'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn—Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host—Heard and took part in its most eerie tale.It was a bitter night, and master Ben,—His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still firedHis deep and ageless eyes,—in the old oak-chair,Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe;A little sad, as often I found him nowRemembering vanished faces. Yet the yearsBrought others round him. Wreaths of HeliochriseGleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin,Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel.Chapman and Browne, Herrick,—a name like thymeCrushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maidMilking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,—These three came late, and sat in a little roomAside, supping together, on one great pie,Whereof both crust and coffin were preparedBy master Herrick's receipt, and all washed downWith mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben,John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof,Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden.Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a soundOf iron that grated on the flags. A spadeAnd pick came edging through the door."O, room!Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford,And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in.He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots,—On my clean rushes!—brushed it from his cloakOf Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees,Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail,Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall,Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms,And called for ale."Come to the fire," said Lodge."Room for the wisest counsellor of kings,The kindly sage that puts us all to bed,And tucks us up beneath the grass-green quilt.""Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben."Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare,"Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup,While Ben said softly—"Pity you could not spare,You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden ladsThat I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn!"Then, with a quiet smile he shook his headAnd turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden."Well, songs are good; but flesh and blood are better.The grey old tomb of Horace glows for meAcross the centuries, with one little fireLit by a girl's light hand." Then, under breath,Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme:—IDulce ridentem, laughing through the ages,Dulce loquentem, O, fairer far to me,Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pagesFloats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage.IIDulce loquentem,—we hear it and we know it.Dulce ridentem,—so musical and low."Mightier than marble is my song!" Ah, did the poetKnow why little Lalage was mightier even so?IIIDulce ridentem,—through all the years that sever,Clear as o'er yon hawthorn hedge we heard her passing by,—Lalagen amabo,—a song may live for everDulce loquentem,—but Lalage must die."I'd like to learn that rhyme," the sexton said."I've a fine memory too. You start me now,I'd keep it up all night with ancient ballads."And then—a strange thing happened. I saw John Ford"With folded arms and melancholy hat"(As in our Mermaid jest he still would sit)Watching old Scarlet like a man in trance.The sexton gulped his ale and smacked his lips,Then croaked again—"O, ay, there's work to spare,We fills 'em faster than the spades can dig,"And, all at once, the lights burned low and blue.Ford leaned right forward, with his grim black eyesWidening."Why, that's a marvellous ring!" he said,And pointed to the sexton's gnarled old handSpread on the black oak-table like the clawOf some great bird of prey. "A ruby worthThe ransom of a queen!" The fire leapt up!The sexton stared at him;Then stretched his hand out, with its blue-black nails,Full in the light, a grim earth-coloured hand,But bare as it was born."There was a ring!I could have sworn it! Red as blood!" cried Ford.And Ben and Lodge and Drummond of HawthorndenAll stared at him. For such a silent soulWas master Ford that, when he suddenly spake,It struck the rest as dumb as if the SphinxHad opened its cold stone lips. He would sit muteBrooding, aloof, for hours, his cloak around him,A staff between his knees, as if preparedFor a long journey, a lonely pilgrimageTo some dark tomb; a strange and sorrowful soul,Yet not—as many thought him—harsh or hard,But of a most kind patience. Though he wroteIn blood, they say, the blood came from his heart;And all the sufferings of this world he tookTo his own soul, and bade them pasture there:Till out of his compassion, he becameA monument of bitterness. He rebelled;And so fell short of that celestial heightWhereto the greatest only climb, who standBy Shakespeare, and accept the Eternal Law.These find, in law, firm footing for the soul,The strength that binds the stars, and reins the sea,The base of being, the pillars of the world,The pledge of honour, the pure cord of love,The form of truth, the golden floors of heaven.These men discern a height beyond all heights,A depth below all depths, and never an endWithout a pang beyond it, and a hope;Without a heaven beyond it, and a hell.For these, despair is like a bubble pricked,An old romance to make young lovers weep.For these, the law becomes a fiery road,A Jacob's ladder through that vast abyssLacking no rung from realm to loftier realm,Nor wanting one degree from dust to wings.These, at the last, radiant with victory,Lay their strong hands upon the wingèd steedsAnd fiery chariots, and exult to hold,Themselves, the throbbing reins, whereby they steerThe stormy splendours.He, being less, rebelled,Cried out for unreined steeds, and unruled stars,An unprohibited ocean and a truthUntrue; and the equal thunder of the lawHurled him to night and chaos, who was bornTo shine upon the forehead of the day.And yet—the voice of darkness and despairMay speak for heaven where heaven would not be heard,May fight for heaven where heaven would not prevail,And the consummate splendour of that strife,Swallowing up all discords, all defeat,In one huge victory, harmonising all,Make Lucifer, at last, at one with God.There,—on that All Souls' Eve, you might have thoughtA dead man spoke, to see how Drayton stared,And Drummond started."You saw no ruby ring,"The old sexton muttered sullenly. "If you did,The worse for me, by all accounts. The lightsBurned low. You caught the firelight on my fist.What was it like, this ring?""A band of gold,And a great ruby, heart-shaped, fit to burnBetween the breasts of Laïs. Am I awakeOr dreaming?""Well,—that makes the second time!There's many have said they saw it, out of jest,To scare me. For the astrologer did sayThe third time I should die. Now, did you see it?Most likely someone's told you that old tale!You hadn't heard it, now?"Ford shook his head."What tale?" said Ben."O, you could make a bookAbout my life. I've talked with quick and dead,And neither ghost nor flesh can fright me now!I wish it was a ring, so's I could catch him,And sell him; but I've never seen him yet.A white witch told me, if I did, I'd goClink, just like that, to heaven or t'other place,Whirled in a fiery chariot with ten steedsThe way Elijah went. For I have seenSo many mighty things that I must dieMightily.Well,—I came, sirs, to my craftThe day mine uncle Robert dug the graveFor good Queen Katharine, she whose heart was brokeBy old King Harry, a very great while ago.Maybe you've heard about my uncle, sirs?He was far-famous for his grave-digging.In depth, in speed, in neatness, he'd no match!They've put a fine slab to his memoryIn Peterborough Cathedral—Robert Scarlet,Sexton for half a century, it says,In Peterborough Cathedral, where he builtThe last sad habitation for two queens,And many hundreds of the common sort.And now himself, who for so many builtEternal habitations, others have buried.Obiit anno ætatis, ninety-eight,July the second, fifteen ninety-four.We should do well, sir, with a slab like that,Shouldn't we?" And the sexton leered at Lodge."Not many boasts a finer slab than that.There's many a king done worse. Ah, well, you see,He'd a fine record. Living to ninety-eight,He buried generations of the poor,A countless host, and thought no more of itThan digging potatoes. He'd a lofty mindThat found no satisfaction in small deeds.But from his burying of two queens he drewA lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third,It would indeed have crowned his old white hairs.But he was famous, and he thought, perchance,A third were mere vain-glory. So he died.I helped him with the second."The old man leeredTo see the shaft go home.Ben filled the stoupWith ale. "So that," quoth he, "began the taleAbout this ruby ring?" "But who," said Lodge,"Who was the second queen?""A famous queen,And a great lover! When you hear her name,Your hearts will leap. Her beauty passed the boundsOf modesty, men say, yet—she died young!We buried her at midnight. There were fewThat knew it; for the high State FuneralWas held upon the morrow, Lammas morn.Anon you shall hear why. A strange thing that,—To see the mourners weeping round a hearseThat held a dummy coffin. Stranger stillTo see us lowering the true coffin downBy torchlight, with some few of her true friends,In Peterborough Cathedral, all alone.""Old as the world," said Ford. "It is the wayOf princes. Their true tears and smiles are seenAt dead of night, like ghosts raised from the grave!And all the luxury of their brief, bright noon,Cloaks but a dummy throne, a mask of life;And, at the last, drapes a false catafalque,Holding a vacant urn, a mask of death.But tell, tell on!"The sexton took a draughtOf ale and smacked his lips."Mine uncle livedA mile or more from Peterborough, then.And, past his cottage, in the dead of night,Her royal coach came creeping through the lanes,With scutcheons round it and no crowd to see,And heralds carrying torches in their hands,And none to admire, but him and me, and one,A pedlar-poet, who lodged with us that weekAnd paid his lodging with a bunch of rhymes.By these, he said, my uncle Robert's fameShould live, as in a picture, till the crackOf doom. My uncle thought that he should payFour-pence beside; but, when the man declaredThe thought unworthy of these august events,My uncle was abashed.And, truth to tell,The rhymes were mellow, though here and there he swervedFrom truth to make them so. Nor would he change'June' to 'July' for all that we could say.'I never said the month was June,' he cried,'And if I did, Shakespeare hath jumped an age!Gods, will you hedge me round with thirty nights?"June" rhymes with "moon"!' With that, he flung them downAnd strode away like Lucifer, and was gone,Before old Scarlet could approach againThe matter of that four-pence.Yet his rhymesHave caught the very colours of that night!I can see through them,Ay, just as through our cottage window-panes,Can see the great black coach,Carrying the dead queen past our garden-gate.The roses bobbing and fluttering to and fro,Hide, and yet show the more by hiding, half.And, like smoked glass through which you see the sun,The song shows truest when it blurs the truth.This is the way it goes."He rose to his feet,Picked up his spade, and struck an attitude,Leaning upon it. "I've got to feel my spade,Or I'll forget it. This is the way I speak it.Always." And, with a schoolboy's rigid face,And eyes fixed on the rafters, he began,Sing-song, the pedlar-poet's bunch of rhymes:—As I went by the cattle-shedThe grey dew dimmed the grass,And, under a twisted apple-tree,Old Robin Scarlet stood by me."Keep watch! Keep watch to-night," he said,"There's things 'ull come to pass."Keep watch until the moon has clearedThe thatch of yonder rick;Then I'll come out of my cottage-doorTo wait for the coach of a queen once more;And—you'll say nothing of what you've heard,But rise and follow me quick.""And what 'ull I see if I keep your trust,And wait and watch so late?""Pride," he said, "and Pomp," he said,"Beauty to haunt you till you're dead,And Glorious Dust that goes to dust,Passing the white farm-gate."You are young and all for adventure, lad,And the great tales to be told:This night, before the clock strike one,Your lordliest hour will all be done;But you'll remember it and be glad,In the days when you are old!"All in the middle of the night,My face was at the pane;When, creeping out of his cottage-door,To wait for the coach of a queen once more,Old Scarlet, in the moon-light,Beckoned to me again.He stood beneath a lilac-spray,Like Father Time for dole,In Reading Tawny cloak and hood,With mattock and with spade he stood,And, far away to southward,A bell began to toll.He stood beneath a lilac-spray,And never a word he said;But, as I stole out of the house,He pointed over the orchard boughs,Where, not with dawn or sunset,The Northern sky grew red.I followed him, and half in fear,To the old farm-gate again;And, round the curve of the long white road,I saw that the dew-dashed hedges glowedRed with the grandeur drawing near,And the torches of her train.They carried her down with singing,With singing sweet and low,Slowly round the curve they came,Twenty torches dropping flame,The heralds that were bringing herThe way we all must go.'Twas master William Dethick,The Garter King of Arms,Before her royal coach did ride,With none to see his Coat of Pride,For peace was on the countryside,And sleep upon the farms;Peace upon the red farm,Peace upon the grey,Peace on the heavy orchard trees,And little white-walled cottages,Peace upon the wayside,And sleep upon the way.So master William Dethick,With forty horse and men,Like any common man and meanRode on before the Queen, the Queen,And—only a wandering pedlarCould tell the tale again.How, like a cloud of darkness,Between the torches movedFour black steeds and a velvet pallCrowned with the Crown ImperiallAnd—on her shield—the lilies,The lilies that she loved.Ah, stained and ever stainlessAh, white as her own hand,White as the wonder of that brow,Crowned with colder lilies now,White on the velvet darkness,The lilies of her land!The witch from over the water,The fay from over the foam,The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' townWith satin shoes and a silken gown,A queen, and a great king's daughter,—Thus they carried her home,With torches and with scutcheons,Unhonoured and unseen,With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir,And the Lion of Scotland over her,Darkly, in the dead of night,They carried the Queen, the Queen.The sexton paused and took a draught of ale."'Twas there," he said, "I joined 'em at the gate,My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang,The little shadowy throng of men that walkedBehind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent headsI know not; but 'twas very soft and low.They walked behind the rest, like shadows flungBehind the torch-light, from that strange dark hearse.And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghostsOf lovers that this queen had brought to death.A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yetLike the night-wind they sang. And there was oneAn olive-coloured man,—the pedlar saidWas like a certain foreigner that she loved,One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers.Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell'In words like this, and that the words in FrenchWere written by the hapless Queen herself,When as a girl she left the vines of FranceFor Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:—IThough thy hands have plied their tradeEighty years without a rest,Robin Scarlet, never thy spadeBuilt a house for such a guest!Carry her where, in earliest June,All the whitest hawthorns blow;Carry her under the midnight moon,Singing very soft and low.Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping,Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way!Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping!Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,—Fotheringhay!IIShe was gayer than a child!—Let your torches droop for sorrow.—Laughter in her eyes ran wild!—Carry her down to Peterboro'.—Words were kisses in her mouth!—Let no word of blame be spoken.—She was Queen of all the South!—In the North, her heart was broken.—They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping,Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance.Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping, weeping, weeping,—O, ma patrie,La plus chérie,Adieu, plaisant pays de France!IIIMany a red heart died to beat—Music swelled in Holyrood!—Once, beneath her fair white feet.—Now the floors may rot with blood—She was young and her deep hair——Wind and rain were all her fate!—Trapped young Love as in a snare,—And the wind's a sword in the Canongate!Edinboro'!Edinboro'!Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow!Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping,What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows?What if her hair were a silken mesh?Hands of steel can deal hard blows,Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh!Carry her southward, palled in purple,Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose.Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went,We three behind,—the pedlar-poet and I,And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringedThe escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinctAlong the hedges and woke the sleeping birds,But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms.Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep,We brought her to the doors of her last home,In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tombThey stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles,The heralds with their torches, but their lightStruggled in vain with that tremendous dark.Their ring of smoky red could only showA few sad faces round the purple pall,The wings of a stone angel overhead,The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully,Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault,One little slab of marble, far away.Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's wordsHad made me fanciful, I thought I sawBowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles,Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a griefThat still was built of silence, like the dripOf water from a frozen fountain-head.We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb.With echoing footsteps all the funeral went;And I went last to close and lock the doors;Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloomThat rolled along behind me as one by oneThe torches vanished. O, I was glad to seeThe moonlight on the kind turf-mounds again.But, as I turned the key, a quivering handWas laid upon my arm. I turned and sawThat foreigner with the olive-coloured face.From head to foot he shivered, as with cold.He drew me into the shadows of the porch.'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand—Like ice it was!—along my wrist, and slippedA ring upon my finger, muttering quick,As in a burning fever, 'All the wealthOf Eldorado for one hour! Come back!I must go back and see her face again!I was not there, not there, the day she—died.You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soulWill know. Come back! One moment, only one!'I thought the man was mad, and plucked my handAway from him. He caught me by the sleeve,And sank upon his knees, lifting his faceMost piteously to mine. 'One moment! See!I loved her!'I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears,Great, long, slow tears they were; and then—my God—As his face lifted and his head sank backBeseeching me—I saw a crimson threadCircling his throat, as though the headsman's axeHad cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen,The head had slipped not from the trunk.I gasped;And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back,The wound, O like a second awful mouth,The wound began to gape.I tore my cloakOut of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash.I left them where they lay, and with a shoutI dashed into the broad white empty road.There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fearI hastened home, not daring to look back;But as I turned the corner, I heard the clangOf those great doors, and knew he had entered in.Not till I saw before me in the laneThe pedlar and my uncle did I haltAnd look at that which clasped my finger stillAs with a band of ice.My hand was bare!I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thoughtI had been dreaming. There had been no ring!The poor man I had left there in the porch,Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild;But only wished to look upon her grave.And I—I was the madman! So I saidNothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts,I'd not go back that night to find the keys,No, not for all the rubies in the crownOf Prester John.* * * *The high State FuneralWas held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sightFor Peterborough! For myself, I foundSmall satisfaction in a catafalqueThat carried a dummy coffin. None the less,The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque,Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good,And worthy of a picture in his rhymes;The more because he said it shadowed forthThe ironic face of Death.The Masque, indeedBegan before we buried her. For a hostOf Mourners—Lords and Ladies—on Lammas evePanting with eagerness of pride and place,Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp,And at the Bishop's Palace they found preparedA mighty supper for them, where they satAll at one table. In a Chamber hungWith 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wineAnd feasted, while the torches and the QueenCrept through the darkness of Northampton lanes.At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke,After the Queen was buried; and at eightThe Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymesWith tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lipsHad more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it,Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells,And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:—Toll!—From the Palace the Releevants creep,—A hundred poor old women, nigh their end,Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each headAn ell of snow-white holland which, some said,Afterwards they might keep,—Ah, Toll!—with nine new shillings each to spend,For all the trouble that they had, and allThe sorrow of walking to this funeral.Toll!—And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamedFollowing, a long procession, two by two,Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du PreauHer French Confessor, unafraid to showThe golden Cross that gleamedAbout his neck, warned what the crowd might doSaidI will wear it, though I die for it!So subtle in malice was that Jesuit.Toll!—Sir George Savile in his Mourner's GownCarried the solemn Cross upon a FieldAzure, and under it by a streamer borneUpon a field of Gules, an UnicornArgent and, lower down,A scrolled device upon a blazoned shield,Which seemed to say—I am silent till the end!—Toll! Toll!—In my defence, God me defend!Toll!—and a hundred poor old men went by,Followed by two great Bishops.—Toll, ah toll!—Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four noble lords;Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords;Then, with a Bannerol,Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the skyThe Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and CrestBorne by a Herald on his glittering breast.And now—ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls—That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall,Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopyOf purple, lifted by four knights, goes by.The Crown ImperialBurns on the Coffin-head. Four BannerolsOn either side, uplifted by four squires,Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires.Toll!The Chief Mourner—the fair Russell!—toll!—Countess of Bedford—toll!—they bring her now,Weeping under a purple Cloth of State,Till, halting there before the Minister Gate,Having in her controlThe fair White Staves of office, with a bowShe gives them to her two great Earls again,Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train.Toll!At the high Cathedral door the QuiresMeet them and lead them, singing all the whileA mightyMisererefor her soul!Then, as the rolling organ—toll, ah toll!—Floods every glimmering aisleWith ocean-thunders, all those knights and squiresBring the false Coffin to the central naveAnd set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave.The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wiseValanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold:All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were setWithin it, as jewels in some huge carcanet:Above was this deviceIn my defence, God me defend, inscrolledRound the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say"Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day."The sexton paused anew. All looked at him,And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand,As if, in that dim light, beclouded nowWith blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to seeThe smouldering ruby again."Ye know," he said,"How master William Wickham preached that day?"Ford nodded. "I have heard of it. He showedSubtly, O very subtly, after his kind,That the white Body of Beauty such as hersWas in itself Papistical, a feast,A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering,And an Abomination in the sightOf all true Protestants. Why, her very nameWas Mary!""Ay, that's true, that's very true!"The sexton mused. "Now that's a strange deep thought!The Bishop missed a text in missing that.Her name, indeed, was Mary!""Did you findYour keys again?" "Ay, Sir, I found them!" "Where?""Strange you should ask me that! After the throngDeparted, and the Nobles were at feast,All in the Bishop's Palace—a great feastAnd worthy of their sorrow—I came backCarrying my uncle's second bunch of keysTo lock the doors and search, too, for mine own.'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrustThe key into the lock, the great grey porchGrew cold upon me, like a tomb.I pushedHard at the key—then stopped—with all my fleshFreezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs,The door was locked already, and—from within!I drew the key forth quietly and stepped backInto the Churchyard, where the graves were warmWith sunset still, and the blunt carven stonesLengthened their homely shadows, out and out,To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart,Seeing the footprints of that mighty MasqueAlong the pebbled path. A queer thought cameInto my head that all the world withoutWas but a Masque, and I was creeping back,Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again.Yet—I grew bold, and tried the Southern door.'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner sideTo foil my own, and softly, softly, click,I turned it, and with heart, sirs, in my mouth,Pushed back the studded door and entered in ...Stepped straight out of the world, I might have said,Out of the dusk into a night so deep,So dark, I trembled like a child....And thenI was aware, sirs, of a great sweet waveOf incense. All the gloom was heavy with it,As if her Papist Household had returnedTo pray for her poor soul; and, my fear went.But either that strange incense weighed me down,Or else from being sorely over-tasked,A languor came upon me, and sitting thereTo breathe a moment, in a velvet stall,I closed mine eyes.A moment, and no more,For then I heard a rustling in the nave,And opened them; and, very far away,As if across the world, in Rome herself,I saw twelve tapers in the solemn East,And saw, or thought I saw, cowled figures kneelBefore them, in an incense-cloud.And then,Maybe the sunset deepened in the worldOf masques without—clear proof that I had closedMine eyes but for a moment, sirs, I sawAs if across a world-without-end tomb,A tiny jewelled glow of crimson panesDarkening and brightening with the West.And then,Then I saw something more—Queen Mary's vault,And—it was open!...Then, I heard a voice,A strange deep broken voice, whispering loveIn soft French words, that clasped and clung like hands;And then—two shadows passed against the West,Two blurs of black against that crimson stain,Slowly, O very slowly, with bowed heads,Leaning together, and vanished into the darkBeyond the Catafalque.Then—I heard him pray,—And knew him for the man that prayed to me,—Pray as a man prays for his love's last breath!And then, O sirs, it caught me by the throat,And I, too, dropped upon my knees and prayed;For, as in answer to his prayer, there cameA moan of music, a mighty shuddering soundFrom the great organ, a sound that rose and fellLike seas in anger, very far away;And then a peal of thunder, and then it seemed,As if the graves were giving up their dead,A great cowled host of shadows rose and sang;—Dies iræ, dies illâSolvet sæclum in favilla,Teste David cum Sibylla.I heard her sad, sad, little, broken voice,Out in the darkness. 'Ay, and David, too,His blood is on the floors of Holyrood,To speak for me.' Then that great ocean-soundSwelled to a thunder again, and heaven and earthShrivelled away; and in that huge slow hymnChariots were driven forth in flaming rows,And terrible trumpets blown from deep to deep.And then, ah then, the heart of heaven was hushed,And—in the hush—it seemed an angel wept,Another Mary wept, and gathering upAll our poor wounded, weary, way-worn world,Even as a Mother gathers up her babe,Soothed it against her breast, and rained her tearsOn the pierced feet of God, and melted HimTo pity, and over His feet poured her deep hair.The music died away. The shadows knelt.And then—I heard a rustling nigh the tomb,And heard—and heard—or dreamed I heard—farewells,Farewells for everlasting, deep farewells,Bitter as blood, darker than any death.And, at the last, as in a kiss, one breath,One agony of sweetness, like a swordFor sharpness, drawn along a soft white throat;And, for its terrible sweetness, like a sighAcross great waters, very far away,—Sweetheart!And then, like doors, like world-without-end doorsThat shut for Everlasting, came a clang,And ringing, echoing, through the echo of it,One terrible cry that plucked my heart-strings out,Mary!And on the closed and silent tomb,Where there were two, one shuddering shadow lay,And then—I, too,—reeled, swooned and knew no more.Sirs, when I woke, there was a broad bright shaftOf moonlight, slanting through an Eastern paneFull on her tomb and that black Catafalque.And on the tomb there lay—my bunch of keys!I struggled to my feet,Ashamed of my wild fancies, like a manAwakening from a drunken dream. And yet,When I picked up the keys, although that stormOf terror had all blown by and left me calm,I lifted up mine eyes to see the scrollRound the rich crest of that dark canopy,In my defence, God me defend. The moonStruck full upon it; and, as I turned and went,God help me, sirs, though I were loyal enoughTo good Queen Bess, I could not help but say,Amen!And yet, methought it was not I that spake,But some deep soul that used me for a mask,A soul that rose up in this hollow shellLike dark sea-tides flooding an empty cave.I could not help but say with my poor lips,Amen! Amen!Sirs, 'tis a terrible thingTo move in great events. Since that strange nightI have not been as other men. The tidesWould rise in this dark cave"—he tapped his skull—"Deep tides, I know not whence; and when they roseMy friends looked strangely upon me and stood aloof.And once, my uncle said to me—indeed,It troubled me strangely,—'Timothy,' he said,'Thou art translated! I could well believeThou art two men, whereof the one's a fool,The other a prophet. Or else, beneath thy skinThere lurks a changeling! What hath come to thee?'And then, sirs, then—well I remember it!'Twas on a summer eve, and we walked homeBetween high ghostly hedges white with may—And uncle Robin, in his holy-day suitOf Reading Tawny, felt his old heart swellWith pride in his great memories. He beganChanting the pedlar's tune, keeping the timeThus, jingle, jingle, slowly, with his keys:—IDouglas, in the moonless night—Muffled oars on blue Loch Leven!—Took her hand, a flake of white—Beauty slides the bolts of heaven.—Little white hand, like a flake of snow,When they saw it, his Highland crewSwung together and murmured low,"Douglas, wiltthoudie then, too?"And the pine trees whispered, weeping,"Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!Little white hand like a tender moonbeam, soon shall you set the broadswords leaping,It is the Queen, the Queen!" they whispered, watching her soar to the saddle anew."There will be trumpets blown in the mountains, a mist of blood on the heather, and weeping,Weeping, weeping, andthou, too, dead for her, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true."IICarry the queenly lass along!—Cold she lies, cold and dead,—She whose laughter was a song,—Lapped around with sheets of lead!—She whose blood was wine of the South,—Light her down to a couch of clay!—And a royal rose her mouth,And her body made of may!—Lift your torches, weeping, weeping,Light her down to a couch of clay.They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping,Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance!Hush! Between the solemn pinewoods, carry the lovely lady sleeping,Out of the cold grey Northern mists, with banner and scutcheon, plume, and lance,Carry her southward, palled in purple, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,—O, ma patrie,La plus chérie,Adieu, plaisant pays de France!Well, sirs, that dark tide rose within my brain!I snatched his keys and flung them over the hedge,Then flung myself down on a bank of fernsAnd wept and wept and wept.It puzzled him.Perchance he feared my mind was going and yet,O, sirs, if you consider it rightly now,With all those ages knocking at his doors,With all that custom clamouring for his care,Is it so strange a grave-digger should weep?Well—he was kind enough and heaped my plateThat night at supper.But I could never dig my graves at easeIn Peterborough Churchyard. So I cameTo London—to St. Mary Magdalen's.And thus, I chanced to drink my ale one nightHere in the Mermaid Inn. 'Twas All Souls' Eve,And, on that bench, where master Ford now sitsWas master Shakespeare—Well, the lights burned low,And just like master Ford to-night he leanedSuddenly forward. 'Timothy,' he said,'That's a most marvellous ruby!'My blood froze!I stretched my hand out bare as it was born;And he said nothing, only looked at me.Then, seeing my pipe was empty, he bade me fillAnd lit it for me.Peach, the astrologer,Was living then; and that same night I wentAnd told him all my trouble about this ring.He took my hand in his, and held it—thus—Then looked into my face and said this rhyme:—The ruby ring, that only threeWhile Time and Tide go by, shall see,Weds your hand to history.Honour and pride the first shall lend;The second shall give you gold to spend;The third—shall warn you of your end.Peach was a rogue, some say, and yet he spakeMost truly about the first," the sexton mused,"For master Shakespeare, though they say in youthOutside the theatres, he would hold your horseFor pence, prospered at last, bought a fine houseIn Stratford, lived there like a squire, they say.And here, here he would sit, for all the worldAs he were but a poet! God bless us all,And then—to think!—he rose to be a squire!A deep one, masters! Well, he lit my pipe!""Why did they bury such a queen by night?"Said Ford. "Kings might have wept for her. Did DeathPlay epicure and glutton that so fewWere bidden to such a feast. Once on a time,I could have wept, myself, to hear a taleOf beauty buried in the dark. And hersWas loveliness, far, far beyond the common!Such beauty should be marble to the touchOf time, and clad in purple to amazeThe moth. But she was kind and soft and fair,A woman, and so she died. But, why the dark?""Sir, they gave out the coffin was too heavyFor gentlemen to bear!"—"For kings to bear?"Ford flashed at him. The sexton shook his head,—"Nay! Gentlemen to bear! But—the true cause—Ah, sir, 'tis unbelievable, even to me,A sexton, for a queen so fair of face!And all her beds, even as the pedlar said,Breathing Arabia, sirs, her walls all hungWith woven purple wonders and great talesOf amorous gods, and mighty mirrors, too,Imaging her own softness, night and dawn,When through her sumptuous hair she drew the combs;And like one great white rose-leaf half her breastShone through it, firm as ivory.""Ay," said Lodge,Murmuring his own rich music under breath,"About her neck did all the graces throng,And lay such baits as did entangle death.""Well, sir, the weather being hot, they fearedShe would not hold the burying!"..."In some sort,"Ford answered slowly, "if your tale be true,She did not hold it. Many a knightly crestWill bend yet o'er the ghost of that small hand."There was a hush, broken by Ben at last,Who turned to Ford—"How now, my golden lad?The astrologer's dead hand is on thy purse!"Ford laughed, grimly, and flung an angel down."Well, cause or consequence, rhyme or no rhyme,There is thy gold. I will not break the spell,Or thou mayst live to bury us one and all!""And, if I live so long," the old man replied,Lighting his lanthorn, "you may trust me, sirs,Mine Inn is quiet, and I can find you bedsWhere Queens might sleep all night and never move.Good-night, sirs, and God bless you, one and all."He shouldered pick and spade. I opened the door.The snow blew in, and, as he shuffled out,There, in the strait dark passage, I could swearI saw a spark of red upon his hand,Like a great smouldering ruby.I gasped. He stopped.He peered at me."Twice in a night," he said."Nothing," I answered, "only the lanthorn-light."He shook his head. "I'll tell you something more!There's nothing, nothing now in life or deathThat frightens me. Ah, things used to frighten me.But never now. I thought I had ten years;But if the warning comes and says 'Thou fool,This night!'Why, then, I'm ready."I watched him go,With glimmering lanthorn up the narrow street,Like one that walked upon the clouds, through snowThat seemed to mix the City with the skies.On Christmas Eve we heard that he was dead.
'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn—Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host—Heard and took part in its most eerie tale.It was a bitter night, and master Ben,—His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still firedHis deep and ageless eyes,—in the old oak-chair,Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe;A little sad, as often I found him nowRemembering vanished faces. Yet the yearsBrought others round him. Wreaths of HeliochriseGleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin,Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel.Chapman and Browne, Herrick,—a name like thymeCrushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maidMilking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,—These three came late, and sat in a little roomAside, supping together, on one great pie,Whereof both crust and coffin were preparedBy master Herrick's receipt, and all washed downWith mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben,John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof,Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden.Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a soundOf iron that grated on the flags. A spadeAnd pick came edging through the door.
"O, room!Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford,And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in.He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots,—On my clean rushes!—brushed it from his cloakOf Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees,Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail,Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall,Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms,And called for ale.
"Come to the fire," said Lodge."Room for the wisest counsellor of kings,The kindly sage that puts us all to bed,And tucks us up beneath the grass-green quilt.""Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben."Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare,"Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup,While Ben said softly—"Pity you could not spare,You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden ladsThat I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn!"Then, with a quiet smile he shook his headAnd turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden."Well, songs are good; but flesh and blood are better.The grey old tomb of Horace glows for meAcross the centuries, with one little fireLit by a girl's light hand." Then, under breath,Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme:—
I
Dulce ridentem, laughing through the ages,Dulce loquentem, O, fairer far to me,Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pagesFloats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage.
II
Dulce loquentem,—we hear it and we know it.Dulce ridentem,—so musical and low."Mightier than marble is my song!" Ah, did the poetKnow why little Lalage was mightier even so?
III
Dulce ridentem,—through all the years that sever,Clear as o'er yon hawthorn hedge we heard her passing by,—Lalagen amabo,—a song may live for everDulce loquentem,—but Lalage must die.
"I'd like to learn that rhyme," the sexton said."I've a fine memory too. You start me now,I'd keep it up all night with ancient ballads."And then—a strange thing happened. I saw John Ford"With folded arms and melancholy hat"(As in our Mermaid jest he still would sit)Watching old Scarlet like a man in trance.The sexton gulped his ale and smacked his lips,Then croaked again—"O, ay, there's work to spare,We fills 'em faster than the spades can dig,"And, all at once, the lights burned low and blue.Ford leaned right forward, with his grim black eyesWidening.
"Why, that's a marvellous ring!" he said,And pointed to the sexton's gnarled old handSpread on the black oak-table like the clawOf some great bird of prey. "A ruby worthThe ransom of a queen!" The fire leapt up!The sexton stared at him;Then stretched his hand out, with its blue-black nails,Full in the light, a grim earth-coloured hand,But bare as it was born.
"There was a ring!I could have sworn it! Red as blood!" cried Ford.And Ben and Lodge and Drummond of HawthorndenAll stared at him. For such a silent soulWas master Ford that, when he suddenly spake,It struck the rest as dumb as if the SphinxHad opened its cold stone lips. He would sit muteBrooding, aloof, for hours, his cloak around him,A staff between his knees, as if preparedFor a long journey, a lonely pilgrimageTo some dark tomb; a strange and sorrowful soul,Yet not—as many thought him—harsh or hard,But of a most kind patience. Though he wroteIn blood, they say, the blood came from his heart;And all the sufferings of this world he tookTo his own soul, and bade them pasture there:Till out of his compassion, he becameA monument of bitterness. He rebelled;And so fell short of that celestial heightWhereto the greatest only climb, who standBy Shakespeare, and accept the Eternal Law.These find, in law, firm footing for the soul,The strength that binds the stars, and reins the sea,The base of being, the pillars of the world,The pledge of honour, the pure cord of love,The form of truth, the golden floors of heaven.These men discern a height beyond all heights,A depth below all depths, and never an endWithout a pang beyond it, and a hope;Without a heaven beyond it, and a hell.For these, despair is like a bubble pricked,An old romance to make young lovers weep.For these, the law becomes a fiery road,A Jacob's ladder through that vast abyssLacking no rung from realm to loftier realm,Nor wanting one degree from dust to wings.These, at the last, radiant with victory,Lay their strong hands upon the wingèd steedsAnd fiery chariots, and exult to hold,Themselves, the throbbing reins, whereby they steerThe stormy splendours.He, being less, rebelled,Cried out for unreined steeds, and unruled stars,An unprohibited ocean and a truthUntrue; and the equal thunder of the lawHurled him to night and chaos, who was bornTo shine upon the forehead of the day.And yet—the voice of darkness and despairMay speak for heaven where heaven would not be heard,May fight for heaven where heaven would not prevail,And the consummate splendour of that strife,Swallowing up all discords, all defeat,In one huge victory, harmonising all,Make Lucifer, at last, at one with God.
There,—on that All Souls' Eve, you might have thoughtA dead man spoke, to see how Drayton stared,And Drummond started."You saw no ruby ring,"The old sexton muttered sullenly. "If you did,The worse for me, by all accounts. The lightsBurned low. You caught the firelight on my fist.What was it like, this ring?""A band of gold,And a great ruby, heart-shaped, fit to burnBetween the breasts of Laïs. Am I awakeOr dreaming?""Well,—that makes the second time!There's many have said they saw it, out of jest,To scare me. For the astrologer did sayThe third time I should die. Now, did you see it?Most likely someone's told you that old tale!You hadn't heard it, now?"Ford shook his head."What tale?" said Ben."O, you could make a bookAbout my life. I've talked with quick and dead,And neither ghost nor flesh can fright me now!I wish it was a ring, so's I could catch him,And sell him; but I've never seen him yet.A white witch told me, if I did, I'd goClink, just like that, to heaven or t'other place,Whirled in a fiery chariot with ten steedsThe way Elijah went. For I have seenSo many mighty things that I must dieMightily.Well,—I came, sirs, to my craftThe day mine uncle Robert dug the graveFor good Queen Katharine, she whose heart was brokeBy old King Harry, a very great while ago.Maybe you've heard about my uncle, sirs?He was far-famous for his grave-digging.In depth, in speed, in neatness, he'd no match!They've put a fine slab to his memoryIn Peterborough Cathedral—Robert Scarlet,Sexton for half a century, it says,In Peterborough Cathedral, where he builtThe last sad habitation for two queens,And many hundreds of the common sort.And now himself, who for so many builtEternal habitations, others have buried.Obiit anno ætatis, ninety-eight,July the second, fifteen ninety-four.We should do well, sir, with a slab like that,Shouldn't we?" And the sexton leered at Lodge."Not many boasts a finer slab than that.There's many a king done worse. Ah, well, you see,He'd a fine record. Living to ninety-eight,He buried generations of the poor,A countless host, and thought no more of itThan digging potatoes. He'd a lofty mindThat found no satisfaction in small deeds.But from his burying of two queens he drewA lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third,It would indeed have crowned his old white hairs.But he was famous, and he thought, perchance,A third were mere vain-glory. So he died.I helped him with the second."The old man leeredTo see the shaft go home.Ben filled the stoupWith ale. "So that," quoth he, "began the taleAbout this ruby ring?" "But who," said Lodge,"Who was the second queen?""A famous queen,And a great lover! When you hear her name,Your hearts will leap. Her beauty passed the boundsOf modesty, men say, yet—she died young!We buried her at midnight. There were fewThat knew it; for the high State FuneralWas held upon the morrow, Lammas morn.Anon you shall hear why. A strange thing that,—To see the mourners weeping round a hearseThat held a dummy coffin. Stranger stillTo see us lowering the true coffin downBy torchlight, with some few of her true friends,In Peterborough Cathedral, all alone.""Old as the world," said Ford. "It is the wayOf princes. Their true tears and smiles are seenAt dead of night, like ghosts raised from the grave!And all the luxury of their brief, bright noon,Cloaks but a dummy throne, a mask of life;And, at the last, drapes a false catafalque,Holding a vacant urn, a mask of death.But tell, tell on!"The sexton took a draughtOf ale and smacked his lips."Mine uncle livedA mile or more from Peterborough, then.And, past his cottage, in the dead of night,Her royal coach came creeping through the lanes,With scutcheons round it and no crowd to see,And heralds carrying torches in their hands,And none to admire, but him and me, and one,A pedlar-poet, who lodged with us that weekAnd paid his lodging with a bunch of rhymes.By these, he said, my uncle Robert's fameShould live, as in a picture, till the crackOf doom. My uncle thought that he should payFour-pence beside; but, when the man declaredThe thought unworthy of these august events,My uncle was abashed.And, truth to tell,The rhymes were mellow, though here and there he swervedFrom truth to make them so. Nor would he change'June' to 'July' for all that we could say.'I never said the month was June,' he cried,'And if I did, Shakespeare hath jumped an age!Gods, will you hedge me round with thirty nights?"June" rhymes with "moon"!' With that, he flung them downAnd strode away like Lucifer, and was gone,Before old Scarlet could approach againThe matter of that four-pence.Yet his rhymesHave caught the very colours of that night!I can see through them,Ay, just as through our cottage window-panes,Can see the great black coach,Carrying the dead queen past our garden-gate.The roses bobbing and fluttering to and fro,Hide, and yet show the more by hiding, half.And, like smoked glass through which you see the sun,The song shows truest when it blurs the truth.This is the way it goes."He rose to his feet,Picked up his spade, and struck an attitude,Leaning upon it. "I've got to feel my spade,Or I'll forget it. This is the way I speak it.Always." And, with a schoolboy's rigid face,And eyes fixed on the rafters, he began,Sing-song, the pedlar-poet's bunch of rhymes:—
As I went by the cattle-shedThe grey dew dimmed the grass,And, under a twisted apple-tree,Old Robin Scarlet stood by me."Keep watch! Keep watch to-night," he said,"There's things 'ull come to pass.
"Keep watch until the moon has clearedThe thatch of yonder rick;Then I'll come out of my cottage-doorTo wait for the coach of a queen once more;And—you'll say nothing of what you've heard,But rise and follow me quick."
"And what 'ull I see if I keep your trust,And wait and watch so late?""Pride," he said, "and Pomp," he said,"Beauty to haunt you till you're dead,And Glorious Dust that goes to dust,Passing the white farm-gate.
"You are young and all for adventure, lad,And the great tales to be told:This night, before the clock strike one,Your lordliest hour will all be done;But you'll remember it and be glad,In the days when you are old!"
All in the middle of the night,My face was at the pane;When, creeping out of his cottage-door,To wait for the coach of a queen once more,Old Scarlet, in the moon-light,Beckoned to me again.
He stood beneath a lilac-spray,Like Father Time for dole,In Reading Tawny cloak and hood,With mattock and with spade he stood,And, far away to southward,A bell began to toll.
He stood beneath a lilac-spray,And never a word he said;But, as I stole out of the house,He pointed over the orchard boughs,Where, not with dawn or sunset,The Northern sky grew red.
I followed him, and half in fear,To the old farm-gate again;And, round the curve of the long white road,I saw that the dew-dashed hedges glowedRed with the grandeur drawing near,And the torches of her train.
They carried her down with singing,With singing sweet and low,Slowly round the curve they came,Twenty torches dropping flame,The heralds that were bringing herThe way we all must go.
'Twas master William Dethick,The Garter King of Arms,Before her royal coach did ride,With none to see his Coat of Pride,For peace was on the countryside,And sleep upon the farms;
Peace upon the red farm,Peace upon the grey,Peace on the heavy orchard trees,And little white-walled cottages,Peace upon the wayside,And sleep upon the way.
So master William Dethick,With forty horse and men,Like any common man and meanRode on before the Queen, the Queen,And—only a wandering pedlarCould tell the tale again.
How, like a cloud of darkness,Between the torches movedFour black steeds and a velvet pallCrowned with the Crown ImperiallAnd—on her shield—the lilies,The lilies that she loved.
Ah, stained and ever stainlessAh, white as her own hand,White as the wonder of that brow,Crowned with colder lilies now,White on the velvet darkness,The lilies of her land!
The witch from over the water,The fay from over the foam,The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' townWith satin shoes and a silken gown,A queen, and a great king's daughter,—Thus they carried her home,
With torches and with scutcheons,Unhonoured and unseen,With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir,And the Lion of Scotland over her,Darkly, in the dead of night,They carried the Queen, the Queen.
The sexton paused and took a draught of ale."'Twas there," he said, "I joined 'em at the gate,My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang,The little shadowy throng of men that walkedBehind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent headsI know not; but 'twas very soft and low.They walked behind the rest, like shadows flungBehind the torch-light, from that strange dark hearse.And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghostsOf lovers that this queen had brought to death.A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yetLike the night-wind they sang. And there was oneAn olive-coloured man,—the pedlar saidWas like a certain foreigner that she loved,One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers.Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell'In words like this, and that the words in FrenchWere written by the hapless Queen herself,When as a girl she left the vines of FranceFor Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:—
I
Though thy hands have plied their tradeEighty years without a rest,Robin Scarlet, never thy spadeBuilt a house for such a guest!Carry her where, in earliest June,All the whitest hawthorns blow;Carry her under the midnight moon,Singing very soft and low.Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping,Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way!Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping!Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,—Fotheringhay!
II
She was gayer than a child!—Let your torches droop for sorrow.—Laughter in her eyes ran wild!—Carry her down to Peterboro'.—Words were kisses in her mouth!—Let no word of blame be spoken.—She was Queen of all the South!—In the North, her heart was broken.—They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping,Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance.Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping, weeping, weeping,—O, ma patrie,La plus chérie,Adieu, plaisant pays de France!
III
Many a red heart died to beat—Music swelled in Holyrood!—Once, beneath her fair white feet.—Now the floors may rot with blood—She was young and her deep hair——Wind and rain were all her fate!—Trapped young Love as in a snare,—And the wind's a sword in the Canongate!Edinboro'!Edinboro'!Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow!Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping,What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows?What if her hair were a silken mesh?Hands of steel can deal hard blows,Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh!Carry her southward, palled in purple,Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose.
Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went,We three behind,—the pedlar-poet and I,And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringedThe escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinctAlong the hedges and woke the sleeping birds,But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms.Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep,We brought her to the doors of her last home,In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tombThey stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles,The heralds with their torches, but their lightStruggled in vain with that tremendous dark.Their ring of smoky red could only showA few sad faces round the purple pall,The wings of a stone angel overhead,The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully,Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault,One little slab of marble, far away.Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's wordsHad made me fanciful, I thought I sawBowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles,Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a griefThat still was built of silence, like the dripOf water from a frozen fountain-head.We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb.With echoing footsteps all the funeral went;And I went last to close and lock the doors;Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloomThat rolled along behind me as one by oneThe torches vanished. O, I was glad to seeThe moonlight on the kind turf-mounds again.But, as I turned the key, a quivering handWas laid upon my arm. I turned and sawThat foreigner with the olive-coloured face.From head to foot he shivered, as with cold.He drew me into the shadows of the porch.'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand—Like ice it was!—along my wrist, and slippedA ring upon my finger, muttering quick,As in a burning fever, 'All the wealthOf Eldorado for one hour! Come back!I must go back and see her face again!I was not there, not there, the day she—died.You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soulWill know. Come back! One moment, only one!'I thought the man was mad, and plucked my handAway from him. He caught me by the sleeve,And sank upon his knees, lifting his faceMost piteously to mine. 'One moment! See!I loved her!'I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears,Great, long, slow tears they were; and then—my God—As his face lifted and his head sank backBeseeching me—I saw a crimson threadCircling his throat, as though the headsman's axeHad cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen,The head had slipped not from the trunk.I gasped;And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back,The wound, O like a second awful mouth,The wound began to gape.I tore my cloakOut of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash.I left them where they lay, and with a shoutI dashed into the broad white empty road.There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fearI hastened home, not daring to look back;But as I turned the corner, I heard the clangOf those great doors, and knew he had entered in.
Not till I saw before me in the laneThe pedlar and my uncle did I haltAnd look at that which clasped my finger stillAs with a band of ice.My hand was bare!I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thoughtI had been dreaming. There had been no ring!The poor man I had left there in the porch,Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild;But only wished to look upon her grave.And I—I was the madman! So I saidNothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts,I'd not go back that night to find the keys,No, not for all the rubies in the crownOf Prester John.
* * * *
The high State FuneralWas held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sightFor Peterborough! For myself, I foundSmall satisfaction in a catafalqueThat carried a dummy coffin. None the less,The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque,Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good,And worthy of a picture in his rhymes;The more because he said it shadowed forthThe ironic face of Death.The Masque, indeedBegan before we buried her. For a hostOf Mourners—Lords and Ladies—on Lammas evePanting with eagerness of pride and place,Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp,And at the Bishop's Palace they found preparedA mighty supper for them, where they satAll at one table. In a Chamber hungWith 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wineAnd feasted, while the torches and the QueenCrept through the darkness of Northampton lanes.
At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke,After the Queen was buried; and at eightThe Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymesWith tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lipsHad more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it,Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells,And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:—
Toll!—From the Palace the Releevants creep,—A hundred poor old women, nigh their end,Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each headAn ell of snow-white holland which, some said,Afterwards they might keep,—Ah, Toll!—with nine new shillings each to spend,For all the trouble that they had, and allThe sorrow of walking to this funeral.
Toll!—And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamedFollowing, a long procession, two by two,Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du PreauHer French Confessor, unafraid to showThe golden Cross that gleamedAbout his neck, warned what the crowd might doSaidI will wear it, though I die for it!So subtle in malice was that Jesuit.
Toll!—Sir George Savile in his Mourner's GownCarried the solemn Cross upon a FieldAzure, and under it by a streamer borneUpon a field of Gules, an UnicornArgent and, lower down,A scrolled device upon a blazoned shield,Which seemed to say—I am silent till the end!—Toll! Toll!—In my defence, God me defend!
Toll!—and a hundred poor old men went by,Followed by two great Bishops.—Toll, ah toll!—Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four noble lords;Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords;Then, with a Bannerol,Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the skyThe Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and CrestBorne by a Herald on his glittering breast.
And now—ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls—That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall,Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopyOf purple, lifted by four knights, goes by.
The Crown ImperialBurns on the Coffin-head. Four BannerolsOn either side, uplifted by four squires,Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires.Toll!The Chief Mourner—the fair Russell!—toll!—Countess of Bedford—toll!—they bring her now,Weeping under a purple Cloth of State,Till, halting there before the Minister Gate,Having in her controlThe fair White Staves of office, with a bowShe gives them to her two great Earls again,Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train.
Toll!At the high Cathedral door the QuiresMeet them and lead them, singing all the whileA mightyMisererefor her soul!Then, as the rolling organ—toll, ah toll!—Floods every glimmering aisleWith ocean-thunders, all those knights and squiresBring the false Coffin to the central naveAnd set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave.
The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wiseValanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold:All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were setWithin it, as jewels in some huge carcanet:Above was this deviceIn my defence, God me defend, inscrolledRound the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say"Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day."
The sexton paused anew. All looked at him,And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand,As if, in that dim light, beclouded nowWith blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to seeThe smouldering ruby again."Ye know," he said,"How master William Wickham preached that day?"Ford nodded. "I have heard of it. He showedSubtly, O very subtly, after his kind,That the white Body of Beauty such as hersWas in itself Papistical, a feast,A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering,And an Abomination in the sightOf all true Protestants. Why, her very nameWas Mary!""Ay, that's true, that's very true!"The sexton mused. "Now that's a strange deep thought!The Bishop missed a text in missing that.Her name, indeed, was Mary!""Did you findYour keys again?" "Ay, Sir, I found them!" "Where?""Strange you should ask me that! After the throngDeparted, and the Nobles were at feast,All in the Bishop's Palace—a great feastAnd worthy of their sorrow—I came backCarrying my uncle's second bunch of keysTo lock the doors and search, too, for mine own.'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrustThe key into the lock, the great grey porchGrew cold upon me, like a tomb.I pushedHard at the key—then stopped—with all my fleshFreezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs,The door was locked already, and—from within!I drew the key forth quietly and stepped backInto the Churchyard, where the graves were warmWith sunset still, and the blunt carven stonesLengthened their homely shadows, out and out,To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart,Seeing the footprints of that mighty MasqueAlong the pebbled path. A queer thought cameInto my head that all the world withoutWas but a Masque, and I was creeping back,Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again.Yet—I grew bold, and tried the Southern door.'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner sideTo foil my own, and softly, softly, click,I turned it, and with heart, sirs, in my mouth,Pushed back the studded door and entered in ...Stepped straight out of the world, I might have said,Out of the dusk into a night so deep,So dark, I trembled like a child....And thenI was aware, sirs, of a great sweet waveOf incense. All the gloom was heavy with it,As if her Papist Household had returnedTo pray for her poor soul; and, my fear went.But either that strange incense weighed me down,Or else from being sorely over-tasked,A languor came upon me, and sitting thereTo breathe a moment, in a velvet stall,I closed mine eyes.A moment, and no more,For then I heard a rustling in the nave,And opened them; and, very far away,As if across the world, in Rome herself,I saw twelve tapers in the solemn East,And saw, or thought I saw, cowled figures kneelBefore them, in an incense-cloud.And then,Maybe the sunset deepened in the worldOf masques without—clear proof that I had closedMine eyes but for a moment, sirs, I sawAs if across a world-without-end tomb,A tiny jewelled glow of crimson panesDarkening and brightening with the West.And then,Then I saw something more—Queen Mary's vault,And—it was open!...Then, I heard a voice,A strange deep broken voice, whispering loveIn soft French words, that clasped and clung like hands;And then—two shadows passed against the West,Two blurs of black against that crimson stain,Slowly, O very slowly, with bowed heads,Leaning together, and vanished into the darkBeyond the Catafalque.Then—I heard him pray,—And knew him for the man that prayed to me,—Pray as a man prays for his love's last breath!And then, O sirs, it caught me by the throat,And I, too, dropped upon my knees and prayed;For, as in answer to his prayer, there cameA moan of music, a mighty shuddering soundFrom the great organ, a sound that rose and fellLike seas in anger, very far away;And then a peal of thunder, and then it seemed,As if the graves were giving up their dead,A great cowled host of shadows rose and sang;—
Dies iræ, dies illâSolvet sæclum in favilla,Teste David cum Sibylla.
I heard her sad, sad, little, broken voice,Out in the darkness. 'Ay, and David, too,His blood is on the floors of Holyrood,To speak for me.' Then that great ocean-soundSwelled to a thunder again, and heaven and earthShrivelled away; and in that huge slow hymnChariots were driven forth in flaming rows,And terrible trumpets blown from deep to deep.
And then, ah then, the heart of heaven was hushed,And—in the hush—it seemed an angel wept,Another Mary wept, and gathering upAll our poor wounded, weary, way-worn world,Even as a Mother gathers up her babe,Soothed it against her breast, and rained her tearsOn the pierced feet of God, and melted HimTo pity, and over His feet poured her deep hair.The music died away. The shadows knelt.And then—I heard a rustling nigh the tomb,And heard—and heard—or dreamed I heard—farewells,Farewells for everlasting, deep farewells,Bitter as blood, darker than any death.And, at the last, as in a kiss, one breath,One agony of sweetness, like a swordFor sharpness, drawn along a soft white throat;And, for its terrible sweetness, like a sighAcross great waters, very far away,—Sweetheart!
And then, like doors, like world-without-end doorsThat shut for Everlasting, came a clang,And ringing, echoing, through the echo of it,One terrible cry that plucked my heart-strings out,Mary!And on the closed and silent tomb,Where there were two, one shuddering shadow lay,And then—I, too,—reeled, swooned and knew no more.
Sirs, when I woke, there was a broad bright shaftOf moonlight, slanting through an Eastern paneFull on her tomb and that black Catafalque.And on the tomb there lay—my bunch of keys!I struggled to my feet,Ashamed of my wild fancies, like a manAwakening from a drunken dream. And yet,When I picked up the keys, although that stormOf terror had all blown by and left me calm,I lifted up mine eyes to see the scrollRound the rich crest of that dark canopy,In my defence, God me defend. The moonStruck full upon it; and, as I turned and went,God help me, sirs, though I were loyal enoughTo good Queen Bess, I could not help but say,Amen!And yet, methought it was not I that spake,But some deep soul that used me for a mask,A soul that rose up in this hollow shellLike dark sea-tides flooding an empty cave.I could not help but say with my poor lips,Amen! Amen!Sirs, 'tis a terrible thingTo move in great events. Since that strange nightI have not been as other men. The tidesWould rise in this dark cave"—he tapped his skull—"Deep tides, I know not whence; and when they roseMy friends looked strangely upon me and stood aloof.And once, my uncle said to me—indeed,It troubled me strangely,—'Timothy,' he said,'Thou art translated! I could well believeThou art two men, whereof the one's a fool,The other a prophet. Or else, beneath thy skinThere lurks a changeling! What hath come to thee?'And then, sirs, then—well I remember it!'Twas on a summer eve, and we walked homeBetween high ghostly hedges white with may—And uncle Robin, in his holy-day suitOf Reading Tawny, felt his old heart swellWith pride in his great memories. He beganChanting the pedlar's tune, keeping the timeThus, jingle, jingle, slowly, with his keys:—
I
Douglas, in the moonless night—Muffled oars on blue Loch Leven!—Took her hand, a flake of white—Beauty slides the bolts of heaven.—Little white hand, like a flake of snow,When they saw it, his Highland crewSwung together and murmured low,"Douglas, wiltthoudie then, too?"And the pine trees whispered, weeping,"Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!Little white hand like a tender moonbeam, soon shall you set the broadswords leaping,It is the Queen, the Queen!" they whispered, watching her soar to the saddle anew."There will be trumpets blown in the mountains, a mist of blood on the heather, and weeping,Weeping, weeping, andthou, too, dead for her, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true."
II
Carry the queenly lass along!—Cold she lies, cold and dead,—She whose laughter was a song,—Lapped around with sheets of lead!—She whose blood was wine of the South,—Light her down to a couch of clay!—And a royal rose her mouth,And her body made of may!—Lift your torches, weeping, weeping,Light her down to a couch of clay.They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping,Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance!
Hush! Between the solemn pinewoods, carry the lovely lady sleeping,Out of the cold grey Northern mists, with banner and scutcheon, plume, and lance,Carry her southward, palled in purple, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,—O, ma patrie,La plus chérie,Adieu, plaisant pays de France!
Well, sirs, that dark tide rose within my brain!I snatched his keys and flung them over the hedge,Then flung myself down on a bank of fernsAnd wept and wept and wept.It puzzled him.Perchance he feared my mind was going and yet,O, sirs, if you consider it rightly now,With all those ages knocking at his doors,With all that custom clamouring for his care,Is it so strange a grave-digger should weep?Well—he was kind enough and heaped my plateThat night at supper.But I could never dig my graves at easeIn Peterborough Churchyard. So I cameTo London—to St. Mary Magdalen's.And thus, I chanced to drink my ale one nightHere in the Mermaid Inn. 'Twas All Souls' Eve,And, on that bench, where master Ford now sitsWas master Shakespeare—Well, the lights burned low,And just like master Ford to-night he leanedSuddenly forward. 'Timothy,' he said,'That's a most marvellous ruby!'My blood froze!I stretched my hand out bare as it was born;And he said nothing, only looked at me.Then, seeing my pipe was empty, he bade me fillAnd lit it for me.Peach, the astrologer,Was living then; and that same night I wentAnd told him all my trouble about this ring.He took my hand in his, and held it—thus—Then looked into my face and said this rhyme:—
The ruby ring, that only threeWhile Time and Tide go by, shall see,Weds your hand to history.
Honour and pride the first shall lend;The second shall give you gold to spend;The third—shall warn you of your end.
Peach was a rogue, some say, and yet he spakeMost truly about the first," the sexton mused,"For master Shakespeare, though they say in youthOutside the theatres, he would hold your horseFor pence, prospered at last, bought a fine houseIn Stratford, lived there like a squire, they say.And here, here he would sit, for all the worldAs he were but a poet! God bless us all,And then—to think!—he rose to be a squire!A deep one, masters! Well, he lit my pipe!""Why did they bury such a queen by night?"Said Ford. "Kings might have wept for her. Did DeathPlay epicure and glutton that so fewWere bidden to such a feast. Once on a time,I could have wept, myself, to hear a taleOf beauty buried in the dark. And hersWas loveliness, far, far beyond the common!Such beauty should be marble to the touchOf time, and clad in purple to amazeThe moth. But she was kind and soft and fair,A woman, and so she died. But, why the dark?"
"Sir, they gave out the coffin was too heavyFor gentlemen to bear!"—"For kings to bear?"Ford flashed at him. The sexton shook his head,—"Nay! Gentlemen to bear! But—the true cause—Ah, sir, 'tis unbelievable, even to me,A sexton, for a queen so fair of face!And all her beds, even as the pedlar said,Breathing Arabia, sirs, her walls all hungWith woven purple wonders and great talesOf amorous gods, and mighty mirrors, too,Imaging her own softness, night and dawn,When through her sumptuous hair she drew the combs;And like one great white rose-leaf half her breastShone through it, firm as ivory.""Ay," said Lodge,Murmuring his own rich music under breath,"About her neck did all the graces throng,And lay such baits as did entangle death.""Well, sir, the weather being hot, they fearedShe would not hold the burying!"..."In some sort,"Ford answered slowly, "if your tale be true,She did not hold it. Many a knightly crestWill bend yet o'er the ghost of that small hand."
There was a hush, broken by Ben at last,Who turned to Ford—"How now, my golden lad?The astrologer's dead hand is on thy purse!"
Ford laughed, grimly, and flung an angel down."Well, cause or consequence, rhyme or no rhyme,There is thy gold. I will not break the spell,Or thou mayst live to bury us one and all!""And, if I live so long," the old man replied,Lighting his lanthorn, "you may trust me, sirs,Mine Inn is quiet, and I can find you bedsWhere Queens might sleep all night and never move.Good-night, sirs, and God bless you, one and all."He shouldered pick and spade. I opened the door.The snow blew in, and, as he shuffled out,There, in the strait dark passage, I could swearI saw a spark of red upon his hand,Like a great smouldering ruby.I gasped. He stopped.He peered at me."Twice in a night," he said."Nothing," I answered, "only the lanthorn-light."He shook his head. "I'll tell you something more!There's nothing, nothing now in life or deathThat frightens me. Ah, things used to frighten me.But never now. I thought I had ten years;But if the warning comes and says 'Thou fool,This night!'Why, then, I'm ready."I watched him go,With glimmering lanthorn up the narrow street,Like one that walked upon the clouds, through snowThat seemed to mix the City with the skies.
On Christmas Eve we heard that he was dead.