Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

But tell me—tell me, Britomart,
Who is't that pales that cheek of thine?
And if thou dost not steal his heart,
Maiden! thou may'st smite me through mine.”

282

“Oh! Royal Queen, now pardon me,
If I indeed the truth must tell;
What is my lowly fate to thee
That thou should'st on its sufferings dwell?

Most gracious mistress that thou art,
If such thy dread and queenly will,
Hear then the tale of Britomart,
Yet pardon her and pity still.

The Constable of Chester 'tis
Who win's thy maiden's youthful love,
But she who made his earthly bliss
Now smiles a gentle saint above.

The Lady Blanche, Earl Godfrey's child,
His beauteous lady love was seen—
She died—since then hath he ne'er smiled,
My mighty mistress and my queen.

283

He looks not upon Britomart,
Nor heeds nor marks her changing cheek—
'Tis for another that his heart
Must beat and bleed until it break.

He shuns the banquet and the chase,
The festal-hall, the radiant court—
Empty at council-board his place,
Nor shares he in the joy of sport.

He shuns the masque, and shuns the mime,
And shuns the joust's chivalrous cheer—
The Troubadour's sweet lays and rhyme
Are discord to his heart and ear.

When all are merry in the field,
Or gay and jocund at the board,
Doth he to hopeless anguish yield,
And pine for her—his Soul's adored.

284

For plighted were their noble hands,
United were their faithful hearts—
Grim Death undid Love's dearest bands,
Whose touch alone such love ties parts.

My heart was his, even while he smiled
Enraptured at his fair one's side—
It was a hopeless love, and wild—
But Prudence checked it not—nor Pride.

Oh! very mournful was I then,
And Grief then struck me sharp and sore,
But I would bear that grief again,
To see him blest and glad once more.

I feel—I feel—a thousand fold
More sufferings now must be my share,
I saw him glad and blest of old,
And now I see him in despair!

285

Oh! could I call her from the tomb,
Methinks e'vn I were happy then,
While every shade of grief and gloom
Should melt from his proud mien again.

Erewhile I deemed my misery
Was matchless in its great despair,
But find 'tis harder far to see
His grief—nor this to soothe nor share.

Oh! could I call her from the tomb
Whom once my jealous heart abhorred,
E'en happy then should be my doom,
Viewing thy bliss—my heart's dear lord.”

“What! Maiden, is't that man of woes,
That pale Knight of the rueful brow,
That breaks thy peace and thy repose?
Why 'tis a hapless love, I trow!

286

Who falls in love with that pale youth,
With his fixed look and freezing air,
Must find that gloomy love, in sooth,
Related nigh unto despair!

But—Sweet, take cheer, thou need'st not fear
This gentle rival in the tomb,
Despite his love, he'll faithless prove,
For sake of thy sweet living bloom!

But hence with looks of grief and fear,
Or verily our hopes are lost—
Methinks thou seek'st e'en now to appear
Meet rival to a bloodless ghost!

But this can never be the way
To charm him from his cares at last;
'Tis love and life that must repay
His long dark sorrows of the past!

287

Love, Life, and blooming Beauty's wile,
That only now his griefs can chase—
Then practise the prevailing smile,
And banish sadness from that face!

And so, good lack, 'tis him indeed
That sighing man of many woes—
That makes thy tender heart to bleed,
And bars thy pleasure and repose!

Now, on my word, I marvel much—
No thought of him had crossed my mind—
How came he that soft heart to touch;
It must be of the melting kind!

Methought 'twas young Sir Launcelot,
Or he that Knight with locks of gold,
Sir Malcolm Bruce, the stout young Scot,
Or country Harold, blithe and bold!

288

Or he from the Provençal shore,
He of the lance and of the lyre,
Skilled in the lay and legend's lore,
With Soul all fancy and all fire.

Or he, that wild adventurous Knight,
Whose bark hath sailed o'er many a sea,
Sir Eustace Montmorency hight,
The brave—the gallant—and the free!

I wot, though thou ne'er heaved a sigh
For Montmorency, brave and proud,
There have been dames of lineage high
That have another tale avowed!

Ask dark-eyed Lady Geraldine,
Or fairest Countess Maude—sweet saint,
Who kneels for ever at the shrine,
To cleanse her Soul from Love's dire taint.

289

But—Britomart—pale Britomart,
Of him I thought not—he who sways,
Who reigns, the lord of that soft heart,
That mute knight of the rueful gaze!

Yet, true he hath the blackest hair
That ever waved o'er manhood's brow,
The darker for the paleness there,
Like storm-black shadows spread o'er snow.

And eyes, too, of that deepest blue
That gleams like Syria's sultry sky
When Heaven assumes its heavenliest hue—
The depths of its cerulean dye!

Well, Maiden, courage! trust in me—
To thee I pledge my royal word
Thou yet shalt of a surety be,
The lov'd Bride of thy bosom's lord!”

290

Then to the queen of all the land
Knelt down that maid of fair estate,
She knelt and kissed the whitest hand
Ther e'er bore glorious sceptre's weight.

Days passed—ere many days had sped,
Her wish Queen Berengaria gained;
Well minded she what she had said,
And faithful to her word remained.

The Constable of Chester came
Of matters with the King to treat;
Soon as the fair Queen heard the name,
She, smiling, deigned the knight to greet.

She heeded not, that pained and vexed,
He sought her courtesy to shun,
And looked like one with grief perplexed—
Bewildered—troubled—and undone.

291

Gently she deigned to speak with him,
Who seemed a bankrupt of the heart;
The sport of Fortune's barbarous whim,
The victim of Misfortune's dart!

Gently to him she mildly spoke,
Not oft such voice attention craves,
'Twas softer than the softest stroke
Of silvery oars on silvery waves.

He looked up to the lovely Queen,
Then straight looked sadly down again;
A deeper sadness wrapt his mien,
A darker shade of keener pain.

Once more she spoke—and he looked up
One little moment and no more,
The poisoned dregs of Sorrow's cup
For him were bubbling, brimming o'er.

292

He looked upon the lovely Queen,
Ever to look right soon away,
Though the glory of her regal mien
Was as the pride of opening day!

She bade him to the festival—
Even to the royal feast, that night—
She bade him to the illumined hall—
Though sore he sighed—that wretched knight.

She said with gentlest tone and bland—
“No more must thou a mourner be,
But join the lofty of the land—
The flower of our nobility.

'Tis not the gallant heart that sinks
When struck by Fate's first cruel blow,
The lip of honour dauntless drinks
To dash aside the cup of woe!”

293

Once more he turned and looked on her,
Her whom to look on was to love;
How soon did his warped thoughts recur
To his sweet sainted maid above?

Still at the banquet and the chase
From that day ever was he seen,
The happier still, as his high place
Was nearer to the matchless Queen!

“Now bind your glossy braids I pray,
Fair Britomart, with gems and flowers;
Know ye the tourney's held to-day
Beneath the Palace' royal towers.

A nameless Knight shall come perchance,
With doughty arm of warrior might,
For thy proud charms to break a lance,
And win high honours in thy sight!

294

Nay, blush not with mock-modest air,
Although so dainty 'tis to see,
I gage Sir Alberic will be there,
And nought could bring him there, save thee.”

The trumpets sound loud, loud and long,
The lists are set—the knights are met,
Assembled are the martial throng,
The weapons threat—the coursers fret.

The Queen in glorious state on high
Awaits to give the well won prize,
And in the Heav'n of that blue eye
The Sun of Glory seems to rise.

Begins the proud and gallant strife—
Knights never fought so fierce before,
But little store they set by life,
And redly runs the spouting gore.

295

No marvel, since the prize that day
By sceptered hand was to be given,
And eke the fairest hand they say,
That e'er match'd snow new fall'n from Heav'n.

Ha!—raise up that fall'n knight, behold
His foe no stroke unmeaning deals—
Comes forth that noble victor bold,
Before the Queen the conqueror kneels.

“Well done, Sir Constable! well done—
Good faith—the fight was sharp and sore,
The doughty foe thou'st just o'erthrown,
Was never bowed or bent before!

The fiery Saracenic Wars
Knew not an arm so stout and strong,
Your's must be fair and favouring stars
That saved you from some deadly wrong.”

296

With kind approving smiles so spoke
The beauteous Queen in accents sweet,
But while she speaks, Good speed us! look—
The knight hath fainted at her feet!

They raised, they bore him from the ground,
They sought his wound with anxious care,
They sought on brow and breast his wound,
No wound, no speck, no spot was there.

“Now, damsel! 'twas for love of thee,”
The royal Berengaria cried,
“Sir Alberic sank on tottering knee,
And sighed and swooned our throne beside.

He might not bear his prize to gain
From any other hands than thine;
Didst thou look pitying on his pain—
Why gav'st thou not some gentle sign?

297

So far retired thou sat'st concealed,
Doubtless he marked thee not before,
And when that sweet face blushed revealed,
It pierced him to his bosom's core!

Now, bind your glossy braids so bright,
And deck them too with chaplets rare;
Know ye the revel's held to-night,
Be thou the fairest of the fair!

Lo, damsel, I will lend to thee
My carcanet of Orient gems—
The very pride of jewellery,
'Tis worth an hundred diadems.

My royal Richard's kingly hands
First clasped it round my neck I ween;
Then, cried he, of all Earth's broad lands,
How look'st thou now the rightful Queen!

298

Haste, bring it hither now I pray,
'Tis stored my gems of state among;
Haste, gentle Maude and Ladye May,
Why lingering loiter ye so long?

I guess you're seized with jealous spite,
Because these glittering gems I lend
To this fair damsel for the night,
Speed, speed—we've no spare time to spend!

Straight clasp it on that I may see
If it becomes thee, bravely well—
Why! the Queen of Sumptuous Soldanrie,
Near thee with envious ire might dwell!

And Maiden! for thy private ear—
I guess Sir Alberic's deep dark eye
To thee beyond all others dear,
Hath marked this pride of jewellery.

299

Some few nights past, I mind I wore
The dazzling bauble at the feast,
He gazed upon it o'er and o'er,
Methought his gaze would ne'er have ceas'd.”

The revel hath not yet begun,
And vacant is the columned hall,
Decked ready, many a lovely one
Awaits the summons and the call!

And Britomart—fair Britomart
In dazzling pride of rich array,
Yet with a faint foreboding heart,
Wishes the weary hours away.

Pearls shine upon her glossy hair,
Whose golden lengths, whose burnished braids
Are wreathed in crowning circlets fair—
Rich locks of auburn's brightest shades!

300

Around her snowy polished arms
Gleam bracelets of the emerald stone,
Heightens a rose-tinged robe her charms,
Round which is clasped her thick gemm'd zone.

Upon her stomachere shone fair
Pure brilliants sparkling clear and far,
Traced out in fine devices rare,
Each glittering like a sheeny star.

But Berengaria's queenly boon
All other ornaments outshone;
As sink the stars before the moon,
These sank near that transcendant one!—

It blazed with thousand colours bright,
Blazed with effulgence ever new—
A stream of fire—a sea of light—
Startling the rash beholder's view!

301

The maiden's in her chamber lone,
And troubling thoughts perplex her mind—
What aileth thee, thou gentle one,
Can Fate be now to thee unkind?

She riseth from her carven chair,
And to the chamber window goes;
She gazes forth—Ah! Ladye—there—
All, all, is quiet and repose.

“Now out upon this sick suspense,”
With weak and wailing tone she cries,
“My tortured Soul but drains from thence
A draught of fiery agonies.

Now let me seek St. Agnes' shrine,
These pangs are more than I can bear,
In sore anxiety I pine,
And almost crave mine old despair.

302

Methought yestre'en he looked on me,
This morn I know he looked away—
I madden with this misery,
For peace and pardon let me pray!”

Then forth she fared—with noiseless foot
She tracked the palace' corridors;
The echoes round were hushed and mute,
Her foot swept light the unsounding floors.

And as in all her rich array
She passed the casement's broad carved frame,
Ever the moonbeam's silvery play
Seemed turning into sudden flame.

From darkness, when she came forth where
The windows lit the passage-wall,
A rain of coloured glory rare
Seemed ever round her form to fall.

303

Still as she passed those windows high,
Bright in her gem emblazed attire,
The stars seemed shooting from the sky,
Showered round her form in showers of fire,

In showers of rainbowed fire and flame,
With every tint triumphal crowned,
When forth from gloom to light she came,
Girt by a galaxy around.

Now to the right the Ladye turned
Where deeper, thicker shadows lay,
But still the royal jewels burned,
Catching the faint light's faintest ray.

'Twas like a chain of magic gems,
That sumptuous carcanet, I ween,
Troth!—worth an hundred diadems,
As said that fair and glorious Queen.

304

Now turned the Ladye to the right,
To cross a spacious gallery fair—
Moved not a dim-traced form in sight,
A shadow 'mongst the shadows there.

The Ladye turned her head aside,
The Ladye bent her steps askant—
It was not fear—it was not pride—
Did not her heart with anguish pant?

The Ladye turned her head aside
To avoid the intruding stranger near;
'Twas not caprice, and 'twas not pride—
'Twas pain, not pride—faint grief, not fear.

The Chapel's portal still she nears,
And sweet St. Agnes' shrine of grace;
A sound of hurrying steps she hears,
And quickens more and more her pace.

305

She quickens more her pace—but lo!
Sudden her hand is seized and pressed;
A kiss hath burnt on its soft snow,
'Tis strained unto a throbbing breast!

She starts—she turns in terror there,
The impetuous stranger's gaze to meet,
Of murmured vows of love aware—
'Tis Alberic kneeling at her feet!

Ha! in his turn he starts—he shrinks—
He drops that passive trembling hand;
Some mystery must be there, methinks,
More than they well can understand.

'Tis his turn now to shrink—to start—
When looks the affrighted lady round;
Faintly he whispers “Britomart!”—
Like one whom wildering doubts confound!

306

Then from the ground uprising slow,
With brow confused and trembling frame,
He mutters something hoarse and low—
She can but catch the Queen's high name!

Enough!—that one faint word aside
Unravelled all that strange wild scene,
The royal carcanet's gemmed pride
Made him mistake her for the Queen!

Enough! she needs indeed no more,
The truth is clear as noon-day's air;
All Hope—all dreams of Hope are o'er,
Her life is waste—her heart despair!

She totters back against the wall,
Her film'd sight fails—her vexed brain swims;
She leans back there—else must she fall,
Such fainting tremours melt her limbs.

307

She nothing asks—she nothing says—
At once the whole dark truth she knows—
A horrid certainty dismays
That chilled heart—bleeding fresh with woes.

With faultering accents, faint and weak,
At length Sir Alberic murmuring said,
“Silence is vain—'tis vain to speak—
All my Soul's madness is betrayed.

Oh! gentle, gentle Britomart,
In Queenly Berangaria's train
I deem thou hast the tenderest heart
Ever to pity other's pain.

Now tell me—tell me, Britomart,
What must that wretch, that poor wretch do
Whose hapless, hopeless, helpless heart
With vainest passion is pierced through.

308

I loved one far—Oh! far removed
From my fond vow—and from my tear;
But she I thus all hopeless loved
Now seems almost too near, too near.

How e'er I strive my heart to steel—
I feel her power—nor can forget—
Her sweet reproachful presence feel,
And feel, Alas! but to regret.

Oh! farther—farther from my sphere
Is the idol that I worship now;
The sun shall melt in noonday clear,
Ere she receive my passion's vow.

Yet wherefore did she evermore
Seek my rapt bosom to beguile—
A heart of stone had learned to adore
Beneath that more than mortal smile.

309

Oh! wherefore, wherefore did she still
Lead on this maddened heart to break;
Was it indeed her heartless will
That I should perish for her sake?

Oh! Britomart—thyself thou'st seen
How me she singled forth from all,
For ever bidden by the queen
To be her guest in bower and hall.

Still showered she endless courtesies
Upon my most unworthy head,
Regarding me with favouring eyes;
Would—would she had ever frowned instead!

A high, and true, and fervent heart,
Should this be tampered with in sport?
Oh! 'twas a harsh and cruel part—
But may my martyrdom be short.

310

Most gentle, gentle Britomart!—
In royal Berengaria's train,
I deem thou hast the readiest heart
Ever to pity others' pain!

Bethink thee of the deadly woes
That must crush down this heart to dust,
Without a limit, or a close,
A consolation, or a trust!

Bethink thee how Death's bitterness
Must be my wretched portion here,
Loving with wildest love's excess
One raised so high above my sphere!

Ev'n if she loves me—if her heart
Indeed be touched—how dark my lot
Ev'n if she loves”—sighed Britomart,
With faltering voice, “She loves thee not!”

311

“She loves me not?—yet speak again,
Confirm me in my worst despair,
So steep in grief my heart and brain,
That Love itself may languish there.

Oh! let the force of Fate's dire blow
So stun my sense and feeling yet,
That while I bear the desperate woe,
I may the cruel cause forget.

I would not curse thee, matchless dame,
Though my life's path with thorns thou'st sown;
Thy weal, thine honour, and thy fame,
To me are dearer than mine own!

I would not, could not, ev'n upbraid,
Though thou hast plunged my soul in death;
To thee I still—till life must fade—
Devote mine every thought and breath.

312

She loves me not—Oh! Britomart,
Why—why then did she flattering still
Lay siege unto a trusting heart,
Whose every pulse owned feeling's thrill?

Why, why did she then seek to charm,
By flattering, fascinating arts,
The heart, that crushed by mortal harm,
Then smarted even as now it smarts?

Why to bewitch and to beguile,
Still beckoned she with courteous grace,
With winning look and wildering smile,
For me to attend her in her place?

When through the festal hall she moved,
Or when she graced the banquet's board,
By all tongues praised—by all hearts loved,
But by one guilty wretch adored.

313

Why did she ever me require
To play the courtier day by day?
Oft vainly sought I to retire,
Lady! thou knowest 'tis as I say!

Ah! wherefore, wherefore—but no more,
I must not and I dare not blame
That being I too much adore,
The Peerless and the Princely dame!

But Britomart, sweet Britomart,
Tell me what must that poor wretch do,
Whose hapless, hopeless, helpless heart,
With such a passion is pierced through?”

Hollow and broken—low and deep,
Came forth the sad and slow reply,
That made the startled flesh to creep,
Scarce breathed in mortal accents—“Die!”

314

Long, long and dreary was the pause,
Each on the thought of misery dwells,
Each but the breath of torture draws,
And either heart with anguish swells.

At length that gentle lady spoke,
And checked Sir Alberic's trance of woe;
The stern and frozen silence broke—
With steadfast voice—smooth, soft, and low

“Nay! pardon me such counsel wild—
Pardon my rash, rash lip, I pray,
Of impulse still the untutored child,
I weigh not well those words I say.

When in extremity and need,
Some sufferer seeks advice and aid,
Woe worth the hand that gives a reed,
On which his steps but ill are stayed?

315

A staff of strength the hand should give,
From which the mourner seeks for aid,—
My voice shall say unto thee—Live!
Endure—endure—nor sink afraid!

But doff thy lofty garb and proud,
And yield thy lands—a mighty boon—
To Heaven's all-blessed service vowed,
And don the pilgrim's sandal shoon.

Go forth—with staff, and belt, and scrip,—
Go forth unto the Holy Land,
To prayer unceasing vow thy lip,
And bow thee unto Heaven's command!

Haste! for a better world and life—
This utterly and all forsake;
Forswear its pomps—forget its strife!”
In tones inspired the ladye spake.

316

“Go forth upon the coming day,
Lowly and meek, and patient be;—
Go forth upon thy blessed way,
And all good angels go with thee.

Ev'n for the Holy Land depart,
With humbled mind and chastened will;
May pity bind thy breaking heart,
And our sweet ladye bless the still!”

She ceased—that voice so dulcet, died
Whose gentle echoes soft away;
The knight for all rejoinder sighed,
As though his soul would fleet away.

Then ceased her voice' mellifluous flow,
Sweeter than sounds of music's art;
Sir Alberic heaved a sigh of woe,
As though his very soul would part!

317

At length he said, in solemn tone—
“Thanks, ladye—ever thought I thee
The gentlest, tenderest, kindest one,
'Mongst all that best and gentlest be.

Thanks for thy counsel—be it so,
A grievous fault weighs down my soul;
Not from such courtesy should flow
Wild love, no reason can controul!

High-souled devotion—loyal zeal—
From taint of selfish passion free;
Chivalrous feelings, true and leal,
Should spring from that sweet courtesy!

Noblest ambition—generous pride,
And all clear thoughts that loftiest be,
Of stainless worth, approved and tried,
Should grow from that great courtesy!

318

And I—base wretch—weak, guilty fool,
To poison—that pure fountain turned,—
Spurned honour's hest—scorned reason's rule,
And with Love's mortal madness burned.

How dared these impious lips complain
Of her—the august—the sovereign fair,
Because my wild and whirling brain
Turned her rare goodness to despair.

Sweet Britomart—forget—forget
The words thou hast heard me breathe to-night,
When thousand agonies beset,
The mind is warped, and filmed the sight.

Blessings be showered on her bright head,
Fair peace accompany her state,
Good angels o'er her pathway shed
The triumphs of a cloudless fate.

319

I am content to bear this woe,
Content in penitence to die,
That have disgraced my knighthood so,
Dishonouring that dear courtesy!

Thanks, ladye, for thy counsels sweet,
Deny me not to touch that hand,—
Thus kneeling lowly at thy feet,
Though branded with ill conscience' brand.

Deny me not that hand to touch,
In token of my thankfulness,
My parching tongue might scarce avouch
The gratitude 'twould fain express!”

Then death-cold lip touched death-cold hand,
There frozen, freezing kiss impressed—
So ice-barred wave on snow-piled strand
Might cheerlessly and chilling rest.

320

Then death-white hand by death-white lip
Was touched with lifeless touch and light;
So in the wake of some swift ship,
Meet wreaths of foam as wan and white.

Then from his knee the knight upsprang,
And cried aloud with altered tone,
Clear as a sudden trumpet's clang,
For some glad service proudly blown.

“Away—away—my soul must bow,
My heart peacemeal by inches die,—
But one more night of madness now,
And Love's wild rapture-agony!

One, one more fair and festal night,
Ere yet in dust of death I droop,—
Of dear despair—and dark delight,
And fatal bliss and phrenzied hope!

321

One, one more night—Oh! Love, to thee,
And stern delights of thy despair,
The rapture of thine agony!
Then years to bend—a life to bear!”

Then turning from the Ladye there,
He passed with hurried rapid strides
The vaulted gallery broad and fair,
Then 'mongst the enfolding shadows glides.

The Ladye there—that Lady fair,
Awaited then some moments still,—
With heart-drawn sigh and vacant eye,
She seemed oppressed by mortal ill.

“Aye—one more night—one, one more night,
She muttered through her half closed lips,
Of dear despair and dark delight,
Then for the wreck—and the eclipse.”

322

At last she moved with tottering gait
And laboured steps—unequal pace,
She that so stately moved of late,
With such a high and measured grace.

She passed the long, long corridors,
Now hid—now glimpsing in the moon,
Opened and closed the impeding doors,
And gained her own still chamber soon.

Down sank she on the carven chair,
Her cold hands clasping hard her knee,
A thing as death-like, and as fair
As human eye could ever see.

She looked not to the left or right,
Straight forward stared her wide wild eye,
A horrid and a lovely sight
As mortal gaze could e'er descry.

323

Her form arrayed with pomp and grace,
She dazzles like some feverish dream,
While stamped upon her pallid face
Despair and death and anguish seem.

Surely she ne'er will move again,
The blood must in those veins stand still;
All petrified with deadly pain,
Marble not calmer nor more chill.

Swift steps came hurrying to the door—
'Twas opened by a hurrying hand—
'Twas blue-eyed Lady May, who wore
The garments gay of mirth's light band!

“Why, Britomart, what dost thou here?
Hath slumber on thy senses seized;
The Queen commands thee to appear,
Her Royal Grace is sore displeased.

324

I wot 'tis chiefly for your sake
The revelry and mirth to-night—
Yet deign ye not to keep awake
Forsooth to share the glad delight.

The dance and music will have sped,
I ne'er beheld such stately cheer,
'Tis a fresh measure now they tread,
And thou'rt thus lingering loitering here.

And I to thee a sore grudge owe,
Thus by her Highness' fair command
Despatched to bring thee forth—I trow
Through this I'll lose the saraband?”

Low muttered faltering in reply,
That miserable Maiden lorn,
“Mirth, music, dancing, revelry!
What mean ye? hence with your foul scorn.

325

“Foul scorn!” now let me pay thee back
Thy proud contempt and rank disdain;
A messenger thou long shall lack
Ere I will play that part again.

Foul scorn—I deem foul scorn there is,
But not on me may rest the blame,
Her Royal Grace shall know of this!
Foul scorn!—aye, troth, and burning shame.

Thus wrath and frowning, Ladye May
Turned her in anger to the door,
But breathless met her in her way,
The panting Lady Leonore!

“Come, Britomart—I scarce can speak
So raced I up the steepy stair—
What means this foolish untoward freak,
The dance half done—and thou not there!

326

Lo! here comes Mistress Rose, beside,
On the same errand, I'll be sworn,
Not often doth her Highness chide;
But such strange freaks may not be borne.”

“I come—I come,” said Britomart;
“Pardon me, gentle Lady May—
I blush now for my thoughtless part,
Strange, strange! that I should thus delay!”

And she did blush—her clear smooth cheek
Erewhile, like sculptured marble's snow,
Burned with one dazzling scarlet streak,
A startling and surpassing glow.

Aye she did blush! that scarlet streak
Gave light unnatural to her eye,
And flushed along her pearly cheek—
A brilliant and a burning dye!

327

'Twas like a flame in some fair vase
Of purest, most transparent grain,
That rich streak on that pallid face—
A blazing and a blending stain.

At once she rose—she led the way,
Close followed by the smiling band,
Glittering in all her rich array—
The loveliest Ladye of the land!

The loveliest Ladye of the land!—
The stateliest and most bright save one;
In blue-eyed Beauty fair and bland,
The Mistress of that Land's proud Throne!

Fair Britomart she led the way;
They hurried, hurried, to the Hall—
How, where the spectral moonbeams play,
Their shadows sweep along the wall!

328

Sweet May and Lady Leonore,
And fairest Mistress Rose, I ween;
While Britomart still walked before,
Impatient for the enchanted Scene!

Impatient for the Scene she seemed,
So hurryingly she led them on,
While, with a precious splendour streamed
Round her the light of rainbowed stone!

The light of rainbowed stone—and gleam
Of burning gold, all chased and wrought,
Which well the Beauty did beseem,—
From whence their fairest light seemed caught!—

She led them on with step so fleet,
They scarcely might with her keep pace—
Hastening, with many-twinkling feet,
On shining Pleasure's lightsome chase.

329

She led them on so fleet and fast,
Scarcely might they keep pace with her;
Casement, and door, and arch, they passed,
With busy sound and merry stir.

She led them on with step so fleet,
So stately and so calm withal,
As though she moved on wings—not feet,
Swifter, but stiller too than all.

With murmuring laugh and whispered word,
Breathless they follow on her track;
Now for a space more swiftly skirred,
And now perforce their pace they slack.

The sound of music soon they hear—
A joyous and inspiring sound—
It softly trembled to the ear,
And in the Heart its echo found.

330

When first that sweet sound struck the sense
Of her who went the rest before,
How glowing with a depth intense,
That bright blush reddened more and more!

With hues unnatural burned her cheek,
With light unnatural blazed her eye;
Of strange unrest within they speak,
And dazed like meteors flashing by!

Now to the last door draw they near,
Which shuts them from the joyous scene,
She shrinks an instant, as in fear,
One moment there doth faultering lean.

Then with strong effort—so it seemed,
The massive door flung open wide;
At once the flood of music streamed
Upon them in a swelling tide.

331

Of revelry they catch the sound,
But not as yet the inspiring sight,
They yet must move a few steps round,
Yet a few steps unto the right.

But their fair leader trembling stood
Awhile—bewildered and distressed;
Her comrades in impatient mood,
Towards the glad scene impetuous pressed.

“On, on!” her gay companions cried,
She started—shuddered—smote her breast—
With one strong gasp convulsive sighed,
Then hurried forward with the rest.

They entered that enchanted hall,
'Tis one broad blaze of glowing light—
One scene of startling splendour all,
'Tis Fairy-land disclosed to sight.

332

At the upper end, supremely fair,
The Queen attracts each raptured eye,
All beauteous and all matchless there,
In the excellence of Majesty.

The diadem that girds her brow
Fades near her lustrous eyes' blue light,
Yet sparkles on its stainless snow,
With beams intolerably bright.

Roses must vail their orient heads,
The glory of her blush before,
That rich blood-royal blush, which spreads
Her cheek's transparent smoothness o'er.

Aye! the proud royal blood might seem
With kingly kindlings—rich and rare,
With more than Morning's purple beam
To inform her cheek, so clear and fair!

333

As through her veins ran sunshine still—
Those regal kindlings brightly spread,
Like sun-hues on some crested hill,
Crowned with a rich and rosy red.

The fair-haired Berengaria there,
Attracts all charmed admiring eyes;
Amongst the fair supremely fair—
Her form all rivalry defies!

And one there is that lingereth near,
Who looks on her—with charms so rife,
As though his soul were fastened here—
As though that look alone were life;

She spoke to him—to others spoke,
Alike with gentlest courtesy,
Unchanged he kept that calm fix'd look,
As Life and Soul were in his eye.

334

The Queen marked not that earnest gaze,
Around with unembarrassed air
Her soft blue eye delighted strays;
For Fairy-land seems opening there.

Proud knights and dames in rich array
Meet every where the gladdened eye,
Pearls glimmering shine, and white plumes play,
And gold and gems flame sparklingly!

Banners, and wreaths, and gilded lamps
Are clustered in profusion fair;
The proud delight no languor damps,
No shade of Gloom—no touch of Care.

The Queen marks not that deep, deep gaze,
And well for him in gazing lost,
That Royal Richard elsewhere plays
His guests among the part of host!

335

Else haply—stunned with sore amaze—
Called to account the knight had been,
For this long, long impassioned gaze,
On Cœur-de-Lion's matchless Queen!

Else haply—with indignant ire—
Sir Alberic had admonished been,
For fixing thus a gaze of fire
On Cœur-de-Lion's beauteous Queen!

Now to the royal presence came
That little troop—that fairest maid—
No faltering fear—no shrinking shame
Her calm still countenance betrayed.

“Your Royal Grace is angered sore”—
Softly began the offending one.
Her voice was music—yet before
Ne'er poured it forth so sweet a tone.

336

Sharply when first she caught the sound,
Albeit so very soft and sweet,
The Queen half frowning turned her round
The loitering maiden's gaze to meet.

But soon that frown so faint and light
Melted into the loveliest smile,
When burst on her approving sight
The maid, who moveless stood the while.

“What so! thou honourest thus at last
Our royal revel's sorry show—
Gramercy! though 'tis well nigh past
Its prime and pride of cheer I trow!

But I forgive thee, since thou'st come
As I could wish, in pomp of charms;
Thy cheek ne'er yet wore such a bloom,
Thou'rt mailed in Beauty's proudest arms.

337

My carcanet must sure possess
Some wond'rous spell—unreck'd before,
Like that fair Cestus wont to press
Sweet Cytherea's form of yore.

I would not have my Lion King,
Conqueror of many a famous field,
Look on thee now—thou fairest thing,
Lest Cœur-de-Lion's self might yield!

But for Sir Alberic, hapless wight,
The Saints have mercy on his Soul!
His heart will ashes be to-night,
His Love-struck mind a withered scroll.”

“Your Highness is well pleased to-night
To banter your poor maiden thus,”
Said Britomart, whose cheek so bright
Belied her voice so tremulous.

338

“To banter? faith—good damsel, no,
In sober seriousness I speak;
Ask Countess Maude if 'tis not so,
'Twill raise the crimson on her cheek.

Long in your tiring-room you sought
To adorn your form with skill and care,
And 'tis a miracle you've wrought—
Ne'er mortal yet looked half so fair!

Now must you dance—no words—you must,
Ourself will choose your cavalier:
Sir Alberic—to your care we trust
This our own favoured damsel dear.”

They mingle in the moving maze,
Through the gay circles gliding swim—
Still on the Queen is fixed his gaze,
While her's is faintlier fixed on him.

339

They tread the graceful saraband—
Together tread it—fleet and light—
Her hand is touched by his cold hand,
But she may not enchain his sight.

They tread the graceful saraband,
Strange show of mirth in mid-despair—
Heart breaks for heart—hand thrills to hand,
But wildest discord's strife is there.

The hand that thrills should pulseless meet
That hand by which 'tis faintly held—
Those hearts that break, should wiselier beat,
Their fevers quenched—their madness quelled.

Lightly they tread the measure's maze,
Fair youth hath strung each pliant limb,
Full on the Queen is fixed his gaze,
But hers—is faintlier fixed on him!

340

Oh! Love—what is thy power—thy might?
Thou stem'st each shock of adverse Fate
Thou grow'st beneath the frost—the blight
Thou spring'st beneath a mountain's weight!

How can they love, whose hopeless doom
Success and joy and peace—denies—
Who in their ruined hearts entomb
That worm of grief that never dies.

How can they love?—Oh! only they
Know boundless love in its excess
Who pouring all their Souls away
Love on in utter hopelessness.

They only know Love's rich extremes,
Who, free from selfish Hope's alloy,
Coin all their Soul to costly dreams,
And worship him—apart from joy.

341

They serve not joy—they serve not hope—
They serve not worldly vanity—
But only bend, and only stoop,
Unmerged, unmingled Love! to thee.

No prospect fair distracts their view,
They nothing know nor see but thee;
Thou art to these the vainly true,
The world and its immensity!

Not to the future may they turn,
Their dream createth its own time—
No change of Latitudes they learn,
Their Soul dwells in its own fixed clime.

A proud and prosperous passion soon
Forgets its high and heavenly birth,
It changeth like the uncertain Moon,
Hung 'twixt the eternal Sun and Earth!

342

The hopeless Lover changeth not,
Years may he speed o'er wave and hill—
'Tis the same time—and the same spot,
In fixedness how faithful still!

His Love stands like the unvarying Sun
Unlamped—unlighted from without,
Continuing as it first begun,
Scattering its own rich beams about.

Unvarying—and unwearying so,
It standeth evermore the same,
It shines with self-enkindled glow,
Burns with a self-ignited flame!

Heap on Earth's surface, huge and high,
A forest-pile of fuel strong,
And then the blazing torch apply—
'Twill wildly, fiercely, flame and long!

343

Heap, heap the pile—thus huge and high—
That forest-mass—the mountain-pile—
Till roars the flame against the sky,
Blinding the dazzled Earth the while.

The assisting currents of the air
Shall fan the fiercely fluttering flames,
Up to the Firmaments they flare,
Aspiring with insatiate aims!

The driving winds increase them still,
And ample ground and space are given!
Around each far-reflecting hill
Swells in a cloud of fire to Heaven.

But, lo! they waste themselves at last!
And waste their fuel's proud supply—
Their hour of triumph's rage is past,
They waver, languish, sink, and die!

344

So, in the realms of the far West,
The crackling forests feed the fire;
Earth pants with parched and scorching breast,
While roll the blazing billows higher.

How can that sea of flame subside?
What can its towering surge controul,
Till the round world shall be destroyed,
And one black wreck of Ruin roll!

Some change of wind shall quickly mar
The all-mastering terror which it made,
Driving the uproarious flames afar—
Tho' fierce—tho' strong—yet doomed to fade!

Back on their path—the bleak and bare—
The spiring columns swiftly shrink;
No fuel fresh shall they find there—
No aliment—while fast they sink!

345

Or on their dread and daring way
They meet some waste and sterile plot,
And feebly flutter, faintly play,
Until they perish—and are not!

Then, where the exulting fires uprose,
Even to the thresholds of the sky,
No light, no warmth, there cheering glows,
They leave grim trophies where they die!

Nothing but black and mouldering brands,
Ashes and cinders, strew Earth's floor,
And the round World, uninjured, stands
On its foundations as before!

Mark, where in the Earth's own deepest heart
Volcanic heats are gendered still,
That seldom to the surface start—
Long slumbering—as with patient will.

346

Where in the Earth's entrails, lone and deep,
Volcanic heats are smouldering still,
Save when they startle from their sleep,
And rear, and rend the cratered hill!

There lives and lasts, for age on age,
The fiery element sublime,
Hiding its hot and haughty rage
For centuries of wide-circling Time.

It doth not perish nor decline—
Shrouded in silence and in gloom—
The treasure of a burning mine—
The slumberer of a smouldering tomb!

It doth not perish nor decay—
Unseen—unreck'd—and unknown,
It doth not waste its strength away—
Its shadowy realm is all its own.

347

It lasts, it lives, nor doth decline,
Sealed up in silence and in gloom;
The mammon of a burning mine,
The tenant of a smouldering tomb!

Soon shall sink low the Funeral pyre—
The outshining Beacon's blaze shall fail—
Pale—faint—shall fade the Victory-fire—
The Forest's conflagrations—pale.

But in the depths of silent Earth
The fountains of the eternal flame
Shall play as at their secret birth,
Nor swiftly wane, nor languish tame!

So Love's pent, prisoned flames shall glow,
Shrouded from air and hid from day—
The surface of the Soul below—
So shall its burning fountains play!

348

E'en so shall play its burning founts—
So shall its deathless fire remain,
Which seldom to the surface mounts—
Or if it doth, soon shrinks again!

Not so the love, that, free and light,
By some chance spark called forth, appears,
Not nursed in silence and in night—
Through long, and dark, and troubled years.

But fanned at once into a blaze
By favouring winds and fluttering airs,
Scattered and spread a hundred ways—
Quickened by smiles, vows, sighs, and prayers.

Awhile a shining front it rears,
And triumphs on its glowing way—
No check, no obstacle appears—
How should it alter or decay?

349

But if for some brief space, perchance,
Unfanned, unfuelled, 'tis left free,
When once it ceaseth to advance,
How soon it ceaseth too to be!

Unfanned, unfuelled, and unfed—
How soon its meteor-spires drop low;
Its spires—faint dying sparks instead,
Soon shrink—soon these forget to glow!

Or by some varying breath of air,
Some changing current on its track,
'Tis checked and hindered, thwarted, there,
And driven along its own course back!

What finds it there to feed its flame?
Ah! the fair growths of summer's hour,
These blush, and flourish not the same;
They've felt its touch, and known its power!

350

All perishable things and fair,
Not made to endure, not formed to last,
They are vanished—they are no longer there—
It caught and scathed them as it passed!

Where spread the bowers, all fresh and green,
To lend a rich luxuriant shade,
'Tis all a waste and sterile scene—
A ruin and a desert made!

The bloom of Eden—flowers and trees—
These things are vanished and no more;
How sweetly to the sun and breeze
They laughed in pleasure's pride before!

Elysian thoughts! the enchanting dreams!—
With all their bright and blushing train,
These fade, while brief their triumph seems,
And Love shall find them not again.

351

Retracing his own former way,
What finds he there—what wealth in store?
But scattered ashes—dust and clay!—
Ashes and dust!—no more! no more!

The fairy gifts are fled away,
Withered the flowery wreaths of bloom—
Consumed the vernal trophies gay,
And darkness frowns around, and doom.

Such Love, retracking its own course,
Shall miss its transient treasures there,
And lose its power, and lose its force,
Finding its pathway bleak and bare.

'Tis hopeless Love that ever lives
Concealed within the heart's deep core;
Time but to this fresh vigour gives—
'Tis ever deepening more and more.

352

(Oh! Love, what miseries dost thou bring,
Thyself Earth's heavenliest happiness,
Whence dost thou steal that venomed sting,
And whence that scourge of stern distress?)

Deep, deep within the bosom's cell,
Concealed, and buried, and unknown,
That Love doth never changing dwell,
In gloomy triumph, lost and lone!

Aye! like volcanic fires, veiled there,
Dost thou unquenchably remain,
And still the same deep fervours share,
The same unmastered strength retain.

And if disclosed for some brief space,
In all the mystery of thy might,
What doth the eye recoiling trace!—
What burning secrets shock the sight!—

353

One black and boiling gulph of gloom
Appears the scorched and blasted breast—
Passion's fierce cradle and its tomb,
Where Peace may never be a guest!

Some burst of anguish chance reveals—
Those ghastly mysteries of its pain—
One dread convulsion's shock unseals,
Another shrouds it up again!

But still it burns—for ever burns,
Unchanged, unchangeably the same,
Nor wane, nor diminution learns—
The enshrouded, but eternal Flame!

It burns—nor knoweth to decline,
In caverned and sepulchral gloom,
The treasure of a kindled mine,
The slumberer of a smouldering tomb.

354

No blazing suns, no favouring airs,
Encourage or increase its strength,
But it shall last till Ruin tears
Its temple from its base at length!

Return we to the illumined hall,
And to that doomed and matchless pair,
Fairest and stateliest there of all—
Most wretched and most hopeless there!

Sir Alberic and fair Britomart,
Who moved with proud and peerless grace—
Despair and death in either heart,
But calmness in each cloudless face!

They moved 'midst plaudits still and praise,
Fair features scowled with Envy grim!—
But on the Queen was fixed his gaze,
And Britomart's was fixed on him!

355

They finished then the lengthened dance,
For them, save one spot, all is dim;
Still to the Queen is turned his glance,
Still Britomart's is turned to him!

To royal Berengaria then,
Beckoned by her own snowy hand,
They back retrace their steps again,
And by their Sovereign Ladye stand!

They stand before great England's Queen—
As proud and beautiful a pair
As e'er admiring eye hath seen,
Where knights are proud—and dames are fair!

She stands there, almost hid in light
Of starry beauty, strangely fair,
That darts and deepens on the sight,
Till none can steadfastly gaze there.

356

Her eyes with kindling lustres stream,
Like splendours of a thousand stars!
When all with separate glories gleam,
And not one cloud their triumph mars.

The smooth transparence of her cheek
With one rich hue consummate glows—
That glorious, gorgeous, scarlet streak,
Which shames the heart-blush of the rose!

Meandering o'er her forehead fine,
The purple veins play smoothly laced,
In many a branching serpentine,
Too deeply, too distinctly traced.

Yes—yes! too prominent and clear,
Those veins in their blue beauty lie,
Too swoln and throbbing these appear,
For gladness or tranquillity.

357

Poor maiden! never yet hast thou
Looked half so glorious or so fair,
So brilliant or so bright as now,
'Tis fever—madness—anguish—there!

'Tis that which lights thy restless eye
With flames and lustres yet unknown,
And gives thy cheek its dazzling dye,
To shame the orient rose full blown!

'Tis that thy burning cheek that stains
Vermillion, of the brightest hues,
And swells and fires those purple veins,
Which lightning-streams seem racing through!

T'is that which lifts thy lovely form,
To more than maiden dignity,
So the wild Spirit of the Storm
Seems to dilate the o'er-troubled sky!

358

They stood before great England's Queen,
The stateliest 'midst that concourse fair,
And never eye beheld, I ween,
A prouder or a princelier pair!

Both were of far-famed lineage high,
And kingly blood flowed in their veins,
Of proud and princely ancestry,
Whose stamp their aspect still retains.

And he in manhood's prime of pride,
Was cast in Nature's noblest mould,
In England's lordly realms and wide
No finer frame could eye behold.

Though marble-pale his perfect face
Those dark blue eyes no brilliance lack;
His brow spreads arched with loftiest grace,
Where waves rich hair of death-deep black!

359

They stood before great England's Queen,
Herself the fairest of the fair,
And vision could not rest, I ween,
Upon a loftier lovelier pair!

“Well danced!—well done!—from first to last,
Chevalier preux, and damosel—
To-night ye have yourselves surpassed,
Your parts ye have performed right well.

Methinks the mazes of the dance
More cunningly no steps might thread,
Eftsoons ye may resume perchance—
And yet a livelier measure tread.

Thou art not wearied, Britomart,
Thy cheek but wears a richer bloom—
Now would I speak with thee apart,
If thou canst leave thy gallant groom.”

360

These last few words here whispered low
In the stung ear of the anguished maid;
Soft were they whispered—soft and slow—
She starts—she trembles—sore dismayed.

“Nay, maiden! never look aghast,
Because thy dearest prayers are heard,
Because thy hopes are crowned at last—
Come, come! with you we claim one word.

Unto the King this very night,
Myself will speak—without delay—
He'll hail the tidings with delight!
And he shall fix the auspicious day!

Thou knowest thy noble parents said,
When thou didst join our household train,
That whom we willed that thou shouldst wed,
The same their free consent should gain.

361

The bridal cheer—the bridal feast
Full quickly now shall we command;
Our own Confessor—worthy Priest—
Shall give Sir Alberic this fair hand.

But why!—what ails thee, maiden, now?
The colours fast thy cheek forsake,
'Tis whiter than thy very brow—
What makes thee start, and shrink, and shake?

With what strange fancies art possessed?
What vain caprice now rules thy mind?
They're right who swear that woman's breast
Is fickle as the inconstant wind.

I see!—I see—some other love
Now dwells enthroned within your heart,
Think not that I shall deign reprove—
Your conscience points the unworthy part!

362

Your weal still occupied my thought,
I ever stood your firmest friend—
By day and night untired I sought
To atchieve the one most wished for end—

And now when not a doubt remains,
When all this Youth's devotion see,
I find as guerdon for my pains
Thy false and foul inconstancy.”

Thus the fair Queen with kindling eyes,
Sparkling with indignation's fire!—
Her hasty wrath is prompt to arise,
And evermore as prompt to expire!

From Childhood, courted and obeyed,
Circled by troops of flatterers still,
She seldom checked and seldom stayed
The promptings of her headstrong will.

363

“Well, Damsel—well!—we leave thee now
Without reproach—without reproof;
Bethink thee well ere thou avow
Such wavering moods beneath our roof.”

She turned away with wrathful mien,
With scorn and anger to depart—
While flashed her eyes with fire—“My Queen!
Dread Queen!”—said hapless Britomart.

“My Queen!” said hapless Britomart,
“My wretched fate is fixed and sealed,
And every dream of his high heart
Is to my tortured sight revealed!

Grief was a cold uneasy Love,
Morose and jealous and severe—
Even Constancy might well remove
From her stern worship—dull and drear.

364

The gentle sleeper in the tomb,
So loved, so worshipped—he forgot,
Won by the charms of living bloom,
But mine those conquering charms were not!

Faithless he proved unto the Dead,
And faithless now must ever prove;
For Memory-light is faintly shed
Where burns the fire of living love!

But not for me—Oh! not for me,
Another warmed his raptured heart!—
He loves—with wildest fervency—
But, Oh! he loves not Britomart!”

The Queen looked on that maiden pale
With grieved, surprised, and wildered look,
And while she listened to the tale,
Her wrath a new direction took!

365

The Queen looked on that maiden pale,
Whose cheek, each glowing tint forsook;
And while she listened to the tale,
Her ire a fresh direction took!

“Now! by the Holy Rood!” she cried,
“We scarce may credit what thou 'st said—
Is he not ever at thy side,
Like one that wooes and fain would wed?

Doth he not ever shun the crowd,
And mingle in our royal train?
The which we alway have allowed,
Because we hoped he wore thy chain.

Because we hoped and well believed
He wore thy chain and owned thy charm.
Maiden, 'tis thou must be deceived,
'Tis sure some jealous fond alarm.

366

Thee, thee, we meant that he should love,
How dares he love another then?
Where hath he found this turtle dove,
Where hath he found this maid, and when?

Certes, 'tis one of mine own train,
None other ever wins his glance;
But we can tell him 'tis in vain,
He yet may ask our will perchance!

Thee, thee, we meant that he should love,
How dares he on another look!
Our power that other shall remove—
Must we these treasonous insults brook?

Tell me this chosen fair one's name,
Is't Countess Maude?—is't Lady May?
Tell me at once the favourite dame
Who makes him thus to disobey!

367

Is't silent Constance, shy and sly,
Constance de Courtenay—wan and white,
With roseless cheek, and starless eye,
Yet fair and fairy-like, and slight?

Or is't the sparkling Leonore,
With laughing lip and winning wiles,
Whose brow no shadow ever bore,
A cloudless sky of ceaseless smiles?

Or dark eyed Ladye Geraldine?
Or quiet Agnes, meek and mild?
Or fair Florise, of lofty line,
The warlike Percy's only child?

Or Mistress Rose—smooth-cheeked and sleek,
The blackest eye, the merriest mien,
The reddest lip, the rosiest cheek,
In all our courtly train I ween?

368

Or Lilias, with her flaxen locks,
Like threads of aëry gossamere,
And skin that stainless ivory mocks,
So white and delicate—and clear?

Or gentle, gentlest Ladye Clare,
A thing all harmony and light,
So still we know not she is there,
A presence sweet—a vision bright?

Or is't that black browed Marguerite,
From the French Monarch's noble court,
She of the fairy flying feet,
Of taper shape, and stature short?

Or is't that fair romantic maid,
Pale Ursula, with downcast eyes,
Who ever seeks the enfolding shade,
And sits in her lone bower and sighs?

369

Which is't, poor Britomart, of these,
Which, which has stol'n his heart from thee?
Which may his wayward fancy please,
Ah! which his chosen fair may be?

I have forgotten stately Grace,
And pretty Mistress Madeline—
But not one form, and not one face,
Of these can dare the match with thine!

Not one of these might ever dare
To match with thee in form or face,
Unless 'twere gentlest Ladye Clare,
And she is absent from her place.

I scarce, in sooth, his choice might blame,
Were she the object of that choice!
All hearts adore that lovely Dame,
A gentle vision and a voice.

370

A visitant she ever seems
From the Orbs of blessed Souls on high—
So from her Angel-aspect beams
The light and peace of yon far sky.

If her it was—but her 'tis not,
Not lately hath she here been seen—
But had she dwelt upon the spot,
A dangerous rival she had been.

But tell me, maiden, tell me now,
If that thou know'st—tell who it is,
At once the mournful truth avow—
Or is it that—or is it this?”

Wildly gazed Britomart around—
“Nay, urge me not, great Queen, I pray,
By honour, pity, justice bound,
His secret I may scarce betray.

371

My gracious Liege! but urge me not,
'Twere useless all—well, well, I know,
Better passed o'er, unknown, forgot,
That bitter source of boundless woe!

Suffice that she he loves is one
Whom never more will he behold,
Whose presence he but seeks to shun,
With misery and despair untold.

But think not she in form or mind,
In vermeil bloom or peerless grace,
May e'er in sooth a rival find,
Matchless is she in Soul and face!

When snowdrops pale surpass the rose,
She then may faulter, then may fear;
When the great Sun a rival knows,
May she be shaken in her sphere!”

372

“With jealousy's misjudging eyes,
Poor child! you look!” the Queen replied,
This still distorts or magnifies
With wrong impressions still allied.

Trust to my judgment, better far
Mine eyes unprejudiced may mark
The aspect of this living star,
That shines o'er your faint Soul and dark!”

“Nay, urge me not great Queen, vouchsafe
To let this secret buried rest;
Nor let thy princely spirit chafe,
With generous Anger's zeal possessed.”

“Anger! methinks this business well
Might stir the choler of a saint;
And know, mine ire I scarce can quell,
To mark thy yielding spirit faint!

373

Up, rouse ye! Maid—this recreant knight,
This vain deceiver, vile and base,
At once should in thy breast excite
Hatred—in fervent feeling's place!

Forget this stain to knighthood now,
Or learn to abhor him, and to scorn!
And chase each shadow from thy brow,
Nor pine in abject mood forlorn.”

“Nay, royal Mistress, deign but hear,
No recreant knight, nor base is he;
His name and fame are bright and clear
As any in the realm may be!

He ne'er hath wronged me, nor aggrieved,
What right had I his heart to claim?
He ne'er hath mocked me, ne'er deceived,
I may not noble Alberic blame.”

374

“But I may,” in impatient tone,
The regal Berengaria cried;
“Ne'er yet was more devotion shown,
He lived but only at thy side!

He seemed but in thy sight to live,
The whole court marked thee for his bride!
If this thou canst indeed forgive,
Poor thou'rt in spirit, poor in pride!”

“He deemed I pierced and pitying knew
The heavy secret of his heart;
A stainless knight is he and true,”
Still faultered forth poor Britomart.

“Well, rouse ye—rouse ye now to brook
These ills of fortune undismayed,
And cast aside the mourner's look,
And be thy face in smiles arrayed.

375

At least it is not worth thy while
To pine in sorrow for his sake—
Recall thy bloom—repair thy smile,
And these unworthy fetters break.

But if thou wilt with stubborn will
For his sake pine and moan and sigh,
Then let us seek some method still
To shake his foolish constancy.

He yet may by thy charms be won,
Yet taught thy gentle worth to prize,
Nor longer look indifferent on
The lustre of those loving eyes!

He yet may, as he changed before,
(As we well know and must avow)
Change, and with right good cause once more,
And turn from her who rules him now!

376

Never!—the damsel shuddering said,
I hope—I think—I dream it not,
Ne'er till he's numbered with the dead
Shall his new passion be forgot.

Never! from such fond dreams apart
I seek to keep my busy brain;
I look into my own bruised heart,
And know such hope were worse than vain!”

“Howe'er this be,” the princely dame
In soothing tone rejoined once more,
“Bear on with smooth-cleared brow the same,
Nor show thy hope thy peace is o'er!

Discard that pale hue from thy face,
Resume thy buoyancy and bloom,
Bear thee as may become thy race,
As may thy noble self become.

377

Fair prospects smile thine eyes before,
Thou yet shalt grace a lofty place;
Say not, nor deem thy hope is o'er,
Thou yet shalt Joy's light paths retrace!

Dear child! it yet shall be thy fate
A high and happy place to fill,
To shine and bloom in fair estate,
Though now thy heart with anguish thrill.

As for this Knight, I 'gin to doubt
'Twere best he weds his Ladye-love!
Since (senseless loon—and sightless lout!)
Thou'rt sure he'll ne'er thy suitor prove.”

“His Ladye-love he nee'r may wed,
His love is hopeless as mine own!
Till both are numbered with the dead,
No peace for either may be known.”

378

“Now grant me patience,” sharply cried
The Queen, incensed with sudden ire,
Good sooth, I am too sorely tried,
An angel's patience well might tire!

Whoever dealt with ideots twain,
So obstinate and weak before?—
It rubs the temper, 'gainst the grain,
And tries the hasty nature sore!

Both are resolved to fling away
Their chance of happiness and peace;
Both will a part insensate play,
Will such blind folly never cease?

The dame he loves then, loves him not,
Then why, in name of all the saints!
Doth he not strive to amend his lot,
And hush his weak and vain complaints?

379

Why doth he not then turn to thee,
And seek sweet Consolation's balm?
The shipwrecked mariner at sea
Welcomes the refuge and the calm!

Those wan chang'd looks should melt and move,
If his a heart of flesh may be—
He sees your sufferings and your love—
How, how can he unsoftened see?”

“Nay, gracious Madam, say not so!
He knows not that my heart is his;
May Heaven forefend he e'er should know
A truth so sad and vain as this.”

“He knows it not?—now breaks a light
Upon this troubled clouded scene,
But let me tell him this to-night,
To-morrow's sky shall smile serene!”

380

“Dread Sovereign!” cried she, in faint tone,
Clasping her hands in suppliant guise,
“Forbear!” If this indeed be done,
Your mocked and shame-stung maiden dies!”

“Forget him, then! and shew e'en so
Some worthy and beseeming pride;
'Tis no o'erpowering loss, I trow,
The realm is peopled, and 'tis wide.

'Tis no irreparable loss!
That thou shouldst pine thy livelong life;
Thy ringlets must not lose their gloss—
Thine eye its gleam, from this vain strife!—

Nor thy rose lip its smiling curve,
For such a petty cause—no! no!
More gallant knights shall yet deserve,
The blush and smile of lip and brow!

381

Our England's flower of chivalry—
The flower of Christendom we count!
Clear flow the stainless waves, and free,
From honour's own transcendant fount.

'Mongst these, my Britomart!—'mongst these,
Thou yet mayst well and fairly find
Some noble youth to touch and please,
To melt thy heart and suit thy mind!”

“My Queen, I have on earth no hope,
Save in the cloistered virgin's veil;
With this harsh world no more I cope,
Completed is my heavy tale.”

“The veil! on that canst thou be bent?
Maiden! I tell thee now 'tis vain;
Never shalt thou win our content,
Thou surely bearest not thy sound brain!

382

'Tis madness, folly—worse than these—
'Tis obstinacy's mood perverse:
Wouldst break, then, with the first light breeze
That shakes the hopes thou'st willed to nurse?

Full many gallant knights resort,
(Of proud renown, and bravery high,)
To Cœur-de-Lion's royal court,
Himself the pride of chivalry!

I tell thee, damsel, many a one!
What think'st thou of that stalworth Knight—
Hetheringtonshaugh of Wilderington,
Ever the foremost in the fight?

True, at our princely tournament,
By brave Sir Alberic's conquering arm
His helm was cleft, his lance was bent,
Himself was stunned with rueful harm!

383

But ofttimes hath he charged his shield,
With augmentation high and proud!
In many a Saracenic field
His prowess hath been well avowed.

Or, haply Ralph, of Borthwick town,
Yet better, Maiden, may thee like,
Whose hand, though youthful as thine own,
A desperate blow at need can strike!

The King himself saith such an one
He ne'er saw dealt by stripling wight,
And his especial grace is shewn
To this most hopeful valiant Knight!

Or wilt thou cast more favouring eye
On young De Ros, that Baron bold,
Who from a noble stock doth rise—
And well his honours high shall hold.

384

Or on that proudest of his peers,
The gallant Lord of Arundel,
Who broad his snow-white standard rears,
And brooks his coal-black charger well!

Or, may be, on that youthful Earl,
Flushed with the old Santo Mauro pride,
With falcon eye and raven curl—
For him thoud'st make a dainty Bride!”

“My gracious Ladye—but forbear—
Your words like poisoned daggers pierce,
For Ruth's sweet sake I pray thee spare—
These are sharp pangs and tortures fierce!”

“Like poisoned daggers?—many a maid
Had said like honeyed flatteries sweet;
But I will not be checked nor stayed,
So list in patient mood discreet.”

385

Thou yet shalt thank me, when o'erpast
This first wild burst of grief may be,
And own with grateful sense at last,
How true a friend I proved to thee.”

“Most mighty Princess! never yet
Hath heart more grateful throbb'd below—
I know, I feel the unmeasured debt
Which I to thy large bounty owe!

But never may this hand of mine
In love's true mutual plight be given—
My doom is fixed, and my design—
No bride—except the Bride of Heaven!

My cheek already—mortal woe—
Doth blaunche and blight with ashen stain;
To convent shade 'tis meet I go,
To hide my bloom's swift early wane.”

386

“Tut! witless lass!” the Princess said,
“Thy bloom, my word for 't, soon again
Will o'er thy cheek as fairly spread,
And well replace Grief's ashen stain!

No convent pile shall thee receive,
In flourished bower and gilded hall
Thy place shall be, I well believe,
Where thou shalt fairest shine of all.”

“My place must be where pavement worn
By suppliant knees, day after day,
Glints back the lamp-light shed forlorn,
O'er skulls and cross-bones' grim array.

For me—for me—be veil and vest
Of gloomy flow, and unadorned—
The meetest garments and the best
For all who mourn, or e'er have mourned!

387

For me be bead, and book, and bell,
And lonely watch and vigils late,
And cloistered court and coffined cell,
And ghostly guide and glimmering grate.

For gilded chamber—casement gay—
Chancel and charnel shall be mine,
Where solemn shadows brooding stray,
And the embered tomb, the reliqued shrine!

The dim and image-holding niche,
Rosary, and crucifix, and hood—
Away with broidered garments rich,
They ill assort with Sorrow's mood.”

“Peace, idle tattler!—dreamer, peace!”
Then interposed the royal dame,
“Prithee, let this wild rambling cease,
Nor force me now to chide and blame.

388

Ere twice twelve months were passed and o'er
I wot thou shouldst full sorely rue,
And vainly, vainly set more store
On things that now offend thy view!

And thou'lt not be the first who long
Have lived to weep their rash, weak deed,
When smit by heavy fortune's wrong,
They willed the nun's dull life to lead.

Beware, poor foolish child, beware,
Or thou wilt wretched, wretched be;
Thou may'st not know what dark despair
Should haply thus be stored for thee.

Thou'rt new to sorrow and to pain—
But, trust my words, if thou but seek
Bravely to bear the yoke and chain,
The chain shall melt, the yoke shall break.

389

The elastic spirits of thine age
Shall yet up spring, fresh, glad, and wild,
Myself am scarce a matron sage,
But thou'rt a sixteen summered child.

If thou, indeed, would'st still incline,
Some little time retired to dwell,
Thou shalt thy parents dear rejoin
Until once more thou'rt blythe and well.

To them I will my maiden spare
For one fair month and for a day,
Nor doubt the keen Northumbrian air
Will blow thy little grief away.

Where the old Northumbrian mountains rise
I know your noble kin reside,
I know their stately castle lies
By the Tyne river's peaceful tide.

390

And well I wot that native air,
So fresh, so clear, so keen, and wild,
Shall bring the health-bloom fine and fair
Back to the mountain's gentle child.”

“Madam, on bended knee I thank
Thy gracious thought and kind intent:
But all my future is a blank,
On convent-life my Soul is bent!

I would not wish to view again
The hills—the streams belov'd of old,
'Twould but augment the anguish'd pain
Which stings my bosom's inmost fold.

Clear flows that river's chrystal tide,
As when I wandered blythe and free,
Its azure-rolling wave beside,
In Maiden mirth, or Childhood's glee.

391

But I, alas the while! my Soul
In turbid flow now learns to run,
Its restless billows fiercely roll,
And shadows o'er it darkle dun.

Those hills as proudly gladly rise,
Kissed by the sunbeam—crest and base,
And soar into the smiling skies,
But I am rooted from my place!

I would not,—not for worlds—retread
The paths I knew in former days—
No! let me lay my wearied head
Where hope beguiles not, nor betrays!

Where Memory's self may haply sleep,
Expelled by thoughts of heavenly worth,
And where to suffer and to weep,
May be to escape the thralls of Earth.

392

Each calm hour there shall have its prayer,
Its day its holy duty dear—
To mourn shall be to mount up—there,
Unto a higher purer sphere!

Ah! me—I long to taste that calm,
I long to breathe that peaceful air;
For anguish there is still a balm—
Where stands Heaven's shrine of grace—'tis there!

To some still nunnery's hallowed pile,
With firm unfaltering step I go—
Ah! those who can no longer smile
Should let their tears in secret flow!

One grief indeed remains behind,
One bitter pang—till now untried,
One cruel throe for heart and mind—
To quit my Gracious Sovereign's side.

393

My Royal Mistress' roof to leave,
From her loved presence to depart;
This, this indeed will pain and grieve,
And wound the already wounded heart.

But it must be—my Spirit yearns
Itself to dedicate to Heaven;
My broken Spirit trembling turns
From Life's fell scene and fiery sweven!

'Tis sinful, sinful thus to love,
And sinful, sinful thus to mourn—
Unless we teach this grief to prove
A martyr's crown of blessed thorn.

Unless we turn to Heavenly use
The sorrows of our souls betimes,
And seek the World's vain ties to loose,
And shun its follies and its crimes.

394

Unless for Heavenly aid we seek,
And plume our leaden thoughts at length,
Through steadfast will, yet mild and meek,
To soar in Heaven-lent skyward strength.”

“Not so, dear maid! yet, yet not so!
At least, not in that mode thou mean'st—
'Midst Life's wild billows' changeful flow,
Stands strong that rock on which thou lean'st.

Deem'st thou indeed that thou must fly
To nunnery-gloom and convent-shade—
To find the assistance from on high—
The light that cannot change nor fade?

Our Holy Ladye's presence bless'd
Can light through mists and shadows dart,
Her shrine's—the consecrated breast!
Her gift—the dedicated heart!

395

Amidst the crowded city's maze,
As in the quiet convent's calm—
The pious soul can pour forth praise,
And earn the blessing and the balm.”

“Great Queen! these words in wisdom flow,
Yet, yet I feel this chastisement,
This trial sharp—this bitter woe—
Was on no trivial errand sent.

The impetuous spirit—warm and wild,
Too eager Life's strange race to run,
If 'twould be pure and undefiled—
Doth well Temptation's paths to shun.

Even such is mine, too wild—too weak—
In this world's maze too quickly lost!
Oh! should I sagely do to seek
In fragile bark a dangerous coast?

396

The grief that doth so keenly gall,
That on my suffering spirit preys,
I feel 'tis an especial call—
My Soul to win from worldly ways.”

“Nay, Maiden, nay, thy dreamy brain
Frames many a flitting phantasy:
Thus troubled and confused with pain,
And rack'd by thoughts still hurrying by.

Wait but awhile and thou shalt find
How Time can change thy view of things,
That great physician of the mind,
That counsellor who wisdom brings!

I will not press, not urge thee yet
To mingle in the courtly throng,
Await till soothed be thy regret,
And calmed thy grief—'twill not be long!

397

I prophecy 'twill not be long,
For griefs thus vehement are short—
Await awhile—then, midst the throng
Shine forth—the fairest of my court!”

“Now, royal mistress!—gracious friend,
Hearken to thy poor maiden's prayer—
Thy patience unto her extend,
That thus to oppose thy will may dare.”

“Peace! I command thee! peace—and hear
What I would yet to thee unfold;
To me thou ever wert most dear—
And dear I thee must ever hold!

If after twelve swift months are fled
Thou yet dost full and firm maintain
This wild resolve, to which thou'rt wed,
I will not seek thy will to enchain.

398

Remain till then, still at my side,
I have no passing doubt nor fear,
That thus, well pondered, fairly tried,
Thy wish shall dream-like disappear.

And thou shalt give that little hand
As guerdon for some valourous knight,
The pride, the flower of English land,
Born to win favour in thy sight!

Aye—this first love shall fade away
As the earliest blossoms of the year,
And wreaths of joy shall cluster gay
Around thy path—wreaths never sere!

Again at banquet and at ball,
In gilded bower and dazzling court,
Shalt thou be lightest heart of all,
And sport and smile in 'customed sort.

399

Thou shalt at princely chase of deer,
And falconry's inspiring game,
Take part in all the jocund cheer,
With many another merry dame.

And at the noble joust, where feat
Of arms is done full warlike wise,
Shalt thou look on from high-raised seat,
And feast on doughty deeds thine eyes.

Didst thou observe last tilting-day
A youthful Knight of promise rare,
With proudly panached helm and gay,
Of bearing bold and presence fair?

'Twas young Sir Hugh de Mowbray, sprung
From knightly Sires of high renown;
Success unto his arms still clung,
And twice he bore his brave foe down!

400

He is a gallant spirit free,
To death they are dight who check at him,
And many a follower bold hath he,
Of dauntless heart and stalworth limb.

He is the lord of broad fair lands,
And his proud state rare trophies deck,
And many a vassal round him stands,
To do his bidding and his beck.

They say not oft such sight is seen
As these—his yeomen, stern of mood,
With six feet bows and boar spears keen,
And quivers stocked, and broadswords good.

'Tis said the happiest serfs by far
Are his on merry English land,
For hot and fiery in the war,
In peace he is full mild and bland.

401

And generous too, and free withal,
The joy of all the country round;
High feasting crowns his ancient hall,
And every vassall there is found.

Happy the woman who shall wed
This noble lord of proud estate!
I say no more—what I have said
I would might have some worthy weight!

But, Britomart! hast thou ne'er yet
Looked gentlier on that far-famed knight,
On whom all eyes and hearts are set,
Eustace de Montmorency hight?

Know'st thou they say, that for his love
A royal Princess long hath grieved,
And late hath sent her broidered glove
To be by him her knight received.

402

Wherefore 'tis thought—ere long will he
Break for her sake a lance in fight,
And challenge England's chivalry,
Charged by her hest, to do her right.

But yet 'tis known he still doth swear
His English heart and English hand
Shall ne'er be giv'n to foreign fair,
But some bright Ladye of the land.

Sweet Countess Maude some hope retains
To tame this Lion of the War;
Some think he yet will wear her chains,
Methinks I know a likelier far.

Geoffrey and Guy are brothers bold
Of Neville's high and haughty race,
Of princely mind and knightly mould,
And well the foe they front and face.

403

Each seeks a bride, and pelf and power
I wot belongs to them in sooth,
And she in lofty state may tower,
Who weds with either lordly youth.

For County Claude with coal-black hair,
From sunny Provence' smiling shore,
To him thy hand I might not spare—
Thou shalt not cross the channel o'er!

But one there is, who more than all
Deserves that little hand of thine,
The pride of court and field and hall,
Earl Jocelyn of thine own proud line.

Thy gallant cousin—more, far more,”
But here she stayed, nor farther said,
A messenger bends low before
The Queen, to announce the banquet's spread.

404

Her royal train now gathers round,
And with all seeming pomp she moves
To where the supper board is crowned
With choicest cates that taste approves.

There, on a splendid chair of state
Fair Berengaria takes her seat,
And round that sovereign chair there wait
Proud nobles tendering service meet.

The proudest 'midst that noble band,
Sir Alberic de Mounteagle stood,
The very flower of English land,
Of loftiest bearing—noblest blood.

The pallid hue—deep suffering's trace,
Which erst his countenance obscured,
Hath left it since he took his place
His peers among, and grief abjured.

405

Youth's bright blood mantles in his cheek,
Youth's ardour flashes in his eye,
Still something doth to-night bespeak
Strange absence of tranquility.

Two moments looks he not the same,
His aspect changeth evermore,
Yet still that eye was full of flame,
That brow its flush deep kindling wore.

With panached cap in hand low drooped,
He stood, the regal chair beside,
That cap one blinding diamond looped,
And peerless was its plume's white pride.

His cloak of purple velvet piled,
With fur of martin wild was bound;
And well I ween 'twas matchless styled
By many a whisp'ring dame around!

406

His crimson vest of satin sheen
Glistered and wavered in the light;
His gold-sheathed sword—good blade and keen—
Hung from a blazoned bauldric bright.

Blythe speeds the banquet—mirth and glee
Around the festive board abound,
And healths are pledged full merrily—
Each cup with foaming wine is crowned.

Yet by that Princely Presence graced,
Through that fair company's gay crowd,
A due restraint might well be traced,
Nor rose the laugh unseemly loud.

No blyther aspect eye might mark
Than gallant young Sir Alberic's there,
Dashed from his brow his hair waved dark,
Waved as 'twere swept by breezy air.

407

That brow seemed stamped by no deep thought,
No shadow seemed thereon to rest,
Within sure no dark fancies wrought,
No care abode—unwelcome guest!

Wild smiles around his lip still played,
For ever freshly wreathed—played bright;
No passing cloud, no flitting shade,
Dimmed those glad smiles of sunny light.

He seemed most joyous of that band,
And yet his lip no bright wine quaffed—
He grasped no goblet in his hand,
But still refused the sparkling draught.

No shining wine-cup foamed for him,
He bade the wassail bowl to pass!
He kissed no goblet's sparkling brim
Of malvoisie or hypocrasse.

408

A draught of fire 'twas his to drain,
A deadly and pernicious bowl,
A draught of passion and of pain,
Maddening the roused and desperate Soul!

The boiling currents in his veins
Raged e'en like streams of liquid flame!
That draught delirious which he drains
Maddens and tortures mind and frame!

Yet gaily smiled he evermore,
As though no poignant griefs he knew,
Right gallantly himself he bore
That hour of sharpest trial through.

Music's delicious strains were heard,
With richest stops and cadence sweet—
Sweet as Love's gently whispered word,
When soft assent the lips repeat.

409

Fair speeds the banquet, blythe and fair,
And all are glad and proudly gay,
And not a sorrow nor a care
Might seem one bosom there to sway.

Blythe speeds the banquet, blythe and fair,
And joyous are the festive crowd,
And still the brow most sunny there
Is young Sir Alberic's, brave and proud.

To him, indeed, the beauteous Queen
Scarce spoke—or when she did, 'twas still
With head averted—altered mien—
And air displeased, and grave, and chill.

Upon her glorious forehead fair
There brooded dim Wrath's lowering frown,
And her bright countenance did wear
A shade—which it might seldom own.

410

Her lip—so beautiful with smiles,
Wears a slight scornful semblance now,
Forgets to-night its rosy wiles,
Though still curved fair, like Cupid's bow.

The feast is done, the guests prepare
To part from that enchanted scene,
And many a gentle damsel fair
Departs reluctant thence, I ween.

Amidst the hurry and the crowd
Sir Alberic comes once more to accost
Pale Britomart, with anguish bowed,
Most like some fleeting sheeted ghost.

They met in gloomy calmness there,
No more had they to hear or tell—
He whispered, “Maiden, pure and fair,
Vouchsafe to admit this last farewell.”

411

Then death-cold lip on death-cold hand
A frozen, freezing kiss impressed,
So ice-barred wave on snow-piled strand,
Might cheerlessly and chilling rest!

Then death-white hand by death-white lip
Was touched with faultering kiss and faint;
So, in the wake of some proud ship,
Meet foam-wreathes white, no flush may paint.

Within the heart of both was death,
And the worst blackness of despair;
Her troubled reason faultereth,
And he, like wretch condemned, droops there.

Soon turned he rapidly away,
And uttered farther word to none;
Nor reverence due he paused to pay
To the bright Queen of England's throne.

412

He turned indeed,—e'en as he past,
Afar, one distant view to gain—
One look,—his longest and his last!—
Then forth he fared—with phrenzied brain.

Then forth he fared with breaking heart
And wildered mind—by grief undone,
And what of thee, pale Britomart?—
She bends a broken-hearted one!

But unto woe and pain resigned,
No murmur from her lip is heard;
With look composed and constant mind
She breathes no plaint, no sigh, no word.

Unto her chamber dim she hies,
And kneels for hours with hidden face,
Then, all outwearied, down she lies,
And slumbers for some little space!

The cock hath crowed, the morn hath broke—
Fair morn, most sweet and blessed time!
Earth springs from darkness' crushing yoke,
And light once more leaps forth sublime.

The cock hath crowed, the morn hath broke,
Shadows and glooms all melt away;
Thousands upon that morning woke
To hail the new and busy day.

And thousands on that smiling morn,
(Fair kindling in that brightening sky,)
Were to this world of trouble born,
Launched on life's ocean—fearlessly!

And thousands on that morn, I ween,
With laboured groan and long-drawn sigh,
Prepared to quit this earthly scene,
Prepared with fainting Soul to die.

The cock hath crowed, the morn hath broke,
The city's dwellers rise betimes,
And curls the city's wreathed smoke,
Even to the unshadowed sky it climbs!

The morn hath broke—a fine fair morn,
The first of March—cold Month and free—
That lusty Month that seems to scorn
To traverse Earth impetuously.

Forth from the uprising city fares
A coarse-clad pilgrim—lorn and lone—
The freshening cheering morning airs
In vain o'er his pale front have blown.

Pale looks his forehead, white his lip,
His tall slight form seems bowed and bent,
With leathern bottle and with scrip,
He journeys on with high intent.

Unto the Holy Land he's bound—
Borne on Devotion's strengthening wing,
Thence—when long rolling months come round,
Palm-branch and relique shall he bring.

Budget and staff and scrip hath he,
The scollop shell his cap doth deck,
His sandal shoon with latchets see,
And crucifix hung round his neck.

Upon his mantle black were traced
In scarlet cloth, Saint Peter's keys—
Conspicuous on his shoulders placed—
That mantle's sole adornment these.

But though his garb's adornment's small,
Rugged and coarse, and homely seen,
Show me 'mongst England's nobles all
A nobler or a haughtier mien.

But though that form be bent and bowed,
As 'twere beneath ill fortune's storm,
Match me amongst the knightly crowd
That lofty and that stately form.

And though beneath his cowl so dark,
His front be pale and shadow'd o'er—
I ween no watchful eye might mark
A front that loftier semblance bore.

He turns not to the left nor right,
But bears straight forward on his way,
No busy sound, no cheering sight
Can tempt him for a moment stay.

In pilgrim garments coarse and poor,
He passes on—sans doubt or dread,
The kindly housewife at her door
Prays for a blessing on his head.

The frolick children in his path
Awhile suspend their shout and laugh,
And look with awe on him who hath
The shallop shell, and scrip, and staff.

The youthful maids cast sidelong glance
At those fine sculptured features pale;
But o'er that moveless countenance
Seems mystery drawn like some deep veil.

On, on—he turneth not aside,
One path hath he—one aim, one end;
Still fares he on with measured stride,
Poor Pilgrim! thee may saints befriend!

Ere to the Holy Land thou'rt come,
With hardship and with travel bent,
I wot thy dearest friend at home
Should know thee not—wayworn and spent.

Thy thread-bare mantle scarce shall serve
To keep thee from the weather's blight,
And wearied shalt thou bend and swerve,
Beneath light scrip's and budget's weight!

Thy long grown locks and matted beard
Shall well that sharpened face disguise,
And scorch'd shall be that brow, and sear'd
And haggard wild thy deep sunk eyes.

Poor Pilgrim! long and rough thy way,
But cheer thee with the blessed hope,
Thy homage at the shrine to pay—
Th' all-hallowed shrine—nor doubt nor droop.

To shrieve thy Soul perchance from sin,
Or fix it in the Heavenward road,
Or relique high and blest to win,
Hast thou the Pilgrim's pathway trode!

Whate'er thy motive be—may'st thou
Reap thy reward, and gain thy quest,
What are thy toil and labour now,
If these may win thee endless rest?

Thy frame may wasted be and worn,
Thy houseless head sink down oppress'd,
Thou may'st of worldly goods be shorn—
What matter if thy Soul be bless'd?

On Pilgrim!—pause not on thy way—
Long is thy journey—far the goal—
But better thus to toil and pray,
Than let vain sloth destroy the Soul!

Behold thy fellow-creatures round!
All have a heavy path to tread,
On wearying journey all are bound—
Life's smoothest ways are steep and dread!

All must toil on o'er mount and plain,
Through many a dangerous pass must wend;
Ah! happy! if they may but gain
The Heaven-blessed Palm Branch at the end!

The cock hath crowed, the morn hath broke,
The citizens are up betimes,
And curls cloud-white the wreathed smoke,
Which to the sky aspiring climbs.

A Ladye fair, and sweet, and young,
Herself as beautiful as morn,
From sleep with low faint moan hath sprung,
Soon as the first day beam is born.

Soon as the first faint trembling ray
Glanced thro' her window's glimm'ring pane,
She rose, as for some festive day—
Some happy hour—of joy's bright reign!

But turns she not unto her glass,
Nor to her tiring-table turns—
Her eye doth these regardless pass,
As though in sooth she scarce discerns.

No more that Ladye shall repair
To where the joust is holden high,
A stately spectacle and fair—
Gay stowre—and warrior-revelry.

No more shall she on festal night
Join in the brisk and merry dance,
With gold and jewels glittering bright—
And brighter blush, and smile, and glance.

No more in courtly train appear,
The first and fairest of the band;
While noble knight and cavalier
Sigh to possess that snowy hand.

No more shall that bright Ladye deck
Her form with garments rich and rare;
Nor carcanet shall clasp her neck,
Nor coronet shall crown her hair.

She turns not to her wardrobe proud,
Nor to her tiring-table turns;
But sinks she down, all lowly bowed,
Where a small lamp dim struggling burns.

Dim struggling in the increasing light
Of kindling morning's saffron glow,
That ev'ry moment grew more bright,
And deepened in its ruddy flow!

That lamp before an image burned
Of sweet Madonna, through the night,
And there that gentle Ladye turned,
And there she knelt in robes of white.

And though that lamp now burned so faint,
It still a trembling radiance shed
O'er her to whom she poured her plaint,
To whom her tearful prayers were said.

The blessed Virgin Mother, mild,
The blessed Queen—who then was seen
Clasping the High and Holy Child,
All Heaven soft-opening from her mien.

'Twas there she turn'd, 'twas there she knelt,
And deep implored for aid divine—
And every grief her bosom felt
She carried trustful to the shrine.

Fast flowed the Ladye's tears the while,
And sighs on sighs she breathed amain;
(Yet that soft lip seemed made to smile,
Not thus to writhe convulsed with pain.)

At length she calmly, slowly rose,
An aspect less disturbed she wears—
Deep sighs no longer speak her woes,
Nor wild and warmly-flowing tears!

Then, lo!—a gentle maiden brought
A garb of gloom—spread dark anon—
A garb of gloom, unfringed, unwrought,
For that bright Ladye mild to don.

She donned that sable vest, whose flow
Was like a cloud of darkness round
Those graceful limbs that faulter slow
In those thick folds and gloomy bound.

And to her gentle maiden then
The Ladye gave her garments fair,
The robes she might ne'er wear again,
Outspread in dazzling splendour there.

These, these, that Ladye bright resign'd,
And fair they shone before the eye,
Mantles with sheeny sattins lined,
Glitt'ring in all their bravery.

Proud robes—long flowing, rich and rare,
With rainbow colours deeply dyed,
Meet for a noble dame to wear,
Resplendent in their floating pride.

And costly garbs—trimmed round with fur,
With broideries rare and bordering fair,
Martin and beauteous Miniver
Thick scattered round the chamber there.

And robes of pride, and vests of pall,
That she, alas! no more may need;
She yields them to her maiden all,
With gold and fringe and lace and bead.

Light veils of airy texture fine,
With flowers of gold and silver wrought,
Amongst her hair's rich braids to shine—
For her a closer veil is brought!

Bright fillets for the forehead made
With curious skill to adorn the brow!
(A frontlet not so fair must shade
Her forehead's pure and polished snow!)

And girdles broad of many a dye,
With needlework all brightly graced,
She needs not these—that please the eye,
An humbler girdle clasps her waist!

Her costly jewels, rich and proud,
These she reserves for different doom,
Unto the hallowed shrine they're vowed,
Where she too bears her youth and bloom.

That gloomy garb her choice proclaims,
From this cold hollow world she flies,
No earthly wish, nor scheme she frames,
But lifts beyond the tomb her eyes.

She flies to calm religion's shade,
Her earthly course e'en now seems done,
And there in lowly guise arrayed,
Behold the world renouncing nun!—

Still stately in her loveliness,
Behold her where she silent stands,
Enveloped in that solemn dress,
With meek-raised eyes and close clasp'd hands.

Shows not her skin more dazzling white,
For that dull robe of sombre hue?—
Up to the throat drawn close and tight
That envious garb denies the view.

Save her white hands and lovely face,
Of that fair skin you naught behold,
And frontlet pale that brow's bright grace
Doth half in shroudings stern enfold.

And now—thus solemnly arrayed,
She leaves the Palace' regal halls,
And followed by her weeping maid,
Takes refuge in a nunnery's walls.

Thence sends she back that damsel pale,
Who wrings her hands in bitter woe,
And utters many a dismal wail,
From her dear Ladye forced to go.

She sends her back with message meet,
And packet seal'd for England's Queen;
Could she have knelt but at her feet,
And pitied but and pardoned been!

Could she with grateful tears have kissed
Bright Berengaria's royal hand,
And been with blessing kind dismissed,
And heard her soft farewell and bland.

Then, then not thus would she have mourned,
Nor sighed, as grief might have no end!
That World she left behind—she scorned!—
But mourned her Mistress and her friend!

The gentle sisters round her crowd,
And whisper consolation kind;
But long with heavy sorrow bowed,
She struggles with unquiet mind.

But vesper hours brought heavenly balm,
To soothe her stung and troubled Soul,
And matins found her yet more calm,
Till Peace upon her Spirit stole!

And peace be still her portion where
No outward breath of strife may come:
That Place of purity and prayer
Should be indeed its temple home!

The monks of St. Augustine raise,
In their high Sanctuary, to-day,
A grateful voice of prayer and praise,
And gossips whisper, “Well they may!”

Echo their strong and massive walls
To many a glad and cheery voice,
Great good unto their house befalls
This day, and therefore they rejoice!

Their Monastery's enriched—endowed
With broad fair lands and treasure good!
Enriched with vast possessions proud—
Rare fringings to the frock and hood!

The lord of fertile lands and fair
With these their abbey hath endowed,
And vast possessions,—treasures rare,
To Saint Augustine's shrine hath vowed.

Full many a wide and teeming plain,
Cultured with labour and with care,
That yields the waving golden grain,
And valleys warm, and meadows fair.

In streams of chrystal leap the fish,
In pastures green the beeves graze deep,
And nought that sense can want or wish
But there is found—rare hap to reap!

Coverts there are for dainty game—
Large woodlands stocked 'tis said right well;
And Saint Augustine's monks may claim
The whole—green field, clear flood, and fell.

And nobly timbered forests too,
With giant oaks, Old England's pride;
Not twelve hour's ride would bring you through,
So thick are they, so long and wide.

Stripling new sprung and doddered trunks,
And stately trees full grown are there;
Well it befits Augustine's monks
To raise the voice of praise and prayer.

So rich endowment seldom falls
Unto the Church's Sons sedate,
And the Abbot of Augustine's walls
Is lord of Alberic's broad estate!

Reclined, doth on a cushion rest
The Queen at royal Richard's feet,
Whose mighty hand in love caressed,
Her locks rolled down in glistering sheet.

In glistering sheet of burnished gold,
A royal robe of pride indeed!
That lustrous hair thick waving rolled,
From band and curbing fillet freed.

On broidered cushion rests she there,
At her dread consort's feet reclined;
The lion in his peaceful lair
Should seem the gentlest of the kind.

He whose stern fame hath proudly flown
O'er all the scared earth, wide and far,
To her but breathes love's tenderest tone,
That lion-lord of strife and war.

I guess one glance from her blue eye
Can even his sternest mood controul;
And oh! one tear he there might spy,
Would melt and move his purposed Soul!

But now no tear that blue eye had,
As beautiful as bluest Heaven,
And yet a faint expression sad
Seemed to its orb refulgent given.

A gentle shade—a touch of care
Dwelt her rich rosy lips around,
And brooded o'er her forehead fair,
Whence back the bright hair stream'd unbound.

And ever and anon a sigh
Escaped the beauteous lady's breast,
And spake too well and feelingly
A heart in sooth not all at rest.

“Now cease, mine own fair Queen, to grieve,
This wayward Maid's for ever gone,
And sith she chose thy side to leave,
E'en let her memory now alone!

Most sure am I she is not worth
One sigh from these sweet lips of thine,
That shame all roses of the earth—
Nay, all that may in Eden shine!

Let pass—my light of life, let pass,
And never utter more her name;
In sooth, she was a dainty lass,
At chorded lute and broidery frame!—

A dainty wench she was, I ween,
At pastime light and merry sport,
The fairest and the brightest seen,
In this—our royal English court.

But thou, whom lofty duties claim,
And mighty interests should engage
Sweet Berengaria—it were shame
That thou should'st mourn for maid or page.

And though she loved thee passing well,
(Though now her love shows doubtful sign,)
One true heart still doth near thee dwell,
And, Berengaria sweet—'tis mine!”

“Nay, good my lord,” the Queen replied,
“'Tis but at times I mourn her loss,
Let not my princely Richard chide,
Nor seek my pensive mood to cross!

To convent walls too swiftly fled
That sunbright flower of beauty bright,
Ere well her wild resolve was weighed,
And pondered—wisely and aright.

And I must sigh to think how strange
The lot of hapless Britomart;
From court to cell, how dire a change—
But worse to bear a breaking heart.

She suffered deeply much I know,
And wildly loved the ill-fated maid,
And but by bitterness and woe
Was her profound affection paid.

At times her pallid features rise
Upon my very dreams at night,
With shaded brows and sunken eyes,
She that was once so glad and bright.

Alas! but love indeed must be
A wonderous and a deadly thing,
To crush the joyous and the free
With such surpassing suffering!

To tame down youth's quick heart and warm,
And make life's self a weary weight,
Oh! it must be a deadly charm!
A poisoned spring of fearful fate!

I marvel if this broken rose—
This wounded bird—in her calm bower,
Declines beneath her grievous woes,
Or mends with every creeping hour!

I knew not which to think were best—
Alas! if this vain Love's regret
Should cease to wound her gentle breast,
How 'gainst her bars she then should fret!

How fret 'gainst her close prison bars,
And weep for all she left behind;
Torn by conflicting feeling's jars,
And struggling with an altered mind!

For shame she scarce may thence retire!
The Abbess will urge her holy suit,
Threat, promise, prove—accuse, inspire,
And with persuasion—persecute!

I would that something might he done
To set that maiden free again;
Could I but see her once alone,
Perchance I might persuade her then!

At least I fain would surely know
If 'tis her own unbiassed will
To take the vestal votaress' vow,
And dwell in peaceful convent still.”

“Tut, tut, she chose her goodly perch
From wounded love or wounded pride,
Leave her in lap of Mother Church,
Where wayward maids had best abide!

She chose herself her own fair nest,
And there, then, let her be in peace,
For ill-used damsels and distressed
'Tis harbour good—where heart-aches cease.

Why here's a coil, forsooth—good lack!
Because one foolish lass and fond
Is crossed in love, and turns her back
On this base world, to look beyond.

A goodly coil, forsooth, is here,
Because one witless wench is left
Without her faithless lover dear,
And deems herself of all bereft.

Why! Ladye mine, demure and meek,
I wot that I could tell a tale
Should make that vermeil velvet cheek
So fair, by turns grow red and pale!

A tale of suffering, stern and keen,
At which that cheek might well turn pale,
Since its rare smoothness and its sheen
Taught bearded men to waste and wail.

Rememberest thou that valiant Knight
Of loftiest line and haughtiest mien,
That sunk with dazzled soul and sight
Before the glance of England's Queen?

'Midst all in Palestine that fought,
He was unmatched in strength and skill;
But Love sets skill and strength at nought,
And joys to tame the Valiant still.

Rememberest thou his mournful death,
Consumed by inward-gnawing care,
And how he owned with dying breath
His fatal love and long despair?

But well I ween not he alone
Quailed helplessly beneath thine eye,
Full many a manly breast made moan
For England's matchless Royalty!

Princes and Chiefs of royal line—
('Twas whispered, as I mind me well)—
Seeking the host in Palestine,
Victims to thy rare beauty fell!

Archducal Austria, rumour said,
Blenched under that victorious smile,
And secret homage silent paid
To her who did all hearts beguile!

And Royal France himself, I wot,
Looked loving-wise on that sweet face,
And half his wisdom's craft forgot,
Bewitched by that unrivalled grace!

In sooth, all hearts that there throbb'd high,
Bent Soldanrie's throned strength to shake,
Learned then to throb, and heave, and sigh,
For fairest England's peerless sake.”

Thus jested gay the Lion King,
With many a cunning look the while—
With fond and kindly hope to bring
Back to his Queen's fair cheek its smile.

Nor failed he—every shadowy trace
Of sorrow fled from lip and eye,
And left that beauteous Angel face
Cloudless as bright Midsummer's sky.

“Nay, rake not up these stories old,
Methinks they are but flatterer's tales—
Though something thus I have been told—
But much my treacherous memory fails.

Of that fair maid yet one more word,
And then a truce to such vain theme—
But pray thee tell me, good my lord,
Canst thou of her gay rival deem?

I urged her ever to confess,
For well I marked herself she knew;
But still it liked her to suppress
Who 'twas that all her hopes o'erthrew!

It surely is some desperate love
That her ingrateful chosen Knight
Is for his sins condemned to prove—
I own I joy with well-pleased spite!

He must have marked she loved him well,
That hapless maid—he must have seen—
For look and action both would tell
The unspoken wishes of his Queen.

And therefore do I joy to find
He suffers hopeless passion too,
For land and love he leaves behind,
And doth a weary path pursue—

Sith he is gone, so saith report,
A Pilgrim to the Holy Land—
Strange whim to quit the joyous court,
Wealth—mirth—and pomp, and broad command.

Say, can my Royal Richard guess
Where he hath left his stricken heart,
That, armed 'gainst love and loveliness,
Bowed not to beauteous Britomart?”

The Lion-Monarch for a space,
With glance to search a Stoic's soul,
Looked down on that ingenuous face,
Then to his lips the keen smile stole.

Fixed on her countenance awhile
Remained his scrutinizing gaze,
Till slow relaxing to a smile,
O'er his an arch expression strays.

“Thou'lt tell me I'm a sorcerer-wight
If I to thee unfold the tale—
And yet methinks by this good light
I could the wond'rous truth unveil!

Methinks that I aright could spell
This strange dark mystery, line and leaf
The riddle guess—the secret tell—
And speak in open phrase and brief.”

“Indeed,”—the startled dame replied,
“Then lose no time, but tell at once.
But wherefore didst thou know and hide?—
Quick, quick, I wait thy prompt response.”

“What is't that thou, fair dame, would'st know,
Who won from hapless Britomart,
With charms of more than mortal glow,
That noble Knight's devoted heart?

Is't this my blue eyed Queen would know?
Nay, fret not with impatient pout—
Suppose to thee the dame I show—
How know'st thou but she waits without.

I bade her here to speak with thee
On this distressful matter now,
And thou thyself shalt judge and see
How bright her cheek, how white her brow.”

The King with sudden bound upsprang,
And strode past to the arch-wayed door,
Near which did deftly ordered hang
The armour which at jousts he wore.

Thence snatched he straight his splendid shield,
Which gleamed e'en like the round bright moon—
Broad mirror made its polished field,
Whose steel like sparkling chrystal shone.

Broad mirror fair—where ye might trace
Revealed upon its surface bright
Each clear marked feature of the face,
Set in a bickering sea of light.

Before the Queen he placed it there,
Placed it the bright haired Queen before,
Then cried—“Behold the matchless Fair!
Whom none can see—and not adore.”

Her blue and bright and beaming eyes
The beauteous Berengaria raised—
Wrapt in the silence of surprise,
On that reflected form she gazed.

And be ye sure no form so fair
Ere mirror offered to the view
As that which glittered peerless there,
Retraced with perfect semblance true.

Around the cushion where she sate
Her hair streamed, loosed from ev'ry fold,
As drawn down by its own rich weight,
It rolled its waves of rippled gold.

Her eyes, through lashes curled and long,
Flashed their blue beams of radiance keen;
Not oft they flashed thus clear and strong,
Her's mostly was a downcast mien—

But now surprise and wonderment,
With pain and doubt, and shame and pride,
Together in her aspect blent,
Expression's finest soul supplied!

One blush of flame-bright scarlet rushed
O'er throat—brow—dimpled chin and cheek—
With such a sudden splendour flushed
Doth morn in tropic climates break.

That blush of fire pierced kindling through
The golden shadowings of her hair—
That blush, the rising sun's own hue—
That hair, the cloud's tint—he makes fair.

Slow faded soon that blush of fire
From smooth white throat—clear cheek and brow—
A look half sorrow and half ire
Dwells on those lovely features now.

Yet varies still the expression fast
Upon those features' living scroll;
Now gentler shades of pity past,
Now self-reproach there trembling stole.

A troubled frown—a lurking smile—
A furtive glance—a rising tear—
Betrayed the varying thought the while,
And still the King stood laughing near.

And still shunned his, her conscious eye,
While round her mouth soft quivering play
Half-smiles, that she in vain would try
To conquer and to chase away.

“Well!—Speaks the cunning Sorcerer sooth,
My blue eyed Berengare, I pray?
I wot this secret web in truth
Is well unravelled—by my fay.

Another time, sweet witch, take heed,
And when some brave heart true and warm,
Thou'dst wish should prove some fair one's meed,
Leave it to her to work the charm!

Let her own eyes their battle do,
Nor seek to help them, thus with thine,
Sith, these are far too bright and blue
As meek auxiliaries to shine.

Ev'n thus when foreign armies aid
Some country to subdue her foe,
That country's oft a victim made,
The spoils to the alien armies go!

My bird of beauty—sweet Gazelle,
(I pray thee, mark, I still can learn
My true and loving thought to tell
In the Oriental fabling turn.)

My sweet Gazelle, henceforth, take heed,
Leave love and lovers if thou'rt wise,
Ev'n to themselves—if slow they speed
Ne'er light them with those dangerous eyes.

Thy hapless maiden rued full sore,
And he that now is forced to fly,
That pilgrim bound to sacred shore,
Queen Berengaria's courtesy.”

The tears now trickle from her eyes,
Her long curled lashes glisten wet,
And low she murmurs—faultering sighs—
“Was woman e'er so witless yet?”

“Nay, cheer thee, sweet, and arm thy mind,
Away with tears—hence, hence with sighs,
The fault is—that thou'rt over kind,
And—with thy leave—not over wise!

A lesson thou hast learned through this—
That thou shouldst keep in memory long,
'Twere pity such rebuke to miss,
Experience mends whate'er is wrong!

Thou'lt play henceforth a wiser part,
Far sager and more cautious grown,
And lay thy lures but for one heart,
And that one thou shalt claim—thine own.”

“And 'tis all thine—for ever thine,
Thou know'st it—Ha!”—and well I ween,
Right loving word and gentle sign,
Received the Monarch from his Queen!

Meet gentle sign and loving word!—
Offered in love—by love believed—
Ev'n then the lion-hearted lord
From his all beauteous Queen received!

Months after months have rolled away,
Time ne'er delayeth on his course—
But hour by hour, and day by day,
Makes helpless mortals feel his force.

Who comes into the city's streets
With withered palm-branch in his hand,
Whom every passer reverent greets,
A Palmer from the Holy Land.

His sandal shoon are soiled and torn,
His threadbare mantle tattered waves,
His frame is gaunt and spare and worn,
His eye is keen as sharp-edged glaives.

His beard is matted thick and long,
Coal-black without one hair of grey,
Coal-black his locks that curling strong
Around his haggard features play.

Full stately is his step and gait,
Though wearied seems the way-worn man,
The loiterers by the path that wait,
Turn still his lofty frame to scan.

Fast through the street he wins his way
To fair St. Catherine's Convent bound;
He gains it at the close of day,
That Pilgrim from the Holy Ground.

A relique hath he to bestow
On the good Abbess—worthy dame—
From Hermit who of yore did know,
On English soil her sainted fame.

A Hermit of the Holy Land,
Who long had left his country's shores
To dwell on Syria's burning sand,
Where he Heaven's grace for aye implores.

The Palmer at the Convent gate
Of sweet St. Catherine's—noble pile,
Doth wearied, dust-defiled, await,
And there awaits a weary while.

Hark! 'tis the funeral bell's slow toll,
That dull deep tone accosts his ears—
It sounds for some freed sister's Soul,
Now saved from earthly woes and fears.

He knocks and knocks again, at last
The Portress at the gate appears,
Her aspect is by grief o'ercast,
She speaks with choaking sobs and tears.

“Good Palmer! pardon this delay,
The convent mourns with one full heart,
Her whom the grave receives this day—
The sainted sister Britomart.”

“I grieve to tresspass on your woe,
But fain would speak five minutes space
With the good Abbess ere I go,
And in her hands this packet place.”

“Then, reverend Palmer, come, I pray,”
The weeping Portress answering said,
And, turning from the door, the way
With slow and faultering steps she led.

To give her burthened heart relief
Still dwells she on the mournful theme,
For ofttimes garrulous is grief—
The while her eyes with fond tears stream.

“Oh! Sister Britomart was one
Of loveliest form and loftiest birth;
She left our Queen to be a Nun—
And now for Heaven she leaves the Earth.

From a court beauty, famed and praised,
She came a votaress meek to be;
From Vestal Nun to Angel raised,
She joins a brighter company.

Earl Hubert's youngest, favourite child
She was, the flower of all her race,
So fair, so stately, yet so mild—
Her sweet Soul lightened through her face.

Alas! she lieth in her shroud—
So young—yet, Oh! so ripe to die;
O'er us is come Death's sombre cloud,
For she lives in the illumined sky!”

“Earl Hubert's child?” with thoughtful air
And sorrowing tone, the Palmer said,
“The Ladye Britomart—so fair—
Is she, indeed, good sister—dead?”

“Aye, reverend Palmer, sooth, she is—
Our Ladye guard her Soul and keep;
And may she live in endless bliss,
And joy's eternal harvest reap.

“Amen!” the sable Palmer cried,
Through winding passage long and dim,
Following his sad and sorrowing guide,
Who ceased not whispering still to him,

“Poor Sister Britomart! two years
And more are fled since first she came—
For ever was she then in tears—
Our Abbess used to chide and blame!

'Twas on the first of March—the morn
Was smiling as a morn in May,
That here she weeping came forlorn—
Love-crossed—for so did gossips say.

They said she loved a noble Knight,
Of bearing proud and martial mien,
But rumour said—(oft rumour's right,)
He looked but on our lovely Queen.

Our sweet Queen Berengaria's face
'Twas said he looked on evermore,
Bewitched by her bright charms and grace,
That taught ev'n Paynims to adore!

This grief weighed sore on Britomart,
Her woe in sooth she might not speak!—
But still she sighed and wept apart,
And pale and paler grew her cheek.

This grief was more than she could bear,
This broke her heart and sent her here—
Nay! I doubt not the venomed care
Hath stretched her on her early bier.

Our fair Queen mourned with sorrow true,
Her favourite maiden's loss awhile—
'Twas whispered that Her Grace ne'er knew
The grief that crushed her bloom and smile.

And for the Knight, that self same day,
To Holy Mother Church he gave
His goods and great estates away,
For which may Heaven's dear Saints him save!

And on that self same day he took
The pilgrim's staff and scrip—and went,
With shell and cross, and bead and book,
To Palestine's sweet countrie bent.

Since when—but reverend Palmer, why!
What dost thou loitering thus behind?—
Our Lady Abbess' room is nigh,
Whom we shall lone and praying find.

Move softly on—she watching weeps,
She bends beneath this weary loss,
And many a lonely vigil keeps,
With beads, and breviary, and cross.

They moved then on a few steps more,
Both silent now they moved on slow,
Then oped his guide the massive door,
And spoke his errand whispering low.

Vaulted and lofty was the room,
Whence Eve's last rays excluded were,
Pale tapers flickered in the gloom,
And frowning shadows lengthened there.

Full in the midst—deep veil'd and still
The Abbess of St. Catherine sate,
Some mournful duty to fulfil,
She seem'd attired in solemn state.

She signed the cross, she bent her head,
Faint welcome bade in whisper hoarse—
She sate beside the shrouded dead,
The patient watcher of the corse.

Extended cold and moveless there,
A form remained composed in death,
Around a shroud was drawn with care,
White as the mountain's snowy wreath.

Beneath that floating veil which spread,
Of clear transparent texture fine—
Bright locks a sunny lustre shed,
And gleamed with rich and golden shine!—

And those calm marble features showed
All beautiful in Death's repose—
Such the pale moon when her abode
Is 'midst faint clouds, like sculptured snows.

The clay-cold hands were gently crossed
Upon that hushed unthrobbing heart;
Oh! early to Life's sorrows lost,
Thou slumberest well, sweet Britomart!

But in thy brief and rapid life,
'Twas thine deep Suffering's cup to drain—
And they who bear such bosomed strife,
Ne'er long to bear its brunt remain.

The Palmer then, sans word or sign,
Knelt down beside the silent Dead—
He knelt as by some hallowed shrine,
And lowly bowed he his bare head!

With head uncovered, low he bowed,
And prayed for that departed Soul,
While ever sounded, deep and loud,
The solemn bell's funereal toll.

With head uncovered, low he bent,
And seemed absorbed in silent prayer,
The Abbess, with long watching spent,
Sate silent as the slumberer there.

And all the while with iron tongue,
That ghostly bell did loudly toll—
With stern vibrations still it rung,
And smote upon the answering Soul.

Long, long in secret prayer he knelt,
That silent man—then slow arose,
Loosed a light packet from his belt,
Which sacred relique doth enclose.

That sacred relique was a shred
Of blessed Mary's precious hair—
A shred from that divinest head,
In Beatific Beauty fair.

“Mother of Sorrows!” murmured low
The Abbess, as she reverent took
The all-hallowed gift—“Thou drank'st of woe—
On griefs unmatched—'twas thine to look!

Mother of Sorrows!—hear—oh, hear!
Heal our faint hearts with anguish riven,
Wipe from our weary eyes the tear,
And snatch our Sister's Soul to Heaven!”

“Amen!” in faultering accents said
That Palmer pale—Saint Catherine's guest—
Then bless'd the corse—and gently laid
His withered palm-branch on its breast!