THE RONDEAU.

Within my heart there fell a hush,I thought my very soul had died,When first I saw my lady blushAnd own the love she strove to hide.I thought my very soul had diedBefore affection bade her speak,And own the love she strove to hideWith silent ways and manners meek.Before affection bade her speak,I watched her as she used to goWith silent ways and manners meek,Whilst I with love was all aglow.I watched her as she used to goTo gather simple blossoms fair,Whilst I with love was all aglowYet dared not lay my passion bare.To gather simple blossoms fairI often went—to give to her,Yet dared not lay my passion bareThough all my soul with love did stir.I often went to give to herMy life if she would deign to take,Though all my soul with love did stirMy lips their silence dared not break.My life if she would deign to take’Twas her’s, not mine—yet strange to tellMy lips their silence dared not break,Ere she had learned love’s sacred spell.’Twas her’s, not mine—yet strange to tellMoons waxed and waned and years flew by,Ere she had learned love’s sacred spellBy touch of hand and glance of eye.Moons waxed and waned and years flew by,I thought she loved, alas! not me;By touch of hand and glance of eyeThe truth was told—ah! ecstasy!I thought she loved, alas! not me—Within my heart there fell a hush,The truth was told ah! ecstasy!When first I saw my lady blush.

Within my heart there fell a hush,I thought my very soul had died,When first I saw my lady blushAnd own the love she strove to hide.

I thought my very soul had diedBefore affection bade her speak,And own the love she strove to hideWith silent ways and manners meek.

Before affection bade her speak,I watched her as she used to goWith silent ways and manners meek,Whilst I with love was all aglow.

I watched her as she used to goTo gather simple blossoms fair,Whilst I with love was all aglowYet dared not lay my passion bare.

To gather simple blossoms fairI often went—to give to her,Yet dared not lay my passion bareThough all my soul with love did stir.

I often went to give to herMy life if she would deign to take,Though all my soul with love did stirMy lips their silence dared not break.

My life if she would deign to take’Twas her’s, not mine—yet strange to tellMy lips their silence dared not break,Ere she had learned love’s sacred spell.

’Twas her’s, not mine—yet strange to tellMoons waxed and waned and years flew by,Ere she had learned love’s sacred spellBy touch of hand and glance of eye.

Moons waxed and waned and years flew by,I thought she loved, alas! not me;By touch of hand and glance of eyeThe truth was told—ah! ecstasy!

I thought she loved, alas! not me—Within my heart there fell a hush,The truth was told ah! ecstasy!When first I saw my lady blush.

First find your refrain—then build as you goWith delicate touch, neither heavy nor slow,But dainty and light as a gossamer thread,Or the fleecy white cloud that is breaking o’erhead,Or the sea-foam that curls in the soft evening glow;And your rhyme must be swinging—not all in a row,But as waves on the sands in fine ebb and quick flow;Yet of rules for a rondeau I hold this the head—First find your refrain.For the subject—there’s nothing above or below,That a poet can learn or a critic may know,But a rondeau will hold a rhyme-ring that will wedThe thought to the thing; yet whatever is saidWill ne’er be a rondeau till you with one blow—First find your refrain.

For the subject—there’s nothing above or below,That a poet can learn or a critic may know,But a rondeau will hold a rhyme-ring that will wedThe thought to the thing; yet whatever is saidWill ne’er be a rondeau till you with one blow—First find your refrain.

Winter’s blast is coldly sweepingO’er the pallid face of earth;All the merry elves are sleeping,Wearied out with last year’s mirth;Dismal spirits doomed to wander,Never resting anywhere,Chase the sparkling crystals yonderThrough the chill and cheerless air;Where the birds sang in the branchesNot a sound is heard at all;Snowy flakes in avalanchesFlutter down with silent fall;Where the grasses nursed the flowersNot a sign of life is seenAnd the frost has turned the showersInto sheets of icy sheen;All the air is sadly sighing,All the trees with sorrows ring;All is dying—dying—dyingWinter—go! come back, O Spring.

Brother! awake from thy long lethargy;Walk forth into the world, search out the taskThat is allotted thee; tear off the maskOf morbid thought that ever blindeth thee.God hath appointed each good man to beHis warrior in the righteous fray; then askHis benison, and, donning sword and casque,March forth to meet the common enemy.Each good deed done shall be a death-blow givenUnto a sin conceived; each true word saidShall be a javelin that hath not spedIn vain—its force doth come direct from Heaven.Waste not the time; man’s inmost spirit saith“Life without purpose is a lingering death.”

Year after year I see the trees unfoldTheir baby leaves to the maturing sun;Then tender birth of blossoms, one by one,From parent stems that still their nurture hold;Later the tall green corn takes on its gold,Crowned with the glory of a purpose done;And last, the sands of beauty being run,All things decline into the common mould.Age after age whirls on the appointed roundOf mortal destiny; old thoughts take bloom;And new minds battle in the time-worn strife,Death’s winter nips before the task is crowned,And, soon or late, within oblivion’s tombMen fall like leaves from God’s great tree of life.

On thy grassy altar, dear,Pour I out the two-year wine,And the incense rises clearFrom thy holy shrine.Lend me Venus, both thine ears;Let me whisper unto theeAll the hopes and all the fearsRaging now in me.He whom I have loved so well—For whose love my soul hath burned,Yields to Chloe’s fatal spellAnd my vows hath spurned.On her beauty now his eyesBeam as once they beamed on mine—Broken are the solemn tiesMade beneath the vine.It cannot be that he is bornAll my joy to turn to grief,For if he do prove forsworn—Death is my relief.Mother Venus, look with smiles,Lest I lose this joy of love:Lend me all thy wit and wilesHis cold heart to move.Bless this philtre I prepareFrom the swift and sweet vervain;Mother Venus, hear my prayer—Lead him back again!

On thy grassy altar, dear,Pour I out the two-year wine,And the incense rises clearFrom thy holy shrine.

Lend me Venus, both thine ears;Let me whisper unto theeAll the hopes and all the fearsRaging now in me.

He whom I have loved so well—For whose love my soul hath burned,Yields to Chloe’s fatal spellAnd my vows hath spurned.

On her beauty now his eyesBeam as once they beamed on mine—Broken are the solemn tiesMade beneath the vine.

It cannot be that he is bornAll my joy to turn to grief,For if he do prove forsworn—Death is my relief.

Mother Venus, look with smiles,Lest I lose this joy of love:Lend me all thy wit and wilesHis cold heart to move.

Bless this philtre I prepareFrom the swift and sweet vervain;Mother Venus, hear my prayer—Lead him back again!

The length of each day to make shortAnd friendship to bind by a chain,Our Queen was appointed to reignIn the realm of a leafy resort.Strong laws did her ruling supportIf need were her wish to maintain;Though none could Love’s presence profaneWhen Philomel governed the court.How fine did our gallants disportWith ladies who followed the train,Whilst wisdom enlightened each brainIn the wit of each ready retort.Ah! those were the days of fair sportThe world ne’er will witness again,For Honour her rights did retainWhen Philomel governed the Court.What stories our souls did transportO’er the beauties of Fancy’s domain,And their morals and meanings were plain,Though your critics now try to distort.When Beauty and Truth do consort,Hypocrisy preacheth in vain,And Scandal and Slander were slainWhen Philomel governed the Court.Ye moderns, who fight, might and main,For Mammon, believe this report,Men lived in their castles in SpainWhen Philomel governed the Court.

How fine did our gallants disportWith ladies who followed the train,Whilst wisdom enlightened each brainIn the wit of each ready retort.Ah! those were the days of fair sportThe world ne’er will witness again,For Honour her rights did retainWhen Philomel governed the Court.

What stories our souls did transportO’er the beauties of Fancy’s domain,And their morals and meanings were plain,Though your critics now try to distort.When Beauty and Truth do consort,Hypocrisy preacheth in vain,And Scandal and Slander were slainWhen Philomel governed the Court.

Ye moderns, who fight, might and main,For Mammon, believe this report,Men lived in their castles in SpainWhen Philomel governed the Court.

He fears to die who knows not how to live,For Death is friendly, shaping to an endThe woeful accidents which fate doth blendWith high success, to fairer fortunes give;Who for this close would ask alternativeUnto a further lease of earth to lendHis soul, and clip the wings that would ascendTo God, the source of life infinitive?Look at the parable of things—the sunMust some day out—the fairest blossoms die—Sweet-throated songsters cease their minstrelsy—And Nature endeth all she hath begun.So fear ye not to meet the great release,For direst storms dissolve in lasting peace.

When early shades of evening’s closeThe air with solemn darkness fill,Before the moonlight softly throwsIts fairy mantle o’er the hill,A sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.The Nightingale unto the roseIts tale of love may fondly trill;No love-tale this—’tis grief that flowsWith pain that never can be still,The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.Repeated oft, it never growsFamiliar; but is sadder still,As though a spirit sought reposeFrom some pursuing, endless ill,The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.

The Nightingale unto the roseIts tale of love may fondly trill;No love-tale this—’tis grief that flowsWith pain that never can be still,The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.

Repeated oft, it never growsFamiliar; but is sadder still,As though a spirit sought reposeFrom some pursuing, endless ill,The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.

Weep, England, weep! if thou hast tears to shed—Thy master-son of song has passed away;The Arthur of thy poets far has sped,As the long-toiling light fades out of dayInto an unseen land; no later lay,To cheer thy heart and make thy soul more strong,Shall sound within thy walls of sea-girt gray,From the rare voice of him who gave so longThe noblest numbers of new English song.Around the world the echoes of that songSwiftly rebound, all English hearts to fill,And o’er each peak of empire speed alongIn roseate splendour, as the sudden thrillOf sunrise tips with beauty each new hill;From east and west the glory of his fameRolls back to Albion’s shores, and ever will—For east and west can show no poet’s nameMore true and pure, more free from blot and shame.He died in dear old England—in the landWhere Chaucer first sang tales of jovial cheer;Where Spenser chanted forth his pæans grand,And Shakespeare left a word supreme and clear;Where Milton bade the epic reappear,And Wordsworth, later, gained a deathless name;With these great five, this memorable yearHas yielded Tennyson, for future fameThe sixth true English poet to acclaim.The moon streamed through the lattice where he lay,In that last struggle of the living powers,And round his brow her glory ’gan to play,As when he wooed her in sweet English bowers,’Midst silent birds and open-hearted flowers,Till scenes of old-time beauty through his brainBefore him passed; thus kindly death endowersThe last sad moments, lulling them from pain,And memory brings her sweetest stores again.

Around the world the echoes of that songSwiftly rebound, all English hearts to fill,And o’er each peak of empire speed alongIn roseate splendour, as the sudden thrillOf sunrise tips with beauty each new hill;From east and west the glory of his fameRolls back to Albion’s shores, and ever will—For east and west can show no poet’s nameMore true and pure, more free from blot and shame.

He died in dear old England—in the landWhere Chaucer first sang tales of jovial cheer;Where Spenser chanted forth his pæans grand,And Shakespeare left a word supreme and clear;Where Milton bade the epic reappear,And Wordsworth, later, gained a deathless name;With these great five, this memorable yearHas yielded Tennyson, for future fameThe sixth true English poet to acclaim.

The moon streamed through the lattice where he lay,In that last struggle of the living powers,And round his brow her glory ’gan to play,As when he wooed her in sweet English bowers,’Midst silent birds and open-hearted flowers,Till scenes of old-time beauty through his brainBefore him passed; thus kindly death endowersThe last sad moments, lulling them from pain,And memory brings her sweetest stores again.

The sonnet is a diamond flashing roundFrom every facet true rare colored lights;A gem of thought carved in poetic nightsTo grace the brow of art by fancy crowned;A miniature of soul wherein are foundMarvels of beauty and resplendent sights;A drop of blood with which a lover writesHis heart’s sad epitaph in its own bound;A pearl gained from dark waters when the deepRocked in its frenzied passion; the last noteHeard from a heaven-saluting skylark’s throat;A cascade small flung in a canyon steepWith crystal music. At this shrine of songHigh priests of poesy have worshipped long.

Men call him mad because he weavesThe glory of the golden cornAnd paints the beauty of the sheavesThey gather night and morn.They laugh when he in rhapsody,With eye uplift and soul serene,Translates the wonders of the skyWhich they have dimly seen.Or if he pluck a wayside flowerAnd tell them of its beauty rare,They smile, not knowing God’s great powerIs manifested there.Or if when tempests rule the skyHe walk and talk with wind and rain,They call his soul’s great ecstacyA sickness of the brain.He walks unrecognized of men,For sense may not discern the soul;The morrow’s wonders of his penTheir sympathies control.Along the battle-field of life,Content to lose if others gain,He lifts no finger in the strife,Yet feels its bitter pain.He wanders through the crowded street,Or lingers by the country side,For all things good his heart doth beatWith love that is world-wide.The troubles of his fellow menHe shrines with pity in heart,And prays the time to hasten whenAll sorrow shall depart.And when the kindly voice of DeathProclaims life’s journey duly trod,He blesses all with parting breathAnd leaves the rest to God.

Men call him mad because he weavesThe glory of the golden cornAnd paints the beauty of the sheavesThey gather night and morn.

They laugh when he in rhapsody,With eye uplift and soul serene,Translates the wonders of the skyWhich they have dimly seen.

Or if he pluck a wayside flowerAnd tell them of its beauty rare,They smile, not knowing God’s great powerIs manifested there.

Or if when tempests rule the skyHe walk and talk with wind and rain,They call his soul’s great ecstacyA sickness of the brain.

He walks unrecognized of men,For sense may not discern the soul;The morrow’s wonders of his penTheir sympathies control.

Along the battle-field of life,Content to lose if others gain,He lifts no finger in the strife,Yet feels its bitter pain.

He wanders through the crowded street,Or lingers by the country side,For all things good his heart doth beatWith love that is world-wide.

The troubles of his fellow menHe shrines with pity in heart,And prays the time to hasten whenAll sorrow shall depart.

And when the kindly voice of DeathProclaims life’s journey duly trod,He blesses all with parting breathAnd leaves the rest to God.

Vine tendrils drooping in the mid-day sunTake me to Greece, ere Sappho sang those lays,Whose echoes, falling down this length of days,Trance us with beauty, sweet and halcyon;Satyrs, green-garlanded, skip madly onThrough woody wilds, loud shouts of ribald praiseMingle with merry laughter, and amazeThe peaceful shepherds, who, affrighted, run;Fair dryads swell the riot-filling songFrom every tree trunk, and from each pure springSweet naiad voices rise with silvery ringTo welcome him who leads the dancing throng,Old Bacchus! reeling ’neath the weight of wine,Chanting a stave, half drunken, half divine.

Ah! Jenny! though life is not over,Yet the sweetness of living is past;No longer we walk through the cloverAnd watch the white clouds sailing fast;For a darkness has newly arisenTo spread and to spoil our fair sky,All our days must be spent in a prisonAnd the black cloud shall never pass by.Ah! Jenny! though bright the scales glitter,In the midst of the coil lurks a fang,The fruit of the almond is bitterThough the blossoms are fair while they hang;The rose has a canker within it,And some day the lark will not sing,The year that flew by as a minuteShall bear heavy on Love’s broken wing.Ah! Jenny! our play-book lies brokenBehind us;—before is the pageHermetic;—and so for a tokenTo charm away grief in our ageRemember the words of Creation,Our “Let there be Love,” when Love’s fireThrough our lips like a sacred libationDrenched our souls with the wine of desire.Ah! Jenny! we journeyed togetherLife’s road for a year and a day,Bright summer has been all our weather,Fair blossoms have strewn all our way;And shall we now part at the cornerOf the cross-roads and meet nevermore,Because the world leers like a scornerAnd mocks when we pass by its door?Ah! Jenny! the hand that I gave youThat night when I promised to keepYour heart—lo! I stretch out to save youAnd to save my own soul from Hell’s deep;Let the world say its worst;—we shall neverHear its voice or see aught of its gloom,For in Love-land the birds sing foreverAnd the roses are always in bloom.

Ah! Jenny! though bright the scales glitter,In the midst of the coil lurks a fang,The fruit of the almond is bitterThough the blossoms are fair while they hang;The rose has a canker within it,And some day the lark will not sing,The year that flew by as a minuteShall bear heavy on Love’s broken wing.

Ah! Jenny! our play-book lies brokenBehind us;—before is the pageHermetic;—and so for a tokenTo charm away grief in our ageRemember the words of Creation,Our “Let there be Love,” when Love’s fireThrough our lips like a sacred libationDrenched our souls with the wine of desire.

Ah! Jenny! we journeyed togetherLife’s road for a year and a day,Bright summer has been all our weather,Fair blossoms have strewn all our way;And shall we now part at the cornerOf the cross-roads and meet nevermore,Because the world leers like a scornerAnd mocks when we pass by its door?

Ah! Jenny! the hand that I gave youThat night when I promised to keepYour heart—lo! I stretch out to save youAnd to save my own soul from Hell’s deep;Let the world say its worst;—we shall neverHear its voice or see aught of its gloom,For in Love-land the birds sing foreverAnd the roses are always in bloom.

Sad and soft is the dirge on the Gallic shoreBy the mournful moan of the ocean madeFor the days and the deeds that are now no more’Ere the last of the Knights in his tomb was laidIn the depth of an old cathedral’s shade;Above are his casque, shield, banner and lanceWith the sword that had struck him the accolade;But dead are the legends and lillies of France.Did he pine for the powder and polished floor,Gay dances, bright glances of masquerade?When he parleyed of politics, was it not o’erThe lightning-blue gleam of his Damascene blade?If he sang, was it not of an old Crusade?If he listened and laughed at a love romance,Would he rather not look at a carronade?But dead are the legends and lilies of France.If his lady’s fair favour he sought to imploreBy a witty ballade or a sad serenadeDid he write it? Not he, when a troubadourWas willing to sing all the day if paidIn a bower of bloom or a vine arcade,Or to sigh all night in the moonbeam’s dance,While he dreamed of rampart and escalade;But dead are the legends and lilies of France.The Cathedral still stands with its fine façade;Some old stones of the rampart remain by chance;There are diplomats, dances, and gasconade—But dead are the legends and lilies of France.

Did he pine for the powder and polished floor,Gay dances, bright glances of masquerade?When he parleyed of politics, was it not o’erThe lightning-blue gleam of his Damascene blade?If he sang, was it not of an old Crusade?If he listened and laughed at a love romance,Would he rather not look at a carronade?But dead are the legends and lilies of France.

If his lady’s fair favour he sought to imploreBy a witty ballade or a sad serenadeDid he write it? Not he, when a troubadourWas willing to sing all the day if paidIn a bower of bloom or a vine arcade,Or to sigh all night in the moonbeam’s dance,While he dreamed of rampart and escalade;But dead are the legends and lilies of France.

The Cathedral still stands with its fine façade;Some old stones of the rampart remain by chance;There are diplomats, dances, and gasconade—But dead are the legends and lilies of France.

After the early spring’s dissolving powersHad eased the earth of winter’s icy weight,I went into the woods with soul elateTo watch the coming of the first-born flowers;Fair Flora soon began to build her bowersOf leaf and bloom in forms both small and great,The trees put forth their canopies of state,And from the ground sprang up between the hoursMost beauteous blossoms in a glorious bandOf perfect shapes and colors richly blent,And all my soul was fill’d with glad content;But one pink hawthorn in a far-off landSent all my thoughts like birds on eager wingBack to the beauty of Old England’s spring.

If I were King of some great landWith lords and commons to command,My crown should be with justice brightInstead of jewels—and Love’s lightShould be the sceptre in my hand.One law of virtue should be plannedThat all alike might understandThe simple rule, that right is right—If I were King.One Church should stand in God’s own sightWhere all who wished to worship, might,Its ministers should be a bandOf soldiers with a purpose grandTo put all evil thoughts to flight,If I were King.

If I were King of some great landWith lords and commons to command,My crown should be with justice brightInstead of jewels—and Love’s lightShould be the sceptre in my hand.

One law of virtue should be plannedThat all alike might understandThe simple rule, that right is right—If I were King.

One Church should stand in God’s own sightWhere all who wished to worship, might,Its ministers should be a bandOf soldiers with a purpose grandTo put all evil thoughts to flight,If I were King.

Grey wind of the North! with thy burden so chill,(Oh! for the blast and the blowing,)Why flyest thou fast over river and rill,Adown the deep valley and up the steep hill,(Alas! for the storms that are sowing.)Through gloom-spreading forest, bare meadow, bleak moor,Above the sea-surges, along the sea shore,O! whither, grey wind, art thou going?

The corpse of my lover my arms do enfold,(Oh! for the roar and the rattle.)Whose beauty was rarer and fairer than gold,Whose joys were bright jewels, unbought and unsold,(Alas! for the fear-stricken cattle.)And I chant in thine ear the sad dirge of the dead,For the summer is slain and the winter so dreadIs hasting to offer thee battle.

Sere leaves of the autumn, resplendent and bright,(Oh! for the frost and the fading.)Why fall ye so thickly by day and by night,With raining of color that dazzles the sight,(Alas! for the winter’s invading.)Till heaped on my bosom like relics of loveYe lie, sad remembrancers, sorrow to moveMy spirit with woe overlading.

We thought to have woven a garment of grace,(Oh! for the moon and the veiling.)Embroidered with beauties bright fancy should trace,But, alas! we have gazed on his death-stricken face,(Alas! for the heavens are paling.)And the robe of our fancy is changed to a pallAnd the garlands that lately did crown him must fall;Love’s labor is all unavailing.

Pale snow, with a touch that is light as the air,(Oh! for sky’s cloud and earth’s cover.)Why weighest thou down on my heart filled with care,On my soul with its anguish too heavy to bear.(Alas! for the end when ’tis over.)In thy mantle of gauze why hid’st thou mine eyes,That would look at fond love e’er forever love liesIn the grave of my newly-slain lover.

I cover thy face lest the sight of thy dead,(Oh! for love, sacred and splendid.)Should strike in thy soul its unnameable dread,For sympathy now and forever is fled,(Alas! for lost love, undefended.)And I wrap up thy breast with the warmth of my heart,Which shall stay till the spring breaks and bids me depart,When the time of thy mourning is ended.

Know you whence the roses came?Roses are the queen of flowers;Rose is my beloved’s name.All my heart was set aflameAs we walked through Cupid’s bowers;Know you whence the roses came?Is it sweetness—is it shame—When the sunshine’s spoiled by showers?Rose is my beloved’s name.Duty sits a stern old dameOn a throne of ruined towers;Know you whence the roses came?Youth must live and who shall blameIf with love it pass the hours?Rose is my beloved’s name.Life and love is all a game,Shine and shadow—gleams and glowers—Know you whence the roses came?Rose is my beloved’s name.

Know you whence the roses came?Roses are the queen of flowers;Rose is my beloved’s name.

All my heart was set aflameAs we walked through Cupid’s bowers;Know you whence the roses came?

Is it sweetness—is it shame—When the sunshine’s spoiled by showers?Rose is my beloved’s name.

Duty sits a stern old dameOn a throne of ruined towers;Know you whence the roses came?

Youth must live and who shall blameIf with love it pass the hours?Rose is my beloved’s name.

Life and love is all a game,Shine and shadow—gleams and glowers—Know you whence the roses came?Rose is my beloved’s name.

My spirit wandered by the ocean shore;Proud argosies sailed out to Albion’s isleDeep-laden with a new world’s golden store,The sun-kissed waves danced lightly, Nature’s smileSuffused o’er all the scene sweet loveliness awhile.Light silver veils, like tender thoughts outspreadWhen dreaming lovers taste supernal joy,Floated around Heaven’s azure bridal bedIn listless splendour; others did convoyEarth’s treasures o’er the deep that plotted to destroy.There rose as from the sea a strange mirageOut of the past; the clouds like floating drapesEach moment changed, and ocean’s long rivageWas wreathed by magic in a thousand shapes,Now gemmed with flashing isles, now girt with solemn capes.And all the cities that have loved the seaTo their destruction, passed along the sky,And I beheld them, as the drowning see,In that last moment when they sink to die,All life’s forgotten scenes unrolled by memory.Time-honoured Greece, whose fingers clutched the waveAnd clasped it to a heart that beats no more,Sank with her wisdom in a silent grave,Leaving her sons a splendour to deploreWhile moans the tideless sea around each classic shore.Rich Carthage, whose swift keels swam round the world,Phœnicia’s loveliest daughter. Her fair handWas fought for by the nations; Fate hath hurled,Her and her glory from their sea-throne grand,Buried like some old palm beneath the burning sand.Great Venice stood amid the nuptials gayBlessing as bride the fair but fickle sea;But all her pride and pomp have passed away,Dukes, doge, ships, senate, riches, sovereignty,That once compelled the world to fall on bended knee.Imperial Rome, set like a lustrous gemWithin seven guardian jewels! Tyrant TimeStole from her thoughtful brow its diademAnd the three wreaths that crowned her all-sublime,Stained though their golden leaves with many a bloody crime.Proud Spain! once mistress of the sea, beforeThe fool Ambition led her ships in vainAgainst the bulwarks of old England’s shore,When God smote down her pride upon the mainAnd sank her power so low, it never rose again.Then fell a mist before my wondering sightOver the past, and slowly there aroseOur blessèd Britain in her glorious might,The awe and admiration of her foes,Whose land of liberty protecting seas enclose.The diamond of nations, set in gold,Flashing with truth that sparkles o’er the earth,Compared to her what empery of oldHath wrought for suffering man such deeds of worth,Or filled with living light dark lands of ageless dearth?

Light silver veils, like tender thoughts outspreadWhen dreaming lovers taste supernal joy,Floated around Heaven’s azure bridal bedIn listless splendour; others did convoyEarth’s treasures o’er the deep that plotted to destroy.

There rose as from the sea a strange mirageOut of the past; the clouds like floating drapesEach moment changed, and ocean’s long rivageWas wreathed by magic in a thousand shapes,Now gemmed with flashing isles, now girt with solemn capes.

And all the cities that have loved the seaTo their destruction, passed along the sky,And I beheld them, as the drowning see,In that last moment when they sink to die,All life’s forgotten scenes unrolled by memory.

Time-honoured Greece, whose fingers clutched the waveAnd clasped it to a heart that beats no more,Sank with her wisdom in a silent grave,Leaving her sons a splendour to deploreWhile moans the tideless sea around each classic shore.

Rich Carthage, whose swift keels swam round the world,Phœnicia’s loveliest daughter. Her fair handWas fought for by the nations; Fate hath hurled,Her and her glory from their sea-throne grand,Buried like some old palm beneath the burning sand.

Great Venice stood amid the nuptials gayBlessing as bride the fair but fickle sea;But all her pride and pomp have passed away,Dukes, doge, ships, senate, riches, sovereignty,That once compelled the world to fall on bended knee.

Imperial Rome, set like a lustrous gemWithin seven guardian jewels! Tyrant TimeStole from her thoughtful brow its diademAnd the three wreaths that crowned her all-sublime,Stained though their golden leaves with many a bloody crime.

Proud Spain! once mistress of the sea, beforeThe fool Ambition led her ships in vainAgainst the bulwarks of old England’s shore,When God smote down her pride upon the mainAnd sank her power so low, it never rose again.

Then fell a mist before my wondering sightOver the past, and slowly there aroseOur blessèd Britain in her glorious might,The awe and admiration of her foes,Whose land of liberty protecting seas enclose.

The diamond of nations, set in gold,Flashing with truth that sparkles o’er the earth,Compared to her what empery of oldHath wrought for suffering man such deeds of worth,Or filled with living light dark lands of ageless dearth?

To King Banalin’s court there cameFrom divers lands beyond the seaA score of knights, with hearts aflameWith love for lady Ursalie,Whose wondrous beauty and fair fameWere sung by Europe’s minstrelsy.Each lord in retinue did bringA noble and a princely band,Whose deeds the troubadours did singThrough length and breadth of Christian land,And each by turn besought the KingThe favour of his daughter’s hand.But spake the King to each brave lord,“When first the sun shall shine in MayA tourney in the palace-yardWe do appoint, and on that dayWho holds his own with spear and swordShall take our daughter fair away.”Whereat the Lady UrsalieBlanched as a lily of the vale,For many moons had waned since sheFirst pledged her love to Sir Verale,And for that sick to death was heHer trembling lips turned ashen pale.The heavy scent of musk and myrrhHung all about the inner room,Dim taper lights did faintly stirTo life the arras through the gloom,—She bade her handmaid bring to herThe treasure-box that held her doom.With lightest touch a secret springUpraised the silver casket’s lid;She took therefrom a golden ring,A broken coin, a heart hair-thrid,And many a sweet and precious thingWherein her plighted troth was hid.“Then welcome death, if death it prove,”She said and kissed with lips still paleEach sweet remembrance of his love;—“I will not fail thee, Sir Verale,Though from thy couch thou canst not moveTo don for me thy coat of mail.”Unto the chapel straight she wentAnd knelt before the altar-stone;Her face within her hands she bentPraying with many a tear and moanUntil the day was well-nigh spent,When came a beadsman she had known;“O! Father! join thy prayer with mineThe life of Sir Verale to save;O! plead then at our Lady’s shrineFor health to one so young and brave.For I will wed, with help divine,No other lord this side the grave.”The holy friar knelt him thereAnd crossed him, and began to tellHis beads, each counted for a prayer,Until the sound of vesper-bellStole through the darkling twilight airAnd warned them of the day’s farewell.Each day at morn and noon and nightHer trusted handmaid she did sendTo learn if her belovèd knightIn life’s estate was like to mend,And on the eve of April’s flightThis message came her heart to rend.“Tell thou my lady fair,” he said,To her who bore the answer back,“To-morrow will I leave this bedAnd wear my suit of armour black;To-morrow will I win and wedOr lose both love and life, alack.”The Lady Ursalie knew wellHe could not rise, so ill he was,And shuddered as her maid did tellHis dying state, then forth did passUnto the chapel, as the bellProclaimed the holy evening mass.The morrow broke with golden rushAnd chased the gloom of night away;The pipe of blackbird, song of thrush,Rose with the skylark’s roundelay,The wild flowers started with a blushTo meet the first bright morn of May.The palace-yard was all prepared;Bright-hued pavilions stood around,The banners waved, the armour glared,The eager steeds tore up the ground,And twenty princes who had daredThe tourney in the lists were found.The King and Queen on daïsed throneReceived each knight on bended knee;But like an image carved in stoneSat lovely Lady UrsalieAnd none who saw her would have knownFor her the tourney was to be.But one there knelt in sable mailOf whom the King in accents rude,Did ask his name, and why this baleOf armour black, he did intrude;He answered: “I am Sir Verale,Long months thy daughter have I wooed.And by this sable suit I wear,This sterling blade of Spanish steel,This iron shield and trusty spear,—But chiefly by the love I feel,I ask to wife thy daughter fairAnd that, proud King, is why I kneel.”When Lady Ursalie that voiceDid hear, her heart beat high with fears,Her troubled soul did half rejoiceAnd memory filled her eyes with tears;But as she smiled upon her choiceThere fell a clash of shields and spears.Knight after knight was overthrown,Some ready for the bier and shroud,At last the black knight stood alone—And in the air applause rang loudAs proudly strode he to the thronePursued by all the noble crowd.Then cried the King: “Right nobly won,Most puissant, worthy Sir Verale,I would the words were well undoneThat erst in anger I did rail.”The knight replied, “Words injure none,And after-grief doth not avail.And now, O King, thou soon shalt wisThy daughter is forever mine,And when thy loving liegemen missBoth thee and all thou callest thine,They shall recall the Black Knight’s kissAnd know that love hath power divine.”Then at the Lady UrsalieThe Black Knight looked and she arose.But what strange visage she did seeThat his raised vizor did disclose—Is still an awful mysteryWhich only that dead lady knows.For when her eyes of lustre rareGazed there, where none could see a face,A flash of lightning rent the air;And, passing in a moment’s space,The Black Knight was no longer thereAnd of his steed there was no trace.All looked at Lady Ursalie,Who blushed with love like any bride:“No power can take my soul from thee,I come, I come,” she faintly cried,And swooned in arms held hastilyAnd smiling closed her eyes and died.But who the Black Knight was none knew,Though one said who had second sight,He watched a raven as it flewIn circles slow and did alightUpon the tourney ground and grewInto a sable horse and knight.By some, it is believed and said,That Sir Verale gave one deep sighAnd turned himself on his sick bedAnd muttered a low welcome cry,And ere the watchers knew, was dead,As his dear lady’s soul passed by.

Each lord in retinue did bringA noble and a princely band,Whose deeds the troubadours did singThrough length and breadth of Christian land,And each by turn besought the KingThe favour of his daughter’s hand.

But spake the King to each brave lord,“When first the sun shall shine in MayA tourney in the palace-yardWe do appoint, and on that dayWho holds his own with spear and swordShall take our daughter fair away.”

Whereat the Lady UrsalieBlanched as a lily of the vale,For many moons had waned since sheFirst pledged her love to Sir Verale,And for that sick to death was heHer trembling lips turned ashen pale.

The heavy scent of musk and myrrhHung all about the inner room,Dim taper lights did faintly stirTo life the arras through the gloom,—She bade her handmaid bring to herThe treasure-box that held her doom.

With lightest touch a secret springUpraised the silver casket’s lid;She took therefrom a golden ring,A broken coin, a heart hair-thrid,And many a sweet and precious thingWherein her plighted troth was hid.

“Then welcome death, if death it prove,”She said and kissed with lips still paleEach sweet remembrance of his love;—“I will not fail thee, Sir Verale,Though from thy couch thou canst not moveTo don for me thy coat of mail.”

Unto the chapel straight she wentAnd knelt before the altar-stone;Her face within her hands she bentPraying with many a tear and moanUntil the day was well-nigh spent,When came a beadsman she had known;

“O! Father! join thy prayer with mineThe life of Sir Verale to save;O! plead then at our Lady’s shrineFor health to one so young and brave.For I will wed, with help divine,No other lord this side the grave.”

The holy friar knelt him thereAnd crossed him, and began to tellHis beads, each counted for a prayer,Until the sound of vesper-bellStole through the darkling twilight airAnd warned them of the day’s farewell.

Each day at morn and noon and nightHer trusted handmaid she did sendTo learn if her belovèd knightIn life’s estate was like to mend,And on the eve of April’s flightThis message came her heart to rend.

“Tell thou my lady fair,” he said,To her who bore the answer back,“To-morrow will I leave this bedAnd wear my suit of armour black;To-morrow will I win and wedOr lose both love and life, alack.”

The Lady Ursalie knew wellHe could not rise, so ill he was,And shuddered as her maid did tellHis dying state, then forth did passUnto the chapel, as the bellProclaimed the holy evening mass.

The morrow broke with golden rushAnd chased the gloom of night away;The pipe of blackbird, song of thrush,Rose with the skylark’s roundelay,The wild flowers started with a blushTo meet the first bright morn of May.

The palace-yard was all prepared;Bright-hued pavilions stood around,The banners waved, the armour glared,The eager steeds tore up the ground,And twenty princes who had daredThe tourney in the lists were found.

The King and Queen on daïsed throneReceived each knight on bended knee;But like an image carved in stoneSat lovely Lady UrsalieAnd none who saw her would have knownFor her the tourney was to be.

But one there knelt in sable mailOf whom the King in accents rude,Did ask his name, and why this baleOf armour black, he did intrude;He answered: “I am Sir Verale,Long months thy daughter have I wooed.

And by this sable suit I wear,This sterling blade of Spanish steel,This iron shield and trusty spear,—But chiefly by the love I feel,I ask to wife thy daughter fairAnd that, proud King, is why I kneel.”

When Lady Ursalie that voiceDid hear, her heart beat high with fears,Her troubled soul did half rejoiceAnd memory filled her eyes with tears;But as she smiled upon her choiceThere fell a clash of shields and spears.

Knight after knight was overthrown,Some ready for the bier and shroud,At last the black knight stood alone—And in the air applause rang loudAs proudly strode he to the thronePursued by all the noble crowd.

Then cried the King: “Right nobly won,Most puissant, worthy Sir Verale,I would the words were well undoneThat erst in anger I did rail.”The knight replied, “Words injure none,And after-grief doth not avail.

And now, O King, thou soon shalt wisThy daughter is forever mine,And when thy loving liegemen missBoth thee and all thou callest thine,They shall recall the Black Knight’s kissAnd know that love hath power divine.”

Then at the Lady UrsalieThe Black Knight looked and she arose.But what strange visage she did seeThat his raised vizor did disclose—Is still an awful mysteryWhich only that dead lady knows.

For when her eyes of lustre rareGazed there, where none could see a face,A flash of lightning rent the air;And, passing in a moment’s space,The Black Knight was no longer thereAnd of his steed there was no trace.

All looked at Lady Ursalie,Who blushed with love like any bride:“No power can take my soul from thee,I come, I come,” she faintly cried,And swooned in arms held hastilyAnd smiling closed her eyes and died.

But who the Black Knight was none knew,Though one said who had second sight,He watched a raven as it flewIn circles slow and did alightUpon the tourney ground and grewInto a sable horse and knight.

By some, it is believed and said,That Sir Verale gave one deep sighAnd turned himself on his sick bedAnd muttered a low welcome cry,And ere the watchers knew, was dead,As his dear lady’s soul passed by.

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