University of Virginia Library

Round Regner's mighty corse, upon the mound,
Prince Edwin and the brethren weeping stood
In the red dawn, while all the men hung back.
And Edwin, when he heard his charger neigh,
Clasped hastily their hands; and, having bade
The noblest man that e'er lay dead on field
A sad, eternal farewell with his eyes,
He, with a slender following of knights,
Passed onwards through a solitary land,
O'er wastes that wore the silence of the sky,
O'er ferny hills that autumn rusts like iron.

And, when he came into his ruined town,
The news spread swift as sunrise—touched high moors,
And waterfalls that never iris wore,
And every natural fastness wherein men
Had flung themselves in haste, and stood at bay.
And, at the news, toward the blackened walls
Thin rills of people 'gan to trickle down
The barren slopes, uncertain; for each heart,
Like some frail bough from which an evil bird
Had fled on dusky wing at step and shout,
Was trembling even yet. And with the first
Of the returning folk, like one that steps
Sudden from mountain vapour, from a grief
That brooked no fellowship, his mother came,
With aspect unsubdued by woe—nay, raised,
Like something smit by heaven's fire, and more
Majestic in its ruin than its prime:
More queenly—wearing sorrow's dreary crown,
And robed in bitter wrongs—than when she moved
In youthful beauty, and the diadem
Paled in more golden hair. The people fell
Back from her side in simple reverence,
And made a lane for sorrow. Tall she stood,
Like some old druid pillar by the sea,
Whose date no legend knows, with all its length
Eaten by foam-flakes and the arrowy salts
Blown blighting from the east, and wildly gazed
Upon the blackened ruins of her home,
Once loud with marriage joy, oft hushed by death,
With working nether lip, while native pride
Scorned weakness back into her heart, and strove
To shut a door on tears—in vain—she stretched
Fond arms of passion out, that Edwin sought
In sudden night, then weeping like a cloud
She hung upon his breast. Though dimmed awhile
By natural sadness, from that fond embrace
He raised a countenance like a rising sun—
Such an infectious light was in his eye,
Such hope and courage in his resolute voice,
Such noble scorn of all calamity,
That from his glance it shrank, a fearful shade
That into nought dislimned. A difficult hour
To try the pith and spirit of a man!
For gathered there the helpless people stood,
Foolish and timorous as a plump of sheep
That shoots this way, now that, and only held
Compact by barking dog and shepherd's cry:
He, like a flame that rises on the wind,
Feeding on what it fights with, cried aloud:—
“The robber that hath robbed us is struck down—
The fire that wasted us is quenched in blood!
Courage, my friends! new dwellings we will raise
And fairer, from these ashes!” Then, in mood
King-like, he grasped an axe, and first disturbed
The forest's silence with a falling pine.
The shock struck heart through the uncertain crowds—
Each spirit rose as from a weight relieved—
At once the hundreds were alive like ants,
Swift-swarming to repair their citadel,
Crushed by a heedless foot. Ere twice a month
The town arose, a palace in its midst,
And girdled round by horror-breathing pines,
From whose unwilling tops the vibrant wind
Drew a hoarse murmur like the wintry surge,
A temple stood, by deities made dark,
Whose ears were closed to dulcimer and lute,
Wide to the clash of shields. And all around
The voice of industry in wood and field
Came back again, like some old pleasant tune
Long broken off, renewed, or silver stream
That sinks in earth, then, reappearing, flows
A mirror for the flowers. Once more the smoke
Uncoiled itself in evening's crimson air,
Once more the kine from out the pasture lowed,
Again within the solitude of woods
The muffled axe was heard. But ever when
On Edwin's heart the apparition came,
The old familiar world that hummed around,
Like mountains hanging green within the mere
Disturbed by dimpling breeze or lone canoe,
Became a weird confusion—something, nothing—
Commixed and mingling in the spinning brain.
As months went by, his mother Donegild,
Though still a ruin, was a ruin sunned,
Whose rents and fissures tell of thunderstroke,
But thunder long ago—where pain is not,
But only, in the quiet summer light,
The gentleness of natural decay.
And in the silent lapse of prosperous time
The bow of Edwin's spirit was relaxed.
In evil days he was the mole that broke
The dangerous surges of calamity,—
Now wind and wave were down. The commonwealth
Was well cemented, and could stand alone,
Without his staying and supporting hand.
In the surcease of effort, love grew strong
And widened from that sweet point in the past,
As the pure pool of moonrise in the east
Soaks through the cloudy texture of the sky,
Till, in the tenderness of light, the woods
Grow flakes of blackness, and the monstrous forms
Of everlasting granite, clamped with iron,
Lose all their horror, and transfigured stand
Soft as the stuff of dreams. Across the hills
Time's gentle ministry was also felt;
For now the grassy mound of Regner's grave
Had grown a portion of the accustomed world—
Familiar as the shapes of distant hills,
And hardly moving sorrow more than they.
Drawn by a heart that boded happiness,
Thither Prince Edwin rode, with all his train,
Feasted a week—the while the ancient King
Was clad with flowers of holiday—and oft
In hall, in greenwood, 'neath the evening star,
In Bertha's half-turned ear, he chid delay,
For she was coy as is a backward spring
That will not take possession of delight
Nor all its buds disclose. And Redwald watched
With smiling eyes, remembering his own youth,
The amorous war of sunbeam and of snow,
And swore it was the way of bashful maids
To turn a sour face on the sweetest thing—
To pine for love, and then, whene'er it comes,
Fly with a red scared face. In his young days
Their mothers did the same. At last, the Prince
Drew the green bud to a sweet rosy tip,
Thence to the open flower; and, when he went,
The death of Regner was made up. Again
King Redwald had his wreath of sons complete.

So, in the very depth of pleasant May,
When every hedge was milky white, the lark,
A speck against a cape of sunny cloud,
Yet heard o'er all the fields—and when his heart
Made all the world as happy as itself—
Prince Edwin, with a score of lusty knights,
Rode forth a bridegroom to bring home his bride.
Brave sight it was to see them on their way,
Their long white mantles ruffling in the wind,
Their jewelled bridles, horses keen as flame
Crushing the flowers to fragrance as they moved!
Now flashed they past the solitary crag,
Now glimmered through the forest's dewy gloom,
Now issued to the sun. The summer night
Hung o'er their tents within the valley pitched,
Her transient pomp of stars. When that had paled,
And when the peaks of all the region stood
Like crimson islands in a sea of dawn,
They, yet in shadow, struck their canvas town,
For love shook slumber from him as a foe,
And would not be delayed. At height of noon,
When, shining from the woods afar in front,
The Prince beheld the Palace gates, his heart
Was lost in its own beatings, like a sound
In echoes. When the cavalcade drew near
To meet it, forth the princely brothers pranced,
In plume and golden scale; and, when they met,
Sudden, from out the Palace, trumpets rang
Gay wedding music. Bertha, 'mong her maids,
Upstarted as she caught the happy sound,
Bright as a star that brightens 'gainst the night.
When forth she came the summer day was dimmed,
For all its sunshine sank into her hair,
Its azure in her eyes. The princely man
Lord of a happiness unknown, unknown,
Which cannot all be known for years and years—
Uncomprehended as the shapes of hills
When one stands in the midst! A week went by,
Deepening from feast to feast; and, at the close,
The grey priest lifted up his solemn hands,
And two fair lives were sweetly blent in one,
As stream in stream. Then, once again, the knights
Were gathered fair as flowers upon the sward,
While, in the distant chambers, women wept,
And, crowding, blest the little golden head,
So soon to lie upon a stranger's breast,
And light that place no more. The gate stood wide—
Forth Edwin came enclothed with happiness,
She trembled at the murmur and the stir
That heaved around: then, on a sudden, shrank,
When through the folds of downcast lids she felt
Burn on her face the wide and staring day,
And all the curious eyes. Her brothers cried,
When she was lifted on the milky steed,
“Ah! little one, 'twill soon be dark to-night!
A hundred times we'll miss thee in a day,
A hundred times we'll rise up to thy call,
And want and emptiness will come on us!
Now, at the last, our love would hold thee back!
Let this kiss snap the cord! Cheer up, my girl;
We'll come and see thee when thou hast a boy
To toss up proudly to his father's face,
To let him hear it crow!” Away they rode;
And still the brethren watched them from the door
Till purple distance took them. How she wept,
When, looking back, she saw the things she knew—
The Palace, streak of waterfall, the mead,
The gloomy belt of forest—fade away
Into the grey of mountains. With a chill
The wide strange world swept round her, and she clung,
Close to her husband's side. A silken tent
They spread for her, and for her tiring girls,
Upon the hills at sunset. All was hushed
Save Edwin, for the thought that Bertha slept
In that wild place—roofed by the moaning wind,
The black blue midnight with its fiery pulse—
So good, so precious, woke a tenderness
In which there lived uneasily a fear
That kept him still awake. And now, high up,
There burned upon the mountain's craggy top
Their journey's rosy signal. On they went;
And as the day advanced, upon a ridge,
They saw their home o'ershadowed by a cloud;
And, hanging but a moment on the steep,
A sunbeam touched it into dusty rain;
And lo the town lay gleaming 'mong the woods,
And the wet shores were bright. As nigh they drew,
The town was emptied to its very babes,
And spread as thick as daisies o'er the fields.
The wind that swayed a thousand chesnut cones,
And sported in the surges of the rye,
Forgot its idle play, and, smit with love.
Dwelt in her fluttering robe. On every side
The people leapt like billows for a sight,
And closed behind, like waves behind a ship.
Yet in the very hubbub of the joy,
A deepening hush went with her on her way;
She was a thing so exquisite, the hind
Felt his own rudeness; silent women blessed
The lady, as her beauty swam in eyes
Sweet with unwonted tears. Through crowds she passed,
Distributing a largess of her smiles;
And, as she entered through the Palace gate,
The wondrous sunshine died from out the air,
And everything resumed its common look.
The sun dropped down into the golden west,
Evening drew on apace; and round the fire
The people sat and talked of her who came
That day to dwell amongst them, and they praised
Her sweet face, saying she was good as fair.

So while the town hummed on as was its wont,
With mill, and wheel, and scythe, and lowing steer
In the green field; while, round a hundred hearths,
Brown Labour boasted of the mighty deeds
Done in the meadow swathes, and envy hissed
Its poison, that corroded all it touched—
Rusting a neighbour's gold, mildewing wheat,
And blistering the pure skin of chastest maid—
Edwin and Bertha sat in marriage joy
From all removed, as heavenly creatures winged,
Alit upon a hill-top near the sun,
When all the world is reft of man and town
By distance, and their hearts the silence fills.
Not long; for unto them, as unto all,
Down from love's height unto the world of men
Occasion called with many a sordid voice.
So forth they fared with sweetness in their hearts,
That took the sense of sharpness from the thorn.
Sweet is love's sun within the heavens alone,
But not less sweet when tempered by a cloud
Of daily duties! Love's elixir, drained
From out the pure and passionate cup of youth,
Is sweet: but better, providently used,
A few drops sprinkled in each common dish
Wherewith the human table is set forth,
Leavening all with heaven. Seated high
Among his people, on the lofty dais,
Dispensing judgment—making woodlands ring
Behind a flying hart with hound and horn—
Talking with workmen on the tawny sands,
Mid skeletons of ships, how best the prow
May slice the big wave and shake off the foam—
Edwin preserved a spirit, calm, composed,
Still as a river at the full of tide;
And in his eye there gathered deeper blue,
And beamed a warmer summer. And when sprang
The angry blood, at sloth, or fraud, or wrong,
Something of Bertha touched him into peace,
And swayed his voice. Among the people went
Queen Bertha, breathing gracious charities,
And saw but smiling faces; for the light
Aye looks on brightened colours. Like the dawn—
(Beloved of all the happy, often sought
In the slow east by hollow eyes that watch—)
She seemed to husked and clownish gratitude
That could but kneel and thank. Of industry
She was the fair exemplar, as she span
Among her maids; and every day she broke
Bread to the needy stranger at her gate.
All sloth and rudeness fled at her approach;
The women blushed and curtsied as she passed,
Preserving word and smile like precious gold;
And, where on pillows clustered children's heads,
A shape of light she floated through their dreams.

But when the gentle Queen was growing pale
With the new life that stirred beneath her heart,
Her brethren rode up to the Palace gates.
Dismounting there, they greeted first the King,
Then kissed her every one. They brought with them
Another kingdom's wonders, which revived
And lived around the table; and their stay
Was that long summer's glorious hunting time.
All day they roared like winds within the woods,
Kept every echo busy with their horns,
Coursed saddest wastes, and broke on lonely pools
With margins lily-paved—that knew no change
Except the snowy convoluted cloud
Down flowing to new shapes without a sound.
One evening, when the hunters sat at feast
With Donegild and Edwin, and the Queen
In silent mood, compact of life and death,
Like day and night in twilight, out they broke
In speech which somewhat antic in attire,
Yet wore most true sincerity at heart.

One cried: “Dost thou remember when we dwelt
In the old world of blue transparent air
Beyond the hills, seven mighty beechen bolls,
The day reposing on our sultry heads,
And thou, the trembling windflower at our feet,
Which no rude wind dared wag till this man came?”

Another then took up the tender thread:
“We missed thee, little sister, as a man
Reft of the special jewel from his neck
With which he loved to play; and, when his hand,
Unthinking, wanders to the empty place,
He starts to find it not!”

And then a third:
“Great changes have come o'er us since thou went'st.
The poor old father, with his grief-bleached head,
Still whitens; and the thought of Regner's death
Yet wears him as a torrent wears a hill.
There is no spring of life in these old men,
And the lopped branch can put forth no fresh leaves—
As they are, they remain. Yet, thanks to Time,
Whose touch alone can numb the bitter wound,
Our Regner's coming would be now as strange,
And would as huge unfitness wear to all,
As did his going hence. The saddest grave
That ever tears kept green must sink at last
Unto the common level of the world;
Then o'er it runs a road.”

And then a fourth:
“Ay, the old lamp is sorely scant of oil,
And gutters in the wind. A gentler hand
Than ours it needs to trim the fallen wick
And shelter the still flame until it dies!”

And so they talked and talked about the past
In which we mortals sweetly rooted stand.
Week after week their going was delayed
Till the heath reddened on the rock—till, like
One golden-mouthed, September preached decay
With all its painted woods. And ere they went,
In Bertha's fragrant bosom lay asleep
The sweetest babe that ever mother blest—
A helpless thing, omnipotently weak;
Naked, yet stronger than a man in mail—
That, with its new-born struggling sob and cry,
Softened the childless Palace, and unsealed
Fountains of love undreamed of. Tenderness
Made every arm a cradle, every voice
Soft as a cradle song. Star-like it lay
In Donegild's dark lap, while o'er it she
Crooned, like a druid forest, weirdest songs.
And as one poring on a precious seed,
Creates a phantom of the future plant
With odorous terraces of leaf and bloom,
Fairer perchance than ever sun will woo—
Edwin upon the infant gazed, until
Before him rose a nobly-statured man,
Unmarred by sloth, by all excess unstained,
Pure-hearted as a girl, whose edge of will
No stubborn grain could turn—wise, resolute—
The kingly crown his natural covering,
As matted hair the hind's. And Bertha hung
Over its slumber all the live-long day
As moveless as a willow that o'er droops
A well, the while there is in all the world
Not wind enough to turn a silvered leaf.

So the boy throve into his second year,
And babbled like a brook, and fluttered o'er
The rushes, like a thing all wings, to meet
His father's coming, and be breathless caught
From the great foot up to the stormy beard
And smothered there in kisses. And whene'er
Edwin and Bertha sat in grave discourse
Of threatened frontier and the kingdom's need,
If the blue eyes looked upward from their knees,
Their voices in a baby language broke
Down to his level, and the sceptre slipped
Unheeded from the hands that loved his curls
Far more to play with. Every day these twain—
Two misers with their gold in one fair chest
Enclosed—hung o'er him in his noon-day sleep
Upon the wolf-skin—blessed the tumbled hair,
Cheek pillow-dinted, little mouth half-oped
With the serenest passage of pure breath,
Red as a rose-bud pouting to a rose;
Eyelids that gave the slumber-misted blue;
One round arm doubled, while the other lay,
With dainty elbow dimpled like a cheek,
Beside a fallen plaything. Slumbering there,
The fondest dew of praises on him fell,
And the low cry with which he woke was stilled
By a proud mother's mouth.

Then, while the boy
Grew imitative as an echo, while
His mother passed beyond her girlish joys,
And sorrows transient as a summer shower
Chased by the laughing blue, and reached that peace
Of perfect love, that weather of the heart,
Which is the image of the windless days
When July sleeps within the golden air,
And the wheat ripens in its rank—and while
King Edwin roamed the happiest Prince on ground—
The black cloud floated over them and broke;
In spring-time when the trees were newly-dressed,
When from its sleep came forth the snake, and when
The nestless cuckoo sought the sparrow's house,
Warm-lined in hawthorn hedge, and left her own
Among the turquoise eggs.

A robber clan
Dwelt in the wastes upon his kingdom's edge,
And harried many a homestead, many a farm;
So, when the cry for succour reached the throne,
King Edwin rose, and with a cloud of horse
Passed suddenly into a townless land,
And fought the robbers there, and many slew,
And pushed the rest, confused, into a marsh
Where rose the leader's tower. There closely cooped
He stood at bay, like badger in his hole,
While men and dogs unearth him. At the last,
The bandits, hunger-clung, burned up with thirst,
Wild-eyed, and clad in rusty iron, came forth,
And offered Edwin, for the gift of life,
Horses, and gold, and faithful following
Where'er he blew his trumpet. But the King,
With their death-warrant in his eye, broke out
Upon the troublers of the public weal,
And called them “liars, malefactors, knaves,
Ungracious creatures, countenanced like men,
Yet hearted, stomached, fanged, and clawed like beasts!
Mere kites and crows that pick the sheep's eyes out;
Mere wolves that prowl about the wattled folds,
With teeth that sharpen as the kidling bleats.
Worthless; who could destroy, but could not make.
Spoilers, who could contribute, for the good
Of toiling villages and towns of men,
But the rank greenness of their graves!” The crew
Hearing themselves thus dedicate to death,
For pardon clamoured loudly—begged for life,
Would water bear, hew wood, slave in the homes
Of him and of his people—but the King
Was to all mercy inaccessible
As a sheer precipice to clutching hands,
And hanged the rabble on the doddered oaks
That stunted grew, long lichened in the marsh,
And set the torch unto the leader's tower.
And, while he sat upon his steed, and watched
The smoke of ruin rise up flecked with flame,
A man came with a letter from the Queen,
Which he broke open with a hurried hand,
And read within the saddle as he sat.
And as one walking on a pleasant way,
When tree and hedge are newly-green with spring,
Sweet thoughts in heart, and eyes upon the ground,
Pores suddenly on something at his foot,
That is not of the world in which he dwells,
And startles him into strangeness, so the King,
Perusing with a smile the loving words,
Stooped sudden down on this:—

“The strangest thing
Happed yesterday. For as I sat, a maid
Came with the news that one within the hall,—
A poor far-travelled man, whose face a sun
Warmer than ours had painted,—o'er his food
Was railing in set terms against the gods;
Whereat I went with Regner at my foot.
But when I came, he pushed aside his dish,
And raised his eyes, and blessed me and the child;
Then sat stone-still, in meekest humbleness.
I asked him ‘What wrong thing the gods had done?’
Then forth there broke the music of his voice
About a dear God Christ, who hung on tree
While His own children pierced His tender side.
Quoth he, ‘This English land belongs to Christ,
And all the souls upon it. He will come,
And merciful possession take of all.’
He asked me ‘if the King was then at war?’
I answered, ‘Yes.’ Then said he, ‘When Lord Christ
Comes to His own, the times of war are o'er.
Upon His raiment there are stains of blood,
But 'tis His own, for He can only love.
He never blew a trumpet to the field;
His soldiers are the men who die in fires,
With blessings on their lips for those who stack
The faggots, and who bring the blazing torch;
His nobles, those who have subdued their pride
To the forgetting of a wrong that whets
The sword to think on.’ Then his eyes he fixed
Upon the child that hid within my robe,
The while his face grew tender with a smile.
‘O baby brow, that yet wilt wear a crown!
O baby hand, that wilt the sceptre hold!
Thou art beloved of our Brother Christ;
He carries all earth's children in His heart—
His heart more tender than a mother's is.
A child stands ever at the foot of Christ,
And wanders from Him into manhood. Mayst
Thou wander not! And when the resting Christ
Sits in His heaven when the world is done,
Wearing pure souls as jewels in His crown,
Mayst thou shine fairly set!’ With that he rose,
Blessing me and the child again, and went,
Leaving his strange words burning in my ear:
And through the night I dreamed a gracious shape
Walked in a garden full of flowers, and full
Of children—children fair and apple-cheeked,
Children on pallets stretched—and when the shape
Passed by these last, they smiled the happiest smile,
The wan cheek reddened, from the couch they rose,
And ran among their fellows 'neath the trees.
When at his foot a chain of children broke,
There stood my Regner; and methought, as one
Doth pluck the fairest flower of all the flowers,
In some sequestered hiding-place of spring,
He took him to his heart: and then I woke.”

This letter did the grave King ponder o'er—
Folding it up, then opening it to read,
As if in search of something he had missed.
When evening fell, and the thin crescent moon
Brightened through crimson vapours, and the tower
Glowed in the darkness like a burned-out brand,
The King dismounted, and within his tent
Pored o'er the letter by the cresset light
That, star-like, hung beneath the silken roof.

So, when the robber clan was trodden out,
And all the strongholds razed—upon a day
Of spring's divinest sunshine, when the breeze
Had o'er the heaven spread the winnowed cloud
As reapers shake the loose hay o'er the fields—
The King rode homeward with a moody heart,
And all his lords behind, a goodly train.
And, when they reached the Palace, in a hush—
For by the weather on the leader's brow
The followers dressed their own—he leapt from steed,
Flinging the careless reins upon the neck,
And entered. In the high hall sat the Queen,
Among her maids. They, singing, sat and span
The carded wool. She silent bent above
A struggling battle-piece of horse and man,
And flying standard, terrible of look.
The red drops trickled down the soldier's brow
Unhelmeted. The central charger, speared,
Rolled a wild eye, and snorted angry breath.
Almost the trumpeter was heard to blow,
Dead man to fall on man with iron sound.
A thing that billowing on a gusty wall
In blinking faggot light, with strangest life
Might shake a gazer. By her stood the child,
Grave for his years, with a most earnest eye,
Watching the nimble fingers at their task
Upon the pictured folds. In broke the King—
In many a grisly crease the thing crept down,
While Bertha rose and sought his open arms,
And raised a face no higher than his breast,
There to be kissed and kissed. And while he held
The upturned face within his mighty palms,
Like one with a great cloud upon his mind
That makes it dark, he broke out, “Dearest wife,
I cannot rid me of the strange discourse
Thou heldest with the man that came and went.
Can gods supplant gods as one race of kings
Another? Is there nothing fixed? Will death
Not only heir earth's sceptres, but the homes,
The majesty, the wisdom, and the strength
Of deities that thunder when they speak?
Are farewells said in heaven? and has each bright
And young divinity a sunset hour?
Methought, as I rode past, the temple shook,
And deities a dying murmur made—
Sighing farewell to empire, and to rule.
Ay, the transparent curtain of the air,
Hides toil and heart-break and unguessed-of change—
My Regner.” Here the child came to his foot,
All rosy cheek, blue eye, and golden curl,
And chased dark thoughts away; and, while his brow
Cleared, Edwin from the rushes caught the babe—
Tossed him as high 's the roof. “O ho! thou imp,
Wearing a name the dearest to my soul,
Mocking me with thy mother's smile and eye—
When wilt thou head a gallant company
Where hound and horn make music in the dale?
When wilt thou back a steed? and couch a spear?
And hurl some great king down in tournament
With all the plumage of his helmet shred?
When wilt thou in the bloody battle press
O'er which thy banner flies, wield axe like him,
The long-haired fellow in the canvas there,
As men were trunks of trees? His sun will shine
In its meridian, wife, when thine and mine
Are low beneath the hills. Thou morsel, thou—
Thou bud, thou babbling sweetness full of life
From foot to curl. Thou trout in sunny pool,
Thou butterfly in air, thou blue-eyed thing
Crowing despair away, thou—” Here the boy
Danced up and down upon his father's hands
With baby laughter and delighted eyes,
Was to his face dropped down, drowned in his beard
And there devoured in kisses, till a noise
Arose outside, like mews, that o'er a fish
Clamour and wheel; and then the single voice
Of one made clamant by a mighty wrong,
Cried, “Justice, justice, justice for the weak!”
Upon the floor the King set down the child
And called out, “Let the poor man hither come;
He shall have justice.” Then into the hall,
Drawn by the voice, a man came roughly clad
As a sea-rock with sea-weed. Wild his face,
Like one who knew waste places and waste hours,
And had scant share of human fellowship.
And in the hall he stood before the King.

Then Edwin said, “Stranger, whoe'er thou art,
If in my realm an ill thing hath been done,
A maid been wronged, a poor man robbed, a march
Dishonestly been changed, it is my place
To smite the wickedness from off the earth—
Else wherefore is my crown? And do not fear
There is a dweller in this commonwealth
Whose proud head wags o'er law. From lowest hut
To the throne's footsteps, to the throne itself,
Let wrong and wronger perish. But this much—
I am no idle creditor of tales
Brought by the brushwood 'gainst the lordly oak;
And, if a lie within thy story lurks,
It, like a wild beast, will I track and kill,
And desolate the place in which it dwelt.
Wherefore on justice dost thou cry aloud?”

Then like a weir unsluiced the man began.
“I call for swift revenge upon my foe—
A mighty lord who heeds me and my rage
But as the moated tower blown thistle-down.
Great King, I had a daughter; only one—
Dearer to me a thousand times than life:
Sweet as the heather-bell that from afar
Attracts the bee; and by my side she grew
Full fourteen summers, sweeter every year.
One day, O King, the great lord came my way
And spied the lonely blossom of my life,
And coveted its beauty. It was all
I had—he, gardens of his own to roam
And pluck at will, where every rosebud cropped
With pride would redden. Mine away he stole,
And with it took the sun from out the sky,
The joy from out my life. I followed him,
Fell on my knees before his castle gate,
And prayed that he would give me back my flower,
Pure as at first; if not, then any way;
Soiled, sodden, withered, of its leaves despoiled,
To me dear ne'er the less. He mocked my grief,
Struck these old grey hairs down upon the stones.”

Then rushed to Edwin's temples the hot blood.
“Old man, if this sad tale of thine be true,
The evil lord shall surely die the death,
Though he stand foremost in my roll of knights,
Yea, were my mother's son. What is his name?
However strongly girt by fosse and tower
Thy voice is his death-warrant.”

Then the flame
In the man's face sank low at once. He said,
In broken meekness, “Mighty King, I am
But withered grass beneath the feet of all,
Despised and trodden, nor doth it befit
Me to arraign great lords. And, when 'tis come
To this, I tremble at the single word
That once unloosed, will, like the lightning, rend
And spread a desolation far and wide.
In this pure presence also would I not
Blazon the shame of one who beareth arms,
And eats with thee at feast. And therefore King,
I pray thee, let me in thy private ear
Whisper the name of him that did the thing.”

To him then answered Edwin: “Fear, methinks,
Should with the wronger dwell, not with the wronged.
Though all my knights were standing now in hall,
The name should be clear spoken out at once.
The scarlet face but to one man belongs,
To him it sticks for ever, not to thee.
Yet, if the name of that uncourteous lord,
Which to dishonour's keeping shall be given,
Among the sins and falsehoods of the world,
Ne'er to be rendered back, thou wilt not give
Where best it should be; standing on thy wrong
In the clear public air—come with me hence.”
The King turned with an angry port; the man
Followed him meekly, stepping like a cat,
With silent footsteps. Hardly had they gone,
Before there twirled the distaff of a maid,
Before the patient needle of the Queen
Renewed its work on arm and brandished spear,
A sharp cry rose, a fall, and then a voice.
Like some pure bevy of white-breasted doves
By a hawk fluttered, skirred the maids, the Queen
Flew to the sound; they, gathered in a crowd,
Flocked at her heel. Against the wall the King
Leaned like one hurt, his hand upon his side,
At his foot the cursed knife; the while, the man
Upon the floor lay grovelling like a beast
Whose backbone has been broken by a shot—
His face distort with pain. When these he saw,
The King smiled in that bitter sort which hides
A grievous wound, and mocks it. “Wife,” he said,
“This strange wild-cat has scratched me, that is all.
And yet no thanks. For with that tumbled stool,
I've crushed the creature to a broken heap
Of agony, that ne'er will bite or claw.
Wherefore against me didst thou lift the knife?”
Whereat the writhing snake with dying lips,
Dabbled with poisonous foam: “It was not I,
'Twas Ethelbert that struck thee from the grave.
His spirit passed into me when he died,
And for thy life I hungered as for food.
My hate suborned the world against thy life.
All things were my confederates and spies;
The running stream that caught thy shadow, knew
I sought thy life, and told it to the reed.
The myriad grass-blades whispered of thy steps,
As thou didst pass intent on peace or war.
The flower from out its covert leaned and watched;
The forest leaves took note of thee, and made
A murderous murmur to my greedy ears.
Aided by grass and flower, I found thee; struck—
Struck home, as thou struck'st home. O mighty King,
A poor fool hath o'erreached thee. Thou didst boast
The cunning'st lie thou couldst nose out, as hound
The skulking fox. I led thee through a land,
The foxes' trail was rank on bush and brake,
Where was thy scent then? With a lie I fanned
Thy virtuous rage for justice, made it flame
Fiercely 'gainst nothing. Dying folly mocks
A dying wisdom. Take my hand, great King,
For we are fellow travellers on the way
To death's void darkness.” At this Edwin stamped,
“Ho, Offa, Cedric! I've blown the candle out,
But yet the wick stinks foully.” Then he reeled
And caught at something in the deathly mist,
But Bertha stayed him. By supporting arms,
Slowly the wounded man was led to couch.
And there for many a weary day and night,
Low lay the princely pillar of the state,
And by his side, but by him all unheard,
His mother wept aloud like blustering March;
Bertha, like breathless April, close and still.