I would not be a crownëd king,For all his gaudy gear;I would not be that pampered thing,His gew-gaw gold to wear:But I would be where I can singRight merrily, all the year;Where forest treen,All gay and green,Full blythely do me cheer.I would not be a gentleman,For all his hawks and hounds,—For fear the hungry poor should banMy halls and wide-parked grounds:But I would be a merry man,Among the wild wood sounds,—Where free birds sing,And echoes ringWhile my axe from the oak rebounds.I would not be a shaven priest,For all his sloth-won tythe:But while to me this breath is leased,And these old limbs are lithe,—Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,And felled me with his scythe,—I'll troll my song,The leaves among,All in the forest blythe.————"Well done, well done!" bold Thorold cried,When the woodman ceased to sing;"By'r Lady! it warms the Saxon tideIn our veins to hear thee bringThese English thoughts so freely out!Thy health, good Snell!"—and a merry shoutFor honest boldness, truth, and worth,The baron's grateful guests sent forth.Silence like grave-yard air, again,Pervades the festive space:All list for another minstrel strain;And the youth, with merrier face,But tender notes, thus half-divulgedThe passion which his heart indulged:—
O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye,That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;Who weepeth for pity,To hear a love ditty,And marketh the end with a sigh.If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look,Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,Each day for the morrowWill nurture more sorrow,—Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife;The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:'Twere better to tarry,Unless thou canst marryTo sweeten the bitters of life!————
What fires the youthful minstrel's layLit in De Thorold's eyes,It needs not, now, I soothly say:Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,—And 'mid his own surprise,Blent with the boisterous applauseThat, instant, to the rafters rose,The baron his jealous thought forgot.Quickly, sithence a jocund noteWas fairly struck in every mind,And jolly ale its power combinedTo fill all hearts with deeper glee,—All wished for gleeful minstrelsy;And every eye was shrewdly bentOn one whose caustic merrimentAt many a blythe Yule-tide had binCompelling cause of mirthful grinTo ancient Torksey's rustic folk.Full soon this sturdy summons brokeFrom sire and son, and maid and mother:—"Ho, ho! saint Leonard's fat lay brother!Why dost thou in the corner peep,And sipple as if half asleepThou wert with this good nappy ale?Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old taleOf the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil,We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel!Thy folded cloak come cast aside!—Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide—It is thy old trick—we know it well—Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!""Pledge all, pledge all!" the baron cried;"Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!"Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew,And athwart the triple stringThe bow in gamesome mood he threw,—His joke-song preluding;—Soon, with sly look, the burly man,In burly tones his tale began.
O the Prior of RocheWas without reproachWhile with saintly monks he chanted;But when from the massHe had turned his face,The prior his saintship scanted.O the Miller of Roche,—I swear and avouch,—Had a wife of nut-brown beauty;And to shrive her,—they say,—The prior, each day,Came with zeal to his ghostly duty.But the neighbouring wives,Who ne'er shrove in their lives,—Such wickedness Sathanas whispers!—Said the black-cloaked priorBy the miller's log fire,Oft tarried too late for vespers!O the thunder was loud,And the sky wore a shroud,And the lightning blue was gleaming;And the foaming flood,Where the good mill stood,Pell-mell o'er the dam was teeming.O the Miller, that night,Toiled on in a fright,—Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded!Yet, although he'd stayed long,The storm was so strongThat full loath to depart was he minded.Lo! at midnight a jolt,As loud as the boltOf the thunder on high that still rumbled,Assailed the mill-doors,And burst them, perforce,—And in a drenched beggar-lad stumbled!"Saint Luke and saint JohnSave the ground we stand on"—Cried the Miller,—"but ye come in a hurry;"While the lad, turning pale,'Gan to weep and to wail,And to patter this pitiful story:"Goodman Miller, I pray,Believe what I say,—For, as surely as thou art a sinner,—Since the break of the mornI have wandered forlorn,And have neither had breakfast nor dinner!"O the Miller looked sad,And cried, "Good lack, my lad!But ye tell me a dolorous ditty!—And ye seem in sad plightTo travel to-night:—The sight o' ye stirs up one's pity!"Go straight to my cot,And beg something that's hot,—For ye look very haggard and hollow:—The storm's nearly o'er;I will not grind much more,—And when I have done, I will follow."Keep by the brook-side!The path is not wide—But ye cannot soon stray, if ye mind it;—At the foot of the hill,Half a mile from the mill,Stands my cottage:—ye can't fail to find it."Then out the lad set,All dripping with wet,—But the skies around him seemed brighter;And he went gaily on,—For his burthen was gone,—And his heart in his bosom danced lighter.Adown by the brookHis travel he took,And soon raught the Miller's snug dwelling;—But, what he saw ereHe was admitted there—By Saint Bridget!—I must not be telling!Thus much I may say—That the cot was of clay,And the light was through wind-cracks ejected;And he placed close his eye,And peeped in, so sly,—And saw—what he never expected!O the lad 'gan to fearThat the Miller would appear,—And, to him, this strange sight would be vexing;So he, first, sharply coughed,And, then, knocked very soft,—Lest his summons should be too perplexing.But, I scorn to think harm!—So pass by all alarm,And trembling, and bustle, and terror,Occasioned within:The first stone at sinLet him cast who, himself, hath no error!In inquisitive mood,The eaves-dropper stood,By the wind-cracks still keeping his station;Till, half-choked with fear,A voice cried, "Who's there?"—Cried the beggar, "Mary grant ye salvation!—"I'm a poor beggar-lad,Very hungry and sad,Who have travelled in rain and in thunder;I am soaked, through and through"—Cried the voice, "Perhaps 'tis true—But who's likely to help thee, I wonder?"Here's a strange time of nightTo put folk in a fright,By waking them up from their bolsters!—Honest folk, by Saint Paul!Abroad never crawl,At the gloom-hour of night—when the owl stirs!"But the Miller now came,And, hearing his dameSo sharply the beggar-lad scolding,Said, "Open, sweet Joan!And I'll tell thee, anon,—When thy brown cheek, once more, I'm beholding,"Why this poor lad is foundSo late on our ground—Haste, my pigeon!—for here there's hard bedding!"—So the door was unbarred;—But the wife she frowned hard,As the lad, by the door, thrust his head in.And she looked very coldWhile her lord the tale told;And then she made oath, by our Lady,—Such wandering elvesMight provide for themselves—For she would get no supper ready!O the Miller waxed wroth,And vowed, by his troth,—While the beggar slunk into a corner,—If his termagant wifeDid not end her ill strife,He would change words for blows, he'd forewarn her!O the lad he looked sly,And with mischievous eye,Cried, "Bridle your wrath, Goodman Grinder!—Don't be in a pet,—For I don't care a fret!—Your wife, in a trice, will be kinder!"In the stars I have skill,And their powers, at my will,I can summon, with food to provide us:Say,—what d'ye choose?I pray, don't refuse:—Neither hunger nor thirst shall betide us!"O the Miller he frowned,And rolled his eyes round,And seemed not the joke to be liking;But the lad did not heed:He was at his strange deed,And the table was chalking and striking!With scrawls straight and crookt,And with signs square and hookt,With the lord of each house, or the lady,The table he filled,Like a clerk 'ith' stars skilled,—And, striking, cried "Presto! be ready!—"A jug of spiced wine'S in the box,—I divine!Ask thy wife for the key, and unlock it!—Nay, stop!" the lad said;"We shall want meat and bread;"And the chalk took again from his pocket.O the lad he looked wise,And, in scholarly guise,Completed his horary question:—"A brace of roast ducksThou wilt find in the box,With the wine—sure as I am a Christian!—"And a white wheaten loaf;—Quick! proceed to the proof!"—Cried the beggar,—while Grist stood stark staring;—Though the lad's weasel eyesShone so wondrously wise,That to doubt him seemed sin over-daring!O the Miller's wife, Joan,Turning pale, 'gan to groan;But the Miller, arousing his spirits,Said, "Hand me the key,And our luck we will see—A faint heart no fortune inherits."But,—Gramercy!—his looks—When he opened the box,And at what he saw in it stood wondering!How his sturdy arm shook,While the wine-jug he took,And feared he would break it with blundering!Faith and troth! at the last,On the table Grist placedThe wine and the ducks—hot and smoking!Yet he felt grievous shyHis stomach to tryWith cates of a wizard's own cooking!But, with hunger grown fell,The lad sped so well,That Grist was soon tempted to join in;While Joan sat apart,And looked sad at heart,And some fearful mishap seemed divining!O the lad chopped away,And smiling so gay,Told stories to make his host merry:—How the Moon kittened stars,—And how Venus loved Mars,And often went to see him in a wherry!O the Miller he laughed,And the liquor he quaffed;But the beggar new marvels was hatching:—Quoth he "I'm a clerk,And I swear, by saint Mark,That the Devil from hell I'll be fetching!"—O the wife she looked scared,And wildly Grist stared,And cried, "Nay, my lad, nay,—thou'rt not able!"—But the lad plied his chalk,And muttered strange talk—Till Grist drew his stool from the table!Then the lad quenched the rush,And cried, "Bring a gorse-bush,And under the caldron now kindle!"—But the Miller cried, "Nay!Give over, I pray!"—For his courage began fast to dwindle.Quoth the lad, "I must onTill my conjuring's done;To break off just now would be ruin:So fetch me the thorns,—And a devil without horns,In the copper I soon will be brewing!"—O the Miller he shookFor fear his strange cookShould, indeed and in truth, prove successful;But feeling ashamedThat his pluck should be blamed,Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful.So the fuel he brought,And said he feared noughtOf the Devil being brewed in his copper:He'd as quickly believeNick would sit in his sieve,Or dance 'mong the wheat in his hopper:—And yet, lest strange ill,From such conjuring skill,Should arise, and their souls be in danger,—He would have his crab-stick,And would show my lord NickSome tricks to which he was a stranger!O the lad 'gan to raise'Neath the caldron a blaze,—While the Miller, his crab-cudgel grasping,Stood on watch, for his life!—But his terrified wifeHer hands—in devotion—was clasping!When the copper grew warm,Quoth the lad, "Lest some harmFrom the visit of Nick be betiding,—Set open the door,And not long on the floorWill the Goblin of Hell be abiding!"Quickly so did the host,And returned to his post,—Uplifting his cudgel with trembling:—His strength was soon proved,—For the copper-lid moved!—When Grist's fears grew too big for dissembling.Turning white as the wall,His staff he let fall,—While the Devil from the caldron ascended,—And, all on a heap,—With a flying leap,On the fear-stricken Miller descended!In dread lest his soul,In the Devil's foul goal,Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder,—Grist grabbed the Fiend's throat,And his grisly eyes smote,—Till Nick's face seemed a platter of tinder!Yea, with many a thwack,Grist battered Nick's back,—Nor spared Satan's portly abdomen!—Hot Nick had lain coldBy this time—but his holdGrist lost, through the screams of his woman!While up from the floor,And out, at the door,Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer!He seemed panic-struck,—Or, doubted his luck,—For he neither staid question nor answer!"Grist!" the beggar-lad cried,"Lay your trembling aside,And tell me, my man, how ye like him.'Twas well ye were cool:He'd have proved ye a fool,—Had ye dar'd with the cudgel to strike him!""By saint Martin!" Grist said,And, scratching his head,Seemed pondering between good and evil,—"I could swear and avouch'Twas the Prior of Roche,—If thou hadst not said 'twas the Devil!"And, in deed and in sooth,—Though a marvellous truth,—Yet such was the Fiend's revelation!—But think it not strangeHe should choose such a change:—'Tis much after his old occupation:—An angel of light,'Tis his darling delightTo be reckoned—'tis very well tested:—I argue, therefore,'Twas not sinning much more,In the garb of a Prior to be vested.Though, with wink, nod, and smile—O the world's very vile!—Grist's neighbours told tales unbelieving,—How the beggar, so shrewd,Monk and supper had viewed,And produced 'em!—the Miller deceiving!But I do not belongTo that heretic throngWho measure their faith with their eyesight:—Thus much I may say—Grist's cottage of clayNever, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit:—But, the sly beggar-lad,Be he hungry or sad,A remedy finds for each evilIn the Miller's good cheer,Any day of the year;—And though Joan looketh shy—she is civil!————The tale was rude, but pleased rude men;And clamorous many a clown grew, whenThe rebeck ceased to thrill:Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain,Gosherd and swineherd,—all were fainTo prove their tuneful skill.But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand,And gently stilled the jarring band:"What ho!" he cried, "what ails your throats?Be these your most melodious notes?Forget ye that to-morrow mornOld Yule-day and its sports return,—And that your freres, from scrogg and carr,[13]From heath and wold, and fen, afar,Will come to join ye in your glee?Husband your mirth and minstrelsy,And let some goodly portion beKept for their entertainment meet.Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet,And warm your winter blood!Good night to all!—For His dear sakeWho bore our sin, if well we wake,We'll join to banish care and sorrowWith mirth and sport again to-morrow!"And forth the Baron goodPassed from his chair, midst looks of loveThat showed how truly was enwoveFull, free, and heartfelt gratitudeFor kindly deeds, in bosoms rude.The broad hall-doors were open cast,And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed.Yet, was the crowning hour unflown—Enjoyment's crowning hour!—A signal note the pipe hath blown,And a maiden at the doorCraves curtsied leave, with roseate blush,To bring the sacred missel-bush.Gaily a younker leads the fair,Proud of his dimpled, blushing care:All clap their hands, both old and young,And soon the misseltoe is hungIn the mid-rafters, overhead;And, while the agile dance they thread,Such honey do the plough-lads seizeFrom lips of lasses as the beesNe'er sip from sweetest flowers of May.All in the rapture of their play,—While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe,And merrily their light feet trip,—Leave we the simple happy throngTheir mirth and rapture to prolong.
Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller!Of late, thy dungeon-harpings wereOf discontent and wrong;And we, the Privileged, were bannedFor cumber-grounds of fatherland,In thy drear prison-song.What fellowship hast thou with timesWhen love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymesAt feast, in feudal hall,—And peasant churls, a saucy crew,Fantastic o'er their wassail grew,Forgetful of their thrall?—Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,—And with the homely Past compareYour tinselled show and state!Mark, if your selfish grandeurs coldOn human hearts so firm a holdFor ye, and yours, createAs they possessed, whose breasts though rudeGlowed with the warmth of brotherhoodFor all who toiled, through youth and age,T' enrich their force-won heritage!Mark, if ye feel your swollen prideSecure, ere ye begin to chide!Then, lordlings, though ye may discardThe measures I rehearse,Slight not the lessons of the bard—The moral of his verse.—Butwewill dare thy verse to chide!Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide,And taunt our wretchednessWith visioned feast, and song, and dance,—While, daily, our grim heritanceIs famine and distress?Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern,Never from Suffering's cause to turn,But—to the end of life—Against Oppression's ruthless bandStill unsubduable to stand,A champion in the strife?Think'st thou we suffer less, or feelTo-day's soul-piercing wounds do healThe wounds of months and years?Or that our eyes so long have beenFamiliar with the hunger keenOur babes endure, we gaze serene—Strangers to scalding tears?—Ah no! my brothers, not from meHath faded solemn memoryOf all your bitter grief:This heart its pledges doth renew—To its last pulse it will be trueTo beat for your relief.My rhymes are trivial, but my aimDeem ye not purposeless:I would the homely truth proclaim—That times which knaves full loudly blameFor feudal haughtinessWould put the grinding crew to shameWho prey on your distress.O that my simple lay might tendTo kindle some remorseIn your oppressors' souls, and bendTheir wills a cheerful help to lendAnd lighten Labour's curse!————A night of snow the earth hath cladWith virgin mantle chill;But in the sky the sun looks glad,—And blythely o'er the hill,From fen and wold, troops many a guestTo sing and smile at Thorold's feast.And oft they bless the bounteous sunThat smileth on the snow;And oft they bless the generous oneTheir homes that bids them froTo glad their hearts with merry cheer,When Yule returns, in winter drear.How joyously the lady bellsShout—though the bluff north-breezeLoudly his boisterous bugle swells!And though the brooklets freeze,How fair the leafless hawthorn-treeWaves with its hoar-frost tracery!While sun-smiles throw o'er stalks and stemsSparkles so far transcending gems—The bard would gloze who said their sheenDid not out-diamondAll brightest gauds that man hath seenWorn by earth's proudest king or queen,In pomp and grandeur throned!Saint Leonard's monks have chaunted mass,And clown's and gossip's laughing faceIs turned unto the porch,—For now comes mime and motley fool,Guarding the dizened Lord MisruleWith mimic pomp and march;And the burly Abbot of UnreasonForgets not that the blythe Yule seasonDemands his paunch at church;And he useth his staffWhile the rustics laugh,—And, still, as he layeth his crosier about,Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt,—And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim,Sees carven apes ever laughing at him!Louder and wilder the merriment grows,For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws!And the dragon's roar,As he paweth the floor,And belcheth fireIn his demon ire,When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose,Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din—Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin—For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold,With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold;And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divineSmileth on sport, from her silver shrine!"Come forth, come forth! it is high noon,"Cries Hugh the seneschal;"My masters, will ye ne'er have done?Come forth unto the hall!"—'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall:Full many a trophy bedecks the wallOf prowess in field and wood;Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spearHang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer—But De Thorold's guests beheld nought thereThat scented of human blood.The mighty wassail horn suspendedFrom the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended,With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound,Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed,While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed,As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound,That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest,And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast.Sir Wilfrid's carven chair of state'Neath the dais is gently elevate,—But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride:Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire's side,And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall,Sit by the tables along the wide hall,Each with his platter, and stout drink-horn,—They count on good cheer this Christmas morn!Not long they wait, not long they wish—The trumpet peals,—and the kingly dish,—The head of the brawny boar,Decked with rosemary and laurels gay,—Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza,As their fathers did, of yore!And they point to the costard he bears in his mouth,And vow the huge pig,So luscious a fig,Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South!Strike up, strike up, a louder chime,Ye minstrels in the loft!Strike up! it is no fitting timeFor drowsy strains and soft,—When sewers threescoreHave passed the hall door,And the tables are laden with roast and boiled,And carvers are hasting, lest all should be spoiled;And gossips' tongues clatterMore loudly than platter,And tell of their marvel to reckon the sorts:—Ham by fat capon, and beef by green worts;Ven'son from forest, and mutton from fold;Brawn from the oak-wood, and hare from the wold;Wild-goose from fen, and tame from the lea;And plumëd dish from the heronry—With choicest apples 'twas featly rimmed,And stood next the flagons with malmsey brimmed,—Near the knightly swan, begirt with quinces,Which the gossips said was a dish for princes,—Though his place was never to stand beforeThe garnished head of the royal boar!Puddings of plumbs and mince-pies, placedIn plenty along the board, met tasteOf gossip and maiden,—nor did they failTo sip, now and then, of the double brown ale—That ploughman and shepherd vowed and swareWas each drop so racy, and sparkling, and rare—No outlandish Rhenish could with it compare!Trow ye they stayed till the meal was doneTo pledge a health? Degenerate sonOf friendly sires! a health thrice-toldEach guest had pledged to fellowships old,—Untarrying eager mouth to wipe,And across the board with hearty gripeJoining rough hands,—ere the meal was o'er:—Hearts and hands went with "healths" in the days of yore!The meal is o'er,—though the time of mirth,Each brother feels, is but yet in its birth:—"Wassail, wassail!" the seneschal cries;And the spicy bowl rejoiceth all eyes,When before the baron beloved 'tis set,And he dippeth horn, and thus doth greetThe honest hearts around him met:—"Health to ye all, my brothers good!All health and happiness!Health to the absent of our blood!May Heaven the suffering bless,—And cheer their hearts who lie at homeIn pain, now merry Yule hath come!My jolly freres, all health!"The shout is loud and long,—but tearsGlide quickly from some eyes, while earsList whispering sounds of stealthThat tell how the noble Thorold hath sent,To palsied widow and age-stricken hind,Clothing and food, and brother-words kind,—Cheering their aching languishment!"Wassail, wassail!" Sir Wilfrid saith,—"Push round the brimming bowl!—Art thou there, minstrel?—By my faith,All list to hear thee troll,Again, some goodly love-lorn verse!—Begin thy ditty to rehearse,And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe—Less thou wilt take red gold therewith!"Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth,—But, now the merry Yule returneth,For love of Him whom angels sung,And love of one his burning tongueIs fain to name, but may not tell,—Once more, unto the harp's sweet swell,A knightly chanson he will sing,—And, straight, he struck the throbbing string.
Sir Raymond de Clifford, a gallant bandHath gathered to fight in the Holy Land;And his lady's heart is sinking in sorrow,—For the knight and his lances depart on the morrow!"Oh, wherefore, noble Raymond, tell,"—His lovely ladye weeping said,—"With lonely sorrow must I dwell,When but three bridal moons have fled?"Sir Raymond kissed her pale, pale cheek,And strove, with a warrior's pride,While an answer of love he essayed to speak,His flooding tears to hide.But an image rose in his heated brain,That shook his heart with vengeful pain,And anger flashed in his rolling eye,While his ladye looked on him tremblingly.Yet, he answered not in wrathful haste,—But clasped his bride to his manly breast;And with words of tender yet stately dress,Thus strove to banish her heart's distress:—"De Burgh hath enrolled him with Philip of France,—Baron Hubert,—who challenged De Clifford's lance,And made him the scoff of the burgher swine,When he paid his vows at the Virgin's shrine."Oh, ask me not, love, to tarry in shame,—Lest 'craven' be added to Raymond's name!To Palestine hastens my mortal foe,—And I with our Lion's Heart will go!"Nay, Gertrude, repeat not thy sorrowing tale!Behold in my casque the scallop-shell,—And see on my shoulder the Holy Rood—The pledge of my emprize—bedyed in blood!"Thou wouldst not, love, I should be forsworn,Nor the stain on my honour be tamely borne:Do thou to the saints, each passing day,For Raymond and royal Richard pray,—"While they rush to the rescue, for God's dear Son;And soon, for thy Raymond, the conqu'ror's meed,—By the skill of this arm, and the strength of my steed,—From the Paynim swart shall be nobly won."Thou shalt not long for De Clifford mourn,Ere he to thy bosom of love return;When blind to the lure of the red-cross bright,He will bask, for life, in thy beauty's light!"The morn in the radiant east arose:—The Red-cross Knight hath spurred his steedThat courseth as swift as a falcon's speed:—To the salt-sea shore Sir Raymond goes.Soon, the sea he hath crossed, to Palestine;And there his heart doth chafe and pine,—For Hubert de Burgh is not in that land:He loitereth in France, with Philip's band.But De Clifford will never a recreant turn,While the knightly badge on his arm is borne;And long, beneath the Syrian sun,He fasted and fought, and glory won.His Gertrude, alas! like a widow pines;And though on her castle the bright sun shines,She sees not its beams,—but in loneliness prays,Through the live-long hours of her weeping days.—Twelve moons have waned, and the morn is comeWhen, a year before, from his meed-won homeSir Raymond went:—At the castle gateA reverend Palmer now doth wait.He saith he hath words for the ladye's ear;And he telleth, in accents dread and drear,Of De Clifford's death in the Holy Land,At Richard's side, by a Saracen's hand.And he gave to the ladye, when thus he had spoken,—Of Sir Raymond's fall a deathly token:'Twas a lock of his hair all stained with blood,Entwined on a splinter of Holy Rood.—Then the Palmer in haste from the castle sped;And from gloomy morn to weary night,Lorn Gertrude, in her widowed plight,Weepeth and waileth the knightly dead.—Three moons have waned, and the Palmer, again,By Gertrude stands, and smileth fain;Nor of haste, nor of death, speaks the Palmer, now;Nor doth sadness or sorrow bedim his brow.He softly sits by the ladye's side,And vaunteth his deeds of chivalrous pride;Then lisps, in her secret ear, of thingsWhich deeply endanger the thrones of kings:From Philip of France, he saith, he came,To treat with Prince John, whom she must not name;And he, in fair France, hath goodly lands,—And a thousand vassals there wait his commands.—The ladye liked her gallant guest,—For he kenned the themes that pleased her best;And his tongue, in silken measures skilled,With goodly ditties her memory filled.Thus the Palmer the ladye's ear beguiles,—Till Gertrude her sorrow exchangeth for smiles;And when from the castle the Palmer went,She watched his return, from the battlement.—Another moon doth swell and wane:—But how slowly it waneth!How her heart now painethFor sight of the Palmer again!But the Palmer comes, and her healëd heartDerideth pain and sorrow:She pledgeth the Palmer, and smirketh smart,And saith, "we'll wed to-morrow!"—The morrow is come, and at break of day,'Fore the altar, the abbot, in holy array,Is joining the Palmer's and Gertrude's hands,—But, in sudden amazement the holy man stands!For, before the castle, a trumpet's blastRings so loud that the Palmer starts aghast;And, at Gertrude's side, he sinks dismayed,—Is't with dread of the living, or fear of the dead?The doors of the chapel were open thrown,And the beams through the pictured windows shoneOn the face of De Clifford, with fury flushed,—And forth on the Palmer he wildly rushed!—"False Hubert!" he cried; and his knightly swordWas sheathed in the heart of the fiend-sold lord!—With a scream of terror, Gertrude fell—For she knew the pride of Sir Raymond well!He flew to raise her—but 'twas in vain:Her spirit its flight in fear had ta'en!—And Sir Raymond kneels that his soul be shriven,And the stain of this deed be by grace forgiven:—But ere the Abbot his grace can dole,De Clifford's truthful heart is breaking,—And his soul, also, its flight is taking!—Christ, speed it to a heavenly goal!—Oh, pray for the peace of Sir Raymond's soul!