Sir Eldric rode by field and fen
To reach the haunts of heathen men.
About the dusk he came unto
A wood of birchen gray,
And on the other side he knew
The heathen country lay.
"'Tis but a night," he sang, "to ride,
And Christ shall reach the other side."
The moon came peering through the trees,
And found him undismayed;
For still he sang his litanies,
And as he rode he prayed.
He looked as young and pure and glad
As ever looked Sir Galahad.
About the middle of the night
He came upon the brink
Of running waters clear and white,
And lighted there to drink.
And as he knelt a hidden foe
Crept from behind and smote him so.
He turned; he felt his heart's blood run;
He sought his enemy:
"And shall I leave my deeds undone,
And die for such as thee?"
0137m
And since a knight was either man,
They wrestled till the dawn began.
Then in the dim and rustling place,
Amid the thyme and dew,
Sir Eldric dealt the stroke of grace,
And sank a-dying too,
And thought upon that other's plight
Who was not sure of Heaven to-night.
He dipped his fingers in his breast;
He sought in vain to rise;
He leaned across his foe at rest,
And murmured, "I baptise!"
When lo! the sun broke overhead:
There, at his side, Himself lay dead!
——A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).
0138m
They were three bonny mowers,
Were mowing half the day;
They were three bonny lasses
A-making of the hay.
"Who'll go and fetch the basket?"
"Not I." "Nor I." "Nor I."
They had no time for falling out
Ere Nancibel came by.
0139m
"What's in your basket, Nancibel?"
"There's cakes and currant wine,
There's venison and good cider, lads;
Come quickly, come and dine."
They were two bonny mowers
Fell to among the best;
The youngest sits a-fasting,
His head upon his breast.
"What ails ye, bonny mower,
You sit so mournfully?"
"Alas! what ails me, Nancibel?
'Tis all the love of thee."
"Now laugh and quaff, my bonny lad,
And think no more o' me.
My lover is a finer man
Than any twain o' ye.
"He's bought for me a kirtle,
He's bought for me a coat,
Of three-and-thirty colours,
Wi' tassels at the throat.
"And twenty Maids of Honour
They stitched at it a year,
And sewed in all their needlework
The kisses of my dear!"
——A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).
Where's my little son, Nourrice,
And whither is he gone?
The youngest son of all I have,
He should not gang alone."
"The child is safe enough, lady;
He's barely gone an hour:
He's gone to see the mason-men,
Are building at the tower."
"You should have kept him here, Nourrice,
If I was sleeping then—
He's over young to gang alone
Among the mason-men."
"Lie still, lie still, my sweet lady,
There's nought to sorrow for;
The child is safe enough, I think,
I' the keeping of St Maur!"
An hour's gone by, an hour or two,
And still they're out-of-door—
"I wish they'd come at last, Nourrice,
My heart is sick and sore."
"Now hush, lady, my sweet lady,
The moon's still small and young;
If they're home before the curfew bell
They'll not ha' stayed too long."
St Maur has ta'en his youngest son,
To the riverside they're gone,
To see the busy mason-men
Building a tower of stone.
"O why do they build the tower so strong
Against the riverside?
I never saw the wall, father,
That was so strong and wide."
"God knows the tower had need be strong
Between my foes and thee!
Should once Lord Armour enter, child,
An ill death would ye dee."
"We need not fear Lord Armour, father,
Nor any of his kin;
Since God has given us such a wall,
They cannot enter in."
"O twice, my babe, and thrice, my babe,
Ere ever that I was born,
Lord Armour's men have entered in
Betwixt the night and the morn.
"And once I found my nurse's room
Was red with bloody men...
I would not have thy mother die
As died my mother then.
"And 'tis not seven nights ago
I heard, clear in a dream,
The bugle cry of Armour,
Shrill over wood and stream."
"But if so foul a raid, father,
Fell out so long agone,
Why did they never build before
A wall and tower of stone?"
"Many's the time, my pretty babe,
Ere ever this way you went,
We built the tower both thick and broad—
An' we might as well ha' stent.
"Many's the time we built the tower,
Wi' the grey stone and the brown.
But aye the floods in autumn
Washed all the building down.
"And in my mind I see the morn
When we'll be brought to dee—
Yoursel' and your seven brothers,
And your young mother, and me.
"And oh, were it any but Armour,
Oh God, were it any but she—
Before the Lord, my eyes grow dark
With the ill sight that I see."
Among the busy mason-men,
Are building at the tower,
There's a swarthy gipsy mason,
A lean man and a dour.
He's lain the hammer down at last
Out of his bony hand...
"Did ye never hear the spell, St Maur,
Gars any tower to stand?"
"O what's the spell, thou black gipsy,
I prithee rede it now:
There never was any mason-man
Shall earn such wage as thou."
"I dared not speak the spell, St Maur,
Lest you should do me an ill,
For a cruel spell, and an evil spell,
Is the spell that works your will."
"There's no spell but I'll risk it, man,
An' the price were half my lands—
To keep my wife and children safe
Out of Lord Armour's hands."
"O, more than lands, and more than fee,
You'll pay me for the spell——"
"An' the price were half my heart's red
blood,
I'd pay it down as well."
"O what's the blood of a sinful heart
To bind the stones that fall?
St Maur, you'll build your christened child
Alive into the wall."
St Maur has turned on his heel so light,
And angry he turns away:
"Gang to the devil another time
When ye ask what ye ask to-day."
He's ta'en his young son by the hand—
He's opened wide the gate,
"Your mother's been sick a month by now,
And she'll mourn sore if we're late."
They had not gone a little way,
An' the child began to call—
"See how the flood runs high, father,
And washes at the wall!"
They had not gone a mickle way,
St Maur began to brood,
"'Tis the bugle cry of Armour,
Shrill over stream and wood."
"And must they slay me, father dear,
And my seven brothers tall?"
"Gin that's the blast of Armour, laddie,
I fear they'll slay us all,"
"And will they slay my mother, then,
That looks so bonny and small?"
"Come back, come back, thou little lad
To the masons at the wall."
The flood runs high and still more high,
And washes stone from stone—
"In another hour," say the masons,
"Our work is all undone."
The flood runs high and still more high,
And the bugle rings anear;
The masons looking o'er the wall
Are blue and stark with fear.
There's one that's neither stark nor wan,
But never he looked so well;
"Shall I gang to the devil, St Maur?" he
cries,
"Or say, shall I gang to yoursel'?"
He's set the child high in the air
Upon his shoulder bone;
"Shall I leave them all for Armour,
Or shall I take but one?"
Never an answer spake St Maur,
And never a word he said:
There was not one o' the mason men
Looked half so wan and dead.
The gipsy's ta'en the frighted child
And set him in the wall:
"There's a bonny game to play, little man,
The bonniest game of all.
"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;
I'll build in two's and three's;
And I'll throw you a red, red apple in,
When the stones reach to your knees.
"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;
I'll lay the stones in haste;
And I'll throw you the forester's whistle
When they reach above your waist.
"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad,
You'll watch the stones that rise;
And I'll throw you in your father's sword,
When they reach above your eyes.
"And if you tire o' the play, my lad,
You've but to raise a shout:
At the least word o' your father's mouth,
I'll stop and pluck you out."
The gipsy-man builds quick and light,
As if he played a play,
And the child laughs with a frighted laugh,
And the tower ceases to sway.
St Maur stares out of his bloodshot eyes,
Like one that's well-nigh mad;
The tower stands fast, and the stones rise high
About the little lad.
"O father, father, lift me out!
The stones reach over my eyes,
And I cannot see you now, father,
So swift the walls uprise.
"O father, lift me out, father!
I cannot breathe at all,
For the stones reach up beyond my head,
And it's dark down i' the wall."
But never an answer spake St Maur,
Never a word but one:
"Have you finished your devil's work, mason,
Or when will the deed be done?"
"Oh, the work is done that ye wished, St
Maur,
'Twill last for many a year;
There's scarce a sound in the wall by now
A mother might not hear.
"Gang home, gang home in peace, St Maur,
And sleep sound if you can;
There's never a flood shall rock this tower,
And never a mortal man.
"Gang home and kiss your bonny wife,
And bid her mourn and fast...
She'll weep a year for her youngest child,
But she'll dry her eyes at last.
"You'll say he fell in the flood, St Maur,
But you'll not deceive yoursel',
For you've lost the bonniest thing you had,
And you'll remember well.
"Your wife will mourn him a year, St Maur,
You'll mourn him all your life,
For you've lost the bonniest thing you had,
Better than bairns or wife."
——-A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).
0149m
0150m
Aletter from my love to-day!
Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!"
She struck a happy tear away
And broke the crimson seal.
"My love, there is no help on earth,
No help in heaven; the dead man's bell
Must toll our wedding; our first hearth
Must be the well-paved floor of hell."
The colour died from out her face,
Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;
She cast dread looks about the place,
Then clenched her teeth, and read right on.
"I may not pass the prison door;
Here must I rot from day to day,
Unless I wed whom I abhor,
My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.
"At midnight with my dagger keen
I'll take my life; it must be so.
Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,
For weal and woe."
She laughed although her face was wan,
She girded on her golden belt,
She took her jewelled ivory fan,
And at her glowing missal knelt.
Then rose, "And am I mad?" she said,
She broke her fan, her belt untied;
With leather girt herself instead,
And stuck a dagger at her side.
She waited, shuddering in her room
Till sleep had fallen on all the house.
She never flinched; she faced her doom:
They two must sin to keep their vows.
Then out into the night she went;
And stooping, crept by hedge and tree;
Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,
And caught a happy memory.
She fell, and lay a minute's space;
She tore the sward in her distress;
The dewy grass refreshed her face;
She rose and ran with lifted dress.
She started like a morn-caught ghost
Once when the moon came out and stood
To watch; the naked road she crossed,
And dived into the murmuring wood.
The branches snatched her streaming cloak;
A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!
She hurried to the trysting-oak—
Right well she knew the way.
Without a pause she bared her breast
And drove her dagger home and fell,
And lay like one that takes her rest,
And died and wakened up in hell.
She bathed her spirit in the flame,
And near the centre took her post;
From all sides to her ears there came
The dreary anguish of the lost.
The devil started at her side
Comely, and tall, and black as jet.
"I am young Malespina's bride;
Has he come hither yet?"
"My poppet, welcome to your bed."
"Is Malespina here?"
"Not he! To-morrow he must wed
His cousin Blanche, my dear!"
"You lie; he died with me to-night."
"Not he! It was a plot." "You lie."
"My dear, I never lie outright."
"We died at midnight, he and I."
The devil went. Without a groan
She, gathered up in one fierce prayer,
Took root in hell's midst all alone,
And waited for him there.
She dared to make herself at home,
Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.
The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,
Scentless and silent, shrouded her.
How long she stayed I cannot tell;
But when she felt his perfidy,
She marched across the floor of hell;
And all the damned stood up to see.
The devil stopped her at the brink;
She shook him off; she cried, "Away!"
"My dear, you have gone mad, I think."
"I was betrayed: I will not stay."
0154m
Across the weltering deep she ran—
A stranger thing was never seen:
The damned stood silent to a man;
They saw the great gulf set between.
To her it seemed a meadow fair;
And flowers sprang up about her feet;
She entered heaven; she climbed the stair;
And knelt down at the mercy-seat.
Seraphs and saints with one great voice
Welcomed that soul that knew not fear;
Amazed to find it could rejoice,
Hell raised a hoarse half-human cheer.
——John Davidson.
The wind was waked by the morning light,
And it cried in the gray birch-tree,
And the cry was plain in Bronwen's bower,
"Oh, Bronwen, come to me!"
Pale, pale sleeps Bronwen, pale she wakes;
"What bird to my bower is flown?
For my lover, Red Ithel, is at the wars
Before Jerusalem town."
But still the wind sang in the tree,
"Come forth,'tis your wedding morn,
And you must be wed in Holy Land
Ere your little babe is born."
And still the wind had her true-love's cry,
"Kind Bronwen, come!" until
She could not rest, and rose to look
To the sea beyond Morva Hill.
And afar came the cry over Morva Hill,
"Kind Bronwen, come to me!"
Till she could not stay, for very love,
And stole away to the sea.
She crossed the hill to the fishing-boats,
And away she sailed so fine,
"Is it far, my love, in the summer sun
To the shores of fair Palestine?"
There was no sun at sea that day,
To watch pale Bronwen drown,
But the sun was hot on the deadly sands
Before Jerusalem town.'
All day Red Ithel lay dying there,
But he thought of the far-off sea;
And he cried all day till his lips grew white,
"Kind Bronwen, come to me!"
And so it passed till the evening time,
And then the sea-wind came,
And he thought he lay on Morva Hill
And heard her call his name.
He heard her voice, he held her hand,
"This is the day," she said,
"And this is the hour that Holy Church
Has given for us to wed."
There was no strength in him to speak,
But his eyes had yet their say,
"Kind Bronwen, now we will be wed
Forever and ever and aye!"
Beneath the sea pale Bronwen lies,
Red Ithel beneath the sand;
But they are one in Holy Church,
One in love's Holy Land.
Red Ithel lies by Jerusalem town,
And she in the deep sea lies;
But I trow their little babe was born
In the gardens of Paradise.
—-Ernest Rhys.