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 Young Queen-Wife.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Young Queen-Wife.
HOW MARGARET OF NAVARRE DISPORTED IN THE LOUVRE GARDENS.
The fountain gods in marble strength
Struggle through mists of silvery water;
All round the yellow blossoms press,
Turning the crystal gold. O daughter
Of France, the darling of the sun,
Thou Valois, royal, proud, and fair,
See how the swan, with arching neck,
Casts snowy shadows everywhere.
Struggle through mists of silvery water;
All round the yellow blossoms press,
Turning the crystal gold. O daughter
Of France, the darling of the sun,
Thou Valois, royal, proud, and fair,
See how the swan, with arching neck,
Casts snowy shadows everywhere.
95
Ha! when they hear her satin rustle,
The golden shoals of Indian fish
Leap to the surface, lover-like,
Anticipating beauty's wish.
She shakes her jewel-glittering fan,—
They disappear beneath the lilies,
Turning as quick as dragon-flies,
As fickle-swift as Arab fillies.
The golden shoals of Indian fish
Leap to the surface, lover-like,
Anticipating beauty's wish.
She shakes her jewel-glittering fan,—
They disappear beneath the lilies,
Turning as quick as dragon-flies,
As fickle-swift as Arab fillies.
O see with what a sweet caprice
Queen Margaret runs to race the swallow,
By courtly nodding poplar-trees,
Or through the laurels in the hollow;
And now with pretty angry haste
She flies her little Persian hawk,
Gold jesses on, at butterflies
That skim the level terrace-walk.
Queen Margaret runs to race the swallow,
By courtly nodding poplar-trees,
Or through the laurels in the hollow;
And now with pretty angry haste
She flies her little Persian hawk,
Gold jesses on, at butterflies
That skim the level terrace-walk.
96
Then throws herself with witching grace
Upon the mossy violet bank,
And laughs to swooning at the page
Claiming the jester's bells and rank;
Now mounts her dappled palfrey, which
She governs with a silver thread,
A rope of pearls about her breast,
A Venice tiring on her head.
Upon the mossy violet bank,
And laughs to swooning at the page
Claiming the jester's bells and rank;
Now mounts her dappled palfrey, which
She governs with a silver thread,
A rope of pearls about her breast,
A Venice tiring on her head.
A tilt with rushes! How she swerves
In madcap caracoles, and turns
Around the pompous Chamberlain,
Until his flap-ear tingling burns;
Then strikes, with wanton page's whip,
The piebald jester Bobinel,
Or at the snowy rings of doves
Fires off her Milan petronel.
In madcap caracoles, and turns
Around the pompous Chamberlain,
Until his flap-ear tingling burns;
Then strikes, with wanton page's whip,
The piebald jester Bobinel,
Or at the snowy rings of doves
Fires off her Milan petronel.
The fair young wife! her merry blood
Rose effervescing like champagne;
She laughed when sullen Coligny
Told her how hard it was to reign—
How hard to share a monarch's joys,
And yet escape a monarch's sins;
She, mocking says, “Our Admiral
Thinks much too crabbedly of things.
Rose effervescing like champagne;
She laughed when sullen Coligny
Told her how hard it was to reign—
How hard to share a monarch's joys,
And yet escape a monarch's sins;
She, mocking says, “Our Admiral
Thinks much too crabbedly of things.
“Be this Queen Margaret's decree:
I will, throughout our sunny France,
In every pot a capon boil,
To light the fire break pike and lance;
I banish every sullen face—
Let all who love their Margot smile—
Perpetual sunshine I command,
Believing melancholy guile.”
I will, throughout our sunny France,
In every pot a capon boil,
To light the fire break pike and lance;
I banish every sullen face—
Let all who love their Margot smile—
Perpetual sunshine I command,
Believing melancholy guile.”
To humour her, a herald page
Blew three times on a silver horn;
And all cried, “Viva Marguerite!
The Rose, the Rose without a thorn!”
She, laughing, bowing, stroked her hawk,
And bade them saddle for the chase,
Trying her crossbow lock—serene
Her candid brow, her happy face.
Blew three times on a silver horn;
And all cried, “Viva Marguerite!
The Rose, the Rose without a thorn!”
She, laughing, bowing, stroked her hawk,
And bade them saddle for the chase,
Trying her crossbow lock—serene
Her candid brow, her happy face.
She was the gayest, maddest thing,
As full of gambols as a fawn—
Born some May morn, and sunbeam fed,
Child of the sunshine and the dawn.
To see her, when the poet took
His pen to write a canzonet,
Lean languidly against the vase,
Beside the Psyche grandly set!
As full of gambols as a fawn—
Born some May morn, and sunbeam fed,
Child of the sunshine and the dawn.
To see her, when the poet took
His pen to write a canzonet,
Lean languidly against the vase,
Beside the Psyche grandly set!
Even the Chancellor grew glad
When she would call him to the dance,
Or with a blossom, playful tossed,
Awoke him from a moody trance.
Her laugh was good as book and bell
To scare all evil things away;
Whene'er she came, she seemed to chase
One-half the shadows from the day.
When she would call him to the dance,
Or with a blossom, playful tossed,
Awoke him from a moody trance.
Her laugh was good as book and bell
To scare all evil things away;
Whene'er she came, she seemed to chase
One-half the shadows from the day.
A living carmine dyed her cheek—
Her bosom was the sunniest snow—
A lily, Summer-tinged, her neck—
Ivory white her swelling brow.
Oh, she was beautiful!—her skin
Was soft as rose-leaves—fie! her hand
Was white as April's purest cloud—
She was fit Queen for Dian's band!
Her bosom was the sunniest snow—
A lily, Summer-tinged, her neck—
Ivory white her swelling brow.
Oh, she was beautiful!—her skin
Was soft as rose-leaves—fie! her hand
Was white as April's purest cloud—
She was fit Queen for Dian's band!
Blue eyes she had, so soft, and filled
With such a swimming, dancing light,
They shed a glory when they beamed,
Star-like and excellently bright.
A Venice tiring, edged with pearls,
Arched o'er her forehead like a wreath;—
What lapidary's angled stone
Could match the eyes that shone beneath?
With such a swimming, dancing light,
They shed a glory when they beamed,
Star-like and excellently bright.
A Venice tiring, edged with pearls,
Arched o'er her forehead like a wreath;—
What lapidary's angled stone
Could match the eyes that shone beneath?
Just now—eyes sparkling with fun—
She bade them shower the flower-leaves o'er her;
A Flora crowned, she stood to hear
Old Ronsard touch his “Mandragora”—
The Sleep Song, that he made to lull
His mistress, whom his serenade
Had woke too rudely—sweet it was
To hear a lute so deftly played.
She bade them shower the flower-leaves o'er her;
A Flora crowned, she stood to hear
Old Ronsard touch his “Mandragora”—
The Sleep Song, that he made to lull
His mistress, whom his serenade
Had woke too rudely—sweet it was
To hear a lute so deftly played.
97
And now this Juno, still in bud,
Proud gathers up her satin train,
Laughing to scorn old Coligny
Telling a Valois how to reign;—
Maulevrier passing through an arch
Of flowers still dripping with the dew,
Whispers, “The Admiral will know more
By next year's St. Bartholomew.”
Proud gathers up her satin train,
Laughing to scorn old Coligny
Telling a Valois how to reign;—
Maulevrier passing through an arch
Of flowers still dripping with the dew,
Whispers, “The Admiral will know more
By next year's St. Bartholomew.”
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |