Fytte IVIn Utrumque Paratus[A Logical Discussion]"Then hey for boot and horse, lad!And round the world away!Young blood will have its course, lad!And every dog his day!"—C. Kingsley.
There's a formula which the west country clownsOnce used, ere their blows fell thick,At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs,In their bouts with the single-stick.You may read a moral, not far amiss,If you care to moralise,In the crossing-guard, where the ash-plants kiss,To the words "God spare our eyes".No game was ever yet worth a rapFor a rational man to play,Into which no accident, no mishap,Could possibly find its way.If you hold the willow, a shooter from WillsMay transform you into a hopper,And the football meadow is rife with spills,If you feel disposed for a cropper;In a rattling gallop with hound and horseYou may chance to reverse the medalOn the sward, with the saddle your loins across,And your hunter's loins on the saddle;In the stubbles you'll find it hard to frameA remonstrance firm, yet civil,When oft as "our mutual friend" takes aim,Long odds may be laid on the rising game,And against your gaiters level;There's danger even where fish are caught,To those who a wetting fear;For what's worth having must aye be bought,And sport's like life and life's like sport,"It ain't all skittles and beer."The honey bag lies close to the sting,The rose is fenced by the thorn,Shall we leave to others their gathering,And turn from clustering fruits that clingTo the garden wall in scorn?Albeit those purple grapes hang high,Like the fox in the ancient tale,Let us pause and try, ere we pass them by,Though we, like the fox, may fail.All hurry is worse than useless; thinkOn the adage, "'Tis pace that kills";Shun bad tobacco, avoid strong drink,Abstain from Holloway's pills,Wear woollen socks, they're the best you'll find,Beware how you leave off flannel;And whatever you do, don't change your mindWhen once you have picked your panel;With a bank of cloud in the south south-east,Stand ready to shorten sail;Fight shy of a corporation feast;Don't trust to a martingale;Keep your powder dry, and shut one eye,Not both, when you touch your trigger;Don't stop with your head too frequently(This advice ain't meant for a nigger);Look before you leap, if you like, but ifYou mean leaping, don't look long,Or the weakest place will soon grow stiff,And the strongest doubly strong;As far as you can, to every man,Let your aid be freely given,And hit out straight, 'tis your shortest plan,When against the ropes you're driven.Mere pluck, though not in the least sublime,Is wiser than blank dismay,Since "No sparrow can fall before its time",And we're valued higher than they;So hope for the best and leave the restIn charge of a stronger hand,Like the honest boors in the far-off west,With the formula terse and grand.They were men for the most part rough and rude,Dull and illiterate,But they nursed no quarrel, they cherished no feud,They were strangers to spite and hate;In a kindly spirit they took their stand,That brothers and sons might learnHow a man should uphold the sports of his land,And strike his best with a strong right hand,And take his strokes in return."'Twas a barbarous practice," the Quaker cries,"'Tis a thing of the past, thank heaven"—Keep your thanks till the combative instinct diesWith the taint of the olden leaven;Yes, the times are changed, for better or worse,The prayer that no harm befallHas given its place to a drunken curse,And the manly game to a brawl.Our burdens are heavy, our natures weak,Some pastime devoid of harmMay we look for? "Puritan elder, speak!""Yea, friend, peradventure thou mayest seekRecreation singing a psalm."If I did, your visage so grim and sternWould relax in a ghastly smile,For of music I never one note could learn,And my feeble minstrelsy would turnYour chant to discord vile.Tho' the Philistine's mail could not avail,Nor the spear like a weaver's beam,There are episodes yet in the Psalmist's tale,To obliterate which his poems fail,Which his exploits fail to redeem.Can the Hittite's wrongs forgotten be?Does HE warble "Non nobis Domine",With his monarch in blissful concert, freeFrom all malice to flesh inherent;Zeruiah's offspring, who served so well,Yet between the horns of the altar fell—Does HIS voice the "Quid gloriaris" swell,Or the "Quare fremuerunt"?It may well be thus where DAVID sings,And Uriah joins in the chorus,But while earth to earthy matter clings,Neither you nor the bravest of Judah's kingsAs a pattern can stand before us.
Fytte VLex Talionis[A Moral Discourse]"And if there's blood upon his hand,'Tis but the blood of deer."—W. Scott.
To beasts of the field, and fowls of the air,And fish of the sea alike,Man's hand is ever slow to spare,And ever ready to strike;With a license to kill, and to work our will,In season by land or by water,To our heart's content we may take our fillOf the joys we derive from slaughter.And few, I reckon, our rights gainsayIn this world of rapine and wrong,Where the weak and the timid seem lawful preyFor the resolute and the strong;Fins, furs, and feathers, they are and wereFor our use and pleasure created,We can shoot, and hunt, and angle, and snare,Unquestioned, if not unsated.I have neither the will nor the right to blame,Yet to many (though not to all)The sweets of destruction are somewhat tameWhen no personal risks befall;Our victims suffer but little, we trust(Mere guess-work and blank enigma),If they suffer at all, our field sports mustOf cruelty bear the stigma.Shall we, hard-hearted to their fates, thusSoft-hearted shrink from our own,When the measure we mete is meted to us,When we reap as we've always sown?Shall we who for pastime have squander'd life,Who are styled "the Lords of Creation",Recoil from our chance of more equal strife,And our risk of retaliation?Though short is the dying pheasant's pain,Scant pity you well may spare,And the partridge slain is a triumph vain,And a risk that a child may dare;You feel, when you lower the smoking gun,Some ruth for yon slaughtered hare,And hit or miss, in your selfish funThe widgeon has little share.But you've no remorseful qualms or pangsWhen you kneel by the grizzly's lair,On that conical bullet your sole chance hangs,'Tis the weak one's advantage fair,And the shaggy giant's terrific fangsAre ready to crush and tear;Should you miss, one vision of home and friends,Five words of unfinished prayer,Three savage knife stabs, so your sport endsIn the worrying grapple that chokes and rends;—Rare sport, at least, for the bear.Short shrift! sharp fate! dark doom to dree!Hard struggle, though quickly ending!At home or abroad, by land or sea,In peace or war, sore trials must be,And worse may happen to you or to me,For none are secure, and none can fleeFrom a destiny impending.Ah! friend, did you think when the LONDON sank,Timber by timber, plank by plank,In a cauldron of boiling surf,How alone at least, with never a flinch,In a rally contested inch by inch,You could fall on the trampled turf?When a livid wall of the sea leaps high,In the lurid light of a leaden sky,And bursts on the quarter railing;While the howling storm-gust seems to vieWith the crash of splintered beams that fly,Yet fails too oft to smother the cryOf women and children wailing?Then those who listen in sinking shipsTo despairing sobs from their lov'd one's lips,Where the green wave thus slowly shatters,May long for the crescent-claw that ripsThe bison into ribbons and strips,And tears the strong elk to tatters.Oh! sunderings short of body and breath!Oh! "battle and murder and sudden death!"Against which the Liturgy preaches;By the will of a just, yet a merciful Power,Less bitter, perchance, in the mystic hour,When the wings of the shadowy angel lower,Than man in his blindness teaches!
Fytte VIPotters' Clay[An Allegorical Interlude]"Nec propter vitam vivendi perdere causas."
Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rillToo oft gets broken at last,There are scores of others its place to fillWhen its earth to the earth is cast;Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,But lie like a useless clod,Yet sooner or later the hour will comeWhen its chips are thrown to the sod.Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,When the vessel is crack'd and old,To cherish the battered potters' clay,As though it were virgin gold?Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,Though prudent and safe you seem,Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,And mine by the dazzling stream.
Fytte VIICito Pede Preterit Aetas[A Philosophical Dissertation]"Gillian's dead, God rest her bier—How I loved her many years syne;Marion's married, but I sit here,Alive and merry at three-score year,Dipping my nose in Gascoigne wine."—Wamba's Song—Thackeray.
A mellower light doth Sol afford,His meridian glare has pass'd,And the trees on the broad and sloping swardTheir length'ning shadows cast."Time flies." The current will be no joke,If swollen by recent rain,To cross in the dark, so I'll have a smoke,And then I'll be off again.What's up, old horse? Your ears you prick,And your eager eyeballs glisten;'Tis the wild dog's note in the tea-tree thick,By the river, to which you listen.With head erect and tail flung out,For a gallop you seem to beg,But I feel the qualm of a chilling doubt,As I glance at your fav'rite leg.Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best;In this world there's room enoughFor him and you and me and the rest,And the country is awful rough.We've had our gallop in days of yore,Now down the hill we must run;Yet at times we long for one gallop more,Although it were only one.Did our spirits quail at a new four-rail,Could a "double" double-bank us,Ere nerve and sinew began to failIn the consulship of Plancus?When our blood ran rapidly, and whenOur bones were pliant and limber,Could we stand a merry cross-counter then,A slogging fall over timber?Arcades ambo! Duffers both,In our best of days, alas!(I tell the truth, though to tell it loth)'Tis time we were gone to grass;The young leaves shoot, the sere leaves fall,And the old gives way to the new,While the preacher cries, "'Tis vanity all,And vexation of spirit, too."Now over my head the vapours curlFrom the bowl of the soothing clay,In the misty forms that eddy and whirlMy thoughts are flitting away;Yes, the preacher's right, 'tis vanity all,But the sweeping rebuke he showersOn vanities all may heaviest fallOn vanities worse than ours.We have no wish to exaggerateThe worth of the sports we prize,Some toil for their Church, and some for their State,And some for their merchandise;Some traffic and trade in the city's mart,Some travel by land and sea,Some follow science, some cleave to art,And some to scandal and tea;And some for their country and their queenWould fight, if the chance they had,Good sooth, 'twere a sorry world, I ween,If we all went galloping mad;Yet if once we efface the joys of the chaseFrom the land, and outroot the Stud,GOOD-BYE TO THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE!FAREWELL TO THE NORMAN BLOOD!Where the burn runs down to the uplands brown,From the heights of the snow-clad range,What anodyne drawn from the stifling townCan be reckon'd a fair exchangeFor the stalker's stride, on the mountain side,In the bracing northern weather,To the slopes where couch, in their antler'd pride,The deer on the perfum'd heather?Oh! the vigour with which the air is rife!The spirit of joyous motion;The fever, the fulness of animal life,Can be drain'd from no earthly potion!The lungs with the living gas grow light,And the limbs feel the strength of ten,While the chest expands with its madd'ning might,GOD'S GLORIOUS OXYGEN.Thus the measur'd stroke, on elastic sward,Of the steed three parts extended,Hard held, the breath of his nostrils broad,With the golden ether blended;Then the leap, the rise from the springy turf,The rush through the buoyant air,And the light shock landing—the veriest serfIs an emperor then and there!Such scenes! sensation and sound and sight!To some undiscover'd shoreOn the current of Time's remorseless flightHave they swept to return no more?While, like phantoms bright of the fever'd night,That have vex'd our slumbers of yore,You follow us still in your ghostly might,Dead days that have gone before.Vain dreams, again and again re-told,Must you crowd on the weary brain,Till the fingers are cold that entwin'd of oldRound foil and trigger and rein,Till stay'd for aye are the roving feet,Till the restless hands are quiet,Till the stubborn heart has forgotten to beat,Till the hot blood has ceas'd to riot?In Exeter Hall the saint may chide,The sinner may scoff outright,The Bacchanal steep'd in the flagon's tide,Or the sensual Sybarite;But NOLAN'S name will flourish in fame,When our galloping days are past,When we go to the place from whence we came,Perchance to find rest at last.Thy riddles grow dark, oh! drifting cloud,And thy misty shapes grow drear,Thou hang'st in the air like a shadowy shroud,But I am of lighter cheer;Though our future lot is a sable blot,Though the wise ones of earth will blame us,Though our saddles will rot, and our rides be forgot,"DUM VIVIMUS, VIVAMUS!"
Fytte VIIIFinis Exoptatus[A Metaphysical Song]"There's something in this world amissShall be unriddled by-and-bye."—Tennyson.
Boot and saddle, see, the slantingRays begin to fall,Flinging lights and colours flauntingThrough the shadows tall.Onward! onward! must we travel?When will come the goal?Riddle I may not unravel,Cease to vex my soul.Harshly break those peals of laughterFrom the jays aloft,Can we guess what they cry after?We have heard them oft;Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgivingMingles in their song,Are they glad that they are living?Are they right or wrong?Right, 'tis joy that makes them call so,Why should they be sad?Certes! we are living also,Shall not we be glad?Onward! onward! must we travel?Is the goal more near?Riddle we may not unravel,Why so dark and drear?Yon small bird his hymn outpouring,On the branch close by,Recks not for the kestrel soaringIn the nether sky,Though the hawk with wings extendedPoises over head,Motionless as though suspendedBy a viewless thread.See, he stoops, nay, shooting forwardWith the arrow's flight,Swift and straight away to nor'wardSails he out of sight.Onward! onward! thus we travel,Comes the goal more nigh?Riddle we may not unravel,Who shall make reply?Ha! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner,Tell me if you can—Tho' we may not judge the inner,By the outer man,Yet by girth of broadcloth ample,And by cheeks that shine,Surely you set no exampleIn the fasting line—Could you, like yon bird, discov'ring,Fate as close at hand,As the kestrel o'er him hov'ring,Still, as he did, stand?Trusting grandly, singing gaily,Confident and calm,Not one false note in your dailyHymn or weekly psalm?Oft your oily tones are heard inChapel, where you preach,This the everlasting burdenOf the tale you teach:"We are d——d, our sins are deadly,You alone are heal'd"—'Twas not thus their gospel redlySaints and martyrs seal'd.You had seem'd more like a martyr,Than you seem to us,To the beasts that caught a TartarOnce at Ephesus;Rather than the stout apostleOf the Gentiles, who,Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle,They'd have chosen you.Yet, I ween, on such occasion,Your dissenting voiceWould have been, in mild persuasion,Raised against their choice;Man of peace, and man of merit,Pompous, wise, and grave,Ephraim! is it flesh or spiritYou strive most to save?Vain is half this care and cautionO'er the earthly shell,We can neither baffle nor shunDark plumed Azrael.Onward! onward! still we wander,Nearer draws the goal;Half the riddle's read, we ponderVainly on the whole.Eastward! in the pink horizon,Fleecy hillocks shameThis dim range dull earth that lies on,Tinged with rosy flame.Westward! as a stricken giantStoops his bloody crest,And tho' vanquished, frowns defiant,Sinks the sun to rest.Distant, yet approaching quickly,From the shades that lurk,Like a black pall gathers thickly,Night, when none may work.Soon our restless occupationShall have ceas'd to be;Units! in God's vast creation,Ciphers! what are we?Onward! onward! oh! faint-hearted;Nearer and more nearHas the goal drawn since we started,Be of better cheer.Preacher! all forbearance ask, forAll are worthless found,Man must aye take man to task forFaults while earth goes round.On this dank soil thistles muster,Thorns are broadcast sown;Seek not figs where thistles cluster,Grapes where thorns have grown.Sun and rain and dew from heaven,Light and shade and air,Heat and moisture freely given,Thorns and thistles share.Vegetation rank and rottenFeels the cheering ray;Not uncared for, unforgotten,We, too, have our day.Unforgotten! though we cumberEarth we work His will.Shall we sleep through night's long slumberUnforgotten still?Onward! onward! toiling ever,Weary steps and slow,Doubting oft, despairing never,To the goal we go!Hark! the bells on distant cattleWaft across the range;Through the golden-tufted wattle,Music low and strange;Like the marriage peal of fairiesComes the tinkling sound,Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary'sOn far English ground.How my courser champs the snaffle,And with nostril spread,Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffleFern leaves with his tread;Cool and pleasant on his haunchesBlows the evening breeze,Through the overhanging branchesOf the wattle trees:Onward! to the Southern Ocean,Glides the breath of Spring.Onward! with a dreary motion,I, too, glide and sing—Forward! forward! still we wander—Tinted hills that lieIn the red horizon yonder—Is the goal so nigh?Whisper, spring-wind, softly singing,Whisper in my ear;Respite and nepenthe bringing,Can the goal be near?Laden with the dew of vespers,From the fragrant sky,In my ear the wind that whispersSeems to make reply—"Question not, but live and labourTill yon goal be won,Helping every feeble neighbour,Seeking help from none;Life is mostly froth and bubble,Two things stand like stone,KINDNESS in another's trouble,COURAGE in your own."Courage, comrades, this is certain,All is for the best—There are lights behind the curtain—Gentiles, let us rest.As the smoke-rack veers to seaward,From "the ancient clay",With its moral drifting leeward,Ends the wanderer's lay.
[A Preface and a Piracy]
Prologue
Of borrow'd plumes I take the sin,My extracts will applyTo some few silly songs which inThese pages scatter'd lie.The words are Edgar Allan Poe's,As any man may see,But what a POE-t wrote in prose,Shall make blank verse for me.
These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with aview to their redemption from the many improvements to whichthey have been subjected while going at random the rounds ofthe Press. I am naturally anxious that what I have writtenshould circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. * ** * * * In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it isincumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volumeof much value to the public, or very creditable to myself.E. A. P.(See Preface to Poe's Poetical Works.)
Epilogue
And now that my theft stands detected,The first of my extracts may callTo some of the rhymes here collectedYour notice, the second to all.Ah! friend, you may shake your head sadly,Yet this much you'll say for my verse,I've written of old something badly,But written anew something worse.
Pastor Cum[Translation from Horace]
When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails,Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas,In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales,That he might sing their future destinies.A curse to your ancestral home you takeWith her, whom Greece, with many a soldier boldShall seek again, in concert sworn to breakYour nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old.Alas! what sweat from man and horse must flow,What devastation to the Trojan realmYou carry, even now doth Pallas showHer wrath, preparing buckler, car, and helm.In vain, secure in Aphrodite's care,You comb your locks, and on the girlish lyreSelect the strains most pleasant to the fair;In vain, on couch reclining, you desireTo shun the darts that threaten, and the thrustOf Cretan lance, the battle's wild turmoil,And Ajax swift to follow—in the dustCondemned, though late, your wanton curls to soil.Ah! see you not where (fatal to your race)Laertes' son comes with the Pylean sage;Fearless alike, with Teucer joins the chaseStenelaus, skill'd the fistic strife to wage,Nor less expert the fiery steeds to quell;And Meriones, you must know. BeholdA warrior, than his sire more fierce and fell,To find you rages,—Diomed the bold,Whom like the stag that, far across the vale,The wolf being seen, no herbage can allure,So fly you, panting sorely, dastard pale!—Not thus you boasted to your paramour.Achilles' anger for a space defersThe day of wrath to Troy and Trojan dame;Inevitable glide the allotted years,And Dardan roofs must waste in Argive flame.
[Translated from the Spanish]
Francesca.Crush'd and throng'd are all the placesIn our amphitheatre,'Midst a sea of swarming facesI can yet distinguish her;Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina?Is my secret known to thee?On the sands of yon arenaI shall yet my vengeance see.Now through portals fast careeringPicadors are disappearing;Now the barriers nimbly clearingHas the hindmost chulo flown.Clots of dusky crimson streaking,Brindled flanks and haunches reeking,Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking,On the matador alone.Features by sombrero shaded,Pale and passionless and cold;Doublet richly laced and braided,Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold,Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,—Mask more subtle, and disguiseFar less shallow, thou dost need, oh,Traitor, to deceive my eyes.Shouts of noisy acclamation,Breathing savage expectation,Greet him while he takes his stationLeisurely, disdaining haste;Now he doffs his tall sombrero,Fools! applaud your butcher hero,Ye would idolise a Nero,Pandering to public taste.From the restless GuadalquivirTo my sire's estates he came,Woo'd and won me, how I shiver!Though my temples burn with shame.I, a proud and high-born lady,Daughter of an ancient race,'Neath the vine and olive shade IYielded to a churl's embrace.To a churl my vows were plighted,Well my madness he requited,Since, by priestly ties, unitedTo the muleteer's child;And my prayers are wafted o'er him,That the bull may crush and gore him,Since the love that once I bore himHas been changed to hatred wild.
Nina.Save him! aid him! oh, Madonna!Two are slain if he is slain;Shield his life, and guard his honour,Let me not entreat in vain.Sullenly the brindled savageTears and tosses up the sand;Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage,How shall man your shock withstand?On the shaggy neck and head lieFrothy flakes, the eyeballs redlyFlash, the horns so sharp and deadlyLower, short, and strong, and straight;Fast, and furious, and fearless,Now he charges;—virgin peerless,Lifting lids, all dry and tearless,At thy throne I supplicate.
Francesca.Cool and calm, the perjured varletStands on strongly-planted heel,In his left a strip of scarlet,In his right a streak of steel;Ah! the monster topples over,Till his haunches strike the plain!—Low-born clown and lying lover,Thou hast conquer'd once again.
Nina.Sweet Madonna, maiden mother,Thou hast saved him, and no other;Now the tears I cannot smother,Tears of joy my vision blind;Where thou sittest I am gazing,These glad, misty eyes upraising,I have pray'd, and I am praising,Bless thee! bless thee! virgin kind.
Francesca.While the crowd still sways and surges,Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd,See, the second bull emerges—'Tis the famed Cordovan beast,—By the picador ungoaded,Scathless of the chulo's dart.Slay him, and with guerdon loaded,And with honours crown'd depart.No vain brutish strife he wages,Never uselessly he rages,And his cunning, as he ages,With his hatred seems to grow;Though he stands amid the cheering,Sluggish to the eye appearing,Few will venture on the spearingOf so resolute a foe.
Nina.Courage, there is little danger,Yonder dull-eyed craven seemsFitter far for stall and mangerThan for scarf and blade that gleams;Shorter, and of frame less massive,Than his comrade lying low,Tame, and cowardly, and passive,—He will prove a feebler foe.I have done with doubt and anguish,Fears like dews in sunshine languish,Courage, husband, we shall vanquish,Thou art calm and so am I.For the rush he has not waited,On he strides with step elated,And the steel with blood unsated,Leaps to end the butchery.
Francesca.Tyro! mark the brands of battleOn those shoulders dusk and dun,Such as he is are the cattleSkill'd tauridors gladly shun;Warier than the Andalusian,Swifter far, though not so large,Think'st thou, to his own confusion,He, like him, will blindly charge?Inch by inch the brute advances,Stealthy yet vindictive glances,Horns as straight as levell'd lances,Crouching withers, stooping haunches;—Closer yet, until the tighteningStrains of rapt excitement height'ningGrows oppressive. Ha! like lightningOn his enemy he launches.
Nina.O'er the horn'd front drops the streamer,In the nape the sharp steel hisses,Glances, grazes,—Christ! Redeemer!By a hair the spine he misses.
Francesca.Hark! that shock like muffled thunder,Booming from the Pyrenees!Both are down—the man is under—Now he struggles to his knees,Now he sinks, his features leadenSharpen rigidly and deaden,Sands beneath him soak and redden,Skies above him spin and veer;Through the doublet torn and riven,Where the stunted horn was driven,Wells the life-blood—We are even,Daughter of the muleteer!
[A Ballad]
To fetch clear water out of the springThe little maid Margaret ran;From the stream to the castle's western wingIt was but a bowshot span;On the sedgy brink where the osiers clingLay a dead man, pallid and wan.The lady Mabel rose from her bed,And walked in the castle hall,Where the porch through the western turret ledShe met with her handmaid small."What aileth thee, Margaret?" the lady said,"Hast let thy pitcher fall?"Say, what hast thou seen by the streamlet side—A nymph or a water sprite—That thou comest with eyes so wild and wide,And with cheeks so ghostly white?""Nor nymph nor sprite," the maiden cried,"But the corpse of a slaughtered knight."The lady Mabel summon'd straightTo her presence Sir Hugh de Vere,Of the guests who tarried within the gateOf Fauconshawe most dearWas he to that lady; betrothed in stateThey had been since many a year."Little Margaret sayeth a dead man liesBy the western spring, Sir Hugh;I can scarce believe that the maiden lies—Yet scarce can believe her true."And the knight replies, "Till we test her eyesLet her words gain credence due."Down the rocky path knight and lady led,While guests and retainers boldFollowed in haste, for like wildfire spreadThe news by the maiden told.They found 'twas even as she had said—The corpse had some while been cold.How the spirit had pass'd in the moments lastThere was little trace to reveal:On the still calm face lay no imprint ghast,Save the angel's solemn seal,Yet the hands were clench'd in a death-grip fast,And the sods stamp'd down by the heel.Sir Hugh by the side of the dead man knelt,Said, "Full well these features I know,We have faced each other where blows were dealt,And he was a stalwart foe;I had rather have met him hilt to hiltThan have found him lying low."He turn'd the body up on its face,And never a word was spoken,While he ripp'd the doublet, and tore the lace,And tugg'd—by the self-same token,—And strain'd, till he wrench'd it out of its place,The dagger-blade that was broken.Then he turned the body over again,And said, while he rose upright,"May the brand of Cain, with its withering stain,On the murderer's forehead light,For he never was slain on the open plain,Nor yet in the open fight."Solemn and stern were the words he spoke,And he look'd at his lady's men,But his speech no answering echoes woke,All were silent there and then,Till a clear, cold voice the silence broke:—Lady Mabel cried, "Amen."His glance met hers, the twain stood hush'd,With the dead between them there;But the blood to her snowy temples rush'dTill it tinged the roots of her hair,Then paled, but a thin red streak still flush'dIn the midst of her forehead fair.Four yeomen raised the corpse from the ground,At a sign from Sir Hugh de Vere;It was borne to the western turret round,And laid on a knightly bier,With never a sob nor a mourning sound,—No friend to the dead was near.Yet that night was neither revel nor danceIn the halls of Fauconshawe;Men looked askance with a doubtful glanceAt Sir Hugh, for they stood in aweOf his prowess, but he, like one in a trance,Regarded naught that he saw.
Night black and chill, wind gathering still,With its wail in the turret tall,And its headlong blast like a catapult castOn the crest of the outer wall,And its hail and rain on the crashing pane,Till the glassy splinters fall.A moody knight by the fitful lightOf the great hall fire below;A corpse upstairs, and a woman at prayers,Will they profit her, aye or no?By'r lady fain, an' she comfort gain,There is comfort for us also.The guests were gone, save Sir Hugh alone,And he watched the gleams that brokeOn the pale hearth-stone, and flickered and shoneOn the panels of polish'd oak;He was 'ware of no presence except his ownTill the voice of young Margaret spoke:"I've risen, Sir Hugh, at the mirk midnight,I cannot sleep in my bed,Now, unless my tale can be told aright,I wot it were best unsaid;It lies, the blood of yon northern knight,On my lady's hand and head.""Oh! the wild wind raves and rushes along,But thy ravings seem more wild—She never could do so foul a wrong—Yet I blame thee not, my child,For the fever'd dreams on thy rest that throng!"He frown'd though his speech was mild."Let storm winds eddy, and scream, and hurlTheir wrath, they disturb me naught;The daughter she of a high-born earl,No secret of hers I've sought;I am but the child of a peasant churl,Yet look to the proofs I've brought;"This dagger snapp'd so close to the hilt—Dost remember thy token well?Will it match with the broken blade that spiltHis life in the western dell?Nay! read her handwriting an' thou wilt,From her paramour's breast it fell."The knight in silence the letter read,Oh! the characters well he knew!And his face might have match'd the face of the dead,So ashen white was its hue!Then he tore the parchment shred by shred,And the strips in the flames he threw.And he muttered, "Densely those shadows fallIn the copse where the alders thicken;There she bade him come to her, once for all—Now, I well may shudder and sicken;—Gramercy! that hand so white and small,How strongly it must have stricken."
At midnight hour, in the western tower,Alone with the dead man there,Lady Mabel kneels, nor heeds nor feelsThe shock of the rushing air,Though the gusts that pass through the riven glassHave scattered her raven hair.Across the floor, through the opening door,Where standeth a stately knight,The lamplight streams, and flickers, and gleams,On his features stern and white—'Tis Sir Hugh de Vere, and he cometh more near,And the lady standeth upright."'Tis little," he said, "that I know or careOf the guilt (if guilt there be)That lies 'twixt thee and yon dead man there,Nor matters it now to me;I thought thee pure, thou art only fair,And to-morrow I cross the sea."He perish'd! I ask not why or how?I come to recall my troth;Take back, my lady, thy broken vow,Give back my allegiance oath;Let the past be buried between us nowFor ever—'tis best for both."Yet, Mabel, I could ask, dost thou dareLay hand on that corpse's heart,And call on thy Maker, and boldly swear,That thou hadst in his death no part?I ask not, while threescore proofs I shareWith one doubt—uncondemn'd thou art."Oh! cold and bleak upon Mabel's cheekCame the blast of the storm-wind keen,And her tresses black, as the glossy backOf the raven, glanced betweenHer fingers slight, like the ivory white,As she parted their sable sheen.Yet with steady lip, and with fearless eye,And with cheek like the flush of dawn,Unflinchingly she spoke in reply—"Go hence with the break of morn,I will neither confess, nor yet deny,I will return thee scorn for scorn."The knight bow'd low as he turn'd to go;He travell'd by land and sea,But naught of his future fate I know,And naught of his fair ladye;My story is told as, long ago,My story was told to me.
The maiden sat by the river side(The rippling water murmurs by),And sadly into the clear blue tideThe salt tear fell from her clear blue eye."'Tis fixed for better, for worse," she cried,"And to-morrow the bridegroom claims the bride.Oh! wealth and power and rank and prideCan surely peace and happiness buy.I was merry, nathless, in my girlhood's hours,'Mid the waving grass when the bright sun shone,Shall I be as merry in Marmaduke's towers?"(The rippling water murmurs on).Stephen works for his daily bread(The rippling water murmurs low).Through the crazy thatch that covers his headThe rain-drops fall and the wind-gusts blow."I'll mend the old roof-tree," so he said,"And repair the cottage when we are wed."And my pulses throbb'd, and my cheek grew red,When he kiss'd me—that was long ago.Stephen and I, should we meet again,Not as we've met in days that are gone,Will my pulses throb with pleasure or pain?(The rippling water murmurs on).Old Giles, the gardener, strok'd my curls(The rippling water murmurs past),Quoth he, "In laces and silks and pearlsMy child will see her reflection cast;Now I trust in my heart that your lord will beKinder to you than he was to me,When I lay in the gaol, and my children three,With their sickly mother, kept bitter fast."With Marmaduke now my will is law,Marmaduke's will may be law anon;Does the sheath of velvet cover the claw?(The rippling water murmurs on).Dame Martha patted me on the cheek(The rippling water murmurs low),Saying, "There are words that I fain would speak—Perhaps they were best unspoken though;I can't persuade you to change your mind,And useless warnings are scarcely kind,And I may be foolish as well as blind,But take my blessing whether or no."Dame Martha's wise, though her hair is white,Her sense is good, though her sight is gone—Can she really be gifted with second sight?(The rippling water murmurs on).Brian of Hawksmede came to our cot(The rippling water murmurs by),Scatter'd the sods of our garden plot,Riding his roan horse recklessly;Trinket and token and tress of hair,He flung them down at the door-step there,Said, "Elsie! ask your lord, if you dare,Who gave him the blow as well as the lie."That evening I mentioned Brian's name,And Marmaduke's face grew white and wan,Am I pledged to one of a spirit so tame?(The rippling water murmurs on).Brian is headstrong, rash, and vain(The rippling water murmurs still),Stephen is somewhat duller of brain,Slower of speech, and milder of will;Stephen must toil a living to gain,Plough and harrow and gather the grain;Brian has little enough to maintainThe station in life which he needs must fill;Both are fearless and kind and frank,But we can't win all gifts under the sun—What have I won save riches and rank?(The rippling water murmurs on).Riches and rank, and what beside?(The rippling water murmurs yet),The mansion is stately, the manor is wide,Their lord for a while may pamper and pet;Liveried lackeys may jeer aside,Though the peasant girl is their master's bride,At her shyness, mingled with awkward pride,—'Twere folly for trifles like these to fret;But the love of one that I cannot love,Will it last when the gloss of his toy is gone?Is there naught beyond, below, or above?(The rippling water murmurs on).