 | Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell |  |
THE MARRIAGE ZONE.
I.
One day after my betrothal I was forced to take my way,
With the Lord de Rieux's army, where the scene of combat lay;
In the suite of the old Baron I was forced to cross the sea,
That in Wales I might do battle for the Britons bold and free—
With the Lord de Rieux's army, where the scene of combat lay;
In the suite of the old Baron I was forced to cross the sea,
That in Wales I might do battle for the Britons bold and free—
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“Haste thee now, my page so trusty, and come with me to the fight!”
On this day, O bitter sorrow! out, alas! this woeful night,
Must I to my Bride so gentle say a sad and long adieu!
Oh, the heart within my bosom will with anguish break in two!”
As he neared the ancient mansion, trembled he until he bow'd,
As he crossed the well-known threshold, then his heart beat fast and loud.
On this day, O bitter sorrow! out, alas! this woeful night,
Must I to my Bride so gentle say a sad and long adieu!
Oh, the heart within my bosom will with anguish break in two!”
As he neared the ancient mansion, trembled he until he bow'd,
As he crossed the well-known threshold, then his heart beat fast and loud.
“Come, dear knight, draw near the hearthstone, while I give thee bread to eat.”
“No, gramercy,” thus replied he, “neither want I wine nor meat;
All the favour I implore thee, all the boon I of thee seek,
Is that with thy fairest daughter I may have thy leave to speak.”
“No, gramercy,” thus replied he, “neither want I wine nor meat;
All the favour I implore thee, all the boon I of thee seek,
Is that with thy fairest daughter I may have thy leave to speak.”
When the lady heard his answer, off she slipp'd her silken shoon,
Then stepp'd quickly in her hosen, stepp'd up to the bedside soon,
And thus leaning over gently, spake in accents soft and mild,
Then stepp'd quickly in her hosen, stepp'd up to the bedside soon,
And thus leaning over gently, spake in accents soft and mild,
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“Wake, Aloida! dearest maiden, leave thy bed, my darling child;
Quickly rouse thee from thy slumbers, sweetest daughter, list, I pray,
He, thy true love, craves thy presence, much he has with thee to say.”
From the bed the maiden darted, swift as arrow thro' the air,
O'er her snowy shoulders floated masses of her night-black hair.
Quickly rouse thee from thy slumbers, sweetest daughter, list, I pray,
He, thy true love, craves thy presence, much he has with thee to say.”
From the bed the maiden darted, swift as arrow thro' the air,
O'er her snowy shoulders floated masses of her night-black hair.
Then I said, “Alas! Aloida, oh, my brightest, fairest bride,
O'er the sea I sail to-morrow, leaving, sweetest, thy dear side.
We must part, for unto England with the Baron bold I go;
Ah! the dear God knoweth only all the sharpness of my woe.”
O'er the sea I sail to-morrow, leaving, sweetest, thy dear side.
We must part, for unto England with the Baron bold I go;
Ah! the dear God knoweth only all the sharpness of my woe.”
“In the name of yon blue heaven, sail not, my belov'd, from me,
For the wind it is inconstant, and all treach'rous is the sea.
Shouldst thou die, what then would happen to Aloida, hapless dove,
Oh, my heart would break, impatient, waiting tidings of my love.
For the wind it is inconstant, and all treach'rous is the sea.
Shouldst thou die, what then would happen to Aloida, hapless dove,
Oh, my heart would break, impatient, waiting tidings of my love.
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On the beach I lone shall wander, where the fishers' dwellings rise,
And shall ask of all who meet me, anxious looking in their eyes:
‘Have ye heard, ye kindly seamen, have ye heard, oh, truly tell:
Aught of him, my own betrothed, him I only love too well?’”
And shall ask of all who meet me, anxious looking in their eyes:
‘Have ye heard, ye kindly seamen, have ye heard, oh, truly tell:
Aught of him, my own betrothed, him I only love too well?’”
Thus outspoke the maiden weeping, weeping 'midst her grief and woe,
Whilst the knight, her sorrow soothing, kiss'd the bright tears in their flow.
Whilst the knight, her sorrow soothing, kiss'd the bright tears in their flow.
“Ah, forbear, Aloida dearest; Sweet! these bitter tears restrain,
I will bring thee back a girdle from the countries o'er the main;
Yes, a marriage zone I'll bring thee, of a purple deep and bright,
All y'decked with burning rubies, sparkling as the stars of night.”
I will bring thee back a girdle from the countries o'er the main;
Yes, a marriage zone I'll bring thee, of a purple deep and bright,
All y'decked with burning rubies, sparkling as the stars of night.”
Oh, to see the knight thus seated by the fire's fast-fading glow,
With Aloida on his bosom, and her head down drooping low,
And her arms his neck encircling, arms as white as driven snow,
All the while in silence weeping, dreading the approach of day,
Of that dark and fatal morning which should tear her love away!
With Aloida on his bosom, and her head down drooping low,
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All the while in silence weeping, dreading the approach of day,
Of that dark and fatal morning which should tear her love away!
When the dawn at length broke dimly, sadly thus out-spoke the knight:
“Hark, my sweet! the cock is crowing, and appear the streaks of light.”
“Hark, my sweet! the cock is crowing, and appear the streaks of light.”
“Nay, my love, he only cheats us, rest thou, dearest, patient, still,
'Tis the moon, that softly shineth on the brow of yonder hill.”
'Tis the moon, that softly shineth on the brow of yonder hill.”
“Sweetest love, I cry thee mercy, 'tis the sun whose rays appear,
Shining thro' the eastern casement, with a radiance all too clear.”
Shining thro' the eastern casement, with a radiance all too clear.”
Now he's left the ancient portal, now he's crossed the olden moat,
As he goes the raven croaketh from his hoarse ill-omen'd throat.
If all treacherous is the ocean, tempting to a watery grave,
Far more treacherous still is woman, falser than the changing wave!
As he goes the raven croaketh from his hoarse ill-omen'd throat.
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Far more treacherous still is woman, falser than the changing wave!
II.
When the summer waned to autumn, on the feast of St. John's Day,
Thus, to some of her companions, the young girl was heard to say:
Thus, to some of her companions, the young girl was heard to say:
“I saw far upon the ocean, from the top of Mount Arey,
Struggling hard a gallant vessel, which the waves sought for their prey;
On the poop stood my bold lover, like a knight who ne'er would yield,
Clasp'd his hand his gleaming falchion, and before him hung his shield.
And he fought the foemen fiercely, from the place whereon he stood,
Never flinching from the conflict till he fell all bathed in blood.”
Struggling hard a gallant vessel, which the waves sought for their prey;
On the poop stood my bold lover, like a knight who ne'er would yield,
Clasp'd his hand his gleaming falchion, and before him hung his shield.
And he fought the foemen fiercely, from the place whereon he stood,
Never flinching from the conflict till he fell all bathed in blood.”
Thus she said, the fair Aloida, down her cheeks the hot tears glide;
And at Christmas, holy season, she becomes another's bride.
Now good news and joyful tidings greet the ear on every hand,
War is o'er, the knight returneth, victor, to his native land.
As he flies, on wings of rapture, to Aloida's long'd-for home,
Sounds of loud and dulcet harpings from each brilliant chamber come;
And from every window'd lattice lights are streaming gay and bright,
Chasing all the gloomy shadows from the raven wings of night.
And at Christmas, holy season, she becomes another's bride.
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War is o'er, the knight returneth, victor, to his native land.
As he flies, on wings of rapture, to Aloida's long'd-for home,
Sounds of loud and dulcet harpings from each brilliant chamber come;
And from every window'd lattice lights are streaming gay and bright,
Chasing all the gloomy shadows from the raven wings of night.
“O ye singers of the Yule-tide, who now cross the fields to me,
What good tidings can ye tell me of the house from whence ye be?
Say, what meaneth all this music, borne along so sweet and clear
From the doors of yonder mansion to the pleased and listening ear?”
What good tidings can ye tell me of the house from whence ye be?
Say, what meaneth all this music, borne along so sweet and clear
From the doors of yonder mansion to the pleased and listening ear?”
“There are on the harp sweet players, two and two who skilful play,
When the bridal milk-soup reaches first the happy bride's doorway;
There are others, harpers also, who play sweetly three and three,
As the milk-soup first is carried o'er the porch with mirth and glee.”
When the bridal milk-soup reaches first the happy bride's doorway;
There are others, harpers also, who play sweetly three and three,
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III.
Whilst the serfs and vassals bidden feasted richly, one and all,
Came there up a traveller lowly, asking shelter in the hall:
“Give me, gentle sirs, I pray you, of your pity give me bread;
Night is hastening, and I know not where to lay my weary head.”
Came there up a traveller lowly, asking shelter in the hall:
“Give me, gentle sirs, I pray you, of your pity give me bread;
Night is hastening, and I know not where to lay my weary head.”
“Welcome art thou, wanderer weary; thou shalt find both food and rest,
And at table shalt be seated with the noblest and the best;
Pray draw nigh, friend, that my husband and myself may tend our guest.”
And at table shalt be seated with the noblest and the best;
Pray draw nigh, friend, that my husband and myself may tend our guest.”
As they trod the first gay measure, said the bride with winsome glance:
“What is't aileth thee, poor stranger, that thou dost not join the dance?”
“What is't aileth thee, poor stranger, that thou dost not join the dance?”
“Nothing, lady. If I dance not,” answered he with falt'ring breath,
“'Tis that, worn and faint with travel, I am wearied unto death.”
“'Tis that, worn and faint with travel, I am wearied unto death.”
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As they trod the second measure, said the bride with winsome glance:
“What! art weary still, I pray thee, that thou wilt not join the dance?”
“What! art weary still, I pray thee, that thou wilt not join the dance?”
“Lady, yes, I am a-weary; oh, most weary am I still!
And a weight is at my bosom, and a pain my heart doth fill.”
And a weight is at my bosom, and a pain my heart doth fill.”
At the third dance, smiling sweetly, thus outspoke the lady free:
“Come, sir stranger, of thy courtesy, come and join the dance with me.”
“Come, sir stranger, of thy courtesy, come and join the dance with me.”
“Lady, surely this great honour is, for one like me, too high;
Yet who could be so uncourteous as decline or pass it by?”
Yet who could be so uncourteous as decline or pass it by?”
As they dance he leans and whispers, hissing hoarsely in her ears,
Whilst a smile both wan and ghastly on his white lips now appears,
“Where's the ring of gold I gave thee, at the door where here we stand?
Scarce a twelvemonth has pass'd over since I press'd it on thy hand.”
Whilst a smile both wan and ghastly on his white lips now appears,
“Where's the ring of gold I gave thee, at the door where here we stand?
Scarce a twelvemonth has pass'd over since I press'd it on thy hand.”
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Then, with eyes and hands uplifted, cried the bride in awe-struck tone,
“All my peace, O God, is over, all my happiness is gone!
Deeming that I was bereavèd, that my first love lost his life,
Now, instead of one, two husbands claim me for their wedded wife!”
“All my peace, O God, is over, all my happiness is gone!
Deeming that I was bereavèd, that my first love lost his life,
Now, instead of one, two husbands claim me for their wedded wife!”
“No! thou'rt wrong indeed, fair maiden, not one husband hast thou now;”
And forth from his vest he draweth, with an angry flashing brow—
Draweth forth the hidden dagger, which he to the very hilt
Buries in the maiden's bosom, trembling deeply for her guilt.
Then her head down drooping slowly, on his quivering breast she lies,
And close to the heart that loved her, calling on her God, she dies.
In Daouly's cloister'd Abbey, you may see a statue fair,
And forth from his vest he draweth, with an angry flashing brow—
Draweth forth the hidden dagger, which he to the very hilt
Buries in the maiden's bosom, trembling deeply for her guilt.
Then her head down drooping slowly, on his quivering breast she lies,
And close to the heart that loved her, calling on her God, she dies.
'Tis of Christ, His virgin mother, which a purple zone doth wear;
'Tis y'decked with sparkling rubies, that most costly seem to be,
And have all been brought with danger far from countries 'cross the sea.
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At the feet of Mary, shaken with a storm of tears and sighs.
| Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell | |