 | London at Night |  |
85
THE CARELESS LADYE.
“Ladye, Ladye, why sitt'st thou in silence and lone
In thy bower by the rose and the jasmine o'ergrown,
While the hunter's horn rings from the hills of the deer,
Oh! why dost thou sit in thy loneliness here?
In thy bower by the rose and the jasmine o'ergrown,
While the hunter's horn rings from the hills of the deer,
Oh! why dost thou sit in thy loneliness here?
“Ladye, Ladye, how lik'st thou this weary life;
This strange tissue of pleasure and pain and strife—
Ladye, bright Ladye! I pray thee to say,
Or art thou mournful—or art thou gay?
This strange tissue of pleasure and pain and strife—
Ladye, bright Ladye! I pray thee to say,
Or art thou mournful—or art thou gay?
86
“Or haply art thou nor gloomy nor glad,
Nor merry of mood, nor sullen nor sad;
Or haply is't neither yea nor nay,
Ladye, sweet Ladye! I urge thee to say?
Nor merry of mood, nor sullen nor sad;
Or haply is't neither yea nor nay,
Ladye, sweet Ladye! I urge thee to say?
“Oh! I once had a dark-eyed daughter dear,
And her heart was broken without a tear;
She drank a deep cup of bitterness,
And died in her spring-time of loveliness.
And her heart was broken without a tear;
She drank a deep cup of bitterness,
And died in her spring-time of loveliness.
“In silence she suffered, in silence she sighed—
In silence she sickened, in silence she died:
Doth grief untold on thy heart's core prey,
Bright Ladye, sweet Ladye! I urge thee to say?”
In silence she sickened, in silence she died:
Doth grief untold on thy heart's core prey,
Bright Ladye, sweet Ladye! I urge thee to say?”
87
Quoth she—“I am neither merry nor sad,
Nor over-gloomy nor over-glad;
Nor joyous, nor sorrowful—sullen nor gay,
Nor mournful nor mirthful, by night or by day.
Nor over-gloomy nor over-glad;
Nor joyous, nor sorrowful—sullen nor gay,
Nor mournful nor mirthful, by night or by day.
“My heart is contented, my mind is at rest—
And blow the wind east, or blow the wind west;
Come April-showers, or Midsummer's-ray,”
Quoth she,—“I have never more to say!
And blow the wind east, or blow the wind west;
Come April-showers, or Midsummer's-ray,”
Quoth she,—“I have never more to say!
“Had thy dark-eyed daughter been more like me,
She had broken her heart for no vain phantasie;
With peace and with prayers, she had gone to her grave—
Farewell, old Sir Knight, and Our Ladye thee save!
She had broken her heart for no vain phantasie;
With peace and with prayers, she had gone to her grave—
Farewell, old Sir Knight, and Our Ladye thee save!
88
“'T is seldom I smile, but 't is seldom I weep—
Fare thee well, ancient knight, and Our Ladye thee keep!
I pray thee to pardon my mind's wayward mood,
And I pray thee to leave me to—Solitude.”
Fare thee well, ancient knight, and Our Ladye thee keep!
I pray thee to pardon my mind's wayward mood,
And I pray thee to leave me to—Solitude.”
“Yet a moment, I pray—yet a little while stay!
I am old—I am grey—thou should'st not say me nay;
Fain, fain would I question thee, Ladye, awhile—
Now thanks for that gracious and softening smile!
I am old—I am grey—thou should'st not say me nay;
Fain, fain would I question thee, Ladye, awhile—
Now thanks for that gracious and softening smile!
“Tell me, lov'st thou not banquet and state festival,
The fair-tapestried chamber, and banner-hung hall?
The pomp and the pageantry—splendour and light—
The queenly array, and mixed throngs, proud and bright?
The fair-tapestried chamber, and banner-hung hall?
The pomp and the pageantry—splendour and light—
The queenly array, and mixed throngs, proud and bright?
89
“And dost thou not love the gay chase, when the morn
Gives her glad echoes out to the hunter's shrill horn,
And the wild-boughs crash loud to the stag's antlered head,
As he springs from his covert, all panting with dread—
Gives her glad echoes out to the hunter's shrill horn,
And the wild-boughs crash loud to the stag's antlered head,
As he springs from his covert, all panting with dread—
“Or dost thou love better the champaign's wide scene,
When the falconers are there, in their vestments of green;
And thine own tassel-gentle is placed on that wrist,
Whose blue veins e'en an Emperor were proud to have kissed!
When the falconers are there, in their vestments of green;
And thine own tassel-gentle is placed on that wrist,
Whose blue veins e'en an Emperor were proud to have kissed!
“Or say, is thy choice for the masque's gorgeous show,
Where the splendid procession moves stately and slow;
For the mummeries' devices, all mystic and strange,
Their fictitious display, and fantastical change;
Where the splendid procession moves stately and slow;
For the mummeries' devices, all mystic and strange,
Their fictitious display, and fantastical change;
90
“Or doth thy bright eye grow more gloriously bright,
Where spear strikes with spear, and knight challenges knight;
Where the plumed crest that glittered the loftiest there,
Is bowed to the dust in thy presence most fair?
Where spear strikes with spear, and knight challenges knight;
Where the plumed crest that glittered the loftiest there,
Is bowed to the dust in thy presence most fair?
“Where a knot that hath fastened thy hair's precious coils,
Should be deemed worthiest meed for the combatants' toils;
Where a smile from thine eye, that ne'er knew how to frown,
Should outweigh chain and charger and Victor's fair crown?”
Should be deemed worthiest meed for the combatants' toils;
Where a smile from thine eye, that ne'er knew how to frown,
Should outweigh chain and charger and Victor's fair crown?”
“Sir Knight! 't is a grand, glorious sight to behold,
Their long glittering lances, their pennons of gold—
Their scutcheons and collars, their scarfs broidered fair—
And their surcoats of ermine, and blazonries rare—
Their long glittering lances, their pennons of gold—
Their scutcheons and collars, their scarfs broidered fair—
And their surcoats of ermine, and blazonries rare—
91
“And Sir Knight! 'tis more glorious, far grander 'tis still
To behold them put forth all their strength and their skill,
When the trumpet brays loud, and their steeds rush in might,
In the foam of their pride, to the shock of the fight:
To behold them put forth all their strength and their skill,
When the trumpet brays loud, and their steeds rush in might,
In the foam of their pride, to the shock of the fight:
“A crowned King hath borne Conqueror's crown in my name,
And challenged the world for my beauty's poor fame—
And full many a Chatillon, many a Lord,
Hath worshipped and wooed me with spear and with sword!
And challenged the world for my beauty's poor fame—
And full many a Chatillon, many a Lord,
Hath worshipped and wooed me with spear and with sword!
“Heard ye not of the tournament, fair and renowned,
Lately held on this spot—on your hoof-trodden ground?
Heard ye not how the famed chiefs thronged in from afar,
All arrayed in the fierce-gleaming harness of war?
Lately held on this spot—on your hoof-trodden ground?
Heard ye not how the famed chiefs thronged in from afar,
All arrayed in the fierce-gleaming harness of war?
92
“There on high, and apart, was my canopied seat,
While challenged and challenger bowed at my feet;
There more than one Prince set this proud lance in rest,
And more than one Prince watched my beck and behest.”
While challenged and challenger bowed at my feet;
There more than one Prince set this proud lance in rest,
And more than one Prince watched my beck and behest.”
“Then must thou be the famed Ladye Ermengarde,”
Cried the ancient Knight—“theme of minstrel and bard;
Whose beauty 's enshrined in Provencal love-lay,
Whose smile is a bright spell, of limitless sway!
Cried the ancient Knight—“theme of minstrel and bard;
Whose beauty 's enshrined in Provencal love-lay,
Whose smile is a bright spell, of limitless sway!
“Whose name through the courts of the wide world hath rung,
Through the courts of a world hath been sounded and sung—
Theme of many a roundelay, tale, and romance,
Through all countries, but chief thro' thine own sunny France.
Through the courts of a world hath been sounded and sung—
Theme of many a roundelay, tale, and romance,
Through all countries, but chief thro' thine own sunny France.
93
“Gramercy—bright Maid! that at last I have seen
The world's chosen mistress, and Beauty's crown'd queen—
Gramercy!—and glad is the old Knight to hear
That thy heart is not hung 'twixt a smile and a tear:
The world's chosen mistress, and Beauty's crown'd queen—
Gramercy!—and glad is the old Knight to hear
That thy heart is not hung 'twixt a smile and a tear:
“Though the one be a warm, rosy meteor of light,
Still the other doth haunt it, with chill and with blight—
May thy brow ne'er be darkened, thy cheek ne'er grow pale—
Gramercy, bright Maid! for the sight and the tale.”
Still the other doth haunt it, with chill and with blight—
May thy brow ne'er be darkened, thy cheek ne'er grow pale—
Gramercy, bright Maid! for the sight and the tale.”
“Sir Knight,” straight the courteous young maiden replied,
“I have told not my tale through vain-glory or pride;
But with deference meet, to thine age from my youth,
I have told thee (perchance but too freely) the truth.”
“I have told not my tale through vain-glory or pride;
But with deference meet, to thine age from my youth,
I have told thee (perchance but too freely) the truth.”
94
“May each saint in the calendar bless thee now,
Oh! queen of the rose-cheek and bright sunny brow—
May each saint in the calendar guard thee and keep,
May'st thou ne'er be unqueen'd, by Time's traceries stamp'd deep!
Oh! queen of the rose-cheek and bright sunny brow—
May each saint in the calendar guard thee and keep,
May'st thou ne'er be unqueen'd, by Time's traceries stamp'd deep!
“I was mighty once, who am now a bruised reed;
Farewell crested helmet, and fierce warrior steed—
Farewell to the battle, the tournay and tilt,
No more must my hand grasp the sword's bossy hilt.
Farewell crested helmet, and fierce warrior steed—
Farewell to the battle, the tournay and tilt,
No more must my hand grasp the sword's bossy hilt.
“But behold ye!—the Ladye of Ladyes most bright
Turns not frowning away from the gray ancient Knight;
Though no more in the lists, and no more in the field,
Conquering arms in fair Beauty's behalf can he wield!
Turns not frowning away from the gray ancient Knight;
Though no more in the lists, and no more in the field,
Conquering arms in fair Beauty's behalf can he wield!
95
“Alas! I am a Knight of an ancient age,
No more must I send the blithe little foot-page,
With token and trophy to Ladye's hush'd bower—
With token and trophy, with jewel or flower.”
No more must I send the blithe little foot-page,
With token and trophy to Ladye's hush'd bower—
With token and trophy, with jewel or flower.”
“Now may heaven thee save, thou good knight and true,
Thou hadst thus at my hands but thy right and thy due;
And the crimson of shame should flush deep on my cheek,
Could I spurn thee discourteously—fear not to speak.
Thou hadst thus at my hands but thy right and thy due;
And the crimson of shame should flush deep on my cheek,
Could I spurn thee discourteously—fear not to speak.
“The crown of hoar hairs is a dread, solemn crown,
Before which youthful heads should in homage bow down—
What more may it be thy good pleasure to ask?
To give faithful response, shall be Ermengarde's task.”
Before which youthful heads should in homage bow down—
What more may it be thy good pleasure to ask?
To give faithful response, shall be Ermengarde's task.”
96
“Oh! then tell me, thou gracious and gentle one, tell,
Why dost thou apart in this loneliness dwell;
Dost thou mourn not the chase—nor the falconry's sport,
Nor the pomp and the state of the fair royal court—
Why dost thou apart in this loneliness dwell;
Dost thou mourn not the chase—nor the falconry's sport,
Nor the pomp and the state of the fair royal court—
“Dost thou sigh not for bright scenes of pleasaunce and pride?
Oh! thou that should'st be a young monarch's crowned bride,
Dost thou wish not to be midst the proud and the gay
In thy life's rosy season—its fresh flowery May?
Oh! thou that should'st be a young monarch's crowned bride,
Dost thou wish not to be midst the proud and the gay
In thy life's rosy season—its fresh flowery May?
“Dost thou grieve not, away from the glad festal board,
Where the minstrel's voice chimes with the harp's ringing chord—
Where each Knight in the blood-red wine mantling up high,
Doth pledge his heart's Sovereign, with smile and with sigh?
Where the minstrel's voice chimes with the harp's ringing chord—
Where each Knight in the blood-red wine mantling up high,
Doth pledge his heart's Sovereign, with smile and with sigh?
97
“Hath the saraband's mazes no charms in thy sight—
Can the mummeries quaint, yield thy soul no delight?
Nor the murmur of flatteries, the whispers of love,
Bid thy bosom one tremor of ecstasy prove?
Can the mummeries quaint, yield thy soul no delight?
Nor the murmur of flatteries, the whispers of love,
Bid thy bosom one tremor of ecstasy prove?
“Oh! but surely thou lovest the masque and the mime,
The trump's sounding challenge, the Troubadour's rhyme?”
“Sir Knight,” with a smile, then responded the maid,
“I grieve not for the sun when I rest in the shade;
The trump's sounding challenge, the Troubadour's rhyme?”
“Sir Knight,” with a smile, then responded the maid,
“I grieve not for the sun when I rest in the shade;
“In the festival's glare, in the banquet's glad hour,
I mourn not for the calm of my dim latticed bower;
In the shelter and gloom of that bower's still repose,
I regret not the festival's splendours and shows—
I mourn not for the calm of my dim latticed bower;
In the shelter and gloom of that bower's still repose,
I regret not the festival's splendours and shows—
98
“I hear not now the young Troubadour's tale;
But sweet, oh most sweet! is the nightingale's wail—
No armoured gallant now boasts my behest,
But my follower is Peace, and Contentment my guest!
But sweet, oh most sweet! is the nightingale's wail—
No armoured gallant now boasts my behest,
But my follower is Peace, and Contentment my guest!
“No silver-belled merlin now takes its stand
On the broidered glove that encloseth my hand;
But a thousand wild-birds hurry by to their nests,
With their bright wings of glory and rich starry crests—
On the broidered glove that encloseth my hand;
But a thousand wild-birds hurry by to their nests,
With their bright wings of glory and rich starry crests—
“I have left columned chamber, and bartizann'd tower,
For the hush and the dusk of my rose-trellised, bower;
I might like them in sooth, well enough were I there,
As it is—oh! I find the green woodlands more fair.
For the hush and the dusk of my rose-trellised, bower;
I might like them in sooth, well enough were I there,
As it is—oh! I find the green woodlands more fair.
99
“There are times when I mix with the festal crowd,
And deem not its music of joyaunce too loud;
There are times when the copse and the grey twilight-hill
Seem not to my fancy too lonely—too still.”
And deem not its music of joyaunce too loud;
There are times when the copse and the grey twilight-hill
Seem not to my fancy too lonely—too still.”
“Oh Ladye!” the Knight of an ancient age said,
All courteously bending his silver-hair'd head;
“Oh Ladye! I ween by the peace thou dost prove,
That thou never hast bowed to the wild rule of Love?”
All courteously bending his silver-hair'd head;
“Oh Ladye! I ween by the peace thou dost prove,
That thou never hast bowed to the wild rule of Love?”
“Thou art wrong, thou art wrong—oh! how sorely thou art wrong!
But no parlaunce of that—the words freeze on my tongue:
As the cold, careless Ladye, still let me be known,
Though alas! I have loved (who has not?) one alone!
But no parlaunce of that—the words freeze on my tongue:
As the cold, careless Ladye, still let me be known,
Though alas! I have loved (who has not?) one alone!
100
“But 't is done—it is past—'t is forgotten and o'er;
He thinks not of me, and I love him no more—
'T will be long ere another shall reign in a heart
Where a false tongued traitor had portion and part.
He thinks not of me, and I love him no more—
'T will be long ere another shall reign in a heart
Where a false tongued traitor had portion and part.
“Now farewell, Sir Knight,—from the chase of the deer,
Soon my sire shall return to the banquet's cheer;
But midst hunter and wassailer, chieftain and bard,
He will grieve if he misses his own Ermengarde!”
Soon my sire shall return to the banquet's cheer;
But midst hunter and wassailer, chieftain and bard,
He will grieve if he misses his own Ermengarde!”
| London at Night | |