The Flower of WensleydaleShe leaned o’er her latticed casement,The Flower of Wensleydale;’Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,Through the mist the stars burnt pale.In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,Plucked in her garden at noon;And over them she had whispered thriceThe spell of a mystic rune.For many had come a-wooingThe maid with the sloe-blue eyes;Fain would she learn of St AgnesTo whom should fall the prize.They said she must drop a sage-leafAt each stroke of the midnight hour;Then should the knight of her father’s choiceObey the summons of her voice,And appear ’neath her oriel’d bowwer.To the holy virgin-martyrShe lifted her hands in prayer;Then she watched the rooks that perched asleepIn the chestnut branches bare.At last on the frosty silenceThere rang out the midnight chime;And the hills gave back in echoesThe knell of the dying time.She held her breath as she countedThe beats of the chapel bell;At every stroke of the hammerA sage-leaf fluttered and fell,Slowly fluttered and fell.Her heart stood still a moment,As the last leaf touched the ground;And her hand went swift to her maiden breast,For she heard a far-off sound;’Twas the sound of a horseman spurringHis steed through the woodland glade;And ever the sound drew nearer,And the footfalls echoed clearer,Till before her bower they stayed.She strained her eyes to discover,By the light of a ghostly moon,Who was the knight had heard and obeyedThe hest of the mystic rune.But naught could she see from her casement,Save a man on a coal-black steed;For his mantle was muffled about him,His blazon she could not read.She crossed herself and she whispered—Her voice was faint but clear—“Oh! Who art thou that darest ride,Through the aspen glade, by the river’s side,My chamber window near?“Say, art thou the lord of Bainbridge,Or Gervase of Bolton Hall,That comest so late on St Agnes EveWithin my manor wall?”“I am not the lord of Bainbridge,Nor Gervase of Bolton Hall,But I marked the light in thy casement,And I saw the sage-leaves fall,Flutter awhile and fall.”“Camest thou over the moorlands,Or camest thou through the dale?Speak no guile to a witless maid,But tell me a soothfast tale.”“I came not over the moorlands,Nor along the dale did ride;But thou seeest thy plighted lover,That has come to claim his bride.”“Say, art thou knight or yeoman,Of noble or simple birth?Fain would I know thy lineage,Thy prowess and thy worth.”“Nor knight nor lowly yeoman,But a mighty king am I;Bold vassals do my bidding,And on mine errands hie.“They come to court and castle,They climb the palace stairs;Nor pope nor king may entrance barTo him my livery wears.”“But why should a king so mightyPay court to a simple maid?My father’s a knight of low degree,No princely realm he holds in fee,No proud-foot damsels wait on me:Thy steps have surely strayed.”“No step of mine hath wanderedFrom the goal of my desires;’Tis on thee my hopes are centred,’Tis to thee my heart aspires.“I love thee for thy beauty,I love thee for thy grace,I love thee for the dancing lightsThat gleam in thy moon-lit face:And these I deem a peerless dowerTo win a king’s embrace.”“One boon, O royal lover,I ask on St Agnes Day;I fain would gaze on thy visage fairEre with thee I steal away.“Unmuffle thou the mantleThat hides thee like a pall;And let the purple trappingsFrom off thy shoulders fall.”Slowly he loosed the mantle,And showed his face beneath.The lights went out in the maiden’s eyes;One swooning word she breathed to the skies:The gaunt hills echoed “Death.”
She leaned o’er her latticed casement,The Flower of Wensleydale;’Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,Through the mist the stars burnt pale.In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,Plucked in her garden at noon;And over them she had whispered thriceThe spell of a mystic rune.For many had come a-wooingThe maid with the sloe-blue eyes;Fain would she learn of St AgnesTo whom should fall the prize.They said she must drop a sage-leafAt each stroke of the midnight hour;Then should the knight of her father’s choiceObey the summons of her voice,And appear ’neath her oriel’d bowwer.To the holy virgin-martyrShe lifted her hands in prayer;Then she watched the rooks that perched asleepIn the chestnut branches bare.At last on the frosty silenceThere rang out the midnight chime;And the hills gave back in echoesThe knell of the dying time.She held her breath as she countedThe beats of the chapel bell;At every stroke of the hammerA sage-leaf fluttered and fell,Slowly fluttered and fell.Her heart stood still a moment,As the last leaf touched the ground;And her hand went swift to her maiden breast,For she heard a far-off sound;’Twas the sound of a horseman spurringHis steed through the woodland glade;And ever the sound drew nearer,And the footfalls echoed clearer,Till before her bower they stayed.She strained her eyes to discover,By the light of a ghostly moon,Who was the knight had heard and obeyedThe hest of the mystic rune.But naught could she see from her casement,Save a man on a coal-black steed;For his mantle was muffled about him,His blazon she could not read.She crossed herself and she whispered—Her voice was faint but clear—“Oh! Who art thou that darest ride,Through the aspen glade, by the river’s side,My chamber window near?“Say, art thou the lord of Bainbridge,Or Gervase of Bolton Hall,That comest so late on St Agnes EveWithin my manor wall?”“I am not the lord of Bainbridge,Nor Gervase of Bolton Hall,But I marked the light in thy casement,And I saw the sage-leaves fall,Flutter awhile and fall.”“Camest thou over the moorlands,Or camest thou through the dale?Speak no guile to a witless maid,But tell me a soothfast tale.”“I came not over the moorlands,Nor along the dale did ride;But thou seeest thy plighted lover,That has come to claim his bride.”“Say, art thou knight or yeoman,Of noble or simple birth?Fain would I know thy lineage,Thy prowess and thy worth.”“Nor knight nor lowly yeoman,But a mighty king am I;Bold vassals do my bidding,And on mine errands hie.“They come to court and castle,They climb the palace stairs;Nor pope nor king may entrance barTo him my livery wears.”“But why should a king so mightyPay court to a simple maid?My father’s a knight of low degree,No princely realm he holds in fee,No proud-foot damsels wait on me:Thy steps have surely strayed.”“No step of mine hath wanderedFrom the goal of my desires;’Tis on thee my hopes are centred,’Tis to thee my heart aspires.“I love thee for thy beauty,I love thee for thy grace,I love thee for the dancing lightsThat gleam in thy moon-lit face:And these I deem a peerless dowerTo win a king’s embrace.”“One boon, O royal lover,I ask on St Agnes Day;I fain would gaze on thy visage fairEre with thee I steal away.“Unmuffle thou the mantleThat hides thee like a pall;And let the purple trappingsFrom off thy shoulders fall.”Slowly he loosed the mantle,And showed his face beneath.The lights went out in the maiden’s eyes;One swooning word she breathed to the skies:The gaunt hills echoed “Death.”