Classic Poem

PART I.

Young G AWEN , from his castle wall,
Has heard the merry mavis call;
But Gawen better loves to hark
The warble of the morning lark.
That better bird is up to meet
The sun, with music proud and sweet.
A wonder is the song he sings —
And like the notes of charmed strings.
Just now his lay was all of earth,
Of sorrow intertoned with mirth,
But now, triumphant in his steven,
He mounts him to the ruddy heaven —
Making all humbler singers dumb
With his divine delirium.
Young Gawen views the fallow deer
Peopling the wide park far and near.
Some browse beneath the dewy shades,
Which edge the sunlight of the glades;
And some stare forth with earnest eyes
To greet a wandering hart whose cries
Break on the wild bird's melodies.

Kind nature, with a lavish hand,
Had poured her beauties on that land;
But Gawen, from his castle wall,
Looked moodily upon them all.
For he was born of gentle sires,
And in his bosom burned their fires,
And much it chafed his pride, to be
Shut from the pale of his degree,
By the base wants of poverty.
His sires, the knights of Bolton, were
Masters of spreading lands and fair.
Their lordly hold is stately still
On the green beauty of its hill;
But servitors, with busy din,
Break not the desert gloom within.
And over walls and portal towers
The ivy tod is weaving bowers.

A hundred steeds once fed in stall:
One freckled gray is left of all —
And he is stiff of joint and lean.
Once he was swift, and strong, and keen
As ever bore knight in harnasine.
White Raoull is his stately name,
And from a foreign land he came.
The master's sire, by dint of sword,
Won the brave steed at Castle Nord
From Raoull de Coucy, a Frankish lord.

Whilst Gawen mused in sombre cheer,
A noise of hoofs came on his ear;
And soon a goodly company
Over the lea came ambling by —
A horseman and two ladies gay.
Flaunting and brave was their array,
And they rode talking by the way.
The master, as the three drew on
Soon knew his neighbour stout Sir John,
And, in the flaunting ladies twain
His daughters Mistress Meg, and Jean.
A London knight was sleek Sir John
Who, lending gold, took lands in pawn.
The masters of Bolton had sometime made
Acquaintance with this knight of trade —
The dismal end need scarce be said.
The Boltons of Bolton have had their day;
Their wide fair lands have passed away.
Park, and meadow, and wood and lea —
As far as the circling hawk can see —
Sir John hath gotten them in fee.
Ah! Master Gawen brooks it ill,
That brave new mansion on the hill!

Ruddy Sir John, with jingling rein,
Ambled between his daughters twain;
Three spotted spaniels ran before;
Each damsel on her round wrist bore
A jessed and hooded sparrowhawk.
I say they cheered their way with talk,
And it rose clearly, from the bent,
Up to the master, where he leant
Over the frowning battlement.

Quoth Meg, " As proud as he may be,
The master's hall looks beggarly. "
Quoth stout Sir John, " I prithee, dear,
Bridle thy tongue — the youth may hear. "
But upspake Jean, the gentler maid,
And, scanning the grim pile, boldly said,
" Now, by my troth, were I as he,
A brave man lost in poverty,
The world a better tale should tell;
For I would vault into my selle
And shake my reins in proud farewell,
And bear my fortune on my lance
Over the narrow sea to France.
And where brave deeds were to be done
And lordly honours to be won,
Thither would I all odds to brave.
Better to win a gallant grave
Than cower to fortune like a slave. "
The master turned him from the wall,
Nor hearkened farther word.
He mused, and said, " I live in thrall,
But I have freedom heard. "
And more he said, with kindling eyes,
" The burgher's little maid is wise!
Yea, I will take my sword and lance,
And ride into the realm of France,
And find in arms what meed I can,
For I am but a landless man.
In France my father won high fame,
And honour, to the Bolton name;
And even for his gallant sake,
As well as my good way to make,
Will I this journey undertake. "

And when the news went up and down
That Gawen for the field was boune,
Ten varlets, and a little page,
Out of good love, and not for wage,
Gathered to Bolton speedily,
To ride with him beyond the sea.
The varlets were stalwart Kentishmen,
The page was Philip Hazelden —
A merry boy, with boyish skill
To rob hard fortune of its ill.
The boy had been a lady's page,
But that chain galled his riper age —
Such life seemed passing dull and tame,
And so the truant fled his dame,
And valiantly to Bolton came,
In velvet hose, and jerkin trim,
And gallant on a palfrey slim
Craving, for simple boon, that he
The valiant master's page might be.

Thirty leagues below Calais,
The Master of Bolton held his way,
Mounted upon his grim old gray.
White Raoull snuffed the wind that fanned
His stately crest — he knew that land.
The pleasant touch of his native ground
Quickened his hoofs to bold rebound.
Too proud for capricole or neigh,
He yet went snorting by the way.
And, comrade from the Kentish shore,
A tercel hawk the master bore:
A gallant bird, but now of mood
Chafed by the darkness of his hood.

The master looked with thoughtful eye
Out on the fields of Picardy.
It was the time when autumn yields
Her riches from the browning fields —
What time the vineyard on the hill
Blushes the purple press to fill;
But bare were the lands of Picardy,
For there had been the Jacquerie,
With the wild curse of sword and fire.
The corn lay trampled in the mire,
The vineyards — pale and vine — were down,
And ruin lay on tower and town.
How sad to see those lovely lands
Made desolate by native hands!
As Gawen rode in stately wise,
The sunlight faded in the skies;
But wilder lights began to spread
Up to the blue vault overhead —
The baleful lights of dread Bon Home.
So rode he downward from the Somme,
With none to check his valiant will.
But five leagues south of Abbeville,
Climbing a sudden ridge, he heard
Sounds terrible, and wild, and weird,
Upswelling from the farther plain.
He checked his course with instant rein;
And then he said, " Their howls begin:
These dread sounds are the mighty din
Of Laonois and Beauvosin.
The devils are loose; but let us ride
A little up this good hill side. "

They reached the top and thence looked down.
Beneath them lay a burning town;
Spreading suburbs, and girdling wall —
The raging flames were over all.
Only by fits the wind broke through
And bared the town's red heart to view —
Showing the glare of roof and spire,
Through shifting lanes walled high with fire.
And strangely muffled by the flame,
Wailing upon the south wind came,
With alternating fall and swell,
The wild alarum of a bell.
The shades of night were darkling down,
But that red day still lit the town,
And shed its lustres, luridly,
Outward upon the heaving sea
Of the far crowding Jacquerie.

The master turned him from the sight,
And saw a castle on his right;
Westward, a league away, it stood
Rising above an autumn wood.
The forest shades lay dark, and deep,
At base of grisly tower, and keep,
But, glistering in the upper air,
Some turrets caught the ghastly glare.
The master looked forth earnestly,
And, " Comrades, we must make, " quoth he,
" Yon castle strong our hostelrie. "
He stayed no farther word to say,
But rode upon the westward way.

Downward he passed at gentle speed,
And came upon a little mead —
A meadow of the freshest green,
Its verdure bright with a dewy sheen,
For there no curse of strife had been —
And crossed the waters of a rill:
But ere he climbed the opposing hill,
His way again found check, for he
Heard in the gloaming suddenly
The sounding strokes of a courser's feet,
And then was ware of a horseman fleet
Coming his slower course to meet.
He checked his steed, and poised his lance
Awaiting the horseman's swift advance.
The coming, so heard, could not be seen,
For the broad hill that rose between:
But soon the rider drew in sight,
And Gawen saw, in the waning light,
A lithe young page on a palfrey white,
He rode on the way with turning head,
And body advanced, as one who fled
Ghastly, and white, and all adread;
Nor did he seem the band to see
As he came on so desperately.
And when as Gawen bade him stand,
The rein had well-nigh left his hand.
But when he marked the cavalier
And the mailed men-at-arms, his fear
Gave sudden way to bolder cheer.

Question abrupt brought quick reply;
The page recounted speedily
The story of his eager race.
He told the tale with reddening face;
How a right noble company,
Lords and ladies of high degree,
Riding in strength for Brennesville,
Were hard beset beyond the hill —
The lords of Roos, and Monthelesme,
And other lords of knightly fame,
And many a damosell, and dame,
Lovely ladies of noble name,
Beset in desperate case, pardie,
By a wild band of Jacquerie.
Quoth the young page, " I held aloof,
Then saved myself by speed of hoof. "
" Craven! " said little Hazelden,
" The cause of dames should make us men " —
But the bold master checked his say,
And turned the strange page on his way:
Saying to all, " Good comrades, ride!
For, let all evil chance betide,
Foul breach it were of honour's laws
To strike no blow in such a cause. "
With these bold words he took the lead,
And urged White Raoull to his speed.

So Gawen, with his following,
Drew on to where, in stubborn ring,
Fencing their dames as best they might,
The knights of France waged desperate fight.
He saw not, by the doubtful light,
How the ring held, but he might mark
The foe in masses dense and dark
Beating its iron fence amain.
Short space the daring youth drew rein;
Swiftly he ordered his merry men,
And placed in the midst young Hazelden,
(The stranger page had flown agen);
Then signing the cross upon his brow,
And saying, " St. George ride with me now! "
He struck the sharp spurs rowel-deep,
And, with a cry, charged down the steep.

The dark crowd swayed disorderly
Even from the master's battle cry,
And ere a lance bore stain of blood,
The nearer edge gave back a rood,
Confusedly pressing man on man;
But when the deadly work began —
When full in their midst the swift charge burst,
When lances ravened with fiery thirst,
When stroke of sword, and plunge of horse,
Bore their hardiest down perforce,
The whole dense mass gave way outright,
And covered the wold in howling flight.
Stout Gawen rode on their rear apace —
The Frankish knights joined in the chace;
The moon, so ghastly in the air,
The wide sky's universal glare
Lighted the rout, and clown on clown
Beneath the avenging hands went down:
To say the truth, for many a rood,
A steam went up from the shedden blood.
And so that noble Frankish band —
Lords and ladies of the land —
Were won from death and outrage dire,
By prowess of the wandering squire,
Young Gawen, and his merry-men bold.
As I have said, so is it told;
In the true chronicle, we read
That Gawen Bolton did that deed.
And when the bloody chace was done,
The master praise and honour won
From knightly tongues and radiant eyes;
He answered that his poor emprise
Had found most bountiful reward —
It was a man's best task to guard
Dames so gentle from dire mischance.
But then he said, " My Lords of France,
In God's name bide not longer here. "
This counsel found right ready ear,
And the worn troop, without delay,
Resumed its interrupted way.
Ten men-at-arms were reft of life:
A score came wounded from the strife —
With bruise of club, and stab of knife —
But these found life and strength enow,
To sit their steeds, and ride, I trow:
Only the Lord of Reyneval
Was lorn of strength, among them all,
To ride beyond those perilous bounds,
And his worst hurt was not of wounds.
Time had stricken the ancient lord
With stroke more sure than stroke of sword.
But cloaked, from hoary head to spur,
In fur of stoat, and miniver,
And propped by grooms upon his horse,
The old man dared the darksome course.
Some space beyond the field of blood,
Rose the fair castle of the wood,
Whose towers had caught the master's eye;
But now the urgent train swept by,
And, crossing the line of Normandy,
Reached Brennesville, in weary plight,
After the middle watch of night.