughts without;
And when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade,
And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh,
Or pluck the grass beside him with vague eye,
And almost envy the poor beast, that went
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content.
But thus, at least, he exercis'd his blood,
And kept it livelier than inaction could;
And thus he earned for his thought-working head
The power of sleeping when he went to bed,
36
That task of loaded hearts, another day.
But she, the gentler frame,—the shaken flower,—
The daughter, sacrificed in evil hour,—
The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she,
Wife that still was, and mother that might be,—
What could she do, unable thus to keep
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep,
Forever stooping o'er her broidery frame,
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came,
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow
She might be still and senseless till the morrow!
The daughter, sacrificed in evil hour,—
The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she,
Wife that still was, and mother that might be,—
What could she do, unable thus to keep
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep,
Forever stooping o'er her broidery frame,
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came,
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow
She might be still and senseless till the morrow!
And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise!
How would she open her despairing eyes,
And from the sense of the long lingering day
Rushing upon her, almost turn away,
Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again!
Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain,
She would get up in haste, and try to pass
The time in patience, wretched as it was;
Till patience self, in her distemper'd sight,
Would seem a charm to which she had no right,
And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears,
She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears.
Old comforts now were not at her command:
The falcon stoop'd in vain to court her hand;
The flowers were not refresh'd; the very light,
The sunshine, seem'd as if it shone at night;
The least noise smote her like a sudden wound;
And did she hear but the remotest sound
Of song or instrument about the place,
She hid with both her hands her streaming face.
But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she,
That ever, ever, such a worse should be!)
The sight of infant was, or child at play;
Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray,
That Heaven would take her, if it pleas'd, away.
How would she open her despairing eyes,
And from the sense of the long lingering day
Rushing upon her, almost turn away,
Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again!
Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain,
She would get up in haste, and try to pass
The time in patience, wretched as it was;
Till patience self, in her distemper'd sight,
Would seem a charm to which she had no right,
And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears,
She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears.
Old comforts now were not at her command:
The falcon stoop'd in vain to court her hand;
The flowers were not refresh'd; the very light,
The sunshine, seem'd as if it shone at night;
The least noise smote her like a sudden wound;
And did she hear but the remotest sound
Of song or instrument about the place,
She hid with both her hands her streaming face.
But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she,
That ever, ever, such a worse should be!)
The sight of infant was, or child at play;
Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray,
That Heaven would take her, if it pleas'd, away.
37
Meantime her lord, who by her long distress
Seem'd wrought, at first, to some true tenderness,
Which, to his sore amaze, did but appear
To vex her more than when he was severe,
Began, with helps of wondering tongues, to see
In moods (he thought) so bent to disagree,
And in all else she look'd and said, and all
His brother did, who now in bower or hall
Seldom dar'd trust his still ingenuous face,—
The secret of a sure and dire disgrace.
What a convulsion was the first belief!
Astonishment, abasement, profound grief,
Self-pity, almost tears, thence self-disdain
For stooping to so weak and vile a pain,
With mad impatience to surmount the blow
In some retributive and bloody woe,—
All rush'd upon him, like the sudden view
Of some new world, foreign to all he knew,
Where he had wak'd and found the dreams of madmen true.
Seem'd wrought, at first, to some true tenderness,
Which, to his sore amaze, did but appear
To vex her more than when he was severe,
Began, with helps of wondering tongues, to see
In moods (he thought) so bent to disagree,
And in all else she look'd and said, and all
His brother did, who now in bower or hall
Seldom dar'd trust his still ingenuous face,—
The secret of a sure and dire disgrace.
What a convulsion was the first belief!
Astonishment, abasement, profound grief,
Self-pity, almost tears, thence self-disdain
For stooping to so weak and vile a pain,
With mad impatience to surmount the blow
In some retributive and bloody woe,—
All rush'd upon him, like the sudden view
Of some new world, foreign to all he knew,
Where he had wak'd and found the dreams of madmen true.
If any lingering hope that he was wrong,
Pride's self would needs hold fast, 'twas not so long.
One dawn, as sullenly awake he lay,
Considering what to do the approaching day;
He heard his wife say something in her sleep,—
He shook, and listened;—she began to weep,
And moaning louder, seem'd to shake her head,
Till all at once articulate, she said,
“He loves his brother yet.—Dear Heaven, 'twas I—”
Then lower voiced—“Only do let me die.”
Pride's self would needs hold fast, 'twas not so long.
One dawn, as sullenly awake he lay,
Considering what to do the approaching day;
He heard his wife say something in her sleep,—
He shook, and listened;—she began to weep,
And moaning louder, seem'd to shake her head,
Till all at once articulate, she said,
“He loves his brother yet.—Dear Heaven, 'twas I—”
Then lower voiced—“Only do let me die.”
With the worst impulse of his whole fierce life
The husband glared, one moment, on his wife:
Then grasp'd a crucifix, and look'd no more.
He dresses, takes two swords, and through the door
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air;—
His squire awak'd attends; and they repair,
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room:—
His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.
The husband glared, one moment, on his wife:
Then grasp'd a crucifix, and look'd no more.
He dresses, takes two swords, and through the door
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air;—
His squire awak'd attends; and they repair,
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room:—
His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.
38
The brothers meet,—Lorenzo scarce in breath,
Yet firm and fierce, Corso as pale as death.
The husband, motioning while turning round,
To lead the way, said, “To the tilting ground.”
“There, brother,” answer'd Corso, while despair
Rush'd on his face. “Yes, brother,” cried he, “there.”
The word smote crushingly; and paler still,
He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will.
Yet firm and fierce, Corso as pale as death.
The husband, motioning while turning round,
To lead the way, said, “To the tilting ground.”
“There, brother,” answer'd Corso, while despair
Rush'd on his face. “Yes, brother,” cried he, “there.”
The word smote crushingly; and paler still,
He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will.
'Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill;
The lightsome morning star was sparkling still,
Ere it turn'd in to heaven; and far away
Appear'd the streaky fingers of the day.
An opening in the trees took Corso's eye,
As mute his brother and himself went by:
It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound
That screen'd Emilia's favourite spot of ground:
Massy and dark in the clear dawning stood,
As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood;
And through the bowering arch, which led inside,
He almost fancied once, that he descried
A marble gleam, where the pavilion lay—
Starting he turn'd, and look'd another way.
The lightsome morning star was sparkling still,
Ere it turn'd in to heaven; and far away
Appear'd the streaky fingers of the day.
An opening in the trees took Corso's eye,
As mute his brother and himself went by:
It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound
That screen'd Emilia's favourite spot of ground:
Massy and dark in the clear dawning stood,
As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood;
And through the bowering arch, which led inside,
He almost fancied once, that he descried
A marble gleam, where the pavilion lay—
Starting he turn'd, and look'd another way.
Arriv'd, and waving the two squires apart,
Then pressing with his hand his labouring heart,
The Prince spoke low and close, (and as he spoke
His voice with breathless and pale passion broke,)
“Sleep hath reveal'd a villain,” were his words:
Then gave his paler brother one of the two swords.
Then pressing with his hand his labouring heart,
The Prince spoke low and close, (and as he spoke
His voice with breathless and pale passion broke,)
“Sleep hath reveal'd a villain,” were his words:
Then gave his paler brother one of the two swords.
Corso's heart rose, exalted with despair;
He drew a little back; and with the air
Of one who would do well, not from the right
To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite,
Answer'd, “The sword is sheath'd. So rest it ever.
Misery's self shall fight no brother. Never.”
He drew a little back; and with the air
Of one who would do well, not from the right
To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite,
Answer'd, “The sword is sheath'd. So rest it ever.
Misery's self shall fight no brother. Never.”
“How!” with uplifted voice, exclaim'd the other;
“Hideous pretence! who bade you fight a brother?
Brother? O wretch! O traitor to the name!
Dash'd in thy teeth, and cursed be the claim.
What! wound it deepest? strike me to the core,
Me, and the hopes which I can have no more,
And then as never brother of mine could,
Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?”
“Hideous pretence! who bade you fight a brother?
39
Dash'd in thy teeth, and cursed be the claim.
What! wound it deepest? strike me to the core,
Me, and the hopes which I can have no more,
And then as never brother of mine could,
Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?”
“It is not so,” cried Corso, “'tis not so;
“But I would save you from a further woe.”
“But I would save you from a further woe.”
“A further woe, recreant!” retorted he:
“What woe? what further? yes, one still may be!
Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace,
Of seeing one of an illustrious race
Bearing about a heart, which fear'd no law,
And a vile sword, which yet he dared not draw.”
“What woe? what further? yes, one still may be!
Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace,
Of seeing one of an illustrious race
Bearing about a heart, which fear'd no law,
And a vile sword, which yet he dared not draw.”
“Brother, dear brother!” Corso cried, “nay, nay.
I'll use the word no more;—but peace, I pray!
You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet!”
“'Tis false!” exclaim'd the prince; “'tis a retreat
To which you fly, when manly wrongs pursue,
And fear the grave you bring a woman to.”
I'll use the word no more;—but peace, I pray!
You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet!”
“'Tis false!” exclaim'd the prince; “'tis a retreat
To which you fly, when manly wrongs pursue,
And fear the grave you bring a woman to.”
With sudden start, and then with bow'd, meek look
Waiving the charge, yet not its worst rebuke,
Th' offender sigh'd; then rose without a word,
And drew, and kiss'd the cross'd hilt of his sword,
Looking to heaven;—then, with a steady brow,
Mild, yet not feeble, said, “I'm ready now.”
Waiving the charge, yet not its worst rebuke,
Th' offender sigh'd; then rose without a word,
And drew, and kiss'd the cross'd hilt of his sword,
Looking to heaven;—then, with a steady brow,
Mild, yet not feeble, said, “I'm ready now.”
“A noble word!” exclaim'd the prince, and smote
The ground beneath him with his firming foot:—
The squires rush in between, in their despair,
But both the princes tell them to beware.
“Back, Gerard,” cries Lorenzo; “I require
“No teacher here, but an observant squire.”
“Back, Tristan,” Corso cries; “fear not for me;
“All is not worst that so appears to thee.
The ground beneath him with his firming foot:—
The squires rush in between, in their despair,
But both the princes tell them to beware.
“Back, Gerard,” cries Lorenzo; “I require
“No teacher here, but an observant squire.”
“Back, Tristan,” Corso cries; “fear not for me;
“All is not worst that so appears to thee.
40
“And here,” said he, “a word.” The poor youth came,
Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name:
A whisper, and a charge there seem'd to be,
Giv'n to him kindly yet inflexibly:
Both squires then drew apart again, and stood
Mournfully both, each in his several mood,—
One half in rage, as to himself he speaks,
The other with the tears streaming down both his cheeks.
Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name:
A whisper, and a charge there seem'd to be,
Giv'n to him kindly yet inflexibly:
Both squires then drew apart again, and stood
Mournfully both, each in his several mood,—
One half in rage, as to himself he speaks,
The other with the tears streaming down both his cheeks.
The prince attack'd with nerve in every limb,
Nor seem'd the other slow to match with him;
Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident,
One only of the two on blood was bent:
Lorenzo press'd, and push'd, and shifted aim,
And play'd his weapon like a tongue of flame;
Corso retir'd, and warded, turn'd on heel,
And led him, step by step, round like a wheel;
Sometimes indeed he feign'd an angrier start,
But still relaps'd, and play'd his former part.
Nor seem'd the other slow to match with him;
Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident,
One only of the two on blood was bent:
Lorenzo press'd, and push'd, and shifted aim,
And play'd his weapon like a tongue of flame;
Corso retir'd, and warded, turn'd on heel,
And led him, step by step, round like a wheel;
Sometimes indeed he feign'd an angrier start,
But still relaps'd, and play'd his former part.
“What!” cried Lorenzo, who grew still more fierce,
“Fighting in sport? Playing your cart and tierce?”
“Fighting in sport? Playing your cart and tierce?”
“Not so, my prince,” said Corso; “have a care
“How you think so, or I shall wound you there.”
He stamp'd, and watching as he spoke the word,
Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword.
“How you think so, or I shall wound you there.”
He stamp'd, and watching as he spoke the word,
Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword.
'Twas done. He stagger'd; and in falling prest
Lorenzo's foot with his right hand and breast:
Then on his elbow turn'd, and raising t'other,
He smil'd and said, “No fault of yours, my brother;
An accident—a slip—the finishing one
To errors by that poor old man begun.
You'll not—you'll not”—his heart leap'd on before,
And chok'd his utterance; but he smil'd once more,
For as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest;—
And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest,
He turn'd him round, and dropt with hiding head,
And in that loosening drop his spirit fled.
Lorenzo's foot with his right hand and breast:
Then on his elbow turn'd, and raising t'other,
He smil'd and said, “No fault of yours, my brother;
An accident—a slip—the finishing one
To errors by that poor old man begun.
You'll not—you'll not”—his heart leap'd on before,
And chok'd his utterance; but he smil'd once more,
For as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest;—
And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest,
He turn'd him round, and dropt with hiding head,
And in that loosening drop his spirit fled.
41
But noble passion touch'd Lorenzo's soul;
He seem'd to feel the clouds of habit roll
Away from him at once, with all their scorn,
And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn:—
He seem'd to feel the clouds of habit roll
Away from him at once, with all their scorn,
And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn:—
“By heaven, by heaven, and all the better part
Of us poor creatures with a human heart,
I trust we reap at last, as well as plough;—
But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou:
And, Corso, thou wert the completest knight,
That ever rode with banner to the fight;
And thou wert the most beautiful to see,
That ever came in press of chivalry;
And of a sinful man, thou wert the best,
That ever for his friend put spear in rest;
And thou wert the most meek and cordial,
That ever among ladies ate in hall;
And thou wert still, for all that bosom gor'd,
The kindest man that ever struck with sword.”
Of us poor creatures with a human heart,
I trust we reap at last, as well as plough;—
But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou:
And, Corso, thou wert the completest knight,
That ever rode with banner to the fight;
And thou wert the most beautiful to see,
That ever came in press of chivalry;
And of a sinful man, thou wert the best,
That ever for his friend put spear in rest;
And thou wert the most meek and cordial,
That ever among ladies ate in hall;
And thou wert still, for all that bosom gor'd,
The kindest man that ever struck with sword.”
At this the words forsook his tongue; and he,
Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy,
Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly bow'd
His head, and for his brother wept aloud.
Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy,
Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly bow'd
His head, and for his brother wept aloud.
The squires with glimmering tears—Tristan, at first,
Trying, with greedy search, to doubt the worst,
Double their scarfs about the fatal wound,
And lift the corse, and wait to quit the ground.
Lorenzo starts; and motioning to take
The way they came, follows his brother back,
And having seen him laid upon the bed,
No further look he gave him, nor tear shed,
But went away, such as he used to be,
With looks of stately will and calm austerity.
Trying, with greedy search, to doubt the worst,
Double their scarfs about the fatal wound,
And lift the corse, and wait to quit the ground.
Lorenzo starts; and motioning to take
The way they came, follows his brother back,
And having seen him laid upon the bed,
No further look he gave him, nor tear shed,
But went away, such as he used to be,
With looks of stately will and calm austerity.
Tristan, who when he was to make the best
Of something sad and not to be redress'd,
Could show a heart as firm as it was kind,
Now lock'd his tears up, and seem'd all resign'd,
And to Emilia's chamber took his way,
To tell the message of that mortal day.
He found her ladies, up and down the stairs,
Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears,
And that the news, though to herself unknown,
On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown.
The door, as tenderly as miser's purse,
Was opened by the pale and aged nurse,
Who shaking her old head, and pressing close
Her wither'd lips to keep the tears that rose,
Made signs she guess'd what grief he came about,
And so his arm squeez'd gently, and went out.
Of something sad and not to be redress'd,
Could show a heart as firm as it was kind,
Now lock'd his tears up, and seem'd all resign'd,
42
To tell the message of that mortal day.
He found her ladies, up and down the stairs,
Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears,
And that the news, though to herself unknown,
On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown.
The door, as tenderly as miser's purse,
Was opened by the pale and aged nurse,
Who shaking her old head, and pressing close
Her wither'd lips to keep the tears that rose,
Made signs she guess'd what grief he came about,
And so his arm squeez'd gently, and went out.
The princess, who had pass'd a fearful night,
Toiling with dreams,—fright crowding upon fright,
Had miss'd her husband at that early hour,
And would have ris'n, but found she wanted power.
Yet as her body seem'd to go, her mind
Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resign'd;
And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay,
Wasting in patient gravity away.
The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep
Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep:
But suddenly she ask'd, though not with fear,
“Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear?”
And the poor creature, who the news had heard,
Pretending to be busy, had just stirr'd
Something about the room, and answer'd not a word.
Toiling with dreams,—fright crowding upon fright,
Had miss'd her husband at that early hour,
And would have ris'n, but found she wanted power.
Yet as her body seem'd to go, her mind
Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resign'd;
And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay,
Wasting in patient gravity away.
The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep
Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep:
But suddenly she ask'd, though not with fear,
“Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear?”
And the poor creature, who the news had heard,
Pretending to be busy, had just stirr'd
Something about the room, and answer'd not a word.
“Who's there?” said that sweet voice, kindly and clear,
Which in its stronger days was joy to hear:—
Its weakness now almost depriv'd the squire
Of his new firmness, but approaching nigher,
“Madam,” said he, “'tis I; one who may say,
He loves his friends more than himself to-day;—
Tristan.”—She paus'd a little, and then said—
“Tristan, my friend, what noise thus haunts my head?
Something I'm sure has happen'd—tell me what—
I can bear all, though you may fancy not.”
“Madam,” replied the squire, “you are, I know,
All sweetness—pardon me for saying so.
My master bade me say then,” resum'd he,
“That he spoke firmly when he told it me,—
That I was, also, madam, to your ear
Firmly to speak, and you firmly to hear,—
That he was forced this day, whether or no,
To combat with the prince; and that although
His noble brother was no fratricide,
Yet in that fight, and on his sword,—he died.”
Which in its stronger days was joy to hear:—
Its weakness now almost depriv'd the squire
Of his new firmness, but approaching nigher,
“Madam,” said he, “'tis I; one who may say,
He loves his friends more than himself to-day;—
Tristan.”—She paus'd a little, and then said—
“Tristan, my friend, what noise thus haunts my head?
Something I'm sure has happen'd—tell me what—
I can bear all, though you may fancy not.”
“Madam,” replied the squire, “you are, I know,
All sweetness—pardon me for saying so.
43
“That he spoke firmly when he told it me,—
That I was, also, madam, to your ear
Firmly to speak, and you firmly to hear,—
That he was forced this day, whether or no,
To combat with the prince; and that although
His noble brother was no fratricide,
Yet in that fight, and on his sword,—he died.”
“I understand,” with firmness answer'd she,
More low in voice, but still composedly.
“Now, Tristan—faithful friend—leave me; and take
This trifle here, and keep it for my sake.”
More low in voice, but still composedly.
“Now, Tristan—faithful friend—leave me; and take
This trifle here, and keep it for my sake.”
So saying, from the curtains she put forth
Her thin white hand, that held a ring of worth;
And he, with tears no longer to be kept
From quenching his heart's thirst, silently wept,
And kneeling, took the ring, and touch'd her hand
To either streaming eye with homage bland,
And looking on it once, gently up started,
And in his reverent stillness so departed.
Her thin white hand, that held a ring of worth;
And he, with tears no longer to be kept
From quenching his heart's thirst, silently wept,
And kneeling, took the ring, and touch'd her hand
To either streaming eye with homage bland,
And looking on it once, gently up started,
And in his reverent stillness so departed.
Her favourite lady then with the old nurse
Return'd, and fearing she must now be worse,
Gently withdrew the curtains, and look'd in:—
O, who that knows where faults may first begin,
Shall bid not earth be just, before 'tis hard, with sin?
There lay she praying, upwardly intent,
Like a fair statue on a monument,
With her two trembling hands together prest,
Palm against palm, and pointing from her breast,
She ceas'd; and turning slowly tow'rds the wall,
They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all,—
Then suddenly be still. Near and more near
They bent with pale inquiry and close ear;
Her eyes were shut—no motion—not a breath—
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death.
Return'd, and fearing she must now be worse,
Gently withdrew the curtains, and look'd in:—
O, who that knows where faults may first begin,
Shall bid not earth be just, before 'tis hard, with sin?
There lay she praying, upwardly intent,
Like a fair statue on a monument,
With her two trembling hands together prest,
Palm against palm, and pointing from her breast,
She ceas'd; and turning slowly tow'rds the wall,
They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all,—
Then suddenly be still. Near and more near
They bent with pale inquiry and close ear;
Her eyes were shut—no motion—not a breath—
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death.
44
HERO AND LEANDER.
1818.
CANTO I.
Old is the tale I tell, and yet as young
And warm with life as ever minstrel sung:
Two lovers fill it,—two fair shapes—two souls.
Sweet as the last for whom the death-bell tolls:
What matters it how long ago, or where
They liv'd, or whether their young locks of hair,
Like English hyacinths, or Greek, were curl'd?
We hurt the stories of the antique world
By thinking of our school-books, and the wrongs
Done them by pedants and fantastic songs,
Or sculptures, which from Roman “studios” thrown,
Turn back Deucalion's flesh and blood to stone.
Truth is forever truth, and love is love;
The bird of Venus is the living dove.
Sweet Hero's eyes, three thousand years ago,
Were made precisely like the best we know,
Look'd the same looks, and spoke no other Greek
Than eyes of honey-moons begun last week.
Alas! and the dread shock that stunn'd her brow
Strain'd them as wide as any wretch's now.
I never think of poor Leander's fate,
And how he swam, and how his bride sat late,
And watch'd the dreadful dawning of the light,
But as I would of two that died last night.
So might they now have liv'd, and so have died;
The story's heart, to me, still beats against its side.
And warm with life as ever minstrel sung:
Two lovers fill it,—two fair shapes—two souls.
Sweet as the last for whom the death-bell tolls:
What matters it how long ago, or where
They liv'd, or whether their young locks of hair,
Like English hyacinths, or Greek, were curl'd?
We hurt the stories of the antique world
By thinking of our school-books, and the wrongs
Done them by pedants and fantastic songs,
Or sculptures, which from Roman “studios” thrown,
Turn back Deucalion's flesh and blood to stone.
Truth is forever truth, and love is love;
The bird of Venus is the living dove.
Sweet Hero's eyes, three thousand years ago,
Were made precisely like the best we know,
Look'd the same looks, and spoke no other Greek
Than eyes of honey-moons begun last week.
Alas! and the dread shock that stunn'd her brow
Strain'd them as wide as any wretch's now.
I never think of poor Leander's fate,
And how he swam, and how his bride sat late,
And watch'd the dreadful dawning of the light,
But as I would of two that died last night.
So might they now have liv'd, and so have died;
The story's heart, to me, still beats against its side.
Beneath the sun which shines this very hour,
There stood of yore—behold it now—a tow'r,
Half set in trees and leafy luxury,
And through them look'd a window on the sea.
The tow'r is old, but guards a beauteous scene
Of bow'rs, 'twixt purple hills, a gulf of green,
Whose farthest side, from out a lifted grove,
Shows a white temple to the Queen of Love.
Fair is the morn, the soft trees kiss and breathe;
Calm, blue, and glittering is the sea beneath;
And by the window a sweet maiden sits,
Grave with glad thoughts, and watching it by fits,
For o'er that sea, drawn to her with delight,
Her love Leander is to come at night;
To come, not sailing, or with help of oar,
But with his own warm heart and arms—no more—
A naked bridegroom, bound from shore to shore.
There stood of yore—behold it now—a tow'r,
Half set in trees and leafy luxury,
And through them look'd a window on the sea.
The tow'r is old, but guards a beauteous scene
Of bow'rs, 'twixt purple hills, a gulf of green,
Whose farthest side, from out a lifted grove,
Shows a white temple to the Queen of Love.
45
Calm, blue, and glittering is the sea beneath;
And by the window a sweet maiden sits,
Grave with glad thoughts, and watching it by fits,
For o'er that sea, drawn to her with delight,
Her love Leander is to come at night;
To come, not sailing, or with help of oar,
But with his own warm heart and arms—no more—
A naked bridegroom, bound from shore to shore.
A priestess Hero is, an orphan dove,
Lodg'd in that turret of the Queen of Love;
A youth Leander, borne across the strait,
Whose wealthy kin deny him his sweet mate,
Beset with spies, and dogg'd with daily spite;
But he has made high compact with delight,
And found a wondrous passage through the weltering night.
Lodg'd in that turret of the Queen of Love;
A youth Leander, borne across the strait,
Whose wealthy kin deny him his sweet mate,
Beset with spies, and dogg'd with daily spite;
But he has made high compact with delight,
And found a wondrous passage through the weltering night.
So sat she fix'd all day, or now was fain
To rise and move, then sighs, then sits again;
Then tries some work, forgets it, and thinks on,
Wishing with perfect love the time were gone,
And lost to the green trees with their sweet singers,
Taps on the casement's ledge with idle fingers.
To rise and move, then sighs, then sits again;
Then tries some work, forgets it, and thinks on,
Wishing with perfect love the time were gone,
And lost to the green trees with their sweet singers,
Taps on the casement's ledge with idle fingers.
An aged nurse had Hero in the place,
An under priestess of an humbler race,
Who partly serv'd, partly kept watch and ward
Over the rest, but no good love debarr'd.
The temple's faith though serious, never cross'd
Engagements, miss'd to their exchequer's cost;
And though this present knot was to remain
Unknown awhile, 'twas bless'd within the fane,
And much good thanks expected in the end
From the dear married daughter, and the wealthy friend.
Poor Hero look'd for no such thanks. Her hand,
But to be held in his, would have giv'n sea and land.
An under priestess of an humbler race,
Who partly serv'd, partly kept watch and ward
Over the rest, but no good love debarr'd.
The temple's faith though serious, never cross'd
Engagements, miss'd to their exchequer's cost;
And though this present knot was to remain
Unknown awhile, 'twas bless'd within the fane,
And much good thanks expected in the end
From the dear married daughter, and the wealthy friend.
Poor Hero look'd for no such thanks. Her hand,
But to be held in his, would have giv'n sea and land.
The reverend crone accordingly took care
To do her duty to a time so fair,
Saw all things right, secur'd her own small pay,
(Which brought her luxuries to her dying day,)
And finishing a talk, which with surprise
She saw made grave e'en those good-humour'd eyes,
Laid up, tow'rds night, her service on the shelf,
And left her nicer mistress to herself.
To do her duty to a time so fair,
46
(Which brought her luxuries to her dying day,)
And finishing a talk, which with surprise
She saw made grave e'en those good-humour'd eyes,
Laid up, tow'rds night, her service on the shelf,
And left her nicer mistress to herself.
Hesper meanwhile, the star with amorous eye,
Shot his fine sparkle from the deep blue sky.
A depth of night succeeded, dark, but clear,
Such as presents the hollow starry sphere,
Like a high gulf to heaven; and all above
Seems waking to a fervid work of love.
A nightingale, in transport, seem'd to fling
His warble out, and then sit listening:
And ever and anon, amidst the flush
Of the thick leaves, there ran a breezy gush;
And then, from dewy myrtles lately bloom'd,
An odour small, in at the window fumed.
Shot his fine sparkle from the deep blue sky.
A depth of night succeeded, dark, but clear,
Such as presents the hollow starry sphere,
Like a high gulf to heaven; and all above
Seems waking to a fervid work of love.
A nightingale, in transport, seem'd to fling
His warble out, and then sit listening:
And ever and anon, amidst the flush
Of the thick leaves, there ran a breezy gush;
And then, from dewy myrtles lately bloom'd,
An odour small, in at the window fumed.
At last, with twinkle o'er a distant tower,
A star appear'd that was to show the hour.
The virgin saw; and going to a room
Which held an altar burning with perfume,
Cut off a lock of her dark solid hair,
And laid it, with a little whisper'd prayer,
Before a statue, that of marble bright
Sat smiling downwards o'er the rosy light.
Then at the flame a torch of pine she lit,
And o'er her head anxiously holding it,
Ascended to the roof; and leaning there,
Lifted its light into the darksome air.
A star appear'd that was to show the hour.
The virgin saw; and going to a room
Which held an altar burning with perfume,
Cut off a lock of her dark solid hair,
And laid it, with a little whisper'd prayer,
Before a statue, that of marble bright
Sat smiling downwards o'er the rosy light.
Then at the flame a torch of pine she lit,
And o'er her head anxiously holding it,
Ascended to the roof; and leaning there,
Lifted its light into the darksome air.
The boy beheld,—beheld it from the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, in swimming, more triumphantly.
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, in swimming, more triumphantly.
Smooth was the sea that night, the lover strong,
And in the springy waves he danc'd along.
He rose, he dipp'd his breast, he aim'd, he cut
With his clear arms, and from before him put
The parting waves, and in and out the air
His shoulders felt, and trail'd his washing hair;
But when he saw the torch, oh, how he sprung,
And thrust his feet against the waves, and flung
The foam behind, as though he scorn'd the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, and panted, most triumphantly!
And in the springy waves he danc'd along.
He rose, he dipp'd his breast, he aim'd, he cut
With his clear arms, and from before him put
47
His shoulders felt, and trail'd his washing hair;
But when he saw the torch, oh, how he sprung,
And thrust his feet against the waves, and flung
The foam behind, as though he scorn'd the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, and panted, most triumphantly!
Arriv'd at last on shallow ground, he saw
The stooping light, as if in haste, withdraw:
Again it issued just above the door,
With a white hand, and vanish'd as before.
Then rising, with a sudden-ceasing sound
Of wateriness, he stood on the firm ground,
And treading up a little slippery bank,
With jutting myrtles mix'd, and verdure dank,
Came to a door ajar,—all hush'd, all blind
With darkness; yet he guess'd who stood behind;
And entering with a turn, the breathless boy
A breathless welcome finds, and words that die for joy.
The stooping light, as if in haste, withdraw:
Again it issued just above the door,
With a white hand, and vanish'd as before.
Then rising, with a sudden-ceasing sound
Of wateriness, he stood on the firm ground,
And treading up a little slippery bank,
With jutting myrtles mix'd, and verdure dank,
Came to a door ajar,—all hush'd, all blind
With darkness; yet he guess'd who stood behind;
And entering with a turn, the breathless boy
A breathless welcome finds, and words that die for joy.
CANTO II.
Thus pass'd the summer shadows in delight:
Leander came as surely as the night,
And when the morning woke upon the sea,
It saw him not, for back at home was he.
Sometimes, when it blew fresh, the struggling flare
Seem'd out; but then he knew his Hero's care,
And that she only wall'd it with her cloak;
Brighter again from out the dark it broke.
Sometimes the night was almost clear as day,
Wanting no torch; and then, with easy play,
He dipp'd along beneath the silver moon,
Placidly heark'ning to the water's tune.
The people round the country, who from far
Used to behold the light, thought it a star,
Set there perhaps by Venus as a wonder,
To mark the favourite maiden who slept under.
Therefore they trod about the grounds by day
Gently; and fishermen at night, they say,
With reverence kept aloof, cutting their silent way.
Leander came as surely as the night,
And when the morning woke upon the sea,
It saw him not, for back at home was he.
Sometimes, when it blew fresh, the struggling flare
Seem'd out; but then he knew his Hero's care,
And that she only wall'd it with her cloak;
Brighter again from out the dark it broke.
Sometimes the night was almost clear as day,
Wanting no torch; and then, with easy play,
He dipp'd along beneath the silver moon,
Placidly heark'ning to the water's tune.
The people round the country, who from far
Used to behold the light, thought it a star,
Set there perhaps by Venus as a wonder,
To mark the favourite maiden who slept under.
48
Gently; and fishermen at night, they say,
With reverence kept aloof, cutting their silent way.
But autumn now was over; and the crane
Began to clang against the coming rain,
And peevish winds ran cutting o'er the sea,
Which oft return'd a face of enmity.
The gentle girl, before he went away,
Would look out sadly toward the cold-eyed day
And often beg him not to come that night;
But still he came, and still she bless'd his sight;
And so, from day to day, he came and went,
Till time had almost made her confident.
Began to clang against the coming rain,
And peevish winds ran cutting o'er the sea,
Which oft return'd a face of enmity.
The gentle girl, before he went away,
Would look out sadly toward the cold-eyed day
And often beg him not to come that night;
But still he came, and still she bless'd his sight;
And so, from day to day, he came and went,
Till time had almost made her confident.
One evening, as she sat, twining sweet bay
And myrtle garlands for a holiday,
And watch'd at intervals the dreary sky,
In which the dim sun held a languid eye,
She thought with such a full and quiet sweetness
Of all Leander's love and his completeness,
All that he was, and said, and look'd, and dared,
His form, his step, his noble head full-hair'd,
And how she lov'd him, as a thousand might,
And yet he earn'd her still thus night by night,
That the sharp pleasure mov'd her like a grief,
And tears came dropping with their meek relief.
And myrtle garlands for a holiday,
And watch'd at intervals the dreary sky,
In which the dim sun held a languid eye,
She thought with such a full and quiet sweetness
Of all Leander's love and his completeness,
All that he was, and said, and look'd, and dared,
His form, his step, his noble head full-hair'd,
And how she lov'd him, as a thousand might,
And yet he earn'd her still thus night by night,
That the sharp pleasure mov'd her like a grief,
And tears came dropping with their meek relief.
Meantime the sun had sunk; the hilly mark,
Across the straits, mix'd with the mightier dark,
And night came on. All noises by degrees
Were hush'd,—the fisher's call, the birds, the trees,
All but the washing of the eternal seas.
Across the straits, mix'd with the mightier dark,
And night came on. All noises by degrees
Were hush'd,—the fisher's call, the birds, the trees,
All but the washing of the eternal seas.
Hero look'd out, and trembling augur'd ill,
The darkness held its breath so very still.
But yet she hop'd he might arrive before
The storm began, or not be far from shore;
And crying, as she stretch'd forth in the air,
“Bless him!” she turn'd and said a tearful prayer,
And mounted to the tower, and shook the torch's flare.
The darkness held its breath so very still.
But yet she hop'd he might arrive before
The storm began, or not be far from shore;
And crying, as she stretch'd forth in the air,
“Bless him!” she turn'd and said a tearful prayer,
And mounted to the tower, and shook the torch's flare.
49
But he, Leander, almost half across,
Threw his blithe locks behind him with a toss,
And hail'd the light victoriously, secure
Of clasping his kind love, so sweet and sure;
When suddenly, a blast, as if in wrath,
Sheer from the hills, came headlong on his path,
Then started off; and driving round the sea,
Dashed up the panting waters roaringly.
The youth at once was thrust beneath the main,
With blinded eyes, but quickly rose again,
And with a smile at heart, and stouter pride,
Surmounted like a god, the rearing tide.
But what? The torch gone out! So long too! See,
He thinks it comes! Ah, yes,—'tis she! 'tis she!
Again he springs; and though the winds arise
Fiercer and fiercer, swims with ardent eyes;
And always, though with ruffian waves dash'd hard,
Turns thither with glad groan his stout regard;
And always, though his sense seems wash'd away,
Emerges, fighting tow'rds the cordial ray.
Threw his blithe locks behind him with a toss,
And hail'd the light victoriously, secure
Of clasping his kind love, so sweet and sure;
When suddenly, a blast, as if in wrath,
Sheer from the hills, came headlong on his path,
Then started off; and driving round the sea,
Dashed up the panting waters roaringly.
The youth at once was thrust beneath the main,
With blinded eyes, but quickly rose again,
And with a smile at heart, and stouter pride,
Surmounted like a god, the rearing tide.
But what? The torch gone out! So long too! See,
He thinks it comes! Ah, yes,—'tis she! 'tis she!
Again he springs; and though the winds arise
Fiercer and fiercer, swims with ardent eyes;
And always, though with ruffian waves dash'd hard,
Turns thither with glad groan his stout regard;
And always, though his sense seems wash'd away,
Emerges, fighting tow'rds the cordial ray.
But driven about at last, and drench'd the while,
The noble boy loses that inward smile:
For now, from one black atmosphere, the rain
Sweeps into stubborn mixture with the main;
And the brute wind, unmuffling all its roar,
Storms;—and the light, gone out, is seen no more.
The noble boy loses that inward smile:
For now, from one black atmosphere, the rain
Sweeps into stubborn mixture with the main;
And the brute wind, unmuffling all its roar,
Storms;—and the light, gone out, is seen no more.
Then dreadful thoughts of death, of waves heap'd on him,
And friends, and parting daylight, rush upon him.
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters,
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the waters;
And then of Hero only,—how she fares,
And what she'll feel, when the blank morn appears;
And at that thought he stiffens once again
His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs,—in vain.
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave,
His tossing hands are lax, his blind look grave,
Till the poor youth (and yet no coward he)
Spoke once her name, and yielding wearily,
Wept in the middle of the scornful sea.
And friends, and parting daylight, rush upon him.
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters,
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the waters;
And then of Hero only,—how she fares,
And what she'll feel, when the blank morn appears;
And at that thought he stiffens once again
His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs,—in vain.
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave,
His tossing hands are lax, his blind look grave,
50
Spoke once her name, and yielding wearily,
Wept in the middle of the scornful sea.
I need not tell how Hero, when her light
Would burn no longer, pass'd that dreadful night;
How she exclaim'd, and wept, and could not sit
One instant in one place; nor how she lit
The torch a hundred times, and when she found
'Twas all in vain, her gentle head turn'd round
Almost with rage; and in her fond despair
She tried to call him through the deafening air.
Would burn no longer, pass'd that dreadful night;
How she exclaim'd, and wept, and could not sit
One instant in one place; nor how she lit
The torch a hundred times, and when she found
'Twas all in vain, her gentle head turn'd round
Almost with rage; and in her fond despair
She tried to call him through the deafening air.
But when he came not,—when from hour to hour
He came not,—though the storm had spent its power,
And when the casement, at the dawn of light,
Began to show a square of ghastly white,
She went up to the tower, and straining out
To search the seas, downwards, and round about,
She saw, at last,—she saw her lord indeed
Floating, and wash'd about, like a vile weed;
On which such strength of passion and dismay
Seiz'd her, and such an impotence to stay,
That from the turret, like a stricken dove,
With fluttering arms she leap'd, and join'd her drownèd love.
He came not,—though the storm had spent its power,
And when the casement, at the dawn of light,
Began to show a square of ghastly white,
She went up to the tower, and straining out
To search the seas, downwards, and round about,
She saw, at last,—she saw her lord indeed
Floating, and wash'd about, like a vile weed;
On which such strength of passion and dismay
Seiz'd her, and such an impotence to stay,
That from the turret, like a stricken dove,
With fluttering arms she leap'd, and join'd her drownèd love.
THE PANTHER.
1818.
The panther leap'd to the front of his lair,
And stood with a foot up, and snuff'd the air;
He quiver'd his tongue from his panting mouth,
And look'd with a yearning towards the south;
For he scented afar in the coming breeze
News of the gums and their blossoming trees;
And out of Armenia that same day
He and his race came bounding away.
Over the mountains and down to the plains
Like Bacchus's panthers with wine in their veins,
They came where the woods wept odorous rains;
And there, with a quivering, every beast
Fell to his old Pamphylian feast.
And stood with a foot up, and snuff'd the air;
He quiver'd his tongue from his panting mouth,
And look'd with a yearning towards the south;
For he scented afar in the coming breeze
News of the gums and their blossoming trees;
And out of Armenia that same day
He and his race came bounding away.
51
Like Bacchus's panthers with wine in their veins,
They came where the woods wept odorous rains;
And there, with a quivering, every beast
Fell to his old Pamphylian feast.
The people who liv'd not far away,
Heard the roaring on that same day;
And they said, as they lay in their carpeted rooms,
“The panthers are come, and are drinking the gums;”
And some of them going with swords and spears
To gather their share of the rich round tears,
The panther I spoke of follow'd them back;
And dumbly they let him tread close in the track,
And lured him after them into the town;
And then they let the portcullis down,
And took the panther, which happened to be
The largest was seen in all Pamphily.
Heard the roaring on that same day;
And they said, as they lay in their carpeted rooms,
“The panthers are come, and are drinking the gums;”
And some of them going with swords and spears
To gather their share of the rich round tears,
The panther I spoke of follow'd them back;
And dumbly they let him tread close in the track,
And lured him after them into the town;
And then they let the portcullis down,
And took the panther, which happened to be
The largest was seen in all Pamphily.
By every one there was the panther admir'd,
So fine was his shape and so sleekly attir'd,
And such an air, both princely and swift,
He had, when giving a sudden lift
To his mighty paw, he'd turn at a sound,
And so stand panting and looking around,
As if he attended a monarch crown'd.
And truly, they wonder'd the more to behold
About his neck a collar of gold,
On which was written, in characters broad,
“Arsaces the king to the Nysian God.”
So they tied to the collar a golden chain,
Which made the panther a captive again,
And by degrees he grew fearful and still,
As though he had lost his lordly will.
So fine was his shape and so sleekly attir'd,
And such an air, both princely and swift,
He had, when giving a sudden lift
To his mighty paw, he'd turn at a sound,
And so stand panting and looking around,
As if he attended a monarch crown'd.
And truly, they wonder'd the more to behold
About his neck a collar of gold,
On which was written, in characters broad,
“Arsaces the king to the Nysian God.”
So they tied to the collar a golden chain,
Which made the panther a captive again,
And by degrees he grew fearful and still,
As though he had lost his lordly will.
But now came the spring, when free-born love
Calls up nature in forest and grove,
And makes each thing leap forth, and be
Loving, and lovely, and blithe as he.
The panther he felt the thrill of the air,
And he gave a leap up, like that at his lair;
He felt the sharp sweetness more strengthen his veins
Ten times than ever the spicy rains,
And ere they're aware, he has burst his chains:
He has burst his chains, and ah, ha! he's gone,
And the links and the gazers are left alone,
And off to the mountains the panther's flown.
Calls up nature in forest and grove,
And makes each thing leap forth, and be
Loving, and lovely, and blithe as he.
The panther he felt the thrill of the air,
And he gave a leap up, like that at his lair;
52
Ten times than ever the spicy rains,
And ere they're aware, he has burst his chains:
He has burst his chains, and ah, ha! he's gone,
And the links and the gazers are left alone,
And off to the mountains the panther's flown.
Now what made the panther a prisoner be?
Lo! 'twas the spices and luxury.
And what set that lordly panther free?
'Twas Love!—'twas Love!—'twas no one but he.
Lo! 'twas the spices and luxury.
And what set that lordly panther free?
'Twas Love!—'twas Love!—'twas no one but he.
MAHMOUD.
1823.
TO RICHARD HENRY HORNE.
Horne, hear a theme that should have had its dues
From thine own passionate and thoughtful Muse.
From thine own passionate and thoughtful Muse.
There came a man, making his hasty moan
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,
And crying out—“My sorrow is my right,
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night.”
“Sorrow,” said Mahmoud, “is a reverend thing:
I recognise its right, as king with king;
Speak on.” “A fiend has got into my house,”
Exclaim'd the staring man, “and tortures us:
One of thine officers;—he comes, the abhorr'd,
And takes possession of my house, my board,
My bed:—I have two daughters and a wife,
And the wild villain comes, and makes me mad with life.”
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,
And crying out—“My sorrow is my right,
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night.”
“Sorrow,” said Mahmoud, “is a reverend thing:
I recognise its right, as king with king;
Speak on.” “A fiend has got into my house,”
Exclaim'd the staring man, “and tortures us:
One of thine officers;—he comes, the abhorr'd,
And takes possession of my house, my board,
My bed:—I have two daughters and a wife,
And the wild villain comes, and makes me mad with life.”
“Is he there now?” said Mahmoud:—“No; he left
The house when I did, of my wits bereft;
And laugh'd me down the street, because I vow'd
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud,
I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery,
And oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!”
The house when I did, of my wits bereft;
And laugh'd me down the street, because I vow'd
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud,
53
And oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!”
The Sultan comforted the man, and said,
“Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread,”
(For he was poor), “and other comforts. Go;
And should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud know.”
“Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread,”
(For he was poor), “and other comforts. Go;
And should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud know.”
In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,
And shaken voice, the suitor reappear'd,
And said “He's come.”—Mahmoud said not a word,
But rose, and took four slaves, each with a sword,
And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place,
And hear a voice, and see a female face,
That to the window flutter'd in affright.
“Go in,” said Mahmoud, “and put out the light;
But tell the females first to leave the room;
And when the drunkard follows them, we come.”
And shaken voice, the suitor reappear'd,
And said “He's come.”—Mahmoud said not a word,
But rose, and took four slaves, each with a sword,
And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place,
And hear a voice, and see a female face,
That to the window flutter'd in affright.
“Go in,” said Mahmoud, “and put out the light;
But tell the females first to leave the room;
And when the drunkard follows them, we come.”
The man went in. There was a cry, and hark!
A table falls, the window is struck dark;
Forth rush the breathless women; and behind
With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.
In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife,
And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.
A table falls, the window is struck dark;
Forth rush the breathless women; and behind
With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.
In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife,
And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.
“Now light the light,” the Sultan cried aloud.
'Twas done; he took it in his hand, and bow'd
Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face;
Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place,
And said a prayer, and from his lips there crept
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.
'Twas done; he took it in his hand, and bow'd
Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face;
Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place,
And said a prayer, and from his lips there crept
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.
In reverent silence the spectators wait,
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;
And when he had refresh'd his noble heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;
And when he had refresh'd his noble heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.
The man amaz'd, all mildness now, and tears,
Fell at the Sultan's feet, with many prayers,
And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave,
The reason first of that command he gave
About the light; then when he saw the face,
Why he knelt down; and lastly, how it was,
That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.
Fell at the Sultan's feet, with many prayers,
54
The reason first of that command he gave
About the light; then when he saw the face,
Why he knelt down; and lastly, how it was,
That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.
The Sultan said, with much humanity,
“Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry,
I could not rid me of a dread, that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son.
Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd
A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.
For this I had the light put out. But when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter,
Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear;
And then I rose, and was refresh'd with food,
The first time since thou cam'st, and marr'dst my solitude.”
“Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry,
I could not rid me of a dread, that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son.
Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd
A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.
For this I had the light put out. But when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter,
Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear;
And then I rose, and was refresh'd with food,
The first time since thou cam'st, and marr'dst my solitude.”
THE GENTLE ARMOUR;
OR, THREE KNIGHTS IN STEEL AGAINST ONE IN LINEN.
1831.
The main circumstance of this story—a knight fighting against three, with no other coat of mail than the delicatest garment of his mistress —is taken from one of the Fabliaux that were versified by the late Mr. Way. The lady's appearance in the garment, after the battle, is from the same poem. The turn given to these incidents, the colouring, and the sentiment, are the work of the present writer. The original is a curious specimen of the license of old times. A married woman, who has a good-humoured craven for her husband, is made love to by three knights; to each of whom, as a trial of his affection, and by way of proving the tenderness of her deserts, she proposes that he shall mix in the fight of a tournament, with no other covering to his body than the one just mentioned. Two of them decline the experiment; the third accepts it, is victorious, and, in order to be on a par with her in delicacy of sentiment, requests that she will make her appearance at her husband's table in the triumphant investment. She does so; the guests are struck with admiration;
“While the good spouse (not bold, 'twas lately sung)
Cast down his honest eyes, and held his tongue.
“Speak, guileless damsels! Dames, in love well read!
Speak, Sirs! in chivalry and honour bred;
Who best deserves—the lady or the knight?
He death who braved, or she, censorious spite?”
Cast down his honest eyes, and held his tongue.
55
Speak, Sirs! in chivalry and honour bred;
Who best deserves—the lady or the knight?
He death who braved, or she, censorious spite?”
Allowance is to be made for the opinions of a different age; and we see, even here, right and wrong principles struggling in the perplexities of custom. But the cultivation of brute force is uppermost; and nothing can reconcile us to the disposition of the woman who could speculate upon such a tribute to her vanity. It is hoped that the heroine of the following version of the story, without being wanting in self-love, is a little better, and not unsuited to any age.
It has been thought by some persons (and I am ashamed for their sakes, not for my own, to say it) that the leading subject of the poem, a shift, is unfit for relation! In the name of common sense and modesty, on what ground? I confess I should think very ill of any mind, not perverted in its ideas by the worst kind of town life, that could entertain so unworthy a fancy. Most assuredly I wrote for no such persons, but for the innocent, the noble, and the wise. I certainly, especially after such warning, would not read the poem to everybody. I would not have read it, for instance, had I lived in their days, to the club-rooms of Tom Brown and Tom D'Urfey; and I might have had doubts of the audiences of Mrs. Behn and Mrs. Centlivre; but I could have read it with pleasure (literary modesty apart) to Addison and Steele, to Atterbury and Berkeley, to their wives and to their daughters. I would have said nothing about the story in the circles of King Charles the Second, male or female; nothing to the Buckinghams and Rochesters, or the Duchesses of Cleveland and Portsmouth; but I would have repeated it without hesitation to Cowley, to Evelyn, to Andrew Marvel, to Milton himself, and to every woman whom they respected;—to Lady Fanshawe, and to Lucy Hutchinson. “No thought infirm,” I would be sworn, would have “altered their cheek.” They would have thought of nothing but the sentiment, and virtues, and nobleness of the story. With those only would cheeks like theirs have glowed.
Of some imaginable living readers, equally refined, it does not become me to speak; but I may add, that “those poor, noble, wounded, and sick men,” who are suffering for us in the East, would find the achievements, and probably the affections of the story, too much like some of their own to disrespect them: nor do I believe it would be despised even by the divine women who have gone to pour balm into their wounds.
CANTO I.
A lady's gift I sing, which meant in blame,
His glorious hauberk to a knight became,
And in the field such dire belabouring bore,
As gentle armour never stood before;
A song of love, fit for the purest ears,
With smiles begun and clos'd, and manhood in the tears.
His glorious hauberk to a knight became,
And in the field such dire belabouring bore,
As gentle armour never stood before;
A song of love, fit for the purest ears,
With smiles begun and clos'd, and manhood in the tears.
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There liv'd a knight, when knighthood was in flow'r,
Who charm'd alike the tilt-yard and the bow'r;
Young, handsome, blythe, loyal and brave of course,
He stuck as firmly to his friend as horse;
And only show'd, for so complete a youth,
Somewhat too perfect a regard for truth.
He own'd 'twas inconvenient; sometimes felt
A wish 'twere buckled in another's belt;
Doubted its modesty, its use, its right,
Yet after all remain'd the same true knight:
So potent is a custom early taught;
And to such straits may honest men be brought.
Who charm'd alike the tilt-yard and the bow'r;
Young, handsome, blythe, loyal and brave of course,
He stuck as firmly to his friend as horse;
And only show'd, for so complete a youth,
Somewhat too perfect a regard for truth.
He own'd 'twas inconvenient; sometimes felt
A wish 'twere buckled in another's belt;
Doubted its modesty, its use, its right,
Yet after all remain'd the same true knight:
So potent is a custom early taught;
And to such straits may honest men be brought.
'Tis true, to be believ'd was held a claim
Of gentle blood, and not to be, a shame:—
A liar, notorious as the noonday sun,
Was bound to fight you, if you call'd him one:—
But yet to be so nice, and stand, profess'd,
All truth, was held a pedantry at best;
Invidious by the men; and by the fair
A thing at once to dote on and beware.
What bliss to meet his flatteries, eye to eye!
But could he not, then, tell one little lie?
Of gentle blood, and not to be, a shame:—
A liar, notorious as the noonday sun,
Was bound to fight you, if you call'd him one:—
But yet to be so nice, and stand, profess'd,
All truth, was held a pedantry at best;
Invidious by the men; and by the fair
A thing at once to dote on and beware.
What bliss to meet his flatteries, eye to eye!
But could he not, then, tell one little lie?
At length, our hero found, to take his part,
A lovely girl, a quick and virgin heart,
One that believ'd what any friend averr'd,
Much more the whisp'rer of earth's sweetest word.
He lov'd her for her cordial, trusting ways,
Her love of love, and readiness to praise;
And she lov'd him because he told her so,
And truth makes true love doubly sweet to know.
A lovely girl, a quick and virgin heart,
One that believ'd what any friend averr'd,
Much more the whisp'rer of earth's sweetest word.
He lov'd her for her cordial, trusting ways,
Her love of love, and readiness to praise;
And she lov'd him because he told her so,
And truth makes true love doubly sweet to know.
It chanc'd this lady in relation stood
To one as beautiful, but not so good,
Who had been blaz'd, for what indeed she was,
By a young lord, over his hippocras,
Her lover once, but now so far from tender,
He swore he'd kick her very least defender.
The world look'd hard for some one of her kin
To teach this spark to look to his own skin;
But no one came: the lady wept for spite:
At length her cousin ask'd it of the knight.
To one as beautiful, but not so good,
Who had been blaz'd, for what indeed she was,
By a young lord, over his hippocras,
Her lover once, but now so far from tender,
He swore he'd kick her very least defender.
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To teach this spark to look to his own skin;
But no one came: the lady wept for spite:
At length her cousin ask'd it of the knight.
The knight look'd troubled to the last degree,
Turn'd pale, then red, but said it could not be.
With many sighs he said it, many pray'rs
To be well construed—nay, at last with tears:
And own'd a knight might possibly be better,
Who read the truth less nicely to the letter;
But 'twas his weakness—'twas his education,—
A dying priest had taught him, his relation,
A kind of saint, who meant him for the church,
And thus had left his breeding in the lurch;
The good old man! he lov'd him, and took blame
(He own'd it) thus to mix his love with shame:
“But oh reflect, my sweet one,” cried the youth,
“How you yourself have lov'd me for my truth;
How I love you for loving it, and how
Secure it makes us of our mutual vow.
To feel this hand, to look into those eyes,—
It makes me feel as sure as of the earth and skies.”
Turn'd pale, then red, but said it could not be.
With many sighs he said it, many pray'rs
To be well construed—nay, at last with tears:
And own'd a knight might possibly be better,
Who read the truth less nicely to the letter;
But 'twas his weakness—'twas his education,—
A dying priest had taught him, his relation,
A kind of saint, who meant him for the church,
And thus had left his breeding in the lurch;
The good old man! he lov'd him, and took blame
(He own'd it) thus to mix his love with shame:
“But oh reflect, my sweet one,” cried the youth,
“How you yourself have lov'd me for my truth;
How I love you for loving it, and how
Secure it makes us of our mutual vow.
To feel this hand, to look into those eyes,—
It makes me feel as sure as of the earth and skies.”
“I did love, and I do,” the lady cried,
With hand but half allow'd, and cheek aside;
“But then I thought you took me at my word,
And would have scorn'd what I pronounc'd absurd.
My cousin's wrong'd; I'm sure of it; do you
Be sure as well, and show what you can do:
Let but one mind be seen betwixt us two.”
With hand but half allow'd, and cheek aside;
“But then I thought you took me at my word,
And would have scorn'd what I pronounc'd absurd.
My cousin's wrong'd; I'm sure of it; do you
Be sure as well, and show what you can do:
Let but one mind be seen betwixt us two.”
In vain our hero, while his aspect glow'd
To hear these lovely words, the difference show'd
'Twixt her kind wishes and an ill desert:
The more he talk'd, the more her pride was hurt,
Till rais'd from glow to glow, and tear to tear,
And pique to injury, she spoke of fear.
To hear these lovely words, the difference show'd
'Twixt her kind wishes and an ill desert:
The more he talk'd, the more her pride was hurt,
Till rais'd from glow to glow, and tear to tear,
And pique to injury, she spoke of fear.
“Fear!” cried the knight, blushing because he blush'd,
While sorrow through his gaze in wonder rush'd;
“Had I been present when this lord was heard,
I might perhaps have stopp'd him with a word;
One word (had I suspected it) to show
How ignorant you were of what all know;
And with what passion you could take the part
Of one, unworthy of your loving heart:
But when I know the truth, and know that he
Knew not, nor thought, of either you or me,
And when I'm call'd on, and in open day,
To swear that true is false, and yea is nay,
And know I'm in a lie, and yet go through it,
By all that's blest I own I cannot do it.
Let me but feel me buckled for the right,
And come a world in arms, I'm still a knight:
But give my foe the truth, and me the fraud,
And the pale scholar of the priest is awed.”
While sorrow through his gaze in wonder rush'd;
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I might perhaps have stopp'd him with a word;
One word (had I suspected it) to show
How ignorant you were of what all know;
And with what passion you could take the part
Of one, unworthy of your loving heart:
But when I know the truth, and know that he
Knew not, nor thought, of either you or me,
And when I'm call'd on, and in open day,
To swear that true is false, and yea is nay,
And know I'm in a lie, and yet go through it,
By all that's blest I own I cannot do it.
Let me but feel me buckled for the right,
And come a world in arms, I'm still a knight:
But give my foe the truth, and me the fraud,
And the pale scholar of the priest is awed.”
“Say not the word,” the hasty fair one cried:
“I see it all, and wish I might have died.
Go, Sir, oh go! a soldier and afraid!
Was it for this you lov'd a trusting maid?
Your presence kills me, Sir, with shame and grief.”—
She said; and sunk in tears and handkerchief.
“I see it all, and wish I might have died.
Go, Sir, oh go! a soldier and afraid!
Was it for this you lov'd a trusting maid?
Your presence kills me, Sir, with shame and grief.”—
She said; and sunk in tears and handkerchief.
“Ah, Mabel,” said the knight, as with a kiss
He bow'd on her dropp'd head, “you'll mourn for this.”
He look'd upon her glossy locks, admir'd
Their gentleness for once, and with a sigh retir'd.
He bow'd on her dropp'd head, “you'll mourn for this.”
He look'd upon her glossy locks, admir'd
Their gentleness for once, and with a sigh retir'd.
From day to day Sir Hugh has paced his floor,
Look'd out of window, listen'd at the door,
Wrote twice; wrote thrice; learnt of her health; took up
His lute, his book; fill'd, and forgot, a cup;
Tried all but pride, and found no comfort still:
Lov'd him she had, but more had loved her will.
Look'd out of window, listen'd at the door,
Wrote twice; wrote thrice; learnt of her health; took up
His lute, his book; fill'd, and forgot, a cup;
Tried all but pride, and found no comfort still:
Lov'd him she had, but more had loved her will.
It chanc'd a short time after, that the king
Proclaim'd a joust at the return of spring:
The suburb was all hammers, boards, and crowd;
The knights and tailors pleas'd, the ladies proud;
All but our hero, and the cousins twain,
Who nurs'd their several sullenness of pain,
And tore in secret much their mental hair;
The ladies that they had no lovers there,
The gentle knight in amorous despair.
The lord who had denounc'd the light one's name,
Seeing no step to vindicate her fame,
And hearing of her cousin's broken vow,
Would laugh, and lift his shoulders and his brow,
And talk of tricks that run in families;
And then he'd lift his glass, and looking wise,
Drink to the health of “Truth betwixt two Lies.”
Two fluster'd fools, though brave, and men of birth,
There were, who join'd in this unseemly mirth;
Fellows who knew, and knew it to their shame,
The worth of one, and chaff of t'other dame.
These clubb'd their jealousies, revenge, and spite,
Till broad the scandal grew, and reach'd the knight.
Proclaim'd a joust at the return of spring:
The suburb was all hammers, boards, and crowd;
The knights and tailors pleas'd, the ladies proud;
All but our hero, and the cousins twain,
Who nurs'd their several sullenness of pain,
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The ladies that they had no lovers there,
The gentle knight in amorous despair.
The lord who had denounc'd the light one's name,
Seeing no step to vindicate her fame,
And hearing of her cousin's broken vow,
Would laugh, and lift his shoulders and his brow,
And talk of tricks that run in families;
And then he'd lift his glass, and looking wise,
Drink to the health of “Truth betwixt two Lies.”
Two fluster'd fools, though brave, and men of birth,
There were, who join'd in this unseemly mirth;
Fellows who knew, and knew it to their shame,
The worth of one, and chaff of t'other dame.
These clubb'd their jealousies, revenge, and spite,
Till broad the scandal grew, and reach'd the knight.
Our lover heard with mingled rage and joy,
Then rose from out his grief, and call'd his boy,
(A pretty page with letter-bearing face,)
And wrote his mistress to implore her grace;
Her grace and pardon to implore, and some
Small favour for the battle, now to come,—
A glove, a string, aught but a cruel No,
To plume his next day's pounce upon the foe.
The page returns with doubt upon his eyes,
And brings a packet which his lord unties.
“My lady wrote not, saw me not,” he said,
“But sends that answer to the note instead.”
“This string,” exclaims the knight,—“Cut it.” They lift
A lid of pasteboard, and behold—a shift!
Then rose from out his grief, and call'd his boy,
(A pretty page with letter-bearing face,)
And wrote his mistress to implore her grace;
Her grace and pardon to implore, and some
Small favour for the battle, now to come,—
A glove, a string, aught but a cruel No,
To plume his next day's pounce upon the foe.
The page returns with doubt upon his eyes,
And brings a packet which his lord unties.
“My lady wrote not, saw me not,” he said,
“But sends that answer to the note instead.”
“This string,” exclaims the knight,—“Cut it.” They lift
A lid of pasteboard, and behold—a shift!
CANTO II.
“Now whether shame she means me, or my bliss,”
The knight he cries, “thank her for this, for this!”
And as he spoke, he smother'd up a kiss:—
“To-morrow sees me panoplied indeed,
And blessed be the thought shall clasp me while I bleed!”
The knight he cries, “thank her for this, for this!”
And as he spoke, he smother'd up a kiss:—
“To-morrow sees me panoplied indeed,
And blessed be the thought shall clasp me while I bleed!”
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Next day the lists are set, the trumpets blown,
And grace requested for a knight unknown.
Who summons, and to mortal fight defies,
Three lordly knights for most unlordly calumnies.
What calumnies they are, he need not tell;
Their names and consciences will serve as well.
The names are then resounded through the place,
And tow'rds the entrance turns the universal face.
And grace requested for a knight unknown.
Who summons, and to mortal fight defies,
Three lordly knights for most unlordly calumnies.
What calumnies they are, he need not tell;
Their names and consciences will serve as well.
The names are then resounded through the place,
And tow'rds the entrance turns the universal face.
With scorn and rage the sturdy gallants hear,
And ask what madman wants a sepulchre;
But when the stranger, with his face unshown,
Rides in, accoutred in a shift alone,
(For on his trunk at least was naught beside)
The doubtful laughter in amazement died.
'Twas clear the champion would be drench'd with wounds,
Yet see how calm he rides the accustom'd rounds.
His mould is manly as the lawn is frail,
A shield is on his arm, his legs and thighs in mail;—
The herald's laws forbid a wounded steed;—
All strain their eyes, and on the shift they read,
Written in black, and answering to the part
The motto spoke of, “It has touch'd her heart.”
And ask what madman wants a sepulchre;
But when the stranger, with his face unshown,
Rides in, accoutred in a shift alone,
(For on his trunk at least was naught beside)
The doubtful laughter in amazement died.
'Twas clear the champion would be drench'd with wounds,
Yet see how calm he rides the accustom'd rounds.
His mould is manly as the lawn is frail,
A shield is on his arm, his legs and thighs in mail;—
The herald's laws forbid a wounded steed;—
All strain their eyes, and on the shift they read,
Written in black, and answering to the part
The motto spoke of, “It has touch'd her heart.”
To admiration deep th' amazement turns,
The dumbness to discourse, which deeply burns;
Till the four parties to their posts fall in,
And soft eyes dazzle, ere the blows begin.
The dumbness to discourse, which deeply burns;
Till the four parties to their posts fall in,
And soft eyes dazzle, ere the blows begin.
No stint or measure in his gallantry
The stranger knew; but took at once all three:
The trumpets blew their blast of bloody weather,
The swords are out, the warriors rush together,
And with such bulk and tempest comes the knight,
One of the three is overborne outright,
Saddle and man, and snaps his wrist. The wretch
Proclaims his rage and torture in a screech.
The three had thought to save the shift, and bring
The wearer down, for laughter to the king:
But seeing what they see, and both on fire
To reach him first, they turn and charge in ire,
And mix the fight; and such a storm succeeds
Of clatt'ring shields, and helms, and hurtling steeds,
With such a toil pell-mell, now that, now this,
Above, beneath, and rage of hit and miss,
And horses half on ground, or staring high,
And crouching skill, and trampling sov'reignty,
That never was beheld a sight so fit
To baffle and turn pale the gazer's wit.
Nathless such skill the marv'llous knight display'd,
The shift some time was spotless as the maid;
Till a great gush proclaiming blood was drawn,
Redder and redder grew the dainty lawn,
And drench'd and dripping, not a thread there stood,
But what was bath'd in his benignant blood.
Sudden he turn'd; and whirling like a wheel,
In both their teeth sent round the whistling steel;
Then with a jovial wrist, he flash'd it down,
And cleft the right man's shoulder to the bone;
Who fell, and like the first was borne aside:
“Is it a devil, or a saint?” they cried:
A tenderer murmur midst the ladies ran:
With tears they bless'd “the angel of a man.”
The stranger knew; but took at once all three:
The trumpets blew their blast of bloody weather,
The swords are out, the warriors rush together,
And with such bulk and tempest comes the knight,
One of the three is overborne outright,
Saddle and man, and snaps his wrist. The wretch
Proclaims his rage and torture in a screech.
The three had thought to save the shift, and bring
The wearer down, for laughter to the king:
But seeing what they see, and both on fire
To reach him first, they turn and charge in ire,
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Of clatt'ring shields, and helms, and hurtling steeds,
With such a toil pell-mell, now that, now this,
Above, beneath, and rage of hit and miss,
And horses half on ground, or staring high,
And crouching skill, and trampling sov'reignty,
That never was beheld a sight so fit
To baffle and turn pale the gazer's wit.
Nathless such skill the marv'llous knight display'd,
The shift some time was spotless as the maid;
Till a great gush proclaiming blood was drawn,
Redder and redder grew the dainty lawn,
And drench'd and dripping, not a thread there stood,
But what was bath'd in his benignant blood.
Sudden he turn'd; and whirling like a wheel,
In both their teeth sent round the whistling steel;
Then with a jovial wrist, he flash'd it down,
And cleft the right man's shoulder to the bone;
Who fell, and like the first was borne aside:
“Is it a devil, or a saint?” they cried:
A tenderer murmur midst the ladies ran:
With tears they bless'd “the angel of a man.”
The gallant lord was now the only foe,
And fresh he seem'd: the knight could not be so;
In that last blow his strength must have been summ'd;
His arm appears unhing'd, his brain benumb'd;
And as the sword seems carving him to death,
At ev'ry gash the crowd draw in their breath.
Sudden the blades are snapp'd; the clubs of steel
Are call'd; the stranger is observ'd to reel;
Then grasps with both his hands the saddle-bow,
And bends for breath; the people cry “No! No!”
And all the court unconsciously arise:
The ladies on the king turn weeping eyes,
And manly pray'rs are mix'd with sobs and cries.
The monarch was about to part the fight,
When, his club brought, sore passion seized the knight,
Who grasp'd it, rais'd it like an iron frown,
And rising in his stirrups, sent it down:
It met the other's, taking heavier pains,
And dash'd it, club and helmet, in his brains.
A stifled shriek is heard, the victim falls,
The victor too: “Help! Help!” the monarch calls;
A shout, half terror, shakes the suburb walls.
And fresh he seem'd: the knight could not be so;
In that last blow his strength must have been summ'd;
His arm appears unhing'd, his brain benumb'd;
And as the sword seems carving him to death,
At ev'ry gash the crowd draw in their breath.
Sudden the blades are snapp'd; the clubs of steel
Are call'd; the stranger is observ'd to reel;
Then grasps with both his hands the saddle-bow,
And bends for breath; the people cry “No! No!”
And all the court unconsciously arise:
The ladies on the king turn weeping eyes,
And manly pray'rs are mix'd with sobs and cries.
The monarch was about to part the fight,
When, his club brought, sore passion seized the knight,
Who grasp'd it, rais'd it like an iron frown,
And rising in his stirrups, sent it down:
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And dash'd it, club and helmet, in his brains.
A stifled shriek is heard, the victim falls,
The victor too: “Help! Help!” the monarch calls;
A shout, half terror, shakes the suburb walls.
His helm unloos'd, they recognize the face
Of the best knight that ever bore disgrace,
Now seeming dead, and gone to his long rest
In comfort cold of that hard-hearted vest.
The loveliest ladies kiss him as he lay,
Then watch the leech, who cuts his vest away,
And clears his wounds. The weeping dames prepare
Linen and balms, and part his forlorn hair,
And let upon his face the blessed air.
Of the best knight that ever bore disgrace,
Now seeming dead, and gone to his long rest
In comfort cold of that hard-hearted vest.
The loveliest ladies kiss him as he lay,
Then watch the leech, who cuts his vest away,
And clears his wounds. The weeping dames prepare
Linen and balms, and part his forlorn hair,
And let upon his face the blessed air.
Meanwhile the tidings to his mistress come,
Who clasps her hands and for a while is dumb;
Then owns the secret why the shift was sent,
But said he far exceeded what she meant.
Pale and despairing to the spot she flies,
Where in his death-like rest her lover lies,
And prays to be let in:—they let her in:
She sees his hands laid straight, and his pale chin,
Nor dares advance to look upon his face,
Till round her come the ladies in the place,
Who comfort her, and say she must complete
The cure, and set her in the nurse's seat.
Who clasps her hands and for a while is dumb;
Then owns the secret why the shift was sent,
But said he far exceeded what she meant.
Pale and despairing to the spot she flies,
Where in his death-like rest her lover lies,
And prays to be let in:—they let her in:
She sees his hands laid straight, and his pale chin,
Nor dares advance to look upon his face,
Till round her come the ladies in the place,
Who comfort her, and say she must complete
The cure, and set her in the nurse's seat.
All day she watch'd, all night, and all next day,
And scarcely turn'd her face, except to pray,
Till the third morn; when, breathing with a moan,
And feeling the soft hand that clasp'd his own,
He woke, and saw the face that had not ceas'd
To haunt his thoughts, in forest or at feast,
Visibly present, sweet with begging fears,
And eyes that lov'd him through remorseful tears.
Ah! love is a soft thing; and strongest eyes
Might answer, as his did, with wells of balmy rise.
And scarcely turn'd her face, except to pray,
Till the third morn; when, breathing with a moan,
And feeling the soft hand that clasp'd his own,
He woke, and saw the face that had not ceas'd
To haunt his thoughts, in forest or at feast,
Visibly present, sweet with begging fears,
And eyes that lov'd him through remorseful tears.
Ah! love is a soft thing; and strongest eyes
Might answer, as his did, with wells of balmy rise.
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What need I say? a loitering cure is his,
But full of sweets, and precious memories,
And whispers, laden from the land of bliss.
Sir Hugo with the lark has left his bed;
'Tis June; 'tis lover's month; in short, they wed.
But how? like other people, you suppose,
In silks and state, as all good story goes.
The bridegroom did, and never look'd so well,
Not e'en when in the shift he fought pell-mell;
But the fair bride, instead of things that bless
Wedding-day eyes, display'd a marvellous dress,—
Marvellous, and homely, and in open sight;
The people were so mov'd, they wept outright.
But full of sweets, and precious memories,
And whispers, laden from the land of bliss.
Sir Hugo with the lark has left his bed;
'Tis June; 'tis lover's month; in short, they wed.
But how? like other people, you suppose,
In silks and state, as all good story goes.
The bridegroom did, and never look'd so well,
Not e'en when in the shift he fought pell-mell;
But the fair bride, instead of things that bless
Wedding-day eyes, display'd a marvellous dress,—
Marvellous, and homely, and in open sight;
The people were so mov'd, they wept outright.
For lo! with hair let loose about her ears,
And taper in her hand the fair appears,
And naked feet, a rosy saint at shrift,
And round her bosom hangs the ruddy shift:
Tatter'd it hangs, all cut and carv'd to rags;
Not fairer droop, when the great organ drags
Its thunders forth, a church's hundred flags.
With glimmering tears she hastens to his feet,
And kneels to kiss them in the public street,
Then takes his hand, and ere she will arise,
Entreats for pardon at his gracious eyes;
And hopes he will not scorn her love for life,
As his most humble and most honour'd wife.
And taper in her hand the fair appears,
And naked feet, a rosy saint at shrift,
And round her bosom hangs the ruddy shift:
Tatter'd it hangs, all cut and carv'd to rags;
Not fairer droop, when the great organ drags
Its thunders forth, a church's hundred flags.
With glimmering tears she hastens to his feet,
And kneels to kiss them in the public street,
Then takes his hand, and ere she will arise,
Entreats for pardon at his gracious eyes;
And hopes he will not scorn her love for life,
As his most humble and most honour'd wife.
Awhile her lord, with manly deference stood
Wrapt in the sweetness of that angel mood;
Then stoop'd, and on her brow his soul impress'd,
And at the altar thus the bride was dress'd.
Wrapt in the sweetness of that angel mood;
Then stoop'd, and on her brow his soul impress'd,
And at the altar thus the bride was dress'd.
64
THE PALFREY.
1842.
The following story is a variation of one of the most amusing of the old French narrative poems that preceded the time of Chaucer, with additions of the writer's invention. The original, which he did not see till it was completed, is to be found in the collection of Messrs. Barbazan and Méon, (Fabliaux et Contes des Poètes François des 11, 12, 13, 14, et 15e Siècles, &c. Edition 1808.) His own originals were the prose abridgment of M. Le Grand (Fabliaux, &c., third edition, volume the fourth,) and its imitation in verse by Messrs. Way and Ellis, inserted in the latter's notes to the select translations from Le Grand by the former of those gentlemen.
The scene of the old story,—the only known production of a poet named Huon le Roi (possibly one of the “Kings of the Minstrels,” often spoken of at that period,)—is laid in the province of Champagne; but as almost all the narrative poems under the title of Lays (of which this is one) are with good reason supposed to have had their source in the Greater or Lesser Britain—that is to say, either among the Welsh of this island, or their cousins of French Brittany, and as the only other local allusions in the poem itself are to places in England, the author has availed himself of the common property in these effusions claimed for the Anglo-Norman Muse,
“Begirt with British and Armorick knights,”to indulge in a license universal with the old minstrels, and lay the scene of his version where and when he pleased; to wit, during the reign of Edward the First, and in Kensington, Hendon, and their neighbourhoods,—old names, however new they sound. There is reason to believe, that the woody portions of Kensington, still existing as the Gardens, and in the neighbourhood of Holland House, are part of the ancient forest of Middlesex, which extended from this quarter to the skirts of Hertfordshire: and it is out of regard for these remnants of the old woods, and associations with them still more grateful, that he has placed the scene of his heroine's abode on the site of the existing palace, and the closing scene of the poem in the hall of the De Veres, Earls of Oxford, who are supposed to have had a mansion at that period in the grounds of the present Holland House, near the part called the Moats.
1. PART FIRST.
The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes,
Merrily well the palfrey goes;
He carrieth laughters, he carrieth woes,
Yet merrily ever the palfrey goes.
Merrily well the palfrey goes;
He carrieth laughters, he carrieth woes,
Yet merrily ever the palfrey goes.
'Tis June, and a bright sun burneth all,
Sir William hath gallop'd from Hendon Hall
To Kensington, where in a thick old wood
(Now its fair Gardens) a mansion stood,
65
A house which had ceas'd to be threaten'd with harm.
The gates frown'd still, for the dignity's sake,
With porter, portcullis, and bit of a lake;
But ivy caress'd their warm old ease,
And the young rooks chuckled across the trees,
And burning below went the golden bees.
The spot was the same, where on a May morn
The Rose that toppeth the world was born.
Sir William hath gallop'd, and well was bent
His palfrey to second a swift intent;
And yet, having come, he delayeth his knock,
E'en though a sweet maiden counteth the clock
Till she meet his eye from behind the chair,
Where sitteth Sir Guy with his old white hair.
But the youth is not rich; and day by day
Sir Guy groweth cold, and hath less to say,
And daunteth his wit with haws and hums,
Coughing with grandeur, and twirling his thumbs,
Till visiting turneth to shame and gall,
And Sir William must speak what endangereth all.
Now for any deed else, in love or in war,
Knight bolder was none than the knight De la Barre
(So styled by the king, from a traitor tall,
Whom he pitch'd over barriers, armour and all);
Short distance made he betwixt point and hilt;
He was not a man that at tourney and tilt
Sat bowing to every fair friend he could spy,
Or bearing his fame with a fine cold eye;
A hundred sweet eyes might be watching his own;
He thought but of two, and of steeds to be thrown;
And the trumpets no sooner blew mights to mights,
Than crash went his onset and down went knights.
And thus in his love for sweet Anne de Paul,
Though forc'd to some stealths, 'twas honest withal:
He wooed, though the old man ever was by,
With talk such as fixeth a maiden's eye,
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And an art that applied them, sprung out of no art,
Till stealth for his sake seem'd truth's own right,
And at an old casement long clos'd, one night,
Through boughs never dry, in a pathless nook,
Love's breathless delight in his vows she took.
Ah! never thenceforth, by sunniest brook,
Did the glittering cherry-trees beat the look
Of the poor-growing stems in the pathless nook.
But, alas! to plead love unto loving eyes,
And to beg for its leave of the worldly wise,
All humility sweet on the one side lies,
And all on the other that mortifies.
Sir William hath swallow'd a sigh at last,
Big as his heart, and the words have pass'd:
“I love your daughter, Sir Guy,” quoth he,
“And though I'm not rich, yet my race may be;
A race with a scutcheon as old as the best,
Though its wealth lies at Acre in holy rest.
Mine uncle, your friend, so blithe and old,
Hath nobody nigher to leave his gold:
The king hath been pleas'd to promise my sword
The picking of some great Frenchman's hoard;
And sire, meantime, should not blush for wife;
Soft as her hand should fare her life;
My rents, though small, can support her state,
And I'd fight for the rest till I made them great.
Vouchsafe to endure that I seek her love:
I know she resembles the blest above;
Her face would paint sweeter a monarch's bower,
Though glory and grace were in every flower:
But angels on monarchs themselves look down,
And love is to love both coffer and crown.”
Sir William ended, he scarce knew why,
(But 'twas pity of self, to move pity thereby,)
With a sad, perchance with an abject sigh,
And stoop'd and kiss'd the hand of Sir Guy:
Steady and sharp was the old man's eye.
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Quoth he, “and my daughter a beauty bright;
And a beauty bright and a bold young man
Have suited, I wot, since the world began.
But the man that is bold and hath money beside,
Cometh best arm'd for a beauteous bride.
The court will be riding this way next week,
To honour the earl's fat chimney reek;
And softly will many a bold bright eye
Fall on the face no face comes nigh.
You speak of mirth, and you speak of age,
Not in a way very civil or sage.
Your kinsman, the friend whom you call so old,
But ten years less than myself hath told:
And I count not this body so ancient still,
As to warrant green years to talk of my will.
Let him come if he please (I shall greet the friend)
And show me which way his post-obits tend,
And then we can parley of courtings best;
Till when, I advise you to court his chest.”
Sir William he boweth as low as before,
And after him closeth the soft room door,
And he moaneth a moan, and half staggereth he;
He doubteth which way the stairs may be.
But the lower his bow, and the deeper his moan,
The redder the spot in his cheek hath grown,
And he loatheth the kiss to the hard old hand.
“May the devil,” thought he, “for his best new brand,
Pluck it, and strike to his soul red-hot!
Why scorn me, and mock me? and why, like a sot,
Must I stoop to him, low as his own court-plot?
Will any one tell us,—will Nature declare,—
How father so foul can have daughter so fair?
But her mother of angels dreamt in her sorrow,
And hence came this face—this dimpled May-morrow.”
And as he thought thus, from a door there stole
A hand in a tremble, a balm to his soul;
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And with it a letter;—and gone it is.
Sir William hath dash'd in the forest awhile,
His being seems all a hasty smile:
And there, by green light and the cooing of doves,
He readeth the letter of her he loves,
And kisseth and readeth again and again;
His bridle is dropp'd on his palfrey's mane,
Who turneth an ear, and then, wise beast,
Croppeth the herbage,—a prudent feast:
For Sir William no sooner hath read nine times,
Than he deemeth delay the worst of crimes:
He snatcheth the bridle, and shakes it hard,
And is off for his life on the loud green sward;
He foameth up steep, and he hisseth in stream,
And saluteth his uncle like one in a dream.
“Sir William, Sir William, what chase is this?
Have you slain a fat buck, or stolen a kiss;
And is all the world, on account of his wife,
After poor dripping Sir William's life!”
“Most honour'd of kinsmen,” Sir William cried,
“Nought have I stolen, but hope of a bride;
Her father, no Christian like her, but a Jew,
Would make me disburse; which grieveth her too.
You know who she is, but have yet to know,
What a rose in the shade of that rock could grow;
What fulness of beauty, on footstalk light;
What a soul for sweet uncle to love at sight.
Ah! Sir, she loveth your own blithe fame,
And dareth, she saith, in your sister's name
Entreat me the loan of some fields of corn,
Which her dowry shall buy on the bridal morn.
I blush, dear uncle; I drop mine eyelids;
Yet who should blush when a lady bids?
'Tis lending me bliss; 'tis lending me life
And she'll kiss you withal, saith the rosy wife.”
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“The lass, I see, is both merry and wise;
I call her to mem'ry, an earnest child,
Now looking straight at you, now laughing wild:
'Tis now—let me see—five long years ago,
And that's a good time for such buds to blow.
Well, dry your outside, and moisten your in;
This wine is a bud of my oldest bin;
And we'll talk of the dowry, and talk of the day,
And see if her bill be good, boy, eh?”
Sir Grey didn't say, You're my sister's son,
I have left you my gold, and your work is done,—
He hated to speak of his gold, like death;
And he lov'd a good bill as he lov'd his breath;
And yet, for all that, Sir Grey, I trow,
Was a very good man, as corn-dealers go.
So the lover hath seiz'd the new old hand,
And kiss'd it as though it had given the land,
And invok'd on its bounty such bliss from above,
Thought he, “Of a truth I am mean in love.”
But free was his fervour from any such vice;
For when obligation's more fitting than nice,
We double the glow of our thanks and respect,
To hide from th' obliger his own defect.
“That palfrey of thine's a good palfrey, Will;
He holdeth his head up, and danceth still,
And trippeth as light by the ostler's side,
As though just saddled to bear your bride;
And yet, by Saint Richard, as drench'd is he
And as froth'd as though just out of the sea:
Methinks I hear him just landed free,
Shaking him and his saddle right thunderously.
And he starteth at nothing?”
He holdeth his head up, and danceth still,
And trippeth as light by the ostler's side,
As though just saddled to bear your bride;
And yet, by Saint Richard, as drench'd is he
And as froth'd as though just out of the sea:
Methinks I hear him just landed free,
Shaking him and his saddle right thunderously.
And he starteth at nothing?”
“No more than the wall.”
“And is sure of his footing?”
“And is sure of his footing?”
“As monarch in hall.
He's a thunder in fight, and a thief on the road,
So swiftly he speedeth whatever his load!
Yet round the wolf's den half a day will he hover,
And carrying a lady, takes heed like a lover.”
“And therefore Sir William will part with him never?”
“Nay, uncle, he will;—forever and ever.”
“And what such a jewel may purchase, I pray?”
“Thanks, thanks, dearest uncle, and not saying Nay.
Now prythee deny me not grace so small:
The palfrey in truth is comely withal,
And you still shall lend him to bear my bride;
But whom, save our help, should he carry beside?”
“I'm vex'd.”
He's a thunder in fight, and a thief on the road,
So swiftly he speedeth whatever his load!
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And carrying a lady, takes heed like a lover.”
“And therefore Sir William will part with him never?”
“Nay, uncle, he will;—forever and ever.”
“And what such a jewel may purchase, I pray?”
“Thanks, thanks, dearest uncle, and not saying Nay.
Now prythee deny me not grace so small:
The palfrey in truth is comely withal,
And you still shall lend him to bear my bride;
But whom, save our help, should he carry beside?”
“I'm vex'd.”
“For pity.”
“I'm griev'd.”
“Now pray.”
“'Tis cheap,” thought the uncle, “this not saying Nay.”
“'Tis cheap,” thought the uncle, “this not saying Nay.”
2. PART SECOND.
The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes,
Merrily ever the palfrey goes;
Nought he carrieth now but woes,
And yet full well the palfrey goes.
Merrily ever the palfrey goes;
Nought he carrieth now but woes,
And yet full well the palfrey goes.
Sir Grey and Sir Guy, like proper old boys,
Have met, with a world of coughing and noise;
And after subsiding, judiciously dine,
Serious the venison, and chirping the wine.
They talk of the court, now gathering all
To the sunny plump smoke of Earl-Mount Hall:
And pity their elders laid up on the shelves,
And abuse every soul upon earth but themselves:
Only Sir Grey doth it rather to please,
And Sir Guy out of honest old spite and disease:
For Sir Guy hath a face so round and so red,
The whole of his blood seemeth hanging his head,
While Sir Grey's red face is waggish and thin,
And he peereth with upraised nose and chin.
Nathless Sir Grey excepteth from blame
His nephew Sir Will, and his youthful fame;
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The youth and the lady may have of his gold.
Alas! of his gold will neither speak,
Tho' the wine it grew strong, and the tongue grew weak,
And when the sweet maiden herself appears,
With a breath in her bosom, and blush to her ears,
And the large thankful eyes of the look of a bride,
Sir Grey recollecteth no creature beside:
He watcheth her in, he watcheth her out;
He measureth her ankle, but not with his gout;
He chucketh, like chanticleer over a corn,
And thinks it but forty years since he was born.
“Why, how now, Sir Grey? methinks you grow young:
How soon are your own wedding bells to be rung?
You stare on my daughter, like one elf-struck.”
“Alas! and I am,—the sadder my luck:—
Albeit, Sir Guy, your own shoulders count
Years not many more than mine own amount,
And I trust you don't feign to be too old to wed?”
“Hoh! hoh!” quoth Sir Guy; “that was cunningly said.”
(Yet he felt flatter'd too, did the white old head.)
“What are years?” continued Sir Grey, looking bold;
“There are men never young, and men never old.
Old and young lips may carol in tune;
Green laugheth the oak 'gainst the brown mid June.
Lo! dapper Sir Kit, with his large young wife;
His big-leggéd babes are the pride of his life.”
Sir Guy shook his head.
“And the stout old lord,
Whose wife sitteth front him so meek at his board.”
“Ay, ay,” quoth Sir Guy, “and stuffeth so fast,
Whose wife sitteth front him so meek at his board.”
His eyesight not reaching the lady's repast.”
“Well, well,” quoth Sir Grey—
“Ill, ill,” quoth Sir Guy;
“The children of old men full well I descry;
They look, by Saint Christendom! old as themselves;
Are dwarf'd, are half wither'd! they grin like elves.”
“They may,” quoth Sir Grey, “when both parents are old,
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They look, by Saint Christendom! old as themselves;
Are dwarf'd, are half wither'd! they grin like elves.”
Or when the old parent is wrinkle-soul'd;
But not when he's hearty and merry as we.
You grieve me, Sir Guy. Oh! 'tis doleful to see
How vainly a friend may come here for a bride,
Though he loveth the daughter, and father beside.”
“Your pardon, your pardon, dear friend,” crieth Guy:
“What, you? What, Sir Grey with his ever-bright eye?
We talk'd of the old, but who talk'd of Sir Grey?
But speak ye right soberly? mean what ye say?”
“Ay, truly I do,” with a sigh crieth Grey;
“As truly as souls that for Paradise pray.
And hark ye, dear friend; you'll miss your sweet Anne,
If she weddeth, I wot, some giddy young man.
He'll bear her away, and be lov'd alone,
And wish, and yet grudge, your very tomb-stone.
Now give her to me, I'll give her my gold,
And I'll give to yourself my wood and my wold.
And come and live here, and we'll house together,
And laugh o'er our cups at the winter weather.
“A bargain! a bargain!” cried old Sir Guy,
With a stone at his heart, and the land in his eye;
“Your hand to the bargain, my dear old friend:
My ‘old’ did I call thee? My world without end.
I'll bustle her straight; and to keep all close,
You shall carry her with you, ere creature knows,
Save Rob, and Sir Rafe, and a few beside,
For guests and for guards to the travelling bride;
And so, ere the chattering court come down,
Wed her at home in your own snug town.”
Now a murrain, I say, on those foul old men!
I never, myself, shall see fifty again,
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Whose heart is green, though his cheek be yellow;
For Nature, albeit she never doth wrong,
Yet seemeth in such to keep youth too long:
And 'tis grievous when such an one seeth his bliss
In a face which can see but the wrinkles in his.
Ah! pray let him think there are dames not young,
For whom the bells yet might be handsomely rung.
'Tis true, grey-beards have been, like Jove's of old,
That have met a young lip, nor been thought too bold.
In Norfolk a wondrous old lord hath been seen,
Who at eighty was not more than forty, I ween;
And I myself know a hale elderly man,
In face and in frolic a very god Pan.
But marvels like these are full rare, I wis:
And when elders in general young ladies would kiss,
I exhort the dear souls to fight and to flee,
Unless they should chance to run against me.
Alas! I delay as long as I can,
For who may find words for thy grief, sweet Anne?
'Tis hard, when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow,
Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow.
She fainteth, she prayeth, she feeleth sore ill;
She wringeth her hands; she cannot stand still;
She tasteth the madness of wonder and will;—
Nor, sweet though she was, had she yielded at last,
Had Sir Guy not his loathly old plethora cast
In the scale against love and its life-long gains,
And threaten'd her fears for his bursting veins.
“I'll wed him,” she wrote to Sir William;—“yes;
But nothing on earth—” and here her distress
Broke off, and she wept, and the tears fell hot
On the paper, and made a great starry blot.
Alas! tears and letter burn under the eye
Of watchful, unmerciful, old Sir Guy;
And so on a night, when all things round,
Save the trees and the moon, were sleeping sound,
From his casement in shadow he sees his child,
Bent in her weeping, yet alway mild,
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Borne like some bundle of theft away;
Borne by a horde of old thieves away,
The guests and the guards of false Sir Grey.
She pray'd, but she spake out aloud no word;
She wept, but no breath of self-pity was heard:
Her woe was a sight for no dotards to see;
And yet not bereft of all balm was she;
One balm there was left her, one strange but rare,
Nay, one in the shape of a very despair,
To wit, the palfrey that wont to bear
The knight De la Barre on his daily way
To her, and love, and false Sir Grey.
Him it had borne, her now it bore;
And weeping sweet, though more and more,
And praying for its master's bliss
(Oh! no true love will scoff at this,)
She stoop'd and gave its neck a kiss.
3. PART THIRD.
The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes,
Merrily still the palfrey goes;
He goes a path he never chose,
Yet still full well the palfrey goes.
Merrily still the palfrey goes;
He goes a path he never chose,
Yet still full well the palfrey goes.
Could the sweet moon laugh, its light
Had surely been convuls'd that night,
To see fifteen old horsemen wag
Their beards, to one poor maiden's nag;
Fifteen old beards in chat and cough,
Rumbling to keep the robbers off,
And ever and aye, when lanes grew close,
Following each the other's nose,
And with the silver beam she cast
Tipp'd, like every tree they pass'd.
The owls they seem'd to hoot their folly
With a staring melancholy.
Had surely been convuls'd that night,
To see fifteen old horsemen wag
Their beards, to one poor maiden's nag;
Fifteen old beards in chat and cough,
Rumbling to keep the robbers off,
And ever and aye, when lanes grew close,
Following each the other's nose,
And with the silver beam she cast
Tipp'd, like every tree they pass'd.
The owls they seem'd to hoot their folly
With a staring melancholy.
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After jealous sort, I wis,
Cull'd Sir Grey these guests of his,
Not a soul so young as he
Gracing all his chivalry:
Six there were of toothless fame,
With each his man, of jaws as tame;
Then his own, the palsiest there;
And last, Sir Guy's, with whitest hair:
And each had snugg'd him for the night
In old flapp'd hat, and cap as white,
In double cloak, and threefold hose,
Besides good drink to warm his toes,
And so they jog it, beard and nose,
And in the midst the palfrey goes;
Oh! ever well the palfrey goes;
He knows within him what he knows,
And so, full well the palfrey goes.
Cull'd Sir Grey these guests of his,
Not a soul so young as he
Gracing all his chivalry:
Six there were of toothless fame,
With each his man, of jaws as tame;
Then his own, the palsiest there;
And last, Sir Guy's, with whitest hair:
And each had snugg'd him for the night
In old flapp'd hat, and cap as white,
In double cloak, and threefold hose,
Besides good drink to warm his toes,
And so they jog it, beard and nose,
And in the midst the palfrey goes;
Oh! ever well the palfrey goes;
He knows within him what he knows,
And so, full well the palfrey goes.
But in his hamlet, hous'd apart,
How far'd meantime, Sir William's heart?
Oh, when the sun first went to bed,
Not richer look'd the sun's own head,
Nor cast a more all-gladdening eye:
He seem'd to say, “My heav'n is nigh.”
For he had heard of rare delights
Between those two old feasting knights,
And of a pillion, new and fair,
Ordain'd to go some road as rare;
With whom? For what sweet rider's art?
Whose, but the dancer's at his heart,
The light, the bright, yet balmy she,
And who shall fetch her home but he?
Who else be summon'd speedily
By the kind uncle full of glee
To fetch away that ecstasy?
So, ever since that news, his ear,
Listening with a lofty fear
Lest it catch one sound too late,
Stood open, like a palace gate
That waits the bride of some great king,
Heard with her trumpets travelling.
At length a letter. Whose? Sir Guy's,
The father's own. With reverent eyes,
With heart impatient to give thanks,
And tears that top their glimmering banks,
He opens, reads, turns pale as death;
His noble bosom gasps for breath;
His Anne has left his love for gold,
But in her kindness manifold
Extorted from his uncle's hoard
Enough to leave him bed and board.
Ah! words like those were never Anne's;
Too plainly they the coarse old man's;
But still the letter; still the fact;
With pangs on pangs his heart is rack'd.
Love is an angel, has no pride;
She'll mourn his love when he has died:
Yet love is truth; so hates deceit;
He'll pass and scorn her in the street.
Now will he watch her house at night
For glimpse of her by some brief light,
Such as perhaps his own pale face
May show: and then he'll quit the place.
Now he will fly her, hate, detest,
Mock: make a by-word and a jest:
Then he hates hate; and who so low
As strike a woman's fame! No, no;
False love might spite the faithless Anne,
But true was aye the gentleman.
How far'd meantime, Sir William's heart?
Oh, when the sun first went to bed,
Not richer look'd the sun's own head,
Nor cast a more all-gladdening eye:
He seem'd to say, “My heav'n is nigh.”
For he had heard of rare delights
Between those two old feasting knights,
And of a pillion, new and fair,
Ordain'd to go some road as rare;
With whom? For what sweet rider's art?
Whose, but the dancer's at his heart,
The light, the bright, yet balmy she,
And who shall fetch her home but he?
Who else be summon'd speedily
By the kind uncle full of glee
To fetch away that ecstasy?
So, ever since that news, his ear,
Listening with a lofty fear
Lest it catch one sound too late,
Stood open, like a palace gate
That waits the bride of some great king,
76
At length a letter. Whose? Sir Guy's,
The father's own. With reverent eyes,
With heart impatient to give thanks,
And tears that top their glimmering banks,
He opens, reads, turns pale as death;
His noble bosom gasps for breath;
His Anne has left his love for gold,
But in her kindness manifold
Extorted from his uncle's hoard
Enough to leave him bed and board.
Ah! words like those were never Anne's;
Too plainly they the coarse old man's;
But still the letter; still the fact;
With pangs on pangs his heart is rack'd.
Love is an angel, has no pride;
She'll mourn his love when he has died:
Yet love is truth; so hates deceit;
He'll pass and scorn her in the street.
Now will he watch her house at night
For glimpse of her by some brief light,
Such as perhaps his own pale face
May show: and then he'll quit the place.
Now he will fly her, hate, detest,
Mock: make a by-word and a jest:
Then he hates hate; and who so low
As strike a woman's fame! No, no;
False love might spite the faithless Anne,
But true was aye the gentleman.
Thus paceth he, 'twixt calm and mad,
Till the mid-watch, his chamber sad;
And then lies down in his day-dress,
And sleeps for very weariness,
Catching and starting in his moan,
And waking with a life-long groan.
Sometimes he dreams his sorrow makes
Such weeping wail, that, as he wakes,
He lifts his pitying hand to try
His cheek, and wonders it is dry.
Sometimes his virgin bride and he
Are hous'd for the first time, and free
To dwell within each other's eyes;
And then he wakes with woful cries.
Sometimes he hears her call for aid;
Sometimes beholds her bright arrayed,
But pale, and with her eyes on earth;
And once he saw her pass in mirth,
And look at him, nor eye let fall,
And that was wofull'st dream of all.
At length he hears, or thinks he hears,—
(Or dreams he still with waking ears?)
A tinkle of the house's bell!
What news can midnight have to tell?
He listens. No. No sound again.
The breeze hath stirr'd the window pane;
Perchance it was the tinkling glass;
Perchance 'twas his own brain, alas!
His own weak brain, which hears the blood
Pulse at his ears,—a tingling flood,
Strange mantler in as strange a cup.
Yet hark again!—he starts, leans up;
It seems to fear to wake a mouse,
That sound;—then peals, and wakes the house.
Till the mid-watch, his chamber sad;
And then lies down in his day-dress,
And sleeps for very weariness,
Catching and starting in his moan,
And waking with a life-long groan.
Sometimes he dreams his sorrow makes
Such weeping wail, that, as he wakes,
He lifts his pitying hand to try
His cheek, and wonders it is dry.
77
Are hous'd for the first time, and free
To dwell within each other's eyes;
And then he wakes with woful cries.
Sometimes he hears her call for aid;
Sometimes beholds her bright arrayed,
But pale, and with her eyes on earth;
And once he saw her pass in mirth,
And look at him, nor eye let fall,
And that was wofull'st dream of all.
At length he hears, or thinks he hears,—
(Or dreams he still with waking ears?)
A tinkle of the house's bell!
What news can midnight have to tell?
He listens. No. No sound again.
The breeze hath stirr'd the window pane;
Perchance it was the tinkling glass;
Perchance 'twas his own brain, alas!
His own weak brain, which hears the blood
Pulse at his ears,—a tingling flood,
Strange mantler in as strange a cup.
Yet hark again!—he starts, leans up;
It seems to fear to wake a mouse,
That sound;—then peals, and wakes the house.
But first, to end what I began,
The journey of sweet houseless Anne.
The journey of sweet houseless Anne.
4. PART FOURTH.
The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes,
Merry and well the palfrey goes;
You cannot guess till time disclose,
How perfectly well the palfrey goes.
Merry and well the palfrey goes;
You cannot guess till time disclose,
How perfectly well the palfrey goes.
Ah! dream Sir William what he might,
Little he dreamt the truth that night.
Could but some friend have told him all,
How had he spurred from Hendon Hall,
And dash'd among the doting set,
Who bore away that soft cheek wet!
How had the hills by which they go,
Reëcho'd to his dire “Hallo!”
Startling the waking farmers' ears
With thoughts of thieves and murderers,
And scattering wide those owlish men,
While close he clasp'd his dove again.
But where I left them, safe go they,
Their drowsy noses droop'd alway
To meet the beard's attractive nest,
Push'd upwards from the muffled breast.
Drowsy they nod, and safe they go;
Sir Grey's good steeds the country know,
And lead the rest full soft and well,
Till snore on snore begins to swell,
Warm as owl-plumage, toned as bell;
True snores, composed of spices fine,
Supper, fresh air, and old mull'd wine.
At first they wake with start and fright,
And sniff and stare with all their might,
And sit, one moment, bolt upright:
But soon reverts each nodding crown:
It droops, it yields, it settles down;
Till in one snore, sincere and deep,
The whole grave train are fast asleep.
Sir Grey, the youngest, yields the last:
Besides he held two bridles fast,
The lady's palfrey having shown
Much wish to turn up lanes unknown.
Even sweet Anne can war not long
With sleep, the gentle and the strong;
And as the fingers of Sir Grey
By fine degrees give dulcet way,
And leave the happy beast his will,
The only creatures waking still
And free to go where fancy leads,
Are the twice eight bit-mumbling steeds.
Some few accordingly turn round,
Their happy memories homeward bound,
And soon awake their jolted lords,
Who bless themselves from bandit hordes,
And thinking they have only lagg'd,
Are willingly half jelly-bagg'd.
The rest,—the palfrey meek as any,—
Jog still onward with the many;
Passing now by Kilburn rill,
And now by Hampstead's leaf-stirr'd hill,
Which lulls them still as they descend
The sylvan trough of sweet North-end.
And till they reach thy plot serene
And bowery granges, Golders-green.
Little he dreamt the truth that night.
Could but some friend have told him all,
How had he spurred from Hendon Hall,
And dash'd among the doting set,
Who bore away that soft cheek wet!
78
Reëcho'd to his dire “Hallo!”
Startling the waking farmers' ears
With thoughts of thieves and murderers,
And scattering wide those owlish men,
While close he clasp'd his dove again.
But where I left them, safe go they,
Their drowsy noses droop'd alway
To meet the beard's attractive nest,
Push'd upwards from the muffled breast.
Drowsy they nod, and safe they go;
Sir Grey's good steeds the country know,
And lead the rest full soft and well,
Till snore on snore begins to swell,
Warm as owl-plumage, toned as bell;
True snores, composed of spices fine,
Supper, fresh air, and old mull'd wine.
At first they wake with start and fright,
And sniff and stare with all their might,
And sit, one moment, bolt upright:
But soon reverts each nodding crown:
It droops, it yields, it settles down;
Till in one snore, sincere and deep,
The whole grave train are fast asleep.
Sir Grey, the youngest, yields the last:
Besides he held two bridles fast,
The lady's palfrey having shown
Much wish to turn up lanes unknown.
Even sweet Anne can war not long
With sleep, the gentle and the strong;
And as the fingers of Sir Grey
By fine degrees give dulcet way,
And leave the happy beast his will,
The only creatures waking still
And free to go where fancy leads,
Are the twice eight bit-mumbling steeds.
Some few accordingly turn round,
Their happy memories homeward bound,
And soon awake their jolted lords,
Who bless themselves from bandit hordes,
79
Are willingly half jelly-bagg'd.
The rest,—the palfrey meek as any,—
Jog still onward with the many;
Passing now by Kilburn rill,
And now by Hampstead's leaf-stirr'd hill,
Which lulls them still as they descend
The sylvan trough of sweet North-end.
And till they reach thy plot serene
And bowery granges, Golders-green.
Now Golders-green had then a road
(The same as that just re-bestow'd)
Which cross'd the main road, and went straight
To Finchley, and Sir Grey's own gate;
And thither (every sleeper still
Depending on his horse's will,)
Thither, like sheep, turns every head
That follows where the sagest led,—
All but the palfrey's. He, good beast,
From his new master's clutch releas'd,
And longing much his old to see,
His stalls, and all his bounty free
(For poor Sir William's household ways
Were nobler than the rich Sir Grey's,)
Goes neither to the right nor left,
But straight as honesty from theft,
Straight as the dainty to the tooth,
Straight as his lady's love and truth,
Straight for the point, the best of all,
Sir William's arms and Hendon Hall.
(The same as that just re-bestow'd)
Which cross'd the main road, and went straight
To Finchley, and Sir Grey's own gate;
And thither (every sleeper still
Depending on his horse's will,)
Thither, like sheep, turns every head
That follows where the sagest led,—
All but the palfrey's. He, good beast,
From his new master's clutch releas'd,
And longing much his old to see,
His stalls, and all his bounty free
(For poor Sir William's household ways
Were nobler than the rich Sir Grey's,)
Goes neither to the right nor left,
But straight as honesty from theft,
Straight as the dainty to the tooth,
Straight as his lady's love and truth,
Straight for the point, the best of all,
Sir William's arms and Hendon Hall.
Not far from where we left them all,
Those steeds and sires, was Hendon Hall,
Some twice four hundred yards or so;
And steeds to stables quickly go.
The lady wakes with the first start;
She cries aloud; she cowers at heart;
And looks around her in affright
On the wide, lonely, homeless night;
Then checks, as sharply as she may
(Not yet aware how blest his way,)
Her eager friend; and nighly faints,
And calls on fifty gentle saints,
And, if she could, would close her eyes,
For fear of thieves and sorceries,
Of men all beard and blood, and calls
Over lone fields, and lighted palls,
And elves that ever, as you go,
Skip at your side with mop and mow,
With gibbering becks and moony stares,
Forcing your eyes to look on theirs.
And see! the moon forsakes the road;
She lifts her light to whence it flow'd:
Has she a good or ill bestow'd,
That thus her light forsakes the road?
The owls they hoot with gloomier cry;
They seem to see a murder nigh:
And how the palfrey snorts and pulls!
Now Mary help poor wandering fools!
The palfrey pulls, and he must go;
The lady's hand may not say No,
And go he does; the palfrey goes;
He carrieth now no longer woes;
For she, e'en she, now thinks she knows—
Sweet Anne begins to think she knows
Those gathering huts, those poplar rows,
That water, falling as it flows,
This bridge o'er which the palfrey goes,
This gate, at which he stops, and shows
His love to it with greeting nose.
Ah! surely recollects she well
All she has heard her lover tell
Of this same gate, and that same bell:
And she it was, you guess full well,
That pull'd and pull'd again that bell;
And down her love has come pell-mell
With page, and squire, and all who ran,
And was the first to find his Anne,—
Was a most mad and blissful man,
Clasping his fainting, faithful Anne.
Those steeds and sires, was Hendon Hall,
Some twice four hundred yards or so;
And steeds to stables quickly go.
The lady wakes with the first start;
She cries aloud; she cowers at heart;
And looks around her in affright
On the wide, lonely, homeless night;
80
(Not yet aware how blest his way,)
Her eager friend; and nighly faints,
And calls on fifty gentle saints,
And, if she could, would close her eyes,
For fear of thieves and sorceries,
Of men all beard and blood, and calls
Over lone fields, and lighted palls,
And elves that ever, as you go,
Skip at your side with mop and mow,
With gibbering becks and moony stares,
Forcing your eyes to look on theirs.
And see! the moon forsakes the road;
She lifts her light to whence it flow'd:
Has she a good or ill bestow'd,
That thus her light forsakes the road?
The owls they hoot with gloomier cry;
They seem to see a murder nigh:
And how the palfrey snorts and pulls!
Now Mary help poor wandering fools!
The palfrey pulls, and he must go;
The lady's hand may not say No,
And go he does; the palfrey goes;
He carrieth now no longer woes;
For she, e'en she, now thinks she knows—
Sweet Anne begins to think she knows
Those gathering huts, those poplar rows,
That water, falling as it flows,
This bridge o'er which the palfrey goes,
This gate, at which he stops, and shows
His love to it with greeting nose.
Ah! surely recollects she well
All she has heard her lover tell
Of this same gate, and that same bell:
And she it was, you guess full well,
That pull'd and pull'd again that bell;
And down her love has come pell-mell
With page, and squire, and all who ran,
And was the first to find his Anne,—
Was a most mad and blissful man,
Clasping his fainting, faithful Anne.
81
5. PART FIFTH.
The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes;
His work is done, you may suppose.
No:—double burden now he knows,
Yet well for ever the palfrey goes.
His work is done, you may suppose.
No:—double burden now he knows,
Yet well for ever the palfrey goes.
The bells in many a giddy ring
Run down the wind to greet the King,
Who comes to feast for service done,
With Earl De Vere at Kensington,
And brings with him his constant grace
Queen Eleanor, that angel's face.
Run down the wind to greet the King,
Who comes to feast for service done,
With Earl De Vere at Kensington,
And brings with him his constant grace
Queen Eleanor, that angel's face.
In many-footed order free
First ride his guards, all staid to see;
In midst of whom the trumpets blow,
Straight as power and glory go;
And then his lords and knights, each one
A manly splendour in the sun;
And then his lofty self appears,
Calmer for the shouts he hears,
With his Queen the courteous-eyed,
Like strength and sweetness side by side;
And thus, his banner steering all,
Rides the King to Earl-Mount Hall.
First ride his guards, all staid to see;
In midst of whom the trumpets blow,
Straight as power and glory go;
And then his lords and knights, each one
A manly splendour in the sun;
And then his lofty self appears,
Calmer for the shouts he hears,
With his Queen the courteous-eyed,
Like strength and sweetness side by side;
And thus, his banner steering all,
Rides the King to Earl-Mount Hall.
Meantime, ere yet the sovereign pair
Were threading London's closer air,
An humbler twain, heart link'd as they,
Were hearing larks and scenting hay,
And coming too, to Earl-Mount Hall
Through many a green lane's briery wall,
Many a brier and many a rose,
And merrily ever the palfrey goes,
Merrily though he carrieth two,
And one hath sometimes great ado
To sit while o'er the ruts he goes,
Nor clasp the other doubly close,
Who cannot choose but turn, and then—
Why, if none see, he clasps again.
“Ah,” thinks the lady, as she looks
Through tears and smiles with half-rebukes,
“Ah, must my father break his heart?
For surely now we never part.”
Were threading London's closer air,
An humbler twain, heart link'd as they,
Were hearing larks and scenting hay,
And coming too, to Earl-Mount Hall
Through many a green lane's briery wall,
Many a brier and many a rose,
And merrily ever the palfrey goes,
Merrily though he carrieth two,
And one hath sometimes great ado
To sit while o'er the ruts he goes,
Nor clasp the other doubly close,
Who cannot choose but turn, and then—
Why, if none see, he clasps again.
82
Through tears and smiles with half-rebukes,
“Ah, must my father break his heart?
For surely now we never part.”
Behind, some furlong off, and 'twixt
Those winding oaks with poplars mix'd,
Come two upon a second steed,
Male, too, and female; not indeed
The female young and fair as t' other:
She is the page's honour'd mother.
Much talk they on the road;—at least
Much talks the mother; while the beast
Pulls at the hedges as he goes,
Pricking oft his tossing nose;
And the page, though listening, sees
Newts in the brooks and nests in trees.
Lastly a hound, tongue-lolling, courses
To and fro 'twixt both the horses,
Giving now some weasel chase,
And loving now his master's face,
And so with many a turn and run
Goes twenty furlongs to their one.
Those winding oaks with poplars mix'd,
Come two upon a second steed,
Male, too, and female; not indeed
The female young and fair as t' other:
She is the page's honour'd mother.
Much talk they on the road;—at least
Much talks the mother; while the beast
Pulls at the hedges as he goes,
Pricking oft his tossing nose;
And the page, though listening, sees
Newts in the brooks and nests in trees.
Lastly a hound, tongue-lolling, courses
To and fro 'twixt both the horses,
Giving now some weasel chase,
And loving now his master's face,
And so with many a turn and run
Goes twenty furlongs to their one.
This riding double was no crime
In the first great Edward's time;
No brave man thought himself disgrac'd
By two fair arms about his waist;
Nor did the lady blush vermilion,
Dancing on the lover's pillion.
Why? Because all modes and actions
Bow'd not then to Vulgar Fractions;
Nor were tested all resources
By the power to purchase horses.
In the first great Edward's time;
No brave man thought himself disgrac'd
By two fair arms about his waist;
Nor did the lady blush vermilion,
Dancing on the lover's pillion.
Why? Because all modes and actions
Bow'd not then to Vulgar Fractions;
Nor were tested all resources
By the power to purchase horses.
Many a steed yet won had he,
Our lover, in his chivalry;
For, in sooth, full half his rents
Were ransoms gain'd in tournaments;
But all, save these, were gone at present.—
Ah! the green lane still was pleasant.
Our lover, in his chivalry;
For, in sooth, full half his rents
Were ransoms gain'd in tournaments;
83
Ah! the green lane still was pleasant.
Hope was theirs. For one sweet hour
Did they, last night, in bliss devour
Each other's questions, answers, eyes,
Nor ever for divine surprise
Could take a proper breath, much less
The supper brought in hastiness
By the glad little gaping page;
While rose meantime his mother sage
To wait upon the lady sweet,
And snore discreetly on the seat
In the oriel of the room,
Whence gleam'd her night-cap through the gloom.
Then parted they to lie awake
For transport, spite of all heart-ache:
For heaven's in any roof that covers,
Any one same night, two lovers;
They may be divided still;
They may want, in all but will;
But they know that each is there,
Each just parted, each in prayer;
Each more close, because apart,
And every thought clasp'd heart to heart.
Did they, last night, in bliss devour
Each other's questions, answers, eyes,
Nor ever for divine surprise
Could take a proper breath, much less
The supper brought in hastiness
By the glad little gaping page;
While rose meantime his mother sage
To wait upon the lady sweet,
And snore discreetly on the seat
In the oriel of the room,
Whence gleam'd her night-cap through the gloom.
Then parted they to lie awake
For transport, spite of all heart-ache:
For heaven's in any roof that covers,
Any one same night, two lovers;
They may be divided still;
They may want, in all but will;
But they know that each is there,
Each just parted, each in prayer;
Each more close, because apart,
And every thought clasp'd heart to heart.
Alas! in vain their hearts agree:
Good must seem good, as well as be;
And lest a spot should stain his flower
For blushing in a brideless bower,
Sir William with the lark must rise,
And bear,—but whither bear?—his prize:
Not to Sir Grey's, for that were scorn;
Not to Sir Guy's, to live forlorn;
Not to some abbey's jealous care,
For Heaven would try to wed her there;
But to a dame that serv'd the Queen,
His aunt, and no mean dame I ween,—
A dame of rank, a dame of honour,
A dame (may earth lie green upon her!)
That felt for nature, love, and truth,
And hated old age pawing youth:
One that at no time held wrong right,
Yet somehow took a dear delight,
By secret measures, sweet and strong,
In giving right a zest of wrong.
To her Sir William brings his Anne
Three hours before the feast began,
But first has sent his page to spy
How day has dawn'd with old Sir Guy.
The page scarce vanish'd, reappears,
His eyes wide open as their ears,
And tells how all the beards are there:
All;—every mump of quivering hair,
Come back with groan, and back with stare,
To set Sir Guy upon the rack,
And find the lady not come back.
Good must seem good, as well as be;
And lest a spot should stain his flower
For blushing in a brideless bower,
Sir William with the lark must rise,
And bear,—but whither bear?—his prize:
Not to Sir Grey's, for that were scorn;
Not to Sir Guy's, to live forlorn;
Not to some abbey's jealous care,
For Heaven would try to wed her there;
But to a dame that serv'd the Queen,
His aunt, and no mean dame I ween,—
A dame of rank, a dame of honour,
A dame (may earth lie green upon her!)
84
And hated old age pawing youth:
One that at no time held wrong right,
Yet somehow took a dear delight,
By secret measures, sweet and strong,
In giving right a zest of wrong.
To her Sir William brings his Anne
Three hours before the feast began,
But first has sent his page to spy
How day has dawn'd with old Sir Guy.
The page scarce vanish'd, reappears,
His eyes wide open as their ears,
And tells how all the beards are there:
All;—every mump of quivering hair,
Come back with groan, and back with stare,
To set Sir Guy upon the rack,
And find the lady not come back.
“Now God bless all their groans and stares,
And eke their most irreverend hairs!”
Cries the good dame, the Lady Maud,
Laughing with all her shoulders broad:—
“My budget bursteth sure with this!
This were a crowning galliardise
For king himself to tell in hall,
Against his lords' wit groweth small.”
And rustling in her vestments broad,
Forth sails the laughing Lady Maud
To tell the King and tell the Queen;
But first she kiss'd sweet Anne between
The sighing lips and downcast eyes,
And said, “Old breaking hearts are lies.”
And eke their most irreverend hairs!”
Cries the good dame, the Lady Maud,
Laughing with all her shoulders broad:—
“My budget bursteth sure with this!
This were a crowning galliardise
For king himself to tell in hall,
Against his lords' wit groweth small.”
And rustling in her vestments broad,
Forth sails the laughing Lady Maud
To tell the King and tell the Queen;
But first she kiss'd sweet Anne between
The sighing lips and downcast eyes,
And said, “Old breaking hearts are lies.”
Three hours have come, three hours have gone;
King Edward, with his crownet on,
Sits highest where the feast is set;
With wine the sweetest lips are wet;
The music makes a heaven above,
And underneath is talk of love.
King Edward, with his crownet on,
Sits highest where the feast is set;
With wine the sweetest lips are wet;
The music makes a heaven above,
And underneath is talk of love.
85
The King look'd out from where he sat,
And cried “Sir Guy de Paul!” Thereat
The music stopp'd with awe and wonder,
Like discourse when speaks the thunder;
And the feasters, one and all,
Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul.
And cried “Sir Guy de Paul!” Thereat
The music stopp'd with awe and wonder,
Like discourse when speaks the thunder;
And the feasters, one and all,
Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul.
“How chanceth it, Sir Guy de Paul,
Your daughter graceth not the call
To the feast at Earl-Mount Hall?
My friends here boast her like the Queen:
What maketh such a face unseen?”
Your daughter graceth not the call
To the feast at Earl-Mount Hall?
My friends here boast her like the Queen:
What maketh such a face unseen?”
“Sir,” quoth Sir Guy, “a loyal breast
Hath brought a man here sore distress'd.
My daughter, through device, 'tis fear'd,
Of some false knight, hath disappear'd.”
Hath brought a man here sore distress'd.
My daughter, through device, 'tis fear'd,
Of some false knight, hath disappear'd.”
“Hah!” quoth the King, “since when, I pray?
They tell me 'twas but yesterday
That she was mark'd, for two long hours,
Praying behind her window-flowers.”
They tell me 'twas but yesterday
That she was mark'd, for two long hours,
Praying behind her window-flowers.”
“Alas! sir, 'twas at night.—Forgive
My failing speech. I scarcely live
Till I have sought her high and low,
And know, what then the King shall know.”
My failing speech. I scarcely live
Till I have sought her high and low,
And know, what then the King shall know.”
“Now God confound all snares, and bring
Base hearts to sorrow!” cried the King;
“Myself will aid thee, and full soon.
Ho! master bard, good Rafe de Boon,
Pinch thy fair harp, and make it tell
Of those old thieves who slept so well.”
Base hearts to sorrow!” cried the King;
“Myself will aid thee, and full soon.
Ho! master bard, good Rafe de Boon,
Pinch thy fair harp, and make it tell
Of those old thieves who slept so well.”
The minstrel bowed with blushing glee;
His harp into his arms took he,
And rous'd its pulses to a mood
Befitting love and hardihood.
Then, with his ready wit sincere,
He sang to every tingling ear,
How fifteen brave old beards, one night,
Bore off one lady in a fright;
With what amazing knees they kept
Their saddles, and how fiercely slept;
And how a certain palfrey chose
To leave them to their proud repose,
And through the wildering night-time bear
The lady to her lover's care.
He nam'd no names, he drew no face,
Yet not a soul mistook the case;
Till by degrees, boards, tap'stries, rafters,
Echoed the King's and feasters' laughters;
And once again, all Earl-Mount Hall
Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul.
His harp into his arms took he,
And rous'd its pulses to a mood
Befitting love and hardihood.
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He sang to every tingling ear,
How fifteen brave old beards, one night,
Bore off one lady in a fright;
With what amazing knees they kept
Their saddles, and how fiercely slept;
And how a certain palfrey chose
To leave them to their proud repose,
And through the wildering night-time bear
The lady to her lover's care.
He nam'd no names, he drew no face,
Yet not a soul mistook the case;
Till by degrees, boards, tap'stries, rafters,
Echoed the King's and feasters' laughters;
And once again, all Earl-Mount Hall
Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul.
But how the laughter raged and scream'd,
When lo! these fifteen beards all stream'd
In at the great door of the hall!
Those very grey-beards, one and all,
By the King's command in thrall,
All mounted and all scar'd withal,
And scarlet as Sir Guy de Paul!
By heavens! 'twas “merry in the hall,”
When every beard but those “wagg'd all.”
When lo! these fifteen beards all stream'd
In at the great door of the hall!
Those very grey-beards, one and all,
By the King's command in thrall,
All mounted and all scar'd withal,
And scarlet as Sir Guy de Paul!
By heavens! 'twas “merry in the hall,”
When every beard but those “wagg'd all.”
Out spoke the King with wrathful breath,
Smiting the noise as still as death:
“Are these the suitors to destroy
My projects with new tales of Troy?
These the bold knights and generous lords
To wed our heiresses and wards?
Now, too, while Frenchman and while Scot
Have cost us double swords, God wot!
Are these replenishers of nations?
Begetters of great generations?
Out with them all! and bring to light
A fitter and a fairer sight.”
Queen Eleanor glanc'd down the hall,
She pitied old Sir Guy de Paul,
Who, while these doters went their way,
Knew neither how to go nor stay,
But sate bent close, his shame to smother,
Rubbing one hand upon the other.
A page she sent him, bright and mild,
Who led him forth, like his own child.
Smiting the noise as still as death:
“Are these the suitors to destroy
My projects with new tales of Troy?
These the bold knights and generous lords
To wed our heiresses and wards?
Now, too, while Frenchman and while Scot
Have cost us double swords, God wot!
Are these replenishers of nations?
Begetters of great generations?
Out with them all! and bring to light
A fitter and a fairer sight.”
87
She pitied old Sir Guy de Paul,
Who, while these doters went their way,
Knew neither how to go nor stay,
But sate bent close, his shame to smother,
Rubbing one hand upon the other.
A page she sent him, bright and mild,
Who led him forth, like his own child.
Out went the beards by a side door;
The great one roll'd apart once more,
And, as the King had given command,
In rode a couple, hand in hand,
Who made the stillness stiller:—he
A man to grace all jeopardy;
And all a lovely comfort, she.
The stalwart youth bestrode a steed,
A Barbary, the King's own breed;
The lady grac'd her palfrey still,
Sweet beast, that ever hath his will,
And paceth now beside his lord,
Straight for the King at the high board,
Till sharp the riders halt, and wait
The speaking of the crowned state,—
The knight with reverential eyes,
Whose grateful hope no claim implies:
The lady in a bashful glow,
Her bosom billowing to and fro.
The great one roll'd apart once more,
And, as the King had given command,
In rode a couple, hand in hand,
Who made the stillness stiller:—he
A man to grace all jeopardy;
And all a lovely comfort, she.
The stalwart youth bestrode a steed,
A Barbary, the King's own breed;
The lady grac'd her palfrey still,
Sweet beast, that ever hath his will,
And paceth now beside his lord,
Straight for the King at the high board,
Till sharp the riders halt, and wait
The speaking of the crowned state,—
The knight with reverential eyes,
Whose grateful hope no claim implies:
The lady in a bashful glow,
Her bosom billowing to and fro.
“Welcome! Sir William de la Barre,”
The monarch cried; “a right good star
For ladies' palfreys led astray;
And welcome his fair flower of May.
By heavens! I will not have my knights
Defrauded of their lady rights.
I give thee, William de la Barre,
For this thy bride, and that thy scar
Won from the big-limb'd traitor Pole,
The day thou dash'dst out half his soul
And lett'st his ransom free, for ruth
(For which thou wert a foolish youth,)
All those good meadows, lately his,
Down by the Brent, where thy hall is,
And all thy rights in that same hall,
Together with the osieries all
That skirt the streams by down and dale,
From Hendon into Perivale.
And now dismount. And hark ye, there,
Sir Priest, my chaplain Christopher,
(See how the honest body dries
The tears of claret in his eyes!)—
Come and betroth these friends of mine,
Till at the good Earl's chapel shrine
Thy holy magic make them one:
The King and Queen will see it done.
But first a royal health to all
The friends we leave in this fair hall;
And may all knights' and ladies' horses
Take, like the palfrey, vigorous courses!”
The monarch cried; “a right good star
For ladies' palfreys led astray;
And welcome his fair flower of May.
By heavens! I will not have my knights
Defrauded of their lady rights.
I give thee, William de la Barre,
For this thy bride, and that thy scar
Won from the big-limb'd traitor Pole,
The day thou dash'dst out half his soul
88
(For which thou wert a foolish youth,)
All those good meadows, lately his,
Down by the Brent, where thy hall is,
And all thy rights in that same hall,
Together with the osieries all
That skirt the streams by down and dale,
From Hendon into Perivale.
And now dismount. And hark ye, there,
Sir Priest, my chaplain Christopher,
(See how the honest body dries
The tears of claret in his eyes!)—
Come and betroth these friends of mine,
Till at the good Earl's chapel shrine
Thy holy magic make them one:
The King and Queen will see it done.
But first a royal health to all
The friends we leave in this fair hall;
And may all knights' and ladies' horses
Take, like the palfrey, vigorous courses!”
With princely laughter rose the King,
Rose all, the laughter echoing,
Rose the proud wassail, rose the shout
By the trumpets long stretch'd out;
You would have thought that roof and all
Rose in that heart-lifted hall.
On their knees are two alone;
The palfrey and the barb have gone:
And then arose those two beside,
And the music from its pride
Falls into a beauteous prayer,
Like an angel quitting air;
And the King and his soft Queen
Smile upon those two serene,
Whom the priest, accosting bland,
Puts, full willing, hand in hand.
Ah scarcely even King and Queen
Did they then perceive, I ween,
Nor well to after-memory call,
How they went from out that hall.
What more? Sir Guy, and then Sir Grey,
Died each upon a fine spring day;
And, in their hatred of things small,
Left him, now wanting nothing, all:
(All which, at least, that mighty claw
Permitted them, yclept the law.)
The daughter wept, and wept the more
To think her tears would soon be o'er;
Sir William neither wept nor smil'd,
But grac'd the father for the child,
And sent, to join the funeral shows,
Bearing scutcheons, bearing woes,
The palfrey; and full well he goes;
Oh! merrily well the palfrey goes;
Grief great as any there he knows,
Yet merrily ever the palfrey goes.
Rose all, the laughter echoing,
Rose the proud wassail, rose the shout
By the trumpets long stretch'd out;
You would have thought that roof and all
Rose in that heart-lifted hall.
On their knees are two alone;
The palfrey and the barb have gone:
And then arose those two beside,
And the music from its pride
Falls into a beauteous prayer,
Like an angel quitting air;
And the King and his soft Queen
Smile upon those two serene,
Whom the priest, accosting bland,
Puts, full willing, hand in hand.
Ah scarcely even King and Queen
Did they then perceive, I ween,
Nor well to after-memory call,
How they went from out that hall.
89
Died each upon a fine spring day;
And, in their hatred of things small,
Left him, now wanting nothing, all:
(All which, at least, that mighty claw
Permitted them, yclept the law.)
The daughter wept, and wept the more
To think her tears would soon be o'er;
Sir William neither wept nor smil'd,
But grac'd the father for the child,
And sent, to join the funeral shows,
Bearing scutcheons, bearing woes,
The palfrey; and full well he goes;
Oh! merrily well the palfrey goes;
Grief great as any there he knows,
Yet merrily ever the palfrey goes.
L'ENVOY.
To her, who loves all peaceful glory,Therefore laurell'd song and story;
Who, as blooming maiden should,
Married blest, with young and good;
And whose zeal for healthy duties
Set on horseback half our beauties;
Hie thee, little book, and say—
(Blushing for leave unbegg'd alway;
And yet how beg it for one flower
Cast in the path of Sovereign Power?)
Say that thy verse, though small it be,
Yet mov'd by ancient minstrelsy
To sing of youth escap'd from age,
Scenes pleasant, and a Palfrey sage,
And meditated, morn by morn,
Among the trees where she was born,
Dares come, on grateful memory's part,
Not to Crown'd Head, but to Crown'd Heart.
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THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.
King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glar'd, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there.”
They bit, they glar'd, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there.”
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled;
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
“By Heav'n!” said Francis, “rightly done!” and he rose from where he sat:
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
“By Heav'n!” said Francis, “rightly done!” and he rose from where he sat:
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”
91
GODIVA.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN HUNTER.
John Hunter, friend of Leigh Hunt's verse, and lover of all duty,
Hear how the boldest naked deed was clothed in saintliest beauty.
Hear how the boldest naked deed was clothed in saintliest beauty.
Earl Lefric by his hasty oath must solemnly abide;
He thought to put a hopeless bar, and finds it turn'd aside;
His lady to remove the toll that makes the land forlorn,
Will surely ride through Coventry, naked as she was born;
She said—the people will be kind; they love a gentle deed;
They piously will turn from me, nor shame a friend in need.
He thought to put a hopeless bar, and finds it turn'd aside;
His lady to remove the toll that makes the land forlorn,
Will surely ride through Coventry, naked as she was born;
She said—the people will be kind; they love a gentle deed;
They piously will turn from me, nor shame a friend in need.
Earl Lefric, half in holy dread, and half in loving care,
Hath bade the people all keep close in penitence and prayer;
The windows are fast boarded up; nor hath a sound been heard
Since yester-eve, save household dog, or latest summer-bird;
Only Saint Mary's bell begins at intervals to go,
Which is to last till all be past, to let obedience know.
Hath bade the people all keep close in penitence and prayer;
The windows are fast boarded up; nor hath a sound been heard
Since yester-eve, save household dog, or latest summer-bird;
Only Saint Mary's bell begins at intervals to go,
Which is to last till all be past, to let obedience know.
The mass is said; the priest hath bless'd the lady's pious will;
Then down the stairs she comes undress'd, but in a mantle still;
Her ladies are about her close, like mist about a star;
She speaks some little cheerful words, but knows not what they are;
The door is pass'd; the saddle press'd; her body feels the air;
Then down they let, from out its net, her locks of piteous hair.
Then down the stairs she comes undress'd, but in a mantle still;
Her ladies are about her close, like mist about a star;
She speaks some little cheerful words, but knows not what they are;
The door is pass'd; the saddle press'd; her body feels the air;
Then down they let, from out its net, her locks of piteous hair.
Oh, then how every list'ner feels, the palfrey's foot that hears!
The rudest are awed suddenly, the soft and brave in tears;
The poorest that were most in need of what the lady did,
Deem her a blessed creature born to rescue men forbid:
He that had said they could have died for her beloved sake,
Had rated low the thanks of woe. Death frights not old Heart-ache.
The rudest are awed suddenly, the soft and brave in tears;
The poorest that were most in need of what the lady did,
Deem her a blessed creature born to rescue men forbid:
He that had said they could have died for her beloved sake,
Had rated low the thanks of woe. Death frights not old Heart-ache.
92
Sweet saint! No shameless brow was hers, who could not bear to see,
For thinking of her happier lot, the pine of poverty:
No unaccustom'd deed she did, in scorn of custom's self,
She that but wish'd the daily bread upon the poor man's shelf.
Naked she went, to clothe the naked. New she was, and bold,
Only because she held the laws which Mercy preach'd of old.
For thinking of her happier lot, the pine of poverty:
No unaccustom'd deed she did, in scorn of custom's self,
She that but wish'd the daily bread upon the poor man's shelf.
Naked she went, to clothe the naked. New she was, and bold,
Only because she held the laws which Mercy preach'd of old.
They say she blush'd to be beheld, e'en of her ladies' eyes;
Then took her way with downward look, and brief, bewilder'd sighs.
A downward look; a beating heart; a sense of the new, vast,
Wide, open, naked world, and yet of every door she pass'd;
A pray'r, a tear, a constant mind, a listening ear that glow'd,
These we may dare to fancy there, on that religious road.
Then took her way with downward look, and brief, bewilder'd sighs.
A downward look; a beating heart; a sense of the new, vast,
Wide, open, naked world, and yet of every door she pass'd;
A pray'r, a tear, a constant mind, a listening ear that glow'd,
These we may dare to fancy there, on that religious road.
But who shall blind his heart with more? Who dare, with lavish guess,
Refuse the grace she hoped of us, in her divine distress?
In fancy still she holds her way, forever pacing on,
The sight unseen, the guiltless Eve, the shame unbreath'd upon;
The step, that upon Duty's ear is growing more and more,
Though yet, alas! it hath to pass by many a scorner's door.
Refuse the grace she hoped of us, in her divine distress?
In fancy still she holds her way, forever pacing on,
The sight unseen, the guiltless Eve, the shame unbreath'd upon;
The step, that upon Duty's ear is growing more and more,
Though yet, alas! it hath to pass by many a scorner's door.
108
CAPTAIN SWORD AND CAPTAIN PEN.
I. HOW CAPTAIN SWORD MARCHED TO WAR.
Captain Sword got up one day,
Over the hills to march away,
Over the hills and through the towns;
They heard him coming across the downs,
Stepping in music and thunder sweet,
Which his drums sent before him into the street,
And lo! 'twas a beautiful sight in the sun;
For first came his foot, all marching like one,
With tranquil faces, and bristling steel,
And the flag full of honour as though it could feel,
And the officers gentle, the sword that hold
'Gainst the shoulder heavy with trembling gold,
And the massy tread, that in passing is heard,
Though the drums and the music say never a word.
Over the hills to march away,
Over the hills and through the towns;
They heard him coming across the downs,
Stepping in music and thunder sweet,
Which his drums sent before him into the street,
And lo! 'twas a beautiful sight in the sun;
For first came his foot, all marching like one,
With tranquil faces, and bristling steel,
And the flag full of honour as though it could feel,
And the officers gentle, the sword that hold
'Gainst the shoulder heavy with trembling gold,
And the massy tread, that in passing is heard,
Though the drums and the music say never a word.
And then came his horse, a clustering sound,
Of shapely potency, forward bound,
Glossy black steeds, and riders tall,
Rank after rank, each looking like all,
Midst moving repose and a threatening charm,
With mortal sharpness at each right arm,
And hues that painters and ladies love,
And ever the small flag blush'd above.
Of shapely potency, forward bound,
Glossy black steeds, and riders tall,
Rank after rank, each looking like all,
Midst moving repose and a threatening charm,
With mortal sharpness at each right arm,
And hues that painters and ladies love,
And ever the small flag blush'd above.
And ever and anon the kettle drums beat
Hasty power midst order meet;
And ever and anon the drums and fifes
Came like motion's voice, and life's;
Or into the golden grandeurs fell
Of deeper instruments, mingling well,
Burdens of beauty for winds to bear;
And the cymbals kiss'd in the shining air,
And the trumpets their visible voices rear'd,
Each looking forth with its tapestried beard,
Bidding the heavens and earth make way
For Captain Sword and his battle-array.
Hasty power midst order meet;
And ever and anon the drums and fifes
Came like motion's voice, and life's;
Or into the golden grandeurs fell
Of deeper instruments, mingling well,
Burdens of beauty for winds to bear;
And the cymbals kiss'd in the shining air,
109
Each looking forth with its tapestried beard,
Bidding the heavens and earth make way
For Captain Sword and his battle-array.
He, nevertheless, rode indifferent-eyed,
As if pomp were a toy to his manly pride,
Whilst the ladies loved him the more for his scorn,
And thought him the noblest man ever was born,
And tears came into the bravest eyes,
And hearts swell'd after him double their size,
And all that was weak, and all that was strong,
Seem'd to think wrong's self in him could not be wrong,
Such love, though with bosom about to be gored,
Did sympathy get for brave Captain Sword.
As if pomp were a toy to his manly pride,
Whilst the ladies loved him the more for his scorn,
And thought him the noblest man ever was born,
And tears came into the bravest eyes,
And hearts swell'd after him double their size,
And all that was weak, and all that was strong,
Seem'd to think wrong's self in him could not be wrong,
Such love, though with bosom about to be gored,
Did sympathy get for brave Captain Sword.
So, half that night, as he stopp'd in the town,
'Twas all one dance going merrily down,
With lights in windows and love in eyes,
And a constant feeling of sweet surprise;
But all the next morning 'twas tears and sighs;
For the sound of his drums grew less and less,
Walking like carelessness off from distress;
And Captain Sword went whistling gay,
“Over the hills and far away.”
'Twas all one dance going merrily down,
With lights in windows and love in eyes,
And a constant feeling of sweet surprise;
But all the next morning 'twas tears and sighs;
For the sound of his drums grew less and less,
Walking like carelessness off from distress;
And Captain Sword went whistling gay,
“Over the hills and far away.”
II. HOW CAPTAIN SWORD WON A GREAT VICTORY.
Through fair and through foul went Captain Sword,
Pacer of highway and piercer of ford,
Steady of face in rain or sun,
He and his merry men, all as one;
Till they came to a place, where in battle-array
Stood thousands of faces firm as they,
Waiting to see which could best maintain
Bloody argument, lords of pain;
And down the throats of their fellow-men
Thrust the draught never drunk again.
Pacer of highway and piercer of ford,
Steady of face in rain or sun,
He and his merry men, all as one;
Till they came to a place, where in battle-array
Stood thousands of faces firm as they,
Waiting to see which could best maintain
Bloody argument, lords of pain;
And down the throats of their fellow-men
Thrust the draught never drunk again.
110
It was a spot of rural peace,
Ripening with the year's increase,
And singing in the sun with birds,
Like a maiden with happy words—
With happy words which she scarcely hears
In her own contented ears,
Such abundance feeleth she
Of all comfort carelessly,
Throwing round her, as she goes,
Sweet half thoughts on lily and rose,
Nor guesseth what will soon arouse
All ears—that murder's in the house;
And that, in some strange wrong of brain,
Her father hath her mother slain.
Ripening with the year's increase,
And singing in the sun with birds,
Like a maiden with happy words—
With happy words which she scarcely hears
In her own contented ears,
Such abundance feeleth she
Of all comfort carelessly,
Throwing round her, as she goes,
Sweet half thoughts on lily and rose,
Nor guesseth what will soon arouse
All ears—that murder's in the house;
And that, in some strange wrong of brain,
Her father hath her mother slain.
Steady! steady! The masses of men
Wheel, and fall in, and wheel again,
Softly as circles drawn with pen.
Wheel, and fall in, and wheel again,
Softly as circles drawn with pen.
Then a gaze there was, and valour, and fear,
And the jest that died in the jester's ear,
And preparation, noble to see,
Of all-accepting mortality;
Tranquil Necessity gracing Force;
And the trumpets danced with the stirring horse;
And lordly voices, here and there,
Call'd to war through the gentle air;
When suddenly, with its voice of doom
Spoke the cannon 'twixt glare and gloom,
Making wider the dreadful room:
On the faces of nations round
Fell the shadow of that sound.
And the jest that died in the jester's ear,
And preparation, noble to see,
Of all-accepting mortality;
Tranquil Necessity gracing Force;
And the trumpets danced with the stirring horse;
And lordly voices, here and there,
Call'd to war through the gentle air;
When suddenly, with its voice of doom
Spoke the cannon 'twixt glare and gloom,
Making wider the dreadful room:
On the faces of nations round
Fell the shadow of that sound.
Death for death! The storm begins;
Rush the drums in a torrent of dins;
Crash the muskets, gash the swords;
Shoes grow red in a thousand fords;
Now for the flint, and the cartridge bite;
Darkly gathers the breath of the fight,
Salt to the palate, and stinging to sight,
Muskets are pointed they scarce know where;
No matter: Murder is cluttering there.
Reel the hollows: close up! close up!
Death feeds thick, and his food is his cup.
Down go bodies, snap burst eyes;
Trod on the ground are tender cries;
Brains are dash'd against plashing ears;
Hah! no time has battle for tears;
Cursing helps better—cursing, that goes
Slipping through friends' blood, athirst for foes'.
What have soldiers with tears to do?—
We, who this mad-house must now go through,
This twenty-fold Bedlam, let loose with knives—
To murder, and stab, and grow liquid with lives—
Gasping, staring, treading red mud,
Till the drunkenness' self makes us steady of blood?
Rush the drums in a torrent of dins;
Crash the muskets, gash the swords;
Shoes grow red in a thousand fords;
Now for the flint, and the cartridge bite;
Darkly gathers the breath of the fight,
Salt to the palate, and stinging to sight,
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No matter: Murder is cluttering there.
Reel the hollows: close up! close up!
Death feeds thick, and his food is his cup.
Down go bodies, snap burst eyes;
Trod on the ground are tender cries;
Brains are dash'd against plashing ears;
Hah! no time has battle for tears;
Cursing helps better—cursing, that goes
Slipping through friends' blood, athirst for foes'.
What have soldiers with tears to do?—
We, who this mad-house must now go through,
This twenty-fold Bedlam, let loose with knives—
To murder, and stab, and grow liquid with lives—
Gasping, staring, treading red mud,
Till the drunkenness' self makes us steady of blood?
[Oh! shrink not thou, reader! Thy part's in it, too;
Has not thy praise made the thing they go through,
Shocking to read of, but noble to do?]
Has not thy praise made the thing they go through,
Shocking to read of, but noble to do?]
No time to be “breather of thoughtful breath”
Has the giver and taker of dreadful death.
See where comes the horse-tempest again,
Visible earthquake, bloody of mane!
Part are upon us, with edges of pain;
Part burst, riderless, over the plain,
Crashing their spurs, and twice slaying the slain.
See, by the living God! see those foot
Charging down hill—hot, hurried, and mute!
They loll their tongues out! Ah-hah! pell-mell!
Horses roll in a human hell;
Horse and man they climb one another—
Which is the beast, and which is the brother?
Mangling, stifling, stopping shrieks
With the tread of torn-out cheeks,
Drinking each other's bloody breath—
Here's the fleshliest feast of Death.
An odour, as of a slaughter-house,
The distant raven's dark eye bows.
Has the giver and taker of dreadful death.
See where comes the horse-tempest again,
Visible earthquake, bloody of mane!
Part are upon us, with edges of pain;
Part burst, riderless, over the plain,
Crashing their spurs, and twice slaying the slain.
See, by the living God! see those foot
Charging down hill—hot, hurried, and mute!
They loll their tongues out! Ah-hah! pell-mell!
Horses roll in a human hell;
Horse and man they climb one another—
Which is the beast, and which is the brother?
Mangling, stifling, stopping shrieks
With the tread of torn-out cheeks,
Drinking each other's bloody breath—
Here's the fleshliest feast of Death.
An odour, as of a slaughter-house,
The distant raven's dark eye bows.
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Victory! victory! Man flies man;
Cannibal patience hath done what it can—
Carved, and been carved, drunk the drinkers down,
And now there is one that hath won the crown;—
One pale visage stands lord of the board—
Joy to the trumpets of Captain Sword!
Cannibal patience hath done what it can—
Carved, and been carved, drunk the drinkers down,
And now there is one that hath won the crown;—
One pale visage stands lord of the board—
Joy to the trumpets of Captain Sword!
His trumpets blow strength, his trumpets neigh,
They and his horse, and waft him away;
They and his foot, with a tired proud flow,
Tatter'd escapers and givers of woe.
Open, ye cities! Hats off! hold breath!
To see the man who has been with Death;
To see the man who determineth right
By the virtue-perplexing virtue of might.
Sudden before him have ceased the drums,
And lo! in the air of empire he comes.
They and his horse, and waft him away;
They and his foot, with a tired proud flow,
Tatter'd escapers and givers of woe.
Open, ye cities! Hats off! hold breath!
To see the man who has been with Death;
To see the man who determineth right
By the virtue-perplexing virtue of might.
Sudden before him have ceased the drums,
And lo! in the air of empire he comes.
All things present, in earth and sky,
Seem to look at his looking eye.
Seem to look at his looking eye.
III. OF THE BALL THAT WAS GIVEN TO CAPTAIN SWORD.
But Captain Sword was a man among men,
And he hath become their playmate again:
Boot, nor sword, nor stern look hath he,
But holdeth the hand of a fair ladye,
And floweth the dance a palace within,
Half the night, to a golden din,
Midst lights in windows and love in eyes,
And a constant feeling of sweet surprise;
And ever the look of Captain Sword
Is the look that's thank'd, and the look that's adored.
And he hath become their playmate again:
Boot, nor sword, nor stern look hath he,
But holdeth the hand of a fair ladye,
And floweth the dance a palace within,
Half the night, to a golden din,
Midst lights in windows and love in eyes,
And a constant feeling of sweet surprise;
And ever the look of Captain Sword
Is the look that's thank'd, and the look that's adored.
There was the country-dance, small of taste;
And the waltz, that loveth the lady's waist;
And the galopade, strange agreeable tramp,
Made of a scrape, a hobble, and stamp;
And the high-stepping minuet, face to face,
Mutual worship of conscious grace;
And all the shapes in which beauty goes
Weaving motion with blithe repose.
And the waltz, that loveth the lady's waist;
And the galopade, strange agreeable tramp,
Made of a scrape, a hobble, and stamp;
113
Mutual worship of conscious grace;
And all the shapes in which beauty goes
Weaving motion with blithe repose.
And then a table a feast display'd,
Like a garden of light without a shade,
All of gold, and flowers, and sweets,
With wines of old church-lands, and sylvan meats,
Food that maketh the blood feel choice;
Yet all the face of the feast, and the voice,
And heart, still turn'd to the head of the board;
For ever the look of Captain Sword
Is the look that's thank'd, and the look that's adored.
Like a garden of light without a shade,
All of gold, and flowers, and sweets,
With wines of old church-lands, and sylvan meats,
Food that maketh the blood feel choice;
Yet all the face of the feast, and the voice,
And heart, still turn'd to the head of the board;
For ever the look of Captain Sword
Is the look that's thank'd, and the look that's adored.
Well content was Captain Sword;
At his feet all wealth was pour'd;
On his head all glory set;
For his ease all comfort met;
And around him seem'd entwined
All the arms of womankind.
At his feet all wealth was pour'd;
On his head all glory set;
For his ease all comfort met;
And around him seem'd entwined
All the arms of womankind.
And when he had taken his fill
Thus, of all that pampereth will,
In his down he sunk to rest
Clasp'd in dreams of all its best.
Thus, of all that pampereth will,
In his down he sunk to rest
Clasp'd in dreams of all its best.
IV. ON WHAT TOOK PLACE ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE THE NIGHT AFTER THE VICTORY.
'Tis a wild night out of doors;
The wind is mad upon the moors,
And comes into the rocking town,
Stabbing all things, up and down,
And then there is a weeping rain
Huddling 'gainst the window-pane,
And good men bless themselves in bed;
The mother brings her infant's head
Closer, with a joy like tears,
And thinks of angels in her prayers;
Then sleeps, with his small hand in hers.
The wind is mad upon the moors,
And comes into the rocking town,
Stabbing all things, up and down,
And then there is a weeping rain
Huddling 'gainst the window-pane,
And good men bless themselves in bed;
The mother brings her infant's head
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And thinks of angels in her prayers;
Then sleeps, with his small hand in hers.
Two loving women, lingering yet
Ere the fire is out, are met,
Talking sweetly, time-beguiled,
One of her bridegroom, one her child,
The bridegroom he. They have received
Happy letters, more believed
For public news, and feel the bliss
The heavenlier on a night like this.
They think him housed, they think him blest,
Curtain'd in the core of rest,
Danger distant, all good near;
Why hath their “Good night” a tear?
Ere the fire is out, are met,
Talking sweetly, time-beguiled,
One of her bridegroom, one her child,
The bridegroom he. They have received
Happy letters, more believed
For public news, and feel the bliss
The heavenlier on a night like this.
They think him housed, they think him blest,
Curtain'd in the core of rest,
Danger distant, all good near;
Why hath their “Good night” a tear?
Behold him! By a ditch he lies
Clutching the wet earth, his eyes
Beginning to be mad. In vain
His tongue still thirsts to lick the rain,
That mock'd but now his homeward tears;
And ever and anon he rears
His legs and knees with all their strength,
And then as strongly thrusts at length.
Raised, or stretch'd, he cannot bear
The wound that girds him, weltering there:
And “Water!” he cries, with moonward stare.
Clutching the wet earth, his eyes
Beginning to be mad. In vain
His tongue still thirsts to lick the rain,
That mock'd but now his homeward tears;
And ever and anon he rears
His legs and knees with all their strength,
And then as strongly thrusts at length.
Raised, or stretch'd, he cannot bear
The wound that girds him, weltering there:
And “Water!” he cries, with moonward stare.
[“I will not read it!” with a start,
Burning cries some honest heart;
“I will not read it! Why endure
Pangs which horror cannot cure?
Why—Oh why? and rob the brave,
And the bereaved, of all they crave,
A little hope to gild the grave?”
Burning cries some honest heart;
“I will not read it! Why endure
Pangs which horror cannot cure?
Why—Oh why? and rob the brave,
And the bereaved, of all they crave,
A little hope to gild the grave?”
Ask'st thou why, thou honest heart?
'Tis because thou dost ask, and because thou dost start.
'Tis because thine own praise and fond outward thought
Have aided the shows which this sorrow has wrought.]
'Tis because thou dost ask, and because thou dost start.
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Have aided the shows which this sorrow has wrought.]
A wound unutterable—O God!
Mingles his being with the sod.
Mingles his being with the sod.
[“I'll read no more.”—Thou must, thou must:
In thine own pang doth wisdom trust.]
In thine own pang doth wisdom trust.]
His nails are in earth, his eyes in air,
And “Water!” he crieth—he may not forbear.
Brave and good was he, yet now he dreams
The moon looks cruel; and he blasphemes.
And “Water!” he crieth—he may not forbear.
Brave and good was he, yet now he dreams
The moon looks cruel; and he blasphemes.
[“No more! no more!” Nay, this is but one;
Were the whole tale told, it would not be done
From wonderful setting to rising sun.
But God's good time is at hand—be calm,
Thou reader! and steep thee in all thy balm
Of tears or patience, of thought or good will,
For the field—the field awaiteth us still.]
Were the whole tale told, it would not be done
From wonderful setting to rising sun.
But God's good time is at hand—be calm,
Thou reader! and steep thee in all thy balm
Of tears or patience, of thought or good will,
For the field—the field awaiteth us still.]
“Water! water!” all over the field:
To nothing but Death will that wound-voice yield.
One, as he crieth, is sitting half bent;
What holds he so close?—his body is rent.
Another is mouthless, with eyes on cheek;
Unto the raven he may not speak.
One would fain kill him; and one half round
The place where he writhes, hath up-beaten the ground.
Like a mad horse hath he beaten the ground,
And the feathers and music that litter it round,
The gore, and the mud, and the golden sound.
Come hither, ye cities! ye ball-rooms, take breath!
See what a floor hath the Dance of Death!
To nothing but Death will that wound-voice yield.
One, as he crieth, is sitting half bent;
What holds he so close?—his body is rent.
Another is mouthless, with eyes on cheek;
Unto the raven he may not speak.
One would fain kill him; and one half round
The place where he writhes, hath up-beaten the ground.
Like a mad horse hath he beaten the ground,
And the feathers and music that litter it round,
The gore, and the mud, and the golden sound.
Come hither, ye cities! ye ball-rooms, take breath!
See what a floor hath the Dance of Death!
The floor is alive, though the lights are out;
What are those dark shapes, flitting about?
Flitting about, yet no ravens they,
Not foes, yet not friends,—mute creatures of prey;
Their prey is lucre, their claws a knife,
Some say they take the beseeching life.
Horrible pity is theirs for despair,
And they the love-sacred limbs leave bare.
Love will come to-morrow, and sadness,
Patient for the fear of madness,
And shut its eyes for cruelty,
So many pale beds to see.
Turn away, thou Love, nor weep
More in covering his last sleep;
Thou hast him:—blessed is thine eye!
Friendless Famine has yet to die.
What are those dark shapes, flitting about?
Flitting about, yet no ravens they,
Not foes, yet not friends,—mute creatures of prey;
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Some say they take the beseeching life.
Horrible pity is theirs for despair,
And they the love-sacred limbs leave bare.
Love will come to-morrow, and sadness,
Patient for the fear of madness,
And shut its eyes for cruelty,
So many pale beds to see.
Turn away, thou Love, nor weep
More in covering his last sleep;
Thou hast him:—blessed is thine eye!
Friendless Famine has yet to die.
A shriek!—Great God! what superhuman
Peal was that? Not man, nor woman,
Nor twenty madmen, crush'd, could wreak
Their soul in such a ponderous shriek.
Dumbly, for an instant, stares
The field; and creep men's dying hairs.
Peal was that? Not man, nor woman,
Nor twenty madmen, crush'd, could wreak
Their soul in such a ponderous shriek.
Dumbly, for an instant, stares
The field; and creep men's dying hairs.
O friend of man! O noble creature!
Patient and brave, and mild by nature,
Mild by nature, and mute as mild,
Why brings he to these passes wild,
Thee, gentle horse, thou shape of beauty?
Could he not do his dreadful duty,
(If duty it be, which seems mad folly)
Nor link thee to his melancholy?
Patient and brave, and mild by nature,
Mild by nature, and mute as mild,
Why brings he to these passes wild,
Thee, gentle horse, thou shape of beauty?
Could he not do his dreadful duty,
(If duty it be, which seems mad folly)
Nor link thee to his melancholy?
Two noble steeds lay side by side,
One cropp'd the meek grass ere it died;
Pang-struck it struck t'other, already torn,
And out of its bowels that shriek was born.
One cropp'd the meek grass ere it died;
Pang-struck it struck t'other, already torn,
And out of its bowels that shriek was born.
Now see what crawleth, well as it may,
Out of the ditch, and looketh that way.
What horror all black, in the sick moonlight,
Kneeling, half human, a burthensome sight;
Loathly and liquid, as fly from a dish;
Speak, Horror! thou, for it withereth flesh.
Out of the ditch, and looketh that way.
What horror all black, in the sick moonlight,
Kneeling, half human, a burthensome sight;
Loathly and liquid, as fly from a dish;
Speak, Horror! thou, for it withereth flesh.
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“The grass caught fire; the wounded were by;
Writhing till eve did a remnant lie;
Then feebly this coal abateth his cry;
But he hopeth! he hopeth! joy lighteth his eye,
For gold he possesseth, and Murder is nigh!”
Writhing till eve did a remnant lie;
Then feebly this coal abateth his cry;
But he hopeth! he hopeth! joy lighteth his eye,
For gold he possesseth, and Murder is nigh!”
O goodness in horror! O ill not all ill!
In the worst of the worst may be fierce Hope still.
To-morrow with dawn will come many a wain,
And bear away loads of human pain,
Piles of pale beds for the 'spitals; but some
Again will awake in home-mornings, and some,
Dull herds of the war, again follow the drum.
From others, faint blood shall in families flow,
With wonder at life, and young oldness in woe,
Yet hence may the movers of great earth grow.
Now, even now, I hear them at hand,
Though again Captain Sword is up in the land,
Marching anew for more fields like these
In the health of his flag in the morning breeze.
In the worst of the worst may be fierce Hope still.
To-morrow with dawn will come many a wain,
And bear away loads of human pain,
Piles of pale beds for the 'spitals; but some
Again will awake in home-mornings, and some,
Dull herds of the war, again follow the drum.
From others, faint blood shall in families flow,
With wonder at life, and young oldness in woe,
Yet hence may the movers of great earth grow.
Now, even now, I hear them at hand,
Though again Captain Sword is up in the land,
Marching anew for more fields like these
In the health of his flag in the morning breeze.
Sneereth the trumpet, and stampeth the drum,
And again Captain Sword in his pride doth come;
He passeth the fields where his friends lie lorn,
Feeding the flowers and the feeding corn,
Where under the sunshine cold they lie,
And he hasteth a tear from his old gray eye.
Small thinking is his but of work to be done,
And onward he marcheth, using the sun:
He slayeth, he wasteth, he spouteth his fires
On babes at the bosom, and bed-rid sires;
He bursteth pale cities, through smoke and through yell,
And bringeth behind him, hot-blooded, his hell.
Then the weak door is barr'd and the soul all sore
And hand-wringing helplessness paceth the floor,
And the lover is slain, and the parents are nigh—
And again Captain Sword in his pride doth come;
He passeth the fields where his friends lie lorn,
Feeding the flowers and the feeding corn,
Where under the sunshine cold they lie,
And he hasteth a tear from his old gray eye.
Small thinking is his but of work to be done,
And onward he marcheth, using the sun:
He slayeth, he wasteth, he spouteth his fires
On babes at the bosom, and bed-rid sires;
He bursteth pale cities, through smoke and through yell,
And bringeth behind him, hot-blooded, his hell.
Then the weak door is barr'd and the soul all sore
And hand-wringing helplessness paceth the floor,
And the lover is slain, and the parents are nigh—
Oh God! let me breathe, and look up at thy sky!
Good is as hundreds, evil as one;
Round about goeth the golden sun.
Good is as hundreds, evil as one;
Round about goeth the golden sun.
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V. HOW CAPTAIN SWORD, IN CONSEQUENCE OF HIS GREAT VICTORIES, BECAME INFIRM IN HIS WITS.
But to win at the game, whose moves are death,
It maketh a man draw too proud a breath:
And to see his force taken for reason and right,
It tendeth to unsettle his reason quite.
Never did chief of the line of Sword
Keep his wits whole at that drunken board.
He taketh the size, and the roar, and fate,
Of the field of his action, for soul as great:
He smiteth and stunneth the cheek of mankind,
And saith, “Lo! I rule both body and mind.”
It maketh a man draw too proud a breath:
And to see his force taken for reason and right,
It tendeth to unsettle his reason quite.
Never did chief of the line of Sword
Keep his wits whole at that drunken board.
He taketh the size, and the roar, and fate,
Of the field of his action, for soul as great:
He smiteth and stunneth the cheek of mankind,
And saith, “Lo! I rule both body and mind.”
Captain Sword forgot his own soul,
Which of aught save itself resented control;
Which whatever his deeds, ordained them still,
Bodiless monarch, enthroned in his will:
He forgot the close thought, and the burning heart,
And pray'rs, and the mild moon hanging apart,
Which lifted the seas with her gentle looks,
And growth, and death, and immortal books,
And the Infinite Mildness, the soul of souls,
Which layeth earth soft 'twixt her silver poles;
Which ruleth the stars, and saith not a word;
Whose speed in the hair of no comet is heard;
Which sendeth the soft sun, day by day,
Mighty and genial, and just alway,
Owning no difference, doing no wrong,
Loving the orbs and the least bird's song,
The great, sweet, warm angel, with golden rod,
Bright with the smile of the distance of God.
Which of aught save itself resented control;
Which whatever his deeds, ordained them still,
Bodiless monarch, enthroned in his will:
He forgot the close thought, and the burning heart,
And pray'rs, and the mild moon hanging apart,
Which lifted the seas with her gentle looks,
And growth, and death, and immortal books,
And the Infinite Mildness, the soul of souls,
Which layeth earth soft 'twixt her silver poles;
Which ruleth the stars, and saith not a word;
Whose speed in the hair of no comet is heard;
Which sendeth the soft sun, day by day,
Mighty and genial, and just alway,
Owning no difference, doing no wrong,
Loving the orbs and the least bird's song,
The great, sweet, warm angel, with golden rod,
Bright with the smile of the distance of God.
Captain Sword, like a witless thing,
Of all under heaven must needs be a king,
King of kings, and lord of lords,
Swayer of souls as well as of swords,
Ruler of speech, and through speech, of thought
And hence to his brain was a madness brought.
He madden'd in East, he madden'd in West,
Fiercer for sights of men's unrest,
Fiercer for talk, amongst awful men,
Of their new mighty leader, Captain Pen,
A conqueror strange, who sat in his home
Like the wizard that plagued the ships of Rome,
Noiseless, showless, dealing no death,
But victories, winged, went forth from his breath.
Of all under heaven must needs be a king,
King of kings, and lord of lords,
Swayer of souls as well as of swords,
Ruler of speech, and through speech, of thought
And hence to his brain was a madness brought.
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Fiercer for sights of men's unrest,
Fiercer for talk, amongst awful men,
Of their new mighty leader, Captain Pen,
A conqueror strange, who sat in his home
Like the wizard that plagued the ships of Rome,
Noiseless, showless, dealing no death,
But victories, winged, went forth from his breath.
Three thousand miles across the waves
Did Captain Sword cry, bidding souls be slaves:
Three thousand miles did the echo return
With a laugh and a blow made his old cheeks burn.
Did Captain Sword cry, bidding souls be slaves:
Three thousand miles did the echo return
With a laugh and a blow made his old cheeks burn.
Then he call'd to a wrong-madden'd people, and swore
Their name in the map should never be more:
Dire came the laugh, and smote worse than before.
Were earthquake a giant, up-thrusting his head
And o'erlooking the nations, not worse were the dread.
Their name in the map should never be more:
Dire came the laugh, and smote worse than before.
Were earthquake a giant, up-thrusting his head
And o'erlooking the nations, not worse were the dread.
Then, lo! was a wonder, and sadness to see;
For with that very people, their leader, stood he,
Incarnate afresh, like a Cæsar of old;
But because he look'd back, and his heart was cold,
Time, hope, and himself for a tale he sold.
Oh largest occasion, by man ever lost!
Oh throne of the world to the war-dogs tost!
For with that very people, their leader, stood he,
Incarnate afresh, like a Cæsar of old;
But because he look'd back, and his heart was cold,
Time, hope, and himself for a tale he sold.
Oh largest occasion, by man ever lost!
Oh throne of the world to the war-dogs tost!
He vanish'd; and thinly there stood in his place
The new shape of Sword, with an humbler face,
Rebuking his brother, and preaching for right,
Yet ay when it came, standing proud on his might,
And squaring its claims with his old small sight;
Then struck up his drums, with ensign furl'd,
And said, “I will walk through a subject world:
Earth, just as it is, shall for ever endure,
The rich be too rich, and the poor too poor;
And for this I'll stop knowledge. I'll say to it, ‘Flow
Thus far: but presume no farther to flow:
For me, as I list, shall the free airs blow.’”
The new shape of Sword, with an humbler face,
Rebuking his brother, and preaching for right,
Yet ay when it came, standing proud on his might,
And squaring its claims with his old small sight;
Then struck up his drums, with ensign furl'd,
And said, “I will walk through a subject world:
Earth, just as it is, shall for ever endure,
The rich be too rich, and the poor too poor;
And for this I'll stop knowledge. I'll say to it, ‘Flow
Thus far: but presume no farther to flow:
For me, as I list, shall the free airs blow.’”
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Laugh'd after him loudly that land so fair,
“The king thou sett'st over us, by a free air
Is swept away, senseless.” And old Sword then
First knew the might of great Captain Pen.
So strangely it bow'd him, so wilder'd his brain,
That now he stood, hatless, renouncing his reign;
Now mutter'd of dust laid in blood; and now
'Twixt wonder and patience went lifting his brow.
Then suddenly came he with gowned men,
And said, “Now observe me—I'm Captain Pen:
I'll lead all your changes—I'll write all your books—
I'm everything—all things—I'm clergymen, cooks,
Clerks, carpenters, hosiers,—I'm Pitt—I'm Lord Grey.”
“The king thou sett'st over us, by a free air
Is swept away, senseless.” And old Sword then
First knew the might of great Captain Pen.
So strangely it bow'd him, so wilder'd his brain,
That now he stood, hatless, renouncing his reign;
Now mutter'd of dust laid in blood; and now
'Twixt wonder and patience went lifting his brow.
Then suddenly came he with gowned men,
And said, “Now observe me—I'm Captain Pen:
I'll lead all your changes—I'll write all your books—
I'm everything—all things—I'm clergymen, cooks,
Clerks, carpenters, hosiers,—I'm Pitt—I'm Lord Grey.”
'Twas painful to see his extravagant way;
But heart ne'er so bold, and hand ne'er so strong,
What are they, when truth and the wits go wrong?
But heart ne'er so bold, and hand ne'er so strong,
What are they, when truth and the wits go wrong?
VI. OF CAPTAIN PEN, AND HOW HE FOUGHT WITH CAPTAIN SWORD.
Now tidings of Captain Sword and his state
Were brought to the ears of Pen the Great,
Who rose and said, “His time is come.”
And he sent him, but not by sound of drum,
Nor trumpet, nor other hasty breath,
Hot with questions of life and death,
But only a letter calm and mild;
And Captain Sword he read it, and smiled,
And said, half in scorn, and nothing in fear,
(Though his wits seem'd restor'd by a danger near,
For brave was he ever), “Let Captain Pen,
Bring at his back a million men,
And I'll talk with his wisdom, and not till then.”
Then replied to his messenger Captain Pen,
“I'll bring at my back a world of men.”
Were brought to the ears of Pen the Great,
Who rose and said, “His time is come.”
And he sent him, but not by sound of drum,
Nor trumpet, nor other hasty breath,
Hot with questions of life and death,
But only a letter calm and mild;
And Captain Sword he read it, and smiled,
And said, half in scorn, and nothing in fear,
(Though his wits seem'd restor'd by a danger near,
For brave was he ever), “Let Captain Pen,
Bring at his back a million men,
And I'll talk with his wisdom, and not till then.”
Then replied to his messenger Captain Pen,
“I'll bring at my back a world of men.”
Out laugh'd the captains of Captain Sword,
But their chief look'd vex'd, and said not a word,
For thought and trouble had touch'd his ears
Beyond the bullet-like sense of theirs,
And wherever he went, he was 'ware of a sound
Now heard in the distance, now gathering round,
Which irk'd him to know what the issue might be;
But the soul of the cause of it well guess'd he.
But their chief look'd vex'd, and said not a word,
For thought and trouble had touch'd his ears
Beyond the bullet-like sense of theirs,
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Now heard in the distance, now gathering round,
Which irk'd him to know what the issue might be;
But the soul of the cause of it well guess'd he.
Indestructible souls among men
Were the souls of the line of Captain Pen;
Sages, patriots, martyrs mild,
Going to the stake, as child
Goeth with his prayer to bed;
Dungeon-beams, from quenchless head;
Poets, making earth aware
Of its wealth in good and fair;
And the benders to their intent,
Of metal and of element;
Of flame the enlightener, beauteous,
And steam, that bursteth his iron house;
And adamantine giants blind,
That, without master, have no mind.
Were the souls of the line of Captain Pen;
Sages, patriots, martyrs mild,
Going to the stake, as child
Goeth with his prayer to bed;
Dungeon-beams, from quenchless head;
Poets, making earth aware
Of its wealth in good and fair;
And the benders to their intent,
Of metal and of element;
Of flame the enlightener, beauteous,
And steam, that bursteth his iron house;
And adamantine giants blind,
That, without master, have no mind.
Heir to these, and all their store,
Was Pen, the power unknown of yore;
And as their might still created might,
And each work'd for him by day and by night,
In wealth and wondrous means he grew,
Fit to move the earth anew;
Till his fame began to speak
Pause, as when the thunders wake,
Muttering in the beds of heaven:
Then, to set the globe more even,
Water he call'd, and Fire, and Haste,
Which hath left old Time displaced—
And Iron, mightiest now for Pen,
Each of his steps like an army of men—
(Sword little knew what was leaving him then)
And out of the witchcraft of their skill,
A creature he call'd to wait on his will—
Half iron, half vapour, a dread to behold—
Which evermore panted and evermore roll'd,
And uttered his words a million fold.
Forth sprang they in air, down raining like dew,
And men fed upon them, and mighty they grew.
Was Pen, the power unknown of yore;
And as their might still created might,
And each work'd for him by day and by night,
In wealth and wondrous means he grew,
Fit to move the earth anew;
Till his fame began to speak
Pause, as when the thunders wake,
Muttering in the beds of heaven:
Then, to set the globe more even,
Water he call'd, and Fire, and Haste,
Which hath left old Time displaced—
And Iron, mightiest now for Pen,
Each of his steps like an army of men—
(Sword little knew what was leaving him then)
And out of the witchcraft of their skill,
A creature he call'd to wait on his will—
Half iron, half vapour, a dread to behold—
Which evermore panted and evermore roll'd,
And uttered his words a million fold.
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And men fed upon them, and mighty they grew.
Ears giddy with custom that sound might not hear,
But it woke up the rest, like an earthquake near;
And that same night of the letter, some strange
Compulsion of soul brought a sense of change;
And at midnight the sound grew into a roll
As the sound of all gath'rings from pole to pole,
From pole unto pole, and from clime to clime,
Like the roll of the wheels of the coming of time;—
A sound as of cities, and sound as of swords
Sharpening, and solemn and terrible words,
And laughter as solemn, and thunderous drumming,
A tread as if all the world were coming.
And then was a lull, and soft voices sweet
Call'd into music those terrible feet,
Which rising on wings, lo! the earth went round
To the burn of their speed with a golden sound;
With a golden sound, and a swift repose,
Such as the blood in the young heart knows;
Such as Love knows, when his tumults cease;
When all is quick, and yet all is at peace.
But it woke up the rest, like an earthquake near;
And that same night of the letter, some strange
Compulsion of soul brought a sense of change;
And at midnight the sound grew into a roll
As the sound of all gath'rings from pole to pole,
From pole unto pole, and from clime to clime,
Like the roll of the wheels of the coming of time;—
A sound as of cities, and sound as of swords
Sharpening, and solemn and terrible words,
And laughter as solemn, and thunderous drumming,
A tread as if all the world were coming.
And then was a lull, and soft voices sweet
Call'd into music those terrible feet,
Which rising on wings, lo! the earth went round
To the burn of their speed with a golden sound;
With a golden sound, and a swift repose,
Such as the blood in the young heart knows;
Such as Love knows, when his tumults cease;
When all is quick, and yet all is at peace.
And when Captain Sword got up next morn,
Lo! a new-faced world was born;
For not an anger nor pride would it show,
Nor aught of the loftiness now found low,
Nor would his own men strike a single blow:
Not a blow for their old, unconsidering lord
Would strike the good soldiers of Captain Sword;
But weaponless all, and wise they stood,
In the level dawn, and calm brotherly good;
Yet bowed to him they, and kiss'd his hands,
For such were their new good lord's commands,
Lessons rather, and brotherly plea;
Reverence the past, O brothers, quoth he;
Reverence the struggle and mystery,
And faces human in their pain;
Nor his the least that could sustain
Cares of mighty wars, and guide
Calmly where the red deaths ride.
Lo! a new-faced world was born;
For not an anger nor pride would it show,
Nor aught of the loftiness now found low,
Nor would his own men strike a single blow:
Not a blow for their old, unconsidering lord
Would strike the good soldiers of Captain Sword;
But weaponless all, and wise they stood,
In the level dawn, and calm brotherly good;
Yet bowed to him they, and kiss'd his hands,
For such were their new good lord's commands,
Lessons rather, and brotherly plea;
Reverence the past, O brothers, quoth he;
Reverence the struggle and mystery,
And faces human in their pain;
Nor his the least that could sustain
Cares of mighty wars, and guide
Calmly where the red deaths ride.
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“But how! what now?” cried Captain Sword;
“Not a blow for your gen'ral? not even a word?
What! traitors? deserters?”
“Not a blow for your gen'ral? not even a word?
What! traitors? deserters?”
“Ah no!” cried they;
“But the ‘game's’ at an end; the ‘wise’ won't play.”
“But the ‘game's’ at an end; the ‘wise’ won't play.”
“And where's your old spirit?”
“The same, though another;
Man may be strong without maiming his brother.”
Man may be strong without maiming his brother.”
“But enemies?”
“Enemies! Whence should they come,
When all interchange what was but known to some?”
When all interchange what was but known to some?”
“But famine? but plague? worse evils by far.”
“O last mighty rhet'ric to charm us to war!
Look round—what has earth, now it equably speeds,
To do with these foul and calamitous needs?
Now it equably speeds, and thoughtfully glows,
And its heart is open, never to close?”
Look round—what has earth, now it equably speeds,
To do with these foul and calamitous needs?
Now it equably speeds, and thoughtfully glows,
And its heart is open, never to close?”
“Still I can govern,” said Captain Sword;
“Fate I respect; and I stick to my word.”
And in truth so he did; but the word was one
He had sworn to all vanities under the sun,
To do, for their conq'rors, the least could be done.
Besides, what had he with his worn-out story,
To do with the cause he had wrong'd, and the glory?
“Fate I respect; and I stick to my word.”
And in truth so he did; but the word was one
He had sworn to all vanities under the sun,
To do, for their conq'rors, the least could be done.
Besides, what had he with his worn-out story,
To do with the cause he had wrong'd, and the glory?
No! Captain Sword a sword was still,
He could not unteach his lordly will;
He could not attemper his single thought;
It might not be bent, nor newly wrought:
And so, like the tool of a disused art,
He stood at his wall, and rusted apart.
He could not unteach his lordly will;
He could not attemper his single thought;
It might not be bent, nor newly wrought:
And so, like the tool of a disused art,
He stood at his wall, and rusted apart.
'Twas only for many-soul'd Captain Pen
To make a world of swordless men.
To make a world of swordless men.
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ABOU BEN ADHEM.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision rais'd its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision rais'd its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
JAFFÀR.
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF SHELLEY.
Shelley, take this to thy dear memory;—
To praise the generous, is to think of thee.
To praise the generous, is to think of thee.
Jaffàr, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffàr was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Hàroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say,
Ordain'd that no man living from that day
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.—
All Araby and Persia held their breath.
All but the brave Mondeer.—He, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief,)
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square
Where once had stood a happy house; and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar
On all they owed to the divine Jaffàr.
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffàr was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Hàroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say,
Ordain'd that no man living from that day
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.—
All Araby and Persia held their breath.
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How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief,)
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square
Where once had stood a happy house; and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar
On all they owed to the divine Jaffàr.
“Bring me this man,” the caliph cried. The man
Was brought—was gaz'd upon. The mutes began
To bind his arms. “Welcome, brave cords,” cried he;
“From bonds far worse Jaffàr deliver'd me;
From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restor'd me—lov'd me—put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffàr?”
Was brought—was gaz'd upon. The mutes began
To bind his arms. “Welcome, brave cords,” cried he;
“From bonds far worse Jaffàr deliver'd me;
From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restor'd me—lov'd me—put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffàr?”
Hàroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deign'd to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, “Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go: and since gifts thus move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.”
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deign'd to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, “Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go: and since gifts thus move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.”
“Gifts!” cried the friend. He took; and holding it
High tow'rds the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaim'd “This too I owe to thee, Jaffàr.”
High tow'rds the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaim'd “This too I owe to thee, Jaffàr.”
THE BITTER GOURD.
Lokman the Wise, therefore the Good (for wise
Is but sage good, seeing with final eyes),
Was slave once to a lord, jealous though kind,
Who, piqued sometimes at the man's master mind,
Gave him, one day, to see how he would treat
So strange a grace, a bitter gourd to eat.
Is but sage good, seeing with final eyes),
Was slave once to a lord, jealous though kind,
Who, piqued sometimes at the man's master mind,
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So strange a grace, a bitter gourd to eat.
With simplest reverence, and no surprise,
The sage receiv'd what stretch'd the donor's eyes;
And, piece by piece, as though it had been food
To feast and gloat on, every morsel chew'd;
And so stood eating, with his patient beard,
Till all the nauseous favour disappear'd.
The sage receiv'd what stretch'd the donor's eyes;
And, piece by piece, as though it had been food
To feast and gloat on, every morsel chew'd;
And so stood eating, with his patient beard,
Till all the nauseous favour disappear'd.
Vex'd, and confounded, and dispos'd to find
Some ground of scorn, on which to ease his mind,
“Lokman!” exclaim'd his master,—“In God's name,
Where could the veriest slave get soul so tame?
Have all my favours been bestow'd amiss?
Or could not brains like thine have saved thee this?”
Some ground of scorn, on which to ease his mind,
“Lokman!” exclaim'd his master,—“In God's name,
Where could the veriest slave get soul so tame?
Have all my favours been bestow'd amiss?
Or could not brains like thine have saved thee this?”
Calmly stood Lokman still, as duty stands.—
“Have I receiv'd,” he answered, “at thine hands
Favours so sweet they went to mine heart's ro ot,
And could I not accept one bitter fruit?”
“Have I receiv'd,” he answered, “at thine hands
Favours so sweet they went to mine heart's ro ot,
And could I not accept one bitter fruit?”
“O Lokman!” said his lord (and as he spoke,
For very love his words in softness broke),
“Take but this favour yet:—be slave no more:—
Be, as thou art, my friend and counsellor:
Oh be; nor let me quit thee, self-abhorr'd;—
'Tis I that am the slave, and thou the lord.”
For very love his words in softness broke),
“Take but this favour yet:—be slave no more:—
Be, as thou art, my friend and counsellor:
Oh be; nor let me quit thee, self-abhorr'd;—
'Tis I that am the slave, and thou the lord.”
THE INEVITABLE.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN FORSTER.
Forster, whose voice can speak of awe so well,
And stern disclosures, new and terrible,
This were a tale, my friend, for thee to tell.
Seek for it then in some old book; but take
Meantime this version, for the writer's sake.
And stern disclosures, new and terrible,
This were a tale, my friend, for thee to tell.
Seek for it then in some old book; but take
Meantime this version, for the writer's sake.
127
The royal sage, lord of the Magic Ring,
Solomon, once upon a morn in spring,
By Cedron, in his garden's rosiest walk,
Was pacing with a pleasant guest in talk,
When they beheld, approaching, but with face
Yet undiscern'd, a stranger in the place.
Solomon, once upon a morn in spring,
By Cedron, in his garden's rosiest walk,
Was pacing with a pleasant guest in talk,
When they beheld, approaching, but with face
Yet undiscern'd, a stranger in the place.
How he came there, what wanted, who could be,
How dare, unusher'd, beard such privacy,
Whether 'twas some great Spirit of the Ring,
And if so, why he should thus daunt the king
(For the ring's master, after one sharp gaze,
Stood waiting, more in trouble than amaze),
All this the courtier would have ask'd; but fear
Palsied his utterance, as the man drew near.
How dare, unusher'd, beard such privacy,
Whether 'twas some great Spirit of the Ring,
And if so, why he should thus daunt the king
(For the ring's master, after one sharp gaze,
Stood waiting, more in trouble than amaze),
All this the courtier would have ask'd; but fear
Palsied his utterance, as the man drew near.
The stranger seem'd (to judge him by his dress)
One of mean sort, a dweller with distress,
Or some poor pilgrim; but the steps he took
Belied it with strange greatness; and his look
Open'd a page in a tremendous book.
One of mean sort, a dweller with distress,
Or some poor pilgrim; but the steps he took
Belied it with strange greatness; and his look
Open'd a page in a tremendous book.
He wore a cowl, from under which there shone,
Full on the guest, and on the guest alone,
A face, not of this earth, half veil'd in gloom
And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of doom,
Which, ever as they came, before them sent
Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment,
With sense of change, and worse of change to be,
Sore sighing, and extreme anxiety,
And feebleness, and faintness, and moist brow,
The past a scoff, the future crying “Now!”
All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the hair;
All that makes dying vehemence despair,
Knowing it must be dragg'd it knows not where.
Full on the guest, and on the guest alone,
A face, not of this earth, half veil'd in gloom
And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of doom,
Which, ever as they came, before them sent
Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment,
With sense of change, and worse of change to be,
Sore sighing, and extreme anxiety,
And feebleness, and faintness, and moist brow,
The past a scoff, the future crying “Now!”
All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the hair;
All that makes dying vehemence despair,
Knowing it must be dragg'd it knows not where.
Th' excess of fear and anguish, which had tied
The courtier's tongue, now loos'd it, and he cried,
“O royal master! Sage! Lord of the Ring,
I cannot bear the horror of this thing;
Help with thy mighty art. Wish me, I pray,
On the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
The courtier's tongue, now loos'd it, and he cried,
“O royal master! Sage! Lord of the Ring,
I cannot bear the horror of this thing;
128
On the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
Solomon wish'd, and the man vanish'd. Straight
Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate.
Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate.
“Solomon,” with a lofty voice said he,
“How came that man here, wasting time with thee?
I was to fetch him, ere the close of day,
From the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
“How came that man here, wasting time with thee?
I was to fetch him, ere the close of day,
From the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
Solomon said, bowing him to the ground,
“Angel of Death, there will the man be found.”
“Angel of Death, there will the man be found.”
WALLACE AND FAWDON.
[_]
This ballad was suggested by one of the notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel. Wallace, the great Scottish patriot, had been defeated in a sharp encounter with the English. He was forced to retreat with only sixteen followers; the English pursued him with a bloodhound; and his sole chance of escape from that tremendous investigator was either in baffling the scent altogether (which was impossible, unless fugitives could take to the water, and continue there for some distance), or in confusing it by the spilling of blood. For the latter purpose, a captive was sometimes sacrificed; in which case the hound stopped upon the body.
The supernatural part of the story of Fawdon is treated by its first relator, Harry the Minstrel, as a mere legend, and that not a very credible one; but as a mere legend it is very fine, and quite sufficient for poetical purposes; nor should the old poet's philosophy have thought proper to gainsay it. Nevertheless, as the mysteries of the conscience are more awful things than any merely gratuitous terror (besides leaving optical phenomena quite as real as the latter may find them), even the supernatural part of the story becomes probable when we consider the agitations which the noble mind of Wallace may have undergone during such trying physical circumstances, and such extremes of moral responsibility. It seems clear, that however necessary the death of Fawdon may have been to his companions, or to Scotland, his slayer regretted it; I have suggested the kind of reason which he would most likely have had for the regret; and upon the whole, it is my opinion, that Wallace actually saw the visions, and that the legend originated in the fact. I do not mean to imply that Fawdon became present, embodied or disembodied, whatever may have been the case with his image. I only say that what the legend reports Wallace to have seen, was actually in the hero's eyes. The remainder of the question I leave to the psychologist.
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1. PART THE FIRST.
Wallace with his sixteen men
Is on his weary way;
They have hasting been all night,
And hasting been all day;
And now, to lose their only hope,
They hear the bloodhound bay.
Is on his weary way;
They have hasting been all night,
And hasting been all day;
And now, to lose their only hope,
They hear the bloodhound bay.
The bloodhound's bay comes down the wind,
Right upon the road;
Town and tower are yet to pass,
With not a friend's abode.
Right upon the road;
Town and tower are yet to pass,
With not a friend's abode.
Wallace neither turn'd nor spake;
Closer drew the men;
Little had they said that day,
But most went cursing then.
Closer drew the men;
Little had they said that day,
But most went cursing then.
Oh! to meet twice sixteen foes
Coming from English ground,
And leave their bodies on the track,
To cheat King Edward's hound.
Coming from English ground,
And leave their bodies on the track,
To cheat King Edward's hound.
Oh! to overtake one wretch
That left them in the fight,
And leave him cloven to the ribs,
To mock the bloody spite.
That left them in the fight,
And leave him cloven to the ribs,
To mock the bloody spite.
Suddenly dark Fawdon stopp'd,
As they near'd a town;
He stumbled with a desperate oath,
And cast him fiercely down.
As they near'd a town;
He stumbled with a desperate oath,
And cast him fiercely down.
He said, “The leech took all my strength,
My body is unblest;
Come dog, come devil, or English rack,
Here must Fawdon rest.”
My body is unblest;
Come dog, come devil, or English rack,
Here must Fawdon rest.”
130
Fawdon was an Irishman
Had join'd them in the war;
Four orphan children waited him
Down by Eden Scawr.
Had join'd them in the war;
Four orphan children waited him
Down by Eden Scawr.
But Wallace hated Fawdon's ways,
That were both fierce and shy;
And at his words he turn'd, and said,
“That's a traitor's lie.
That were both fierce and shy;
And at his words he turn'd, and said,
“That's a traitor's lie.
“No thought is thine of lingering here,
A captive for the hound;
Thine eye is bright; thy lucky flesh
Hath not a single wound;
The moment we depart, the lane
Will see thee from the ground.”
A captive for the hound;
Thine eye is bright; thy lucky flesh
Hath not a single wound;
The moment we depart, the lane
Will see thee from the ground.”
Fawdon would not speak nor stir,
Speak as any might;
Scorn'd or sooth'd, he sat and lour'd,
As though in angry spite.
Speak as any might;
Scorn'd or sooth'd, he sat and lour'd,
As though in angry spite.
Wallace drew a little back,
And waved his men apart;
And Fawdon half leap'd up and cried,
“Thou wilt not have the heart!”
And waved his men apart;
And Fawdon half leap'd up and cried,
“Thou wilt not have the heart!”
Wallace with his dreadful sword,
Without further speech,
Clean cut off dark Fawdon's head,
Through its stifled screech:
Without further speech,
Clean cut off dark Fawdon's head,
Through its stifled screech:
Through its stifled screech, and through
The arm that fenc'd his brow;
And Fawdon, as he leap'd, fell dead,
And safe is Wallace now.
The arm that fenc'd his brow;
And Fawdon, as he leap'd, fell dead,
And safe is Wallace now.
Safe is Wallace with his men,
And silent is the hound;
And on their way to Castle Gask
They quit the sullen ground.
And silent is the hound;
And on their way to Castle Gask
They quit the sullen ground.
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2. PART THE SECOND.
Wallace lies in Castle Gask,
Safely with his men;
Not a soul has come, three days,
Within the warder's ken.
Safely with his men;
Not a soul has come, three days,
Within the warder's ken.
Safely with his men lies Wallace,
Yet he fareth ill;
There is fever in his blood;
His mind may not be still.
Yet he fareth ill;
There is fever in his blood;
His mind may not be still.
It was night, and all were housed,
Talking long and late;
Who is this that blows the horn
At the castle-gate?
Talking long and late;
Who is this that blows the horn
At the castle-gate?
Who is this that blows a horn
Which none but Wallace hears?
Loud and louder grows the blast
In his frenzied ears.
Which none but Wallace hears?
Loud and louder grows the blast
In his frenzied ears.
He sends by twos, he sends by threes,
He sends them all to learn;
He stands upon the stairs, and calls,
But none of them return.
He sends them all to learn;
He stands upon the stairs, and calls,
But none of them return.
Wallace flings him forth down stairs;
And there the moonlight fell
Across the yard upon a sight,
That makes him seem in hell.
And there the moonlight fell
Across the yard upon a sight,
That makes him seem in hell.
Fawdon's headless trunk he sees,
With an arm in air,
Brandishing his bloody head
By the swinging hair.
With an arm in air,
Brandishing his bloody head
By the swinging hair.
Wallace with a stifled screech
Turn'd and fled amain,
Up the stairs, and through the bowers
With a burning brain:
Turn'd and fled amain,
Up the stairs, and through the bowers
With a burning brain:
132
From a window Wallace leap'd
Fifteen feet to ground,
And never stopp'd till fast within
A nunnery's holy bound.
Fifteen feet to ground,
And never stopp'd till fast within
A nunnery's holy bound.
And then he turn'd, in gasping doubt,
To see the fiend retire,
And saw him not at hand, but saw
Castle Gask on fire.
To see the fiend retire,
And saw him not at hand, but saw
Castle Gask on fire.
All on fire was Castle Gask;
And on its top, endued
With the bulk of half a tower,
Headless Fawdon stood.
And on its top, endued
With the bulk of half a tower,
Headless Fawdon stood.
Wide he held a burning beam,
And blackly fill'd the light;
His body seem'd, by some black art,
To look at Wallace, heart to heart,
Threatening through the night.
And blackly fill'd the light;
His body seem'd, by some black art,
To look at Wallace, heart to heart,
Threatening through the night.
Wallace that day week arose
From a feeble bed;
And gentle though he was before,
Yet now to orphans evermore
He gentlier bow'd his head,
From a feeble bed;
And gentle though he was before,
Yet now to orphans evermore
He gentlier bow'd his head,
KILSPINDIE.
King James to royal Stirling town
Was riding from the chase,
When he was ware of a banish'd man
Return'd without his grace.
Was riding from the chase,
When he was ware of a banish'd man
Return'd without his grace.
The man stood forward from the crowd
In act to make appeal;
Said James, but in no pleasant tone,
“Yonder is my Grey-steel.”
In act to make appeal;
Said James, but in no pleasant tone,
“Yonder is my Grey-steel.”
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He knew him not by his attire,
Which was but poor in plight;
He knew him not by his brown curls,
For they were turned to white;
Which was but poor in plight;
He knew him not by his brown curls,
For they were turned to white;
He knew him not by followers,
For want had made them strange;
He knew him by his honest look,
Which time could never change.
For want had made them strange;
He knew him by his honest look,
Which time could never change.
Kilspindie was a Douglas bold,
Who, when the king was young,
Had pleas'd him like the grim Grey-steel,
Of whom sweet verse is sung:
Who, when the king was young,
Had pleas'd him like the grim Grey-steel,
Of whom sweet verse is sung:
Had pleas'd him by his sword that cropp'd
The knights of their renown,
And by a foot so fleet and firm,
No horse could tire it down.
The knights of their renown,
And by a foot so fleet and firm,
No horse could tire it down.
But James hath sworn an angry oath,
That as he was King crown'd,
No Douglas evermore should set
His foot on Scottish ground.
That as he was King crown'd,
No Douglas evermore should set
His foot on Scottish ground.
Too bold had been the Douglas race,
Too haughty and too strong;
Only Kilspindie of them all
Had never done him wrong.
Too haughty and too strong;
Only Kilspindie of them all
Had never done him wrong.
“A boon! a boon!” Kilspindie cried;
“Pardon that here am I:
In France I have grown old and sad,
In Scotland I would die.”
“Pardon that here am I:
In France I have grown old and sad,
In Scotland I would die.”
Kilspindie knelt, Kilspindie bent,
His Douglas pride was gone;
The King he neither spoke nor look'd,
But sternly rode straight on.
His Douglas pride was gone;
The King he neither spoke nor look'd,
But sternly rode straight on.
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Kilspindie rose, and pace for pace
Held on beside the train,
His cap in hand, his looks in hope,
His heart in doubt and pain.
Held on beside the train,
His cap in hand, his looks in hope,
His heart in doubt and pain.
Before them lay proud Stirling hill,
The way grew steep and strong;
The King shook bridle suddenly,
And up swept all the throng.
The way grew steep and strong;
The King shook bridle suddenly,
And up swept all the throng.
Kilspindie said within himself,
“He thinks of Auld Lang Syne,
And wishes pleasantly to see
What strength may still be mine.”
“He thinks of Auld Lang Syne,
And wishes pleasantly to see
What strength may still be mine.”
On rode the court, Kilspindie ran,
His smile grew half distress'd;
There wasn't a man in that company,
Save one, but wish'd him rest.
His smile grew half distress'd;
There wasn't a man in that company,
Save one, but wish'd him rest.
Still on they rode, and still ran he,
His breath he scarce could get;
There wasn't a man in that company,
Save one, with eyes unwet.
His breath he scarce could get;
There wasn't a man in that company,
Save one, with eyes unwet.
The King has enter'd Stirling town,
Nor ever graced him first;
Kilspindie sat him down, and ask'd
Some water for his thirst.
Nor ever graced him first;
Kilspindie sat him down, and ask'd
Some water for his thirst.
But they had mark'd the monarch's face,
And how he kept his pride:
And old Kilspindie in his need
Is water's self denied.
And how he kept his pride:
And old Kilspindie in his need
Is water's self denied.
Ten weeks thereafter, sever'd still
From Scotland's dear embrace,
Kilspindie died of broken heart,
Sped by that cruel race.
From Scotland's dear embrace,
Kilspindie died of broken heart,
Sped by that cruel race.
135
Ten years thereafter, his last breath
King James as sadly drew;
And though he died of many thoughts,
Kilspindie cross'd him too,
King James as sadly drew;
And though he died of many thoughts,
Kilspindie cross'd him too,
THE TRUMPETS OF DOOLKARNEIN.
[_]
In Eastern history are two Iskanders, or Alexanders, who are sometimes confounded, and both of whom are called Doolkarnein, or the Two-Horned, in allusion to their subjugation of East and West, horns being an oriental symbol of power.
One of these heroes is Alexander of Macedon, the other a conqueror of more ancient times, who built the marvellous series of ramparts on Mount Caucasus, known in fable as the wall of Gog and Magog, that is to say, of the people of the North. It reached from the Euxine Sea to the Caspian, where its flanks originated the subsequent appellation of the Caspian Gates. See (among other passages in the same work) the article entitled “Jagioug et Magioug,” in D'Herbelot's Bibliothèque Orientale.
The story of the Trumpets, on which the present poem is founded, is quoted by Major Price, in his History of the Arabs before the Time of Mahomet, from the old Italian collection of tales entitled The Pecorone, the work of Ser Giovanni Fiorentino.
With awful walls, far glooming, that possess'd
The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian fountains,
Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West,
Shut up the northern nations in their mountains;
And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew,
Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of wonder,
Craftily purpos'd, when his arms withdrew,
To make him thought still hous'd there, like the thunder:
And it so fell; for when the winds blew right,
They woke their trumpets to their calls of might.
The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian fountains,
Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West,
Shut up the northern nations in their mountains;
And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew,
Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of wonder,
Craftily purpos'd, when his arms withdrew,
To make him thought still hous'd there, like the thunder:
And it so fell; for when the winds blew right,
They woke their trumpets to their calls of might.
Unseen, but heard, their calls the trumpets blew,
Ringing the granite rocks, their only bearers,
Till the long fear into religion grew,
And never more those heights had human darers.
Dreadful Doolkarnein was an earthly god;
His walls but shadow'd forth his mightier frowning;
Armies of giants at his bidding trod
From realm to realm, king after king discrowning.
When thunder spoke, or when the earthquake stirr'd,
Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard.
Ringing the granite rocks, their only bearers,
Till the long fear into religion grew,
And never more those heights had human darers.
Dreadful Doolkarnein was an earthly god;
His walls but shadow'd forth his mightier frowning;
Armies of giants at his bidding trod
From realm to realm, king after king discrowning.
136
Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard.
But when the winters marr'd the mountain shelves,
And softer changes came with vernal mornings,
Something had touch'd the trumpets' lofty selves,
And less and less rang forth their sovereign warnings:
Fewer and feebler; as when silence spreads
In plague-struck tents, where haughty chiefs, left dying,
Fail by degrees upon their angry beds,
Till, one by one, ceases the last stern sighing.
One by one, thus, their breath the trumpets drew,
Till now no more the imperious music blew.
And softer changes came with vernal mornings,
Something had touch'd the trumpets' lofty selves,
And less and less rang forth their sovereign warnings:
Fewer and feebler; as when silence spreads
In plague-struck tents, where haughty chiefs, left dying,
Fail by degrees upon their angry beds,
Till, one by one, ceases the last stern sighing.
One by one, thus, their breath the trumpets drew,
Till now no more the imperious music blew.
Is he then dead? Can great Doolkarnein die?
Or can his endless hosts elsewhere be needed?
Were the great breaths that blew his minstrelsy
Phantoms, that faded as himself receded?
Or is he anger'd? Surely he still comes;
This silence ushers the dread visitation;
Sudden will burst the torrent of his drums,
And then will follow bloody desolation.
So did fear dream; though now, with not a sound
To scare good hope, summer had twice crept round.
Or can his endless hosts elsewhere be needed?
Were the great breaths that blew his minstrelsy
Phantoms, that faded as himself receded?
Or is he anger'd? Surely he still comes;
This silence ushers the dread visitation;
Sudden will burst the torrent of his drums,
And then will follow bloody desolation.
So did fear dream; though now, with not a sound
To scare good hope, summer had twice crept round.
Then gather'd in a band, with lifted eyes,
The neighbours, and those silent heights ascended.
Giant, nor aught blasting their bold emprize,
They met, though twice they halted, breath suspended;
Once, at a coming like a god's in rage
With thunderous leaps; but 'twas the piled snow, falling;
And once, when in the woods, an oak, for age,
Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling.
At last they came where still, in dread array,
As though they still might speak, the trumpets lay.
The neighbours, and those silent heights ascended.
Giant, nor aught blasting their bold emprize,
They met, though twice they halted, breath suspended;
Once, at a coming like a god's in rage
With thunderous leaps; but 'twas the piled snow, falling;
And once, when in the woods, an oak, for age,
Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling.
At last they came where still, in dread array,
As though they still might speak, the trumpets lay.
Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground,
The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging,
Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as round
And firm, as when the rocks were first set ringing.
Fresh from their unimaginable mould
They might have seem'd, save that the storms had stain'd them
With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold
In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrain'd them.
Breathless the gazers look'd, nigh faint for awe,
Then leap'd, then laugh'd. What was it now they saw?
The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging,
Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as round
And firm, as when the rocks were first set ringing.
137
They might have seem'd, save that the storms had stain'd them
With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold
In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrain'd them.
Breathless the gazers look'd, nigh faint for awe,
Then leap'd, then laugh'd. What was it now they saw?
Myriads of birds. Myriads of birds, that fill'd
The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices!
The great, huge, stormy music had been still'd
By the soft needs that nurs'd those small, sweet noises!
O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall?
Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces?
Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small
Compar'd with Nature's least and gentlest courses.
Fears and false creeds may fright the realms awhile;
But Heaven and Earth abide their time, and smile.
The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices!
The great, huge, stormy music had been still'd
By the soft needs that nurs'd those small, sweet noises!
O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall?
Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces?
Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small
Compar'd with Nature's least and gentlest courses.
Fears and false creeds may fright the realms awhile;
But Heaven and Earth abide their time, and smile.
BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD.
(FOR CHILDREN.)
[_]
These ballads are founded on the popular assumption that the good outlaw Robin Hood, “the gentlest of thieves,” as the old historian called him, was of “gentle blood.” It is a very good and very probable assumption, considering how the Saxon gentry in his time were robbed of their estates by their Norman tyrants; and it ought never to be more popular than now, when to feel for the sufferings of all classes, and endeavour to advance the whole human race, is a mark of the highest education, that of the sovereign included. The author adopted the metrical license of the old ballads while writing on this subject, but it was not his object to confine himself to their manner.
ROBIN HOOD A CHILD.
It was the pleasant season yet,
When the stones at cottage doors
Dry quickly while the roads are wet,
After the silver showers.
When the stones at cottage doors
Dry quickly while the roads are wet,
After the silver showers.
138
The green leaves they look'd greener still,
And the thrush, renewing his tune,
Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill
Into the bright blue noon.
And the thrush, renewing his tune,
Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill
Into the bright blue noon.
Robin Hood's mother look'd out, and said,
“It were a shame and a sin,
For fear of getting a wet head,
To keep such a day within,
Nor welcome up from his sick bed
Your uncle Gamelyn.”
“It were a shame and a sin,
For fear of getting a wet head,
To keep such a day within,
Nor welcome up from his sick bed
Your uncle Gamelyn.”
And Robin leap'd for mirth and glee,
And so they quit the door,
And “Mother, I'm your dog,” quoth he,
And scamper'd on before.
And so they quit the door,
And “Mother, I'm your dog,” quoth he,
And scamper'd on before.
Robin was a gentle boy,
And therewithal as bold;
To say he was his mother's joy,
It were a phrase too cold.
And therewithal as bold;
To say he was his mother's joy,
It were a phrase too cold.
His hair upon his thoughtful brow
Came smoothly clipp'd, and sleek,
But ran into a curl somehow
Beside his merrier cheek.
Came smoothly clipp'd, and sleek,
But ran into a curl somehow
Beside his merrier cheek.
Great love to him his uncle, too,
The noble Gamelyn bare,
And often said, as his mother knew,
That he should be his heir.
The noble Gamelyn bare,
And often said, as his mother knew,
That he should be his heir.
Gamelyn's eyes, now getting dim,
Would twinkle at his sight,
And his ruddy wrinkles laugh at him
Between his locks so white:
Would twinkle at his sight,
And his ruddy wrinkles laugh at him
Between his locks so white:
For Robin already let him see
He should beat his playmates all
At wrestling, and running, and archery,
For he cared not for a fall.
He should beat his playmates all
At wrestling, and running, and archery,
For he cared not for a fall.
139
Now and then his gall arose,
And into a rage he flew;
But 'twas only at such as Tom Harden's blows,
Who, when he had given a bloody nose,
Used to mimic the cock when he crows;
Otherwise Rob laugh'd too.
And into a rage he flew;
But 'twas only at such as Tom Harden's blows,
Who, when he had given a bloody nose,
Used to mimic the cock when he crows;
Otherwise Rob laugh'd too.
Merriest he was of merry boys,
And would set the old helmets bobbing:
If his uncle ask'd about the noise,
'Twas “If you please, sir, Robin.”
And would set the old helmets bobbing:
If his uncle ask'd about the noise,
'Twas “If you please, sir, Robin.”
And yet if the old man wish'd no noise,
He'd come and sit at his knee,
And be the gravest of grave-eyed boys,
And not a word spoke he.
He'd come and sit at his knee,
And be the gravest of grave-eyed boys,
And not a word spoke he.
So whenever he and his mother came
To brave old Shere Wood Hall,
'Twas nothing there but sport and game,
And holiday folks all:
The servants never were to blame,
Though they let the pasty fall.
To brave old Shere Wood Hall,
'Twas nothing there but sport and game,
And holiday folks all:
The servants never were to blame,
Though they let the pasty fall.
And now the travellers turn the road,
And now they hear the rooks;
And there it is,—the old abode,
With all its hearty looks.
And now they hear the rooks;
And there it is,—the old abode,
With all its hearty looks.
Robin laugh'd, and the lady too,
And they look'd at one another;
Says Robin, “I'll knock as I'm used to do
At uncle's window, mother.”
And they look'd at one another;
Says Robin, “I'll knock as I'm used to do
At uncle's window, mother.”
And so he pick'd up some pebbles and ran,
And jumping higher and higher,
He reach'd the windows with tan a ran tan,
And instead of the kind old white-hair'd man,
There look'd out a fat friar.
And jumping higher and higher,
He reach'd the windows with tan a ran tan,
And instead of the kind old white-hair'd man,
There look'd out a fat friar.
140
“How now,” said the fat friar angrily,
“What is this knocking so wild?”
But when he saw young Robin's eye,
He said, “Go round, my child.
“What is this knocking so wild?”
But when he saw young Robin's eye,
He said, “Go round, my child.
“Go round to the hall, and I'll tell you all.”
“He'll tell us all!” thought Robin;
And his mother and he went quietly,
Though her heart was set a throbbing.
“He'll tell us all!” thought Robin;
And his mother and he went quietly,
Though her heart was set a throbbing.
The friar stood in the inner door,
And tenderly said, “I fear
You know not the good squire's no more,
Even Gamelyn Shere.
And tenderly said, “I fear
You know not the good squire's no more,
Even Gamelyn Shere.
“Gamelyn of Shere Wood is dead,
He changed but yesternight:”
“Now make us way,” the lady said,
“To see that doleful sight.”
He changed but yesternight:”
“Now make us way,” the lady said,
“To see that doleful sight.”
“Good old Gamelyn Shere is dead,
And has made us his holy heirs:”
The lady stay'd not for all he said,
But went weeping up the stairs.
And has made us his holy heirs:”
The lady stay'd not for all he said,
But went weeping up the stairs.
Robin and she went hand in hand,
Weeping all the way,
Until they came where the lord of that land
Dumb in his cold bed lay.
Weeping all the way,
Until they came where the lord of that land
Dumb in his cold bed lay.
His hand she took, and saw his dead look,
With the lids over each eye-ball;
And Robin and she wept as plenteously,
As though he had left them all.
With the lids over each eye-ball;
And Robin and she wept as plenteously,
As though he had left them all.
“I will return, Sir Abbot of Vere,
I will return, as is meet,
And see my honour'd brother dear
Laid in his winding sheet.
I will return, as is meet,
And see my honour'd brother dear
Laid in his winding sheet.
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“And I will stay, for to go were a sin,
For all a woman's tears,
And see the noble Gamelyn
Laid equal with the Veres.”
For all a woman's tears,
And see the noble Gamelyn
Laid equal with the Veres.”
The lady went with a sick heart out
Into the fresh air,
And told her Robin all about
The abbot whom he saw there:
Into the fresh air,
And told her Robin all about
The abbot whom he saw there:
And how his uncle must have been
Disturb'd in his failing sense,
To leave his wealth to these artful men,
At her's and Robin's expense.
Disturb'd in his failing sense,
To leave his wealth to these artful men,
At her's and Robin's expense.
Sad was the stately day for all
But the Vere Abbey friars,
When the coffin was stript of its hiding pall,
Amidst the hushing choirs.
But the Vere Abbey friars,
When the coffin was stript of its hiding pall,
Amidst the hushing choirs.
Sad was its going down into the dust,
And the thought of the face departed;
The lady shook at them, as shake we must,
And Robin he felt strange-hearted.
And the thought of the face departed;
The lady shook at them, as shake we must,
And Robin he felt strange-hearted.
That self-same evening, nevertheless,
They return'd to Locksley town,
The lady in a sore distress,
And Robin looking down.
They return'd to Locksley town,
The lady in a sore distress,
And Robin looking down.
No word he spoke, no note he took
Of bird, or beast, or aught,
Till she ask'd him with a woful look
What made him so full of thought.
Of bird, or beast, or aught,
Till she ask'd him with a woful look
What made him so full of thought.
“I was thinking, mother,” said little Robin,
And with his own voice so true
He spoke right out, “That if I was a king,
Or if I was a man, which is the next thing,
I'd see what those friars do.
And with his own voice so true
He spoke right out, “That if I was a king,
Or if I was a man, which is the next thing,
I'd see what those friars do.
142
“I wouldn't let 'em be counted friars,
If they did as these have done,
But make 'em fight, for rogues and liars;
I'd make 'em fight, to see which was right,
Them, or the mother's son.”
If they did as these have done,
But make 'em fight, for rogues and liars;
I'd make 'em fight, to see which was right,
Them, or the mother's son.”
His mother stoop'd with a tear of joy,
And she kiss'd him again and again,
And said, “My own little Robin boy,
Thou wilt be a King of Men.”
And she kiss'd him again and again,
And said, “My own little Robin boy,
Thou wilt be a King of Men.”
ROBIN HOOD'S FLIGHT.
Robin Hood's mother, these ten years now,
Has been gone from her earthly home;
And Robin has paid, he scarce knew how,
A sum for a noble tomb.
Has been gone from her earthly home;
And Robin has paid, he scarce knew how,
A sum for a noble tomb.
The churchyard lies on a woody hill,
But open to sun and air:
It seems as if the heaven still
Were blessing the good bones there.
But open to sun and air:
It seems as if the heaven still
Were blessing the good bones there.
Often when Robin turn'd that way,
He look'd through a sweet thin tear;
But he look'd in a different manner, they say,
Towards the Abbey of Vere.
He look'd through a sweet thin tear;
But he look'd in a different manner, they say,
Towards the Abbey of Vere.
Custom had made him not care for wealth,
Sincere was his mirth at pride;
He had youth, and strength, and health,
And enough for one beside.
Sincere was his mirth at pride;
He had youth, and strength, and health,
And enough for one beside.
But he thought of his gentle mother's cheek,
How it faded and sunk away,
And how she used to grow more weak
And weary every day:
How it faded and sunk away,
And how she used to grow more weak
And weary every day:
143
And how, when trying a hymn, her voice
At evening would expire,
How unlike it was the arrogant noise
Of the hard throats in the choir:
At evening would expire,
How unlike it was the arrogant noise
Of the hard throats in the choir:
And Robin thought too of the poor,
How they toil'd without their share,
And how the alms at the abbey door
But kept them as they were:
How they toil'd without their share,
And how the alms at the abbey door
But kept them as they were:
And he thought him then of the friars again,
Who rode jingling up and down,
With their trappings and things as fine as the king's,
Though they wore but a shaven crown.
Who rode jingling up and down,
With their trappings and things as fine as the king's,
Though they wore but a shaven crown.
And then of the king bold Robin he thought,
And the homes for his sports undone;
How the poor were turn'd out where his deer were brought,
Yet on body and soul what agonies wrought,
If starving, they killed but one.
And the homes for his sports undone;
How the poor were turn'd out where his deer were brought,
Yet on body and soul what agonies wrought,
If starving, they killed but one.
And in angry mood, as Robin thus stood,
Digging his bow in the ground,
He was aware in old Shere Wood,
Of a huckster who look'd around.
Digging his bow in the ground,
He was aware in old Shere Wood,
Of a huckster who look'd around.
“And what is Will doing?” said Robin then,
“That he looks so fearful and wan?”
“Oh my dear master that should have been,
I am a weary man.”
“That he looks so fearful and wan?”
“Oh my dear master that should have been,
I am a weary man.”
“A weary man,” said Will Nokes, “am I
For unless I pilfer this wood
To sell to the fletchers, for want I shall die
Here in this forest so good.
For unless I pilfer this wood
To sell to the fletchers, for want I shall die
Here in this forest so good.
“Here in this forest where I have been
So happy and so stout,
And like a palfrey on the green,
Have carried yourself about.”
So happy and so stout,
And like a palfrey on the green,
Have carried yourself about.”
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“And why, Will Nokes, not come to me?
Why not to Robin, Will?
For I remember thy love and thy glee,
And the scar that marks thee still;
Why not to Robin, Will?
For I remember thy love and thy glee,
And the scar that marks thee still;
“And not a soul of my uncle's men
To such a pass should come,
While Robin can find in his pocket or bin
A penny or a crumb.
To such a pass should come,
While Robin can find in his pocket or bin
A penny or a crumb.
“Stay thee, Will Nokes, man, stay awhile;
And kindle a fire for me.”
And into the wood for half a mile,
He has vanish'd instantly.
And kindle a fire for me.”
And into the wood for half a mile,
He has vanish'd instantly.
Robin Hood, with his cheek on fire,
Has drawn his bow so stern,
And a leaping deer, with one leap higher,
Lies motionless in the fern.
Has drawn his bow so stern,
And a leaping deer, with one leap higher,
Lies motionless in the fern.
Robin, like a proper knight,
As he should have been,
Carv'd a part of the shoulder right,
And bore off a portion clean.
As he should have been,
Carv'd a part of the shoulder right,
And bore off a portion clean.
“Oh, what hast thou done, dear master mine,
What hast thou done for me?”
“Roast it, Will, for excepting wine,
Thou shalt feast thee royally.”
What hast thou done for me?”
“Roast it, Will, for excepting wine,
Thou shalt feast thee royally.”
And Nokes he took and half roasted it,
Blubbering with blinding tears,
And ere he had eaten a second bit,
A trampling came to their ears.
Blubbering with blinding tears,
And ere he had eaten a second bit,
A trampling came to their ears.
They heard the tramp of a horse's feet,
And they listen'd and kept still,
For Will was feeble, and knelt by the meat;
And Robin he stood by Will.
And they listen'd and kept still,
For Will was feeble, and knelt by the meat;
And Robin he stood by Will.
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“Seize him, seize him!” the Abbot cried
With his fat voice through the trees;
Robin a smooth arrow felt and eyed,
And Will jump'd stout with his knees.
With his fat voice through the trees;
Robin a smooth arrow felt and eyed,
And Will jump'd stout with his knees.
Time had made the fat Abbot, I trow,
A fatter and angrier man;
Yet the voice was the same that twelve years ago
Out of the window, to Robin below,
Answer'd the tan a ran tan.
A fatter and angrier man;
Yet the voice was the same that twelve years ago
Out of the window, to Robin below,
Answer'd the tan a ran tan.
“Seize him! seize him!” and now they appear,
The Abbot and foresters three:
“'Twas I,” cried Will, “that slew the deer:”
Says Robin, “Now let not a man come near,
Or he's dead as dead can be.”
The Abbot and foresters three:
“'Twas I,” cried Will, “that slew the deer:”
Says Robin, “Now let not a man come near,
Or he's dead as dead can be.”
But on they came, and with gullet cleft
The first one met the shaft;
And he fell with a face of all mirth bereft,
That just before had laugh'd.
The first one met the shaft;
And he fell with a face of all mirth bereft,
That just before had laugh'd.
The others turn'd to that Abbot vain,
But “Seize him!” still he cried,
And as the second man turn'd again,
The second man shriek'd and died.
But “Seize him!” still he cried,
And as the second man turn'd again,
The second man shriek'd and died.
“Seize him, seize him still, I say,”
Cried the Abbot, in furious chafe,
“Or these dogs will grow so bold some day,
E'en monks will not be safe.”
Cried the Abbot, in furious chafe,
“Or these dogs will grow so bold some day,
E'en monks will not be safe.”
A fatal word! for as he sat,
Urging the sword to cut,
An arrow stuck in his paunch so fat,
As in a leathern butt:
Urging the sword to cut,
An arrow stuck in his paunch so fat,
As in a leathern butt:
As in a leathern butt of wine,
Or piece of beef so round,
Stuck that arrow, strong and fine;
Sharp had it been ground.
Or piece of beef so round,
Stuck that arrow, strong and fine;
Sharp had it been ground.
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I know not what the Abbot, alack!
Thought when that was done;
But there tumbled from the horse's back
A matter of twenty stone.
Thought when that was done;
But there tumbled from the horse's back
A matter of twenty stone.
“Truly,” said Robin without fear,
Smiling there as he stood,
“Never was slain so fat a deer
In good old Gamelyn's wood.”
Smiling there as he stood,
“Never was slain so fat a deer
In good old Gamelyn's wood.”
“Pardon, pardon, Sir Robin stout,”
Said he that stood apart,
“As soon as I knew thee, I wish'd thee ou
Of the forest with all my heart.
Said he that stood apart,
“As soon as I knew thee, I wish'd thee ou
Of the forest with all my heart.
“And I pray thee let me follow thee
Anywhere under the sky,
For thou wilt never stay here with me,
Nor without thee can I.”
Anywhere under the sky,
For thou wilt never stay here with me,
Nor without thee can I.”
Robin smiled, and suddenly fell
Into a little thought;
And then into a leafy dell
The three slain men they brought.
Into a little thought;
And then into a leafy dell
The three slain men they brought.
Ankle deep in leaves so red,
Which autumn there had cast,
When going to her winter bed
She had undrest her last.
Which autumn there had cast,
When going to her winter bed
She had undrest her last.
And there in a hollow, side by side,
They buried them under the treen;
The Abbot's belly, for all its pride,
Made not the grave be seen.
They buried them under the treen;
The Abbot's belly, for all its pride,
Made not the grave be seen.
Robin Hood, and the forester,
And Nokes the happy Will,
Struck off among the green leaves there
Up a pathless hill;
And Nokes the happy Will,
Struck off among the green leaves there
Up a pathless hill;
147
And Robin caught a sudden sight
Of merry sweet Locksley town,
Reddening in the sunset bright;
And the gentle tears came down.
Of merry sweet Locksley town,
Reddening in the sunset bright;
And the gentle tears came down.
Robin look'd at the town and land,
And the churchyard where it lay;
And loving Will he kiss'd his hand,
And turn'd his head away.
And the churchyard where it lay;
And loving Will he kiss'd his hand,
And turn'd his head away.
Then Robin turn'd with a grasp of Will's,
And clapp'd him on the shoulder,
And said, with one of his pleasant smiles,
“Now show us three men bolder.”
And clapp'd him on the shoulder,
And said, with one of his pleasant smiles,
“Now show us three men bolder.”
And so they took their march away,
As firm as if to fiddle,
To journey that night and all next day,
With Robin Hood in the middle.
As firm as if to fiddle,
To journey that night and all next day,
With Robin Hood in the middle.
ROBIN HOOD AN OUTLAW.
Robin Hood is an outlaw bold,
Under the greenwood tree;
Bird, nor stag, nor morning air,
Is more at large than he.
Under the greenwood tree;
Bird, nor stag, nor morning air,
Is more at large than he.
They sent against him twenty men,
Who join'd him laughing-eyed;
They sent against him thirty more,
And they remain'd beside.
Who join'd him laughing-eyed;
They sent against him thirty more,
And they remain'd beside.
All the stoutest of the train
That grew in Gamelyn wood,
Whether they came with these or not,
Are now with Robin Hood.
That grew in Gamelyn wood,
Whether they came with these or not,
Are now with Robin Hood.
And not a soul in Locksley town
Would speak him an ill word;
The friars raged; but no man's tongue,
Nor even feature stirred;
Would speak him an ill word;
The friars raged; but no man's tongue,
Nor even feature stirred;
148
Except among a very few,
Who dined in the Abbey halls;
And then with a sigh bold Robin knew
His true friends from his false.
Who dined in the Abbey halls;
And then with a sigh bold Robin knew
His true friends from his false.
There was Roger the monk, that used to make
All monkery his glee;
And Midge, on whom Robin had never turn'd
His face but tenderly;
All monkery his glee;
And Midge, on whom Robin had never turn'd
His face but tenderly;
With one or two, they say, besides—
Lord! that in this life's dream
Men should abandon one true thing,
That would abide with them.
Lord! that in this life's dream
Men should abandon one true thing,
That would abide with them.
We cannot bid our strength remain,
Our cheeks continue round;
We cannot say to an aged back,
Stoop not towards the ground:
Our cheeks continue round;
We cannot say to an aged back,
Stoop not towards the ground:
We cannot bid our dim eyes see
Things as bright as ever,
Nor tell our friends, though friends from youth,
That they'll forsake us never:
Things as bright as ever,
Nor tell our friends, though friends from youth,
That they'll forsake us never:
But we can say, I never will,
False world, be false for thee;
And, oh Sound Truth and Old Regard,
Nothing shall part us three.
False world, be false for thee;
And, oh Sound Truth and Old Regard,
Nothing shall part us three.
HOW ROBIN AND HIS OUTLAWS LIVED IN THE WOODS.
Robin and his merry men
Liv'd just like the birds;
They had almost as many tracks as thoughts,
And whistles and songs as words.
Liv'd just like the birds;
They had almost as many tracks as thoughts,
And whistles and songs as words.
All the morning they were wont
To fly their gray-goose quills
At butts, or trees, or wands and twigs,
Till theirs was the skill of skills.
To fly their gray-goose quills
At butts, or trees, or wands and twigs,
Till theirs was the skill of skills.
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With swords, too, they played lustily,
And at quarter-staff;
Buffets oft their forfeits were,
Fit to twirl a calf.
And at quarter-staff;
Buffets oft their forfeits were,
Fit to twirl a calf.
Friends who join'd the sport were bound
Those hazards to endure;
But foes were lucky to carry away
What took a year to cure.
Those hazards to endure;
But foes were lucky to carry away
What took a year to cure.
The horn was then their dinner-bell;
When, like princes of the wood,
Under the state of summer trees,
Pure venison was their food.
When, like princes of the wood,
Under the state of summer trees,
Pure venison was their food.
Pure venison and good ale or wine,
Except when luck was chuff;
Or grant 'twas Adam's ale; what then?
Their blood was wine enough.
Except when luck was chuff;
Or grant 'twas Adam's ale; what then?
Their blood was wine enough.
And story then, and jest, and song,
And Harry's harp went round;
And sometimes they'd get up and dance,
For pleasure at the sound.
And Harry's harp went round;
And sometimes they'd get up and dance,
For pleasure at the sound.
Tingle, tangle! said the harp,
As they footed in and out:
Good Lord! was ever seen a dance
At once so light and stout?
As they footed in and out:
Good Lord! was ever seen a dance
At once so light and stout?
A pleasant sight, especially
If Margery was there,
Or little Cis, or laughing Bess,
That tired out six pair.
If Margery was there,
Or little Cis, or laughing Bess,
That tired out six pair.
Or any other merry lass
From the neighbouring villages,
Who came with milk and eggs, or fruit,
A singing through the trees.
From the neighbouring villages,
Who came with milk and eggs, or fruit,
A singing through the trees.
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Only they say the men were given
Too often to take wives,
And then, 'twixt forest and a shop,
Lead strange half-honest lives.
Too often to take wives,
And then, 'twixt forest and a shop,
Lead strange half-honest lives.
But all the country round about
Was fond of Robin Hood,
With whom they got a share of more
Than fagots from the wood.
Was fond of Robin Hood,
With whom they got a share of more
Than fagots from the wood.
Nor ever would he suffer harm,
To woman, above all;
No plunder, were she ne'er so great,
No fright to great or small;
To woman, above all;
No plunder, were she ne'er so great,
No fright to great or small;
No,—not a single kiss unliked,
Nor one look-saddening clip;
Accurst be he, said Robin Hood,
Makes pale a woman's lip.
Nor one look-saddening clip;
Accurst be he, said Robin Hood,
Makes pale a woman's lip.
And then, oh then, Maid Marian came
From her proud brother's hall,
With a world of love and tears,
And smiles behind them all.
From her proud brother's hall,
With a world of love and tears,
And smiles behind them all.
They built her bowers in forests three,
To flit from one to t'other,
And Robin and she reign'd as pleasant to all,
As faithful to one another.
To flit from one to t'other,
And Robin and she reign'd as pleasant to all,
As faithful to one another.
Only upon the Normans proud,
And on their unjust store,
He'd lay his fines of equity
For his merry men and the poor.
And on their unjust store,
He'd lay his fines of equity
For his merry men and the poor.
And special was his joy, no doubt,
(Which made the dish to curse,)
To light upon a good fat friar,
And carve him of his purse.
(Which made the dish to curse,)
To light upon a good fat friar,
And carve him of his purse.
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A monk to him was a toad in the hole,
And a priest was a pig in grain,
But a bishop was a baron of beef,
To cut and come again.
And a priest was a pig in grain,
But a bishop was a baron of beef,
To cut and come again.
Says Robin to the poor who came
To ask of him relief,
You do but get your goods again
That were altered by the thief.
To ask of him relief,
You do but get your goods again
That were altered by the thief.
See here now is a plump new coin,
And here's a lawyer's cloak,
And here's the horse the bishop rode,
When suddenly he woke.
And here's a lawyer's cloak,
And here's the horse the bishop rode,
When suddenly he woke.
Well, ploughman, there's a sheaf of yours
Turn'd to yellow gold:
And, miller, there's your last year's rent,
'Twill wrap thee from the cold.
Turn'd to yellow gold:
And, miller, there's your last year's rent,
'Twill wrap thee from the cold.
And you there, Wat of Herefordshire,
Who such a way have come,
Get upon your land-tax, man,
And ride it merrily home.
Who such a way have come,
Get upon your land-tax, man,
And ride it merrily home.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |