The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page,
And beare to my gaye ladye
This ringe of the good red gowde, and be sure
Rede well what she tellethe to thee.

And take tent, little page, if my ladye's cheeke
Be with watchinge and weepinge pale;
If her locks are unkempt, and her bonnie eyes redde;
And come backe and telle me thye tale.

And marke, little page, when thou showest the ringe,
If she snatchethe it hastelye,
If the red blude mount up her slendere throate
To her forehedde of ivorye.

And take good heeded, if, for gladnesse or griefe,
So chaungethe mye ladye's cheere;
You shalle know bye her eyes, if their lichte laugh oute,
Through the miste of a startinge teare,

Like the summer sunne through a morninge cloude,
There needeth no furthere tokenne,
That mye ladye brighte to her owne true knighte
Hath keepit her faithe unbrokenne.

Now ride, little page, for the sunne peeres oute
Owre the rimme of the eastern heavenne,
And backe thou must bee with thy tidinges to mee
Ere the shadowe falles far at evenne.”

146

Awaye and awaye! and he's farre on his waye,
The little foot-page alreddye;
For he's backed on his lorde's own gallante graye,
That steede so swift and steddye.

But the knighte stands there like a charmedde manne,
Watchinge with eare and eye
The clatteringe speede of his noble steede,
That swifte as the windes doth flye.

But the windes and the lichtninges are loitererres alle
To the glaunce of a luver's mynde;
And Sir Alwynne, I trow, had thocht Bonnybelle slowe,
Had her fleetnesse outstrippit the wynde.

Beseemed to him that the sunne once more
Had stayedde his course that daye;
Never sicke manne longed for morninge licht,
As Sir Alwynne for eveninge graye.

But the longeste daye must ende at laste,
And the brighteste sunne must sette:
Where stayde Sir Alwynne at peepe of dawne,
There at even he stayethe him yette.

And he spyethe at last—“Not soe, not soe;
'Tis a small graye cloude, Sir Knighte,
That risethe up like a courser's hedde
On that borderre of gowden licht.”

“Bot harke! bot harke! for I heare it nowe;
'Tis the comynge of Bonnybelle!”
“Not soe, Sir Knighte! from that rockye height,
'Twas a clatteringe stone that felle.”

147

“That slothfulle boye!—but I'll thinke no more
Of him and that lagginge jade to-daye.”
“Righte, righte, Sir Knighte!“—“Nay, now by this lichte,
Here comethe my page and my gallante graye!”

“Howe nowe, little page! ere thou lichteste downe,
Speake but one worde out hastylye;
Little page, hast thou seen mye ladye luve?
Hathe mye ladye keepit her faith with me?”

“I've seene thye ladye luve, Sir Knighte,
And welle hathe she keepit her faithe with thee.”
“Lichte downe, lichte downe, mye trustye page;
A berrye browne barbe shall thy guerdon be.

Telle on, telle on! Was mye ladye's cheeke
Pale as the lilye, or rosye redde?
Did she put the ringe on her finger smalle?
And what was the very firste worde she sedde?”

“Pale was thye ladye's cheeke, Sir Knighte;
Blent with no streake of the rosye redde.
I put the ringe on her finger smalle:
But there is no voice amongste the dedde.”

There are torches hurryinge to and froe
In Raeburne Towerre to-nighte,
And the chapelle dothe glowe with lampes alsoe,
As if for a brydalle ryte.

148

But where is the bryde? and the brydegroome where?
And where is the holye prieste?
And where are the guestes that shoulde biddenne be,
To partake of the marriage feast?

The bryde from her chamberre descendethe slowe,
And the brydegroome her hande hath ta'en,
And the guestes are mette, and the holy prieste
Precedethe the marriage traine.

The bryde is the fayre Maude Winstanlye,
And Dethe her sterne brydegroome;
And her father followes his onlye childe
To her mothere's yawninge tombe.

An agedde manne! and a wofulle manne!
And a heavye moane makes he:
“Mye childe! mye childe! mine onlye childe!
Would God I had dyedde for thee!”

An agedde manne, those white haires telle,
And that bendedde backe and knee;
Yette a stalwart knighte at Tewkesburye fighte
Was Sir Archibalde Winstanlye.

'Tis a movinge thinge to see the teares
Wrunge oute frae an agedde eye,
Seldome and slowe, like the scantye droppes
Of a fountaine that's neere a-drye.

'Tis a sorrye sighte to see graye haires
Brocht downe to the grave with sorrowe!
Youth lukes through the cloude of the presente daye
For a goldenne gleame to-morrowe.

149

Bot the palsyede hedde, and the feeble knees,
Berefte of earthlye staye! . . . .
God help thee nowe, olde Winstanlye!
Gude Christians for thee praye!—

Bot manye a voice in that burialle traine
Breathes gloomilye aparte,
“Thou hadst not been childelesse nowe, olde manne,
Bot for thine owne harde hearte!”

And manye a mayde, who strewethe floweres
Afore the Ladye's biere,
Weepes oute, “Thou hadst not dyede, sweete Maude,
If Alwynne had beene heere!”

What solemne chaunte ascendeth slowe?
What voices peale the straine?
The Monkes of St Switholm's Abbaye neare
Have mette the funeralle traine.

They hold their landes, full many a roode,
From the Knightes of Raeburne Towerre;
And everre when Dethe doth claime his preye
From within that lordlye bowerre,

Then come the holye Fatheris forthe,
The shrowdedde corse to meete,
And see it laide in hallowde grave,
With requiem sadde and sweete.

150

And nowe they turne, and leade the waye
To that laste home so nigh,
Where alle the race of Winstanlye
In dust and darknesse lye.

The holye altarre blazethe brighte
With waxenne taperres high;
Elsewhere, in dimme and doubtfulle lycht
Doth alle the chapelle lye.

Huge undefinedde shadowes falle
From pillare and from tombe;
And manye a grimme old monumente
Lookes ghastelye through the gloome.

And manye a rustye shirt of maile
The eye maye scantlye trace;
And crestedde helmette, blacke and barred,
That grinnes with sterne grimace.

Bannerre and scutcheon from the walles
Wave in the cald nighte aire;
Gleames oute their gorgeous heraldrye
In the enteringe torches' glare.

For nowe the mourninge companye,
Beneathe that archedde doore,
Beare in the lovelye, lifelesse claye,
Shall passe thereoute no more.

And up the soundinge aisle ye stille
Their solemne chaunte may heare;
Tille 'neath that blazonned catafalque
They gentlye reste the biere:

151

Then ceasethe everye sounde of life;
So deepe that awfulle hushe,
Ye heare from yon freshe opennedde vaulte
The hollowe deathe-winde rushe.

Backe from the biere the mournerres alle
Retire a little space;
Alle bot that olde bereavedde manne,
Who takethe there his place

Beside the dedde:—but none may see
The workinges of his mynde;
So lowe upon that sunkenne breste
Is that graye hedde declinede.

The masse is saide, they raise the dedde,
The palle is flunge aside;
And soone that coffinned lovelyenesse
The darksome pit shalle hide.

It gapeth close at hande.—Deep downe
Ye maye the coffinnes see,
By the lampe's dull glare, freshe kindledde there,
Of many a Winstanlye.

And the gildedde nails on one looke brighte,
And the velvette of cramoisie;
She hathe not laine there a calenderre yeere,
The last Dame Winstanlye.

152

“There's roome for thee heere, oh daughter deere!”
Methinkes I heare her saye—
“There's roome for thee, Maude Winstanlye;
Come downe—make no delaye!”

And, from the vaulte, two grimlye armes
Upraised, demaunde the dedde! . . .
Hark! hark! 'tis the tramp of a rushinge steede!
'Tis the clanke of an armedde tredde!

There's an armedde hedde at the chapelle doore;
And in armoure all bedighte
In coal-black steele, from hedde to heele,
In steppes an armedde Knighte!

And upp the aisle, with heavye tredde,
Alone advauncethe he;
To barre his waye, dothe none essaye
Of the funeralle companye.

And never a voice amongste them all
Dothe aske who he mote be;
Nor why his armedde steppe disturbes
That sadde solemnitye.

Yette manye an eye, with fixedde stare,
Dothe sternelye on him frown;
Bot none may trace the straunger's face—
He weares his vizorre downe.

He speakes no worde, but waves his hande,
And straighte theye alle obeye;
And everye soule that standethe there,
Falles backe to make him waye.

153

He passethe on—no hande dothe stirre;
His steppe the onlye sounde;
He passethe on, and signes them sette
The coffinne on the grounde.

A momente gazinge down thereonne,
With foldedde armes dothe staye;
Then stoopinge, with one mightye wrench
He teares the lidde awaye.

Then risethe a confusedde sounde,
And some half forwarde starte,
And murmurre “sacriledge!” And some
Beare hastilye aparte

The agedde Knighte, at that straunge sighte
Whose consciousnesse hathe fledde—
Bot signe nor sounde disturbethe him
Who gazethe on the dedde.

And seemethe sune, as that faire face
Dothe alle exposedde lye,
As if its holye calme o'erspredde
The frowninge faces bye.

And nowe beside the Virginne corse
Downe kneeles the straunger Knighte,
And backe his vizorrede helme he throwes,
Bot not in openne sight;

For to the pale, colde clammye face,
His owne he stoopethe lowe,
And kissethe firste the bludeless cheeke,
And then the marble browe.

154

Then, to the dedde lippes gluede, so long
The livinge lippes do staye,
As if in that sad silente kisse
The soule had paste awaye.

Bot suddenne, from that mortal trance,
As with a desperate straine,
Up! up! he springes—his armoure ringes—
His vizorre's downe againe.

With many a flouerre, her weepinge maydes
The Layde's shroude have dressed;
And one white rose is in the faulde
That veiles her whiterre breste.

One gowdenne ringlette on her browe,
Escapedde forth, dothe straye;
So on a wreathe of driftedde snowe
The wintrye sunbeames playe.

The mailedde hande hath ta'en the rose
From offe that breste so fayre;
The faulchion's edge, from that pale hedde,
Hath shorne the gowden haire.

One heavye sigh!—the firste and last—
One deepe and stifledde groane!
A few longe strides, a clange of hoofes,
And the armedde straunger's gone!