Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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The Dying Seneschal.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Dying Seneschal.
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[Supposed to be the lamentation of Sir Walter Fitzosbert, one of the five Norman knights who conquered Gwent, and who, if we can believe the Chronicle of Ernulphus, was taken prisoner by Sir Geoffry Mauleverer, Lord of Goodrich, and died of famine in the Yellow Tower of that castle, A.D. 1182.
The knight is dust,And his good sword is rust,
And his soul is with the saints we trust.]
So long this dull weight at my heart
The weary night; the lingering day
As loath to dawn as to depart.
I never thought this aching brain
Would now have burst, or borne so long
The torture of this scorn and wrong.
All nature's full of liberty:
Look at yon clouds, how glad they be,
They seem fresh loosed from slavery;
The wind is free each leaf to kiss
On every forest tree that is;
I feel it at my prison bars
Drive swifter than the falling stars.
The stream flows on with ceaseless motion
To do glad homage to the ocean.
The wild birds wind their unchecked way
Through all the bright clouds' fair array.
Yet I, the freest of the free,
Rot here in thraldom's infamy.
Was never knight so free as I—
Free as the falcon in the sky,
So blithe, and glad, and debonair,
Free as the restless wandering air,
Free as the white trout of the lake,
Free as the shy and wily snake.
I cared not for the scorching heat,
When hot suns on my armour beat;
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When lambs were frozen in the fold;
When it chilled through his dark fur robe the mole,
And the dormouse nestling deeper stole.
Then would I rest my helmèd head
Upon a root, the snow my bed.
I the wild mountain deer could tire,
Could tame the unbroke charger's fire,
Could swim the lake, stem the red ford,
Though cumbered with my spear and sword,
Could bend the bow of a man of mould,
Could track the eagle to his hold.
Fool that I am to waste regret,
While with my blood the stones are wet.
Oh! for some human thing to see,
Though it came but to mock at my misery—
Though it came my grief and shame to share;
And, instead of pious word and prayer,
Beheld me with a cruel stare;
'T were pleasant as the glimpse of day
To forest traveller astray.
I watched me by the livelong hour
My only friend—a simple flower,
That grew from a chink in a massive stone
On the parapet 'neath my prison grate,
Spring up untended and alone.
I viewed it early, viewed it late—
Was never flower so fresh and fair;
And through the balmy Summer air
It shed a calm repose on me,
Like the sight of happy infancy.
God's benison, dear thing, on thee!
I watched the gentle friendly weed,
Each sweet flower ope and shed its seed;
But the rough wind plucked it leaf by leaf,
Till nothing was left for me but grief;
Just at the closing of the day
I saw the last one whirled away.
Unhappy wretch! I seem to blight
Even things lovely in my sight.
'T was the only thing I loved, and now,
Beshrew the tear! has this pale brow
No greater grief, that it should weep?
Proud heart, take cheer! I saw it creep
O'er the rude stone that shelter gave,
Where its seed had found a dark small grave,
And strew it with its flowerets fair,
As if it loved its gifts to share;
For everything but the human brood
Hath got some touch of gratitude.
It rose in Spring, and all through May
The flower had made its silent way;
And every shower that passèd o'er
Added but loveliness the more;
And every cloud that by us past
Some bright reflection on it cast;
The wind that tears the forest tree
Lent gentle influence to thee.
But, hush thee, tongue! I feel each vein
Throb slower, and a keener pain
Gnaw at my heart: the guarding slave
Shall never hear a true knight crave
A look of pity; the wolf dies silent in his den,
And so do all true Norman men.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |