Historical Odes and Other Poems By Richard Watson Dixon |
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Concealment: the Story of a Gentleman of Dauphiny.
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 | Historical Odes and Other Poems |  |
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Concealment: the Story of a Gentleman of Dauphiny.
A love too much concealed, too little known,
May lead but to the grave; as ye shall own
Who con with me this simple history.
May lead but to the grave; as ye shall own
Who con with me this simple history.
There lived within the bounds of Dauphiny
In ancient times a noble gentleman,
Whose fair renown through all the country ran
For gentle valour and sweet courtesy:
But though renowned, alas, not rich was he.
This gentleman long loved a demoiselle
Of wondrous beauty, whom they named La Belle;
She was of lordly house and high estate;
And he, albeit his passion was so great,
Too modestly did love to wish that she
Should ever match below her own degree:
He loved because she was most loveable,
But sought her not, not understanding well
That love has right above both house and wealth:
Wherefore he never sought by shifty stealth,
As do poor lovers, for her favour high;
But if by any chance he should be nigh,
Then in her presence would he keep and smile,
And let deep love consume his heart the while.
And so long time he fared, until at last,
I know not how, his passion overpast
The strictness of the tone and look he wore;
And she, who never had been loved before,
So tender young she was, a flower in bud,
Discerned, and on the sudden understood:
And glad she was in simple faith to be
Beloved so nobly and so honestly;
Nought knowing of the dreadful train of love,
But joyful that she might another move,
As him she moved, with rapture and delight,
Only by living in her lover's sight.
So now more oft he came, nor sought to hide
His love, though words to it he still denied.
In ancient times a noble gentleman,
Whose fair renown through all the country ran
For gentle valour and sweet courtesy:
But though renowned, alas, not rich was he.
This gentleman long loved a demoiselle
Of wondrous beauty, whom they named La Belle;
She was of lordly house and high estate;
And he, albeit his passion was so great,
Too modestly did love to wish that she
Should ever match below her own degree:
He loved because she was most loveable,
But sought her not, not understanding well
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Wherefore he never sought by shifty stealth,
As do poor lovers, for her favour high;
But if by any chance he should be nigh,
Then in her presence would he keep and smile,
And let deep love consume his heart the while.
And so long time he fared, until at last,
I know not how, his passion overpast
The strictness of the tone and look he wore;
And she, who never had been loved before,
So tender young she was, a flower in bud,
Discerned, and on the sudden understood:
And glad she was in simple faith to be
Beloved so nobly and so honestly;
Nought knowing of the dreadful train of love,
But joyful that she might another move,
As him she moved, with rapture and delight,
Only by living in her lover's sight.
So now more oft he came, nor sought to hide
His love, though words to it he still denied.
But who in love can be unnoted?—Soon
The world began to whisper, and anon
The whisper rose into a louder hum;
And lastly to the countess did it come,
The mother countess: she, a widow left
With that one child, La Belle, was not bereft
Of pity for a lover; but respect
For the world's mandates that soft pity checked.
Too long had she by virtuous maxims kept
Virtue to know, if virtue overstept
Its own precinct: a keeper of the door
Not far did she the temple wide explore,
The fane which love for deity doth own,
Creation's centre, being's very throne;
To which the very entrance none can find
Without refinement of the sense and mind,
While to its centre earthly visitant
May never pierce, for there for ever pant
Love's spiritual fires through endless days,
And in that noon joy's shadow falls both ways.
Such is the court, the universe of love,
So far its inmost shrine our hopes above.
But faithful souls, like voyagers, behold
The far-off glory as a dawn of gold,
The supreme glory shedding constant beams,
Which thread the opal spheres in softer gleams,
And softer, that Love's voyagers may know
The wonders of the way by which they go.
They see Love's planets, like the lamps of night,
Set in their spheres of softness and delight:
Or if it be a fane that is most fit
To image forth the throne where Love doth sit
In sacredness, they see the pillars rise
Of shafted constancy towards the skies
In that world-temple; widely rolls between
The unfathomed basement and the vault serene
The incense cloud of an eternal fitness,
Of which fair dreams are minister and witness;
And its foundations are unwritten faith,
Truer than covenant, stronger than death,
More gleaming than a rock of chrysophrase.
These marvels may he see who keeps the ways
Of love through life, and countless marvels more:
But who the blinded vision may restore
Of those who cease to love, nor honour love
In his true worshippers; what herald dove
Swathes with white plume and flashing Iris-gleam
The hapless soul that has forgot to dream?
The mother bade that lover keep away
From his beloved, lest the world should say
Some venomed thing; and he her words obeyed,
And for long months away from her he stayed,
Till the world's bruit had ceased; nor did he wear
A brow of sadness, but did still repair
To all his haunts, and busily he strove:
But as his absence grew, so grew his love.
The world began to whisper, and anon
The whisper rose into a louder hum;
And lastly to the countess did it come,
The mother countess: she, a widow left
With that one child, La Belle, was not bereft
Of pity for a lover; but respect
For the world's mandates that soft pity checked.
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Virtue to know, if virtue overstept
Its own precinct: a keeper of the door
Not far did she the temple wide explore,
The fane which love for deity doth own,
Creation's centre, being's very throne;
To which the very entrance none can find
Without refinement of the sense and mind,
While to its centre earthly visitant
May never pierce, for there for ever pant
Love's spiritual fires through endless days,
And in that noon joy's shadow falls both ways.
Such is the court, the universe of love,
So far its inmost shrine our hopes above.
But faithful souls, like voyagers, behold
The far-off glory as a dawn of gold,
The supreme glory shedding constant beams,
Which thread the opal spheres in softer gleams,
And softer, that Love's voyagers may know
The wonders of the way by which they go.
They see Love's planets, like the lamps of night,
Set in their spheres of softness and delight:
Or if it be a fane that is most fit
To image forth the throne where Love doth sit
In sacredness, they see the pillars rise
Of shafted constancy towards the skies
In that world-temple; widely rolls between
The unfathomed basement and the vault serene
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Of which fair dreams are minister and witness;
And its foundations are unwritten faith,
Truer than covenant, stronger than death,
More gleaming than a rock of chrysophrase.
These marvels may he see who keeps the ways
Of love through life, and countless marvels more:
But who the blinded vision may restore
Of those who cease to love, nor honour love
In his true worshippers; what herald dove
Swathes with white plume and flashing Iris-gleam
The hapless soul that has forgot to dream?
The mother bade that lover keep away
From his beloved, lest the world should say
Some venomed thing; and he her words obeyed,
And for long months away from her he stayed,
Till the world's bruit had ceased; nor did he wear
A brow of sadness, but did still repair
To all his haunts, and busily he strove:
But as his absence grew, so grew his love.
So passed the time, until, as it befel,
Another lover came to woo La Belle,
Not so much richer than this gentleman,
Nor of such name; and soon the rumour ran
That they should wed: this when our lover heard,
“It is but ill that he should be preferred,”
Thought he, “to me, who have so truly loved;
I tarried not for this; I am removed
By one less worth than me; nay, who can tell
If in her secret mind she love me well?
Then am I much to blame that from neglect
I have let go her service, and have checked
Her shamefaced thought: I will return and see
If there be any hope reserved for me.”
Another lover came to woo La Belle,
Not so much richer than this gentleman,
Nor of such name; and soon the rumour ran
That they should wed: this when our lover heard,
“It is but ill that he should be preferred,”
Thought he, “to me, who have so truly loved;
I tarried not for this; I am removed
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If in her secret mind she love me well?
Then am I much to blame that from neglect
I have let go her service, and have checked
Her shamefaced thought: I will return and see
If there be any hope reserved for me.”
From the pine-bearing height on which he dwelt
He took his way, and sweet enchantment felt
To go to her once more; he knew the way
Full well, and followed it for half the day,
Until her pleasant mansion came in sight
Amid the poplars; and he did alight,
With wild expectance poised in balance fine.
He took his way, and sweet enchantment felt
To go to her once more; he knew the way
Full well, and followed it for half the day,
Until her pleasant mansion came in sight
Amid the poplars; and he did alight,
With wild expectance poised in balance fine.
Now hath he for the poplar changed the pine;
Those ladies in their little garden ground,
The mother countess and La Belle, he found;
Grey walls the place confined, yellow with moss,
And with trained fruit-trees burgeoned, and across
Went gravel walks amid the greenest sward,
And many pointed cypresses on guard
Lifted their darker spires; amidst there was
A marble fountain rising in the grass.
Those ladies in their little garden ground,
The mother countess and La Belle, he found;
Grey walls the place confined, yellow with moss,
And with trained fruit-trees burgeoned, and across
Went gravel walks amid the greenest sward,
And many pointed cypresses on guard
Lifted their darker spires; amidst there was
A marble fountain rising in the grass.
And there that lover entered and beheld
Those ladies walking; toward them he impelled
His hasty feet, and said at once whate'er
He did before within his mind prepare.
Ah, wherefore had he never told before
The secret which so long his bosom bore?
Ah, what avails it all the tale to tell
Of love that at one touch in sorrow fell;
Why utter now the words which told him all
Befallen which he deemed could not befal,
His own love being such; why speak again
The words that he shall still revolve in pain
For many months, still muttering like a charm
Of ill the syllables that wrought him harm?
What said the countess, and what said La Belle?
Enough to know that love in ruins fell,
Love's eloquence was quenched; too late afield
Was love; and, having lain so long concealed,
Put forth its pennons vainly now at last.
He found La Belle by plighted faith bound fast,
But not to him, and married soon to be;
And there was deprecation; sophistry
Of comfort; rapid words which ever strove
To make the whole a commonplace of love
Soon to be ended: then said he, “Adieu,
None other shall I ever love than you.”
Now hath he changed the poplar for the pine.
Those ladies walking; toward them he impelled
His hasty feet, and said at once whate'er
He did before within his mind prepare.
Ah, wherefore had he never told before
The secret which so long his bosom bore?
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Of love that at one touch in sorrow fell;
Why utter now the words which told him all
Befallen which he deemed could not befal,
His own love being such; why speak again
The words that he shall still revolve in pain
For many months, still muttering like a charm
Of ill the syllables that wrought him harm?
What said the countess, and what said La Belle?
Enough to know that love in ruins fell,
Love's eloquence was quenched; too late afield
Was love; and, having lain so long concealed,
Put forth its pennons vainly now at last.
He found La Belle by plighted faith bound fast,
But not to him, and married soon to be;
And there was deprecation; sophistry
Of comfort; rapid words which ever strove
To make the whole a commonplace of love
Soon to be ended: then said he, “Adieu,
None other shall I ever love than you.”
Now hath he changed the poplar for the pine.
Full slowly rode he home through shade and shine,
Along the valley, o'er the rising ridge,
And past the hollow roaring by the bridge,
And by the torrent rushing from the steep:
The rain-cloud rode above him; out did sweep
The rainbow, where cold rain at distance fell;
And faded as some autumn cloud did swell
In purple o'er the sun behind his back.
So dizzily he gained the homeward track,
And entered wearily among the pines:
His kennelled hounds with cries and lengthened whines
At his appearance leaped their length of chain:
“Farewell,” said he, “my dogs, ye call in vain.”
Along the valley, o'er the rising ridge,
And past the hollow roaring by the bridge,
And by the torrent rushing from the steep:
The rain-cloud rode above him; out did sweep
The rainbow, where cold rain at distance fell;
And faded as some autumn cloud did swell
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So dizzily he gained the homeward track,
And entered wearily among the pines:
His kennelled hounds with cries and lengthened whines
At his appearance leaped their length of chain:
“Farewell,” said he, “my dogs, ye call in vain.”
And in the pain of that refusal he
Could take no rest, but ever listlessly
Roamed up and down the flinty mountain path;
Until at length by small degrees he hath
Begun to fall away; and in such sort
Was changed, that those who saw him did report
His death at hand; nay, death itself they said
Was painted in his visage: now his bed
He kept, and any moment he might die.
Could take no rest, but ever listlessly
Roamed up and down the flinty mountain path;
Until at length by small degrees he hath
Begun to fall away; and in such sort
Was changed, that those who saw him did report
His death at hand; nay, death itself they said
Was painted in his visage: now his bed
He kept, and any moment he might die.
A certain man soon brought this public cry
Unto the countess, and much urged that she,
As she was charitable, should go see
The dying man, and take with her La Belle;
With him they went, who guided them full well.
They climbed the mountain by the flinty way
Which led above the pines; the dogs did bay,
As they went past, the dogs that soon should be
Masterless; and from out the dark green tree
The pheasant whirred; anon the latch they lift
And stand within the chamber; his last shrift
The dying man had made, and had received
Communion, and, that holy task achieved,
Expected nought to see or hear again;
He was so meagre that it was a pain
To recognize him: a most pallid green
O'erspread his visage, and the Rood between
His strained hands lay; but as on them he gazed,
His force so much returned that he half raised
His body, and the countess thus addressed.
Unto the countess, and much urged that she,
As she was charitable, should go see
The dying man, and take with her La Belle;
With him they went, who guided them full well.
They climbed the mountain by the flinty way
Which led above the pines; the dogs did bay,
As they went past, the dogs that soon should be
Masterless; and from out the dark green tree
The pheasant whirred; anon the latch they lift
And stand within the chamber; his last shrift
The dying man had made, and had received
Communion, and, that holy task achieved,
128
He was so meagre that it was a pain
To recognize him: a most pallid green
O'erspread his visage, and the Rood between
His strained hands lay; but as on them he gazed,
His force so much returned that he half raised
His body, and the countess thus addressed.
“Ah, madam, thou art come to lay at rest
A man who deemed himself already gone,
Whom you have slain; ah, this is rightly done;
How come you here?” Then she—“Nay, say not so;
Nay, what a sight is here, and what a woe;
Nay, say not we have slain whom overmuch
We ever loved.”—“Madam,” said he, “Death's clutch
Is on me; let me say I have concealed,
All that I might, my state; 'tis now revealed;
So is the love I bear your daughter dear,
Whom ever I have served with mind sincere;
But all my hope I lost through haplessness;
Yet now I speak not of mine own distress,
Which grieves me now no more, but I lament
For her, that she hath lost the man content
Above all men to love and serve her well:
For I am sure, while she on earth may dwell,
She ne'er shall meet with one to love her so.
But I must leave her, I away must go
And leave her in the world, and it is this
That irks me more than all the good I miss,
For I desired never to preserve
My wretched life, but that I might her serve,
And I may perish now that hope is dead.”
A man who deemed himself already gone,
Whom you have slain; ah, this is rightly done;
How come you here?” Then she—“Nay, say not so;
Nay, what a sight is here, and what a woe;
Nay, say not we have slain whom overmuch
We ever loved.”—“Madam,” said he, “Death's clutch
Is on me; let me say I have concealed,
All that I might, my state; 'tis now revealed;
So is the love I bear your daughter dear,
Whom ever I have served with mind sincere;
But all my hope I lost through haplessness;
Yet now I speak not of mine own distress,
Which grieves me now no more, but I lament
For her, that she hath lost the man content
Above all men to love and serve her well:
For I am sure, while she on earth may dwell,
She ne'er shall meet with one to love her so.
But I must leave her, I away must go
And leave her in the world, and it is this
That irks me more than all the good I miss,
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My wretched life, but that I might her serve,
And I may perish now that hope is dead.”
All this they wept to hear, and then thus said
The countess: “Courage, my beloved friend,
For here I swear, if heaven thy life defend,
La Belle shall never wed but only thee;
Here she is present, and doth well agree.”
But hope in that dead soul grew not again,
And he replied, “Lady, if that so vain
And bootless solace but three months agone
Had been bestowed, I should have been the one
Most vigorous and happy in all France.”
But as that promise still they did advance,
At last he said, “Since ye so kindly seem,
One thing I ask which never did I deem
Myself so hardy as to think;” and they
That he should confidently ask did pray.
Then he, “Let me but hold awhile the head
Of her whom here you proffer me to wed,
Within my arms.” La Belle was sore afraid
At that request, but straight her mother bade
Do as he said, perceiving death to be
So fixed upon his countenance that he
Was scarce a man: and toward the bed she went
And knelt beside it; he was nearly spent,
But soon he roused himself, and 'gan to stretch
His thin arms round her, and her face to fetch
To his pale face: “Now have I all that e'er
In all my life to hope for I did dare:
For how that I have loved thee utterly
With gentle faith and perfect honesty,
God knows; and now right willingly I die:
God who is Love and Perfect Charity
Knows I lie not; and I am ready now
For my Creator.” Here he back did bow,
Yet rallied once again toward her face,
And with such fervour struggled to embrace,
That in the very strife a corpse he lay.
The countess: “Courage, my beloved friend,
For here I swear, if heaven thy life defend,
La Belle shall never wed but only thee;
Here she is present, and doth well agree.”
But hope in that dead soul grew not again,
And he replied, “Lady, if that so vain
And bootless solace but three months agone
Had been bestowed, I should have been the one
Most vigorous and happy in all France.”
But as that promise still they did advance,
At last he said, “Since ye so kindly seem,
One thing I ask which never did I deem
Myself so hardy as to think;” and they
That he should confidently ask did pray.
Then he, “Let me but hold awhile the head
Of her whom here you proffer me to wed,
Within my arms.” La Belle was sore afraid
At that request, but straight her mother bade
Do as he said, perceiving death to be
So fixed upon his countenance that he
Was scarce a man: and toward the bed she went
And knelt beside it; he was nearly spent,
But soon he roused himself, and 'gan to stretch
His thin arms round her, and her face to fetch
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In all my life to hope for I did dare:
For how that I have loved thee utterly
With gentle faith and perfect honesty,
God knows; and now right willingly I die:
God who is Love and Perfect Charity
Knows I lie not; and I am ready now
For my Creator.” Here he back did bow,
Yet rallied once again toward her face,
And with such fervour struggled to embrace,
That in the very strife a corpse he lay.
Now he was nobly buried, as they say,
For many a lover came from fair Provence
To follow in the train; and through all France
They sang of him; but if his wandering ghost
Could feel a triumph on the gloomy coast
Of silent darkness, at those obsequies
Its greatest triumph was the tears and cries
Of that poor demoiselle for whom he died:
For scarce could she be severed from his side
When earth received him; and through all her days,
In champaign green or sought by lover's praise,
Remembered his lost image, full of pain,
Nor ever after that funereal train
Of veritable joy did taste again.
For many a lover came from fair Provence
To follow in the train; and through all France
They sang of him; but if his wandering ghost
Could feel a triumph on the gloomy coast
Of silent darkness, at those obsequies
Its greatest triumph was the tears and cries
Of that poor demoiselle for whom he died:
For scarce could she be severed from his side
When earth received him; and through all her days,
In champaign green or sought by lover's praise,
Remembered his lost image, full of pain,
Nor ever after that funereal train
Of veritable joy did taste again.
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