Classic Poem

PART II.

It boots not here, at length to tell,
In full terms of the chronicle,
How lords and dames, of high degree,
Used all fair arts of courtesy,
To win the master to their will,
And stay his course in Brennesville:
How he gainsaid them, and would fain
Have journeyed into Aquitaine:
But how high revels bred delay,
And held him from his southward way.
In the true chronicle we learn
That the great lords made fair return
For the brave stranger's timely aid —
Such fair return as might be made
By puissant lords, of fame and worth,
To a poor squire of gentle birth.
The bounteous lord of Monthelesme —
Himself of high chivalric fame —
Gave from his stalls a sable steed,
Renowned for courage, strength, and speed.
Strong was Inguerrant of body and limb,
The toils of war were a joy to him;
The valleys of Auvergne bred his sire,
But Besarabia gave him fire,
For he was born of a Servian dam.
A thousand florins of the Lamb
The good Lord Roos gave graciously —
A gift of love and not a fee —
And five full purses, of the ten,
The master lavished to his men.
But the old Lord of Reyneval,
The sooth to say, surpassed them all.
He gave a suit of knightly mail,
Tempered to hue of silver pale,
Inlaid with arabesques of gold,
And cunning traceries manifold —
All made by a famous artisan
Edme Paol of fair Milan: —
Adding, with courteous intent,
Some wealth of peaceful ornament,
A loop of pearls and turquoise band.
These gave he by his ward's white hand;
His ward, the Countess Jocelind,
Heiress of stately Rousillon,
Deigned in her courtesy to bind
The pearl-loop to his morion,
And clasped the band upon his throat.
Her fine fair fingers thrilled, I wot,
And the bold master said, " It were
A thing of less than naught to dare
Perils of earth, and sea, and air,
For a love touch from hands so white,
For a love look from eyes so bright. "
The gifts, I know, were rare and proud,
But the good lords and knights avowed
To all who heard their words, that he,
By prowess of unbought chivalry,
Had rescued them from certain death
In harness on that bloody heath,
And high-born damosell and dame
From tortures of a hellish shame.

And then it chanced that, day by day,
The valiant master made delay,
From trial of his southward way;
Shunning all thought of fair Guienne —
Of his great Prince and countrymen —
Or, if he might not shun the thought,
Saying, " My master needs me not,
For there is present truce with France;
If the truce fail, as scarce may chance,
Then will I mount my steed agen,
And join his banner in Guienne. "
But, I am bound to say the truth,
A lady's eyes enthralled the youth —
The dark blue eyes of Jocelind.
The days, like barques before the wind,
Flew swiftly by; and as they passed
The spell grew complicate and fast.
Sweet skill of undesigned art
Fettered the strong man, limb and heart.
Sore wrestled he, and stoutly strove
For freedom from a desperate love:
But feeble eld is stronger far
To wage such shrewd and subtil war
Than youth, whose very fire and force
Plunge into toils beyond recourse.
And so the master tarried still,
A thrall of love, in Brennesville.

Meanwhile the Duke of Normandy
Upheld his banner, by the sea,
In leaguer of St. Valery.
For troubles of intestine war —
Hot feuds of Bourbon and Navarre —
Were rife in France, since good King John,
His ransom merks unpaid, had gone
Back to captivity, to bear —
Worse than captivity — despair —
Uncrowned, but kingly in his truth!
His son, of Normandy, a youth
Of gallant promise, ruled his realm,
Wearing for crown a soldier's helm,
And lay, I said, beside the sea,
In leaguer of St. Valery.
Proud Monthelesme and Roos rode forth
To join his standard in the North;
But the sick Lord of Reyneval
Tarried behind in peaceful hall.

The dames, deserted of their knights,
Grew weary of the tame delights
Of courtly life, and did decree
Divertisements of falconry.
And so one autumn morn it chanced
That, in fair train, these ladies pranced,
On gallant palfreys, from a port,
To spend the day abroad in sport.
Gawen beside the countess went,
And all sweet cares and service lent.
The lady heard him, and caressed
A falcon tercel on her wrist.
His speech, I say, the lady heard,
And so, I trow, did the stately bird,
And shook his hooded head, and screamed
In recognition glad, it seemed.
" Sieur Gawen, the bird, " said Jocelind,
" So darkened by the hood, is blind,
But he is full of joy to hear,
And know, his former lord so near. "
It was the bird the master bore
Over sea, from the Kentish shore.
The bird he had flown in calm and wind
On Kent's broad wealds in earlier days,
But now hath given to Jocelind: —
And she the courtesy repays,
And calls him by the master's name,
Which, sounded forth in mandate shrill,
Will ever the falcon's flight reclaim,
And bend his wild heart to her will.
The haughty bird is willing thrall,
And loves the lady's silver call.

Riding at amble, on a down,
A league beyond the trodden town,
Some object came to Gawen's ken,
And forth he called young Hazelden.
" Come hither, boy, " — the master said.
The page rode up unbonneted —
" Now ride to yonder knoll; I deem
I saw, just now, a banner gleam;
Use well thine eyes. " The page turned rein,
And rode the distant knoll to gain.
" A comely page " — said Jocelind —
" And like mine own, whose fate unkind
I grieve. Poor Huon! since the night,
When thou didst find this wandering wight " —
" Forget, " the modest master said,
" That peril, and my feeble aid.
But, noble lady, since the boy —
I trust he met with no annoy —
Hath scorned the lure, nor comes agen,
Take thou fair Philip Hazelden.
For his poor master's sake, and thine,
The boy, I think, will well incline
To serve thee; at his tender age,
The child should be a lady's page —
Not share the fortunes of my band. "
The countess placed her gloved hand
Softly on Gawen's arm, and smiled;
Then said, " Sieur Gawen, I will take —
Thy rare and noble gift — the child,
And guard him for his master's sake.
But the boy loves such peril wild
Of camps and battle-fields, and he
May scorn my silken page to be. "

Ere the good master made reply,
All heard a merry signal cry,
And a swift heron, from a marsh,
Mounted, with sudden scream, and harsh,
Beating the air in wild alarm.
Then hawks were cast from many an arm;
And it was a gallant sight to see
The fleet birds tower so valiantly,
Each for the vanguard challenging.
But none went forth so swift of wing —
Mounted so boldly on the wind,
As the brave bird of Jocelind.

With winnow, and soar, he won the height,
At point above the quarry's flight,
And balanced in air, and made his stoop;
But the swift heron shunned the swoop,
And, wheeling aside, a moment stayed
Just over the gazing cavalcade;
A wild-eyed, terror-stricken bird,
The Kentish hawk had canceliered,
But now drove back upon his prey,
Ire-whetted for the fresh assay.
The lady's heart with pity filled
The quarry's mortal dread to see,
And, in her gentleness, she willed
To ward its dire extremity.
With uplift hands, and eager eyes,
And cheeks bereft of their rosy dyes —
" G AWEN, MY G AWEN, COME BACK , " she cried.
The hawk, true vassal, turned aside,
Doubtful upon his pinions wide,
Then, like the servant of a charm,
Sank to his perch on the lady's arm.
The damsel, in her loveliness,
Made lovelier by that kind distress,
Repaid the bold bird's loyalty,
With gentleness of hand, and eye,
That silver call, so sweet to hear,
When will it die on the master's ear?
" My Gawen — come back! " — the truth to say,
He pondered the words for many a day.
But he must win from his dream amain,
His page rides fast to join the train.

The boy's bright visage augured well
Of stirring news, and blithe, to tell.
He stopped his course at Gawen's side;
" What have your ousel eyes espied? "
" A gallant host, " the boy replied,
" A royal army, foot and horse. "
And Gawen said, " The regent's force
Is drawing from the northern sea,
As the news went, for Picardy. "

And soon they mark the vanguard come
With trumpet blast, and storm of drum;
And proudly in the midst unrolled,
Blazoned with fleurs de lis of gold,
The royal standard woos the wind.
Pennon, and pennoncelle behind,
And crest of high-born cavalier,
And sheen of burnished helm, and spear,
Along the lengthened lines appear.
The son of France rode in the van,
With many a stately gentleman
Attendant on his presence high;
And when the fair train met his eye,
Brief pause he made, but left his post
In vanguard of the moving host,
And joined the dames, with greeting fair,
And a glad port and debonair.
Certes a gallant youth was he,
And owned chivalric fealty,
To the sweet powers of feminie.
Right pleasant were the words he spake,
And many a courtly jest he brake
With laughing damosell and dame.
And so, returning, slowly came
The host, and train, to reach the town.
The menzy saw them drawing down,
And with loud thunders rent the sky,
In welcome of their chivalry.

In the true chronicle of old,
We find the truth right fitly told,
That when the Dauphin heard aright
Of Gawen's deed, he dubbed him knight;
And that — the tale he heard so wrought
With his own valorous heart — he sought
Sir Gawen's service to engage,
At cost of lands, and annual wage.
To this, Sir Gawen, courteously,
Urged back his English fealty,
And still affirmed his purpose good —
With all fair show of gratitude —
To take horse with his Kentishmen,
And join the Black Prince in Guienne.

But whilst Sir Gawen held him still
In the proud court of Brennesville,
He found a limner great of skill,
And bought his art, with golden fee,
To paint a scene of falconry.
The limner painted Jocelind,
And that fleet falcon on the wind.
The lady's hands have lost the rein,
Which lies upon her jennet's mane,
And are uplifted whitherward
Her blue eyes fix their full regard;
Some tresses of her flaxen hair
Stream forth a little on the air;
There is no colour on her cheek,
Her quick lips seem to cry, not speak;
And the bold hawk, with downward eye,
Pauses to question of her cry.
A shining legend on a scroll
Beneath, gave meaning to the whole.
" G AWEN, MY G AWEN, COME BACK ! " — such were
The golden words of the legend fair.

Ere Gawen went on pilgrimage,
He gave the picture, and his page,
To the sweet lady of his love.
And, fair return, her broidered glove
He wore upon his basnet bright.
The proudest dame may choose her knight —
Bold champion of her scarf or glove —
Yet deign no tender thought of love.
So Gawen deemed, and dared not speak
The passion glowing on his cheek.
Like a Chaldean to his star,
He poured his worship from afar.

It boots not now, in terms, to say
How the boy page was loth to stay
Behind, from trial of that way.
Suffice it, when the knight took rein
For the fair realm of Aquitaine,
Young Philip rode not with his train.
Nor boots it now in terms to tell
What on that course the knight befell;
Or how Black Edward — far the while
From solace of the happy isle —
Gave to his coming gladsome cheer,
And, of his fatherland to hear,
Much used the knight's society.
My story's progress may not be
Diverted from that single end,
Whither its steps, impatient, tend.