Classic Poem

The Lady Jane, with urgent train,
Comes trooping into Paris:
Her milk-white mule seems very proud
Beneath the load he carries —
And, reason good, for fairer dame,
Than lovely Lady Jane,
Is not between the Norman lands
And mountain line of Spain.

The Lady Jane of Ventadore
Is irritant of mood,
The dame is but a fugitive
Before a robber rude;
Tetenoire, the Free Companion,
Is master of her lands,
And castle strong, by hardy wrong,
And holds them with his bands.

Thus is it that the Lady Jane
Comes trooping into Paris —
Reining the little mule, so proud
Beneath the load he carries.
Here may she be at liberty,
And wisely meditate,
The wrong which she has undergone
In pride, and in estate.

The countess came at June's sweet end,
And, on an autumn day,
The County Gaston sought her side,
His suit of love to pay:
" For thy dear love, all price above,
And for thy hand so fair,
If win I may, sweet lady, say,
What service shall I dare? "

The yielding dame made answer then:
" The whisper of a lute,
Were not so dear a sound to hear,
As this thy gentle suit.
But, like the dame who bade her lord
Leap down, and win her glove
From forth a lion's jaws, I bind
A service to thy love.

Five years I dwelt, a widow lorn,
In Castle Ventadore;
Tetenoire the Breton drove me forth,
And wronged me much and sore;
If thou wilt slay the robber vile,
And bring his head to me,
I freely vow, Sir Count, that thou,
Shalt have my hand for fee. "

*****

It was the County Gaston
Drew on to Ventadore,
His men-at-arms behind him,
His trumpeters before;
And by his side did proudly ride
Sir Anthony Bonlance,

A sweet Parisian gentleman
Of dainty countenance.
Between St. Flour and Ventadore,
Fair in a forest glade,
The county rides, at stately pace,
Before his cavalcade.
The autumn leaves, the count perceives,
Have caught a beauty rare,
As if the rays of lovely days
Had been entangled there.

And the near hills are ringing
With merry songs and sweet —
The birds are piping merrily
The early day to greet:
The early day, for on their way
As forth the riders pass,
The sparkling dews, which night renews,
Are bright on tree and grass.

Some gentle praise of nature
The gallant count was saying,
When he was ware of horsemen near —
He heard their chargers neighing.
And then he spurred his good steed up
A near acclivity,
From whose broad top a loving eye
A lovely land might see.

But not upon the beauty rare
Of that most lovely land,
The county gazed — beyond the hill
He saw an armed band:
A band, I ween, fair to be seen,
Of mail-clad cavaliers,
Holding their way, in close array,
With sunlit helms and spears.

Lord Gaston's hand waved brief command.
And straight an Auvergne guide
Obeyed his signal, from the troop,
And galloped to his side.
" Now who be they on yonder way?
Look freely and declare. "
Whereto the guide in haste replied,
" The man you seek is there.

" For mark you not the litter borne
Amidst the armed band?
They call it Geoffrey's battle-horse
In all this southern land.
The robber bold is waxing old,
And therefore travels so. "
Then said the lord, " By my good sword!
I joy so much to know. "

And now he wheels his champing steed,
And hurries from the height,
And joins his willing men-at-arms,
And orders them aright.
" The enemy rides here, " quoth he,
" Beneath us on the plain,
In bold array, athwart our way,
His castle hold to gain. "

Tetenoire was wending on his route,
So in his litter borne.
When, from the wooded height above,
Rang out a bugle horn.
And with the sound, shaking the ground,
Rushed down the charging horse —
With level spears, the cavaliers
Came thundering on their course.

Grim Geoffrey raised his head and gazed,
Expectant of the shock,
And laughed to see its fury break
Like sea-foam on a rock.
" These lords, " quoth he, right scornfully,
" Misjudge me overmuch,
They pounce as if my eagle brood
Were quarries for their clutch. "

And then his dark, keen eye did mark
Lord Gaston's haughty crest,
Where, chafed and baffled, to and fro
He rode amongst the rest.
Intent the gallant county seemed
To rally back his host,
Like one whose courage would regain
Some rose of honour lost.

" Give me a cross-bow in my hand,
And place a bolt therein " —
Grim Geoffrey said — " and bend the bow,
And let the bolt be keen. "
And then he scanned the county's band,
And bade his own hold place —
A perilous smile was fierce the while
Upon his ancient face.

As leant he on his litter's side,
An old and feeble man,
With raven locks so wonderful
Above his visage wan,
And peered with keen and ferret eyes —
So subtil in their guile —
You would have said a common wrath
Was kinder than his smile.

He raised the cross-bow to his aim,
And then with sudden twang,
The bolt flew forth, and angrily
Upon its journey sang.
The sharp bolt flew so swift, and true,
That, ere a man might speak,
It smote the County Gaston
Betwixt the eye and cheek.

Ah, ill betide the bowyer's craft,
That shaped that bolt so true!
And ill betide the heart of pride,
From whose fierce will it flew!
The county tottered on his horse,
His brain span round and round,
And then he lost his rein, and fell
A dead man to the ground.

Sir Anthony scarce stayed to see
The County Gaston slain,
But turned to face the homeward hill,
And urged his horse amain.
Now, by my troth, Sir Anthony
Will surely win the race!
His knighthood claims, and holds, the van —
Behind him bursts the chace.

Old Geoffrey in his litter lies,
And marks his armed men
Come trooping back, in scattered groups,
To win his side agen.
" Now who be these — our enemies —
Who dare abroad to ride,
For foolish enterprise of arms,
In this our country-side? "

In answer to his master's quest,
A griesly wight and strong
Came leading, through the merry crowd,
A captive, by a thong.
Lashed like a hound — his fine arms bound —
Came pale Sir Anthony.
The hapless plight of that fine knight
Was very sad to see.

" This gentleman " — his captor said —
" Was riding with the rest,
And, yea indeed! he led the race —
His charger was the best.
But as he rode so terribly
Upon his dapple gray,
The good beast stumbled at a ditch,
And left him by the way. "

Sir Anthony is tremulous,
For he is troubled sore:
Right awful are the icy looks,
Of him of Ventadore.
Quoth Geoffrey, " Speak the truth, and show
What errand brought you here. "
And, quakingly, Sir Anthony
Made all the truth appear.

" Who seeks my head had well beware, "
The Breton sternly said,
" Lest, groping in the lion's den,
He lose his own instead. "
Then, lowering darkly on the knight,
He deigned to say no more,
But bade his trumpets lead the way
En route for Ventadore.

*****

In a proud hall Parisian,
With jewels quite a-blaze,
The Countess Jane was leading down
The stately Polonaise,
When, like a discord, in the midst
Of music proud, and dance,
In way-worn plight, stalked in the knight
Sir Anthony Bonlance.

His beard defiled, his locks so wild,
His garb in disarray —
Ah! can it be Sir Anthony,
Who went so proud away?
A servitor behind him glides,
And bears, as all may see,
A little casket, richly wrought
Of gold and ebony.

" I bought my freedom at a price, "
So said the haggard knight,
" Dearer than gold in red merks told —
And I must pay aright
That ransom now, or break a vow
Wherewith my soul is bound. "
His sad, dark mien, and words, I ween,
Have hushed the music's sound.

He came before the Countess Jane —
Forlorn Sir Anthony!
And muttered, " I am sworn to bear
This casket unto thee. "
So said the haggard knight, and placed
The casket in her hands;
And she, in marvel at his words,
Unclasped the golden bands.

Ah! God and all good saints support
The stricken Lady Jane!
Within is County Gaston's head —
A bow-bolt in the brain!
She lost the casket from her hands —
Out rolled the gory head —
And Lady Jane, with wandering arms,
Fell down as fall the dead.

*****

A convent crowns a gentle hill
Above the bounding Rhone,
And to its shades, for health of soul,
The Countess Jane is gone:
A sister of that holy house,
Her griefs of earth are dead —
But, in her dreams, the sister sees
A casket and a head.