Classic Poem

PART III.

Attended by her happy hours,
The maiden May walks garlanded;
The earth is beautiful with flowers,
And birds are jocund overhead.
Wide valleys, verdant from the showers,
By fertile cares of April shed,
Give promise, to the hungry towers,
Of summer fruits, and autumn bread.

Look forth upon the hills, and see
The dark-green umbrage of the vine!
This year she promises to be
A liberal mother with her wine.
And mark the peasants on the lea,
Dancing, in joyous intertwine
Of swift limbs, to the melody
Of dull tambour, and viol fine.

Black Edward, and his isle-born men,
Have crowned the brows of peace agen,
And given her empery in Guienne;
To such fair land, to such sweet time,
Pass with the swift need of my rhyme.

The lists were closed at Castellon,
And, in a palace high
Builded beside the broad Dordogne,
That flower of chivalry —
Black Edward — sate, in careless state,
At banquet with his knights,
Discoursing arms, and ladies' charms,
Brave deeds, and soft delights.
Alone of all in banquet hall,
Sir Gawen's troubled eyne
Denied the power of that high hour,
Its flow of mirth and wine.
" Thou cloud upon our fellowship! "
Such words his master said,
" What care is this upon thy lip
To scorn the wine so red? "
Then Gawen made this answer true,
" Ah! sire, some words of thine
Have lent the bitterness of rue
Unto the ruddy wine.
Virgilius sings of one who shot
An arrow at the sky,
And I, with like audacious thought,
Have aimed my love too high. "
Bold answer made the Prince, and laughed —
" If she, who quells thy glance,
Sits perched too high for flight of shaft,
Essay her with thy lance.
Virgilius was a troubadour
Of excellent renown;
But, nathless, brave deeds are a lure
To win a princess down.
Take instance from another bard!
A squire of low degree,
By prowess, won young Ermingarde,
Princess of Hungary. "

The Prince so answered and confessed
The swift wine's power: ungirded vest —
Bold cheeks empurpled by the dyes
Of jocund Bacchus — glittering eyes —
And volant speech — gave token free
Of the blithe god's supremacy.

Meantime a warder paced in state,
Clanking before the palace gate,
And humming, as he paced, a lay
Of the good island far away.
The notes were sad as sad could be,
For the brave warder Willoughby
Had looked upon the northern star
And thought him of his home afar,
His home by silver Wye's fair side;
And — softened from his warrior pride —
Of one who might have been his bride,
But for the wildness of his youth.
He sang, and sighed — and said, " Sweet Ruth!
There was a time when thou and I
Were happy on the banks of Wye;
But wayward was my youth and blind —
I broke thy gentle heart and kind.
Idle the wish, and worse than vain,
But would that day were back again! "
And tears bedimmed the warder's sight,
As he looked far into the night,
To watch the loadstar's silver light.

Whilst the stout warder paced in state,
Wheeling before the palace gate,
And mused his exile lot aright,
A horseman shouted from the night.
The warder bade him errand show,
And stayed his own proud pace and slow,
Fitting an arrow to his bow.
But the free rider blithely spake —
" Yon red lights show a princely wake:
Say if the knight of Bolton be
At banquet with the chivalry. "
" That knight is at the wassail now, "
Said Willoughby, " but who art thou? "
Lightly the stranger left his steed —
A noble boy in way worn weed —
And pressed his suit, that he, with speed,
Might pass the gates — for that he bore
Hot errand to the knight: much more
His quick speech urged, and Willoughby
Gave to the stranger entrance free.

" Master " — a voice of slender sound
Reached Gawen's ear: he turned him round,
The low sweet voice he heard agen.
It was fair Philip Hazelden.
And now he stands, with beaming eyes,
Silent before the knight's surprise.
Amidst the flow of wine, it seemed
To good Sir Gawen that he dreamed.
But this soon passed, and in his joy
The knight embraced the gentle boy.
" Dear child, " he said, " show now to me
Why thou art come from Normandy. "
And Philip gave into his hands,
A casket small with burnished bands.
A touch soon drew the bands asunder,
And then Sir Gawen saw, with wonder,
The picture, which the limner's skill
Had whilome made in Brennesville.
He marks the Lady Jocelind —
Her pity-beaming eyes — her hair
A little streaming on the air:
He marks the falcon on the wind —
Then letters of that legend fair:
" G AWEN — MY G AWEN — COME BACK ! " — I trow
The words have flushed Sir Gawen's brow.
He marks them clearly by the gleam
Of the brave torches: doth he dream?
Doth that proud lady of the land
Utter to him the sweet command
To come again? Her messenger
Perchance may prove interpreter.
He turned him swiftly to the youth.
" Dear boy, " he said, " say out the truth. "
And the page said with earnest tone,
Which reached Sir Gawen's ear alone,
" My lady lies in grievous wo,
And, in her sorrow, bids me show
To brave Sir Gawen that her fate
Will poorly brook his coming late.
The dying Lord of Reyneval
Is vowed to hold a tourney high,
Open to all
True chivalry
Of England, Alemaigne, and France;
And, guerdon to the winning lance
In combat waged at utterance,
He firmly saith his ward shall be.
For he is in extremity
Of feeble age, and France is torn
By discord dire;
He will not leave the damsel lorn,
And meet her sire
Beyond the gates of death, which now
Ope for him, with a broken vow
Vile on his soul;
And so fair field he will allow
And free control
Of the good laws of chivalry;
And he who doth most valiantly,
Shall win the maid, and wide fair lands,
And he will gild the nuptial bands
With added wealth — for love, not hate,
Hath urged such course his ward to mate.

" And the sad lady bids me say,
In such fair phrases as I may,
That, if she errs not of thy love,
And thou wouldst win the hand whose glove
Is on thy basnet, thou must haste.
Something she said of maiden chaste
Constrained by fate such words to speak;
And blushes deepened on her cheek;
She knew not what thyself might deem,
And feared such course would ill beseem
A maiden in her purity:
But her true heart, and destiny,
Bade her forget observance fine
And rest her feeble hand in thine. "

A red light streamed from Gawen's eyes,
His visage burned with sanguine dyes.
Himself, to hark, he did command,
But crushed a goblet in his hand.
And, when the tale was said, the boy
He seized, and wrought him sore annoy
With fury of his glad embrace.
" Now, by our blessed Lady's grace! "
He cried, " the tale thou tellest, child,
Hath reft my sense, and made me wild.
Thou art a herald brighter far
Than the blithe morning's vaward star,
And well hast driven my gloom away
With golden promise of the day. "
" My Prince! " — he bowed at Edward's knee —
" My Prince, I crave a boon of thee.
I read not with my glooming eye
The omen of thy counsel high,
But now may read; it well may chance
That I, even I, with humble lance,
Wreathed by no splendours of renown,
Shall win my lofty lady down. "

The board was hushed, and Gawen told
The truth, with joyous lip and bold,
To the brave Prince, and knights in hall —
How the good Lord of Reyneval
Was vowed to hold a tourney high,
Free to the gentle chivalry
Of England, Alemaigne, and France;
And guerdon to the winning lance,
In combat waged at utterance,
Would yield — he paused ere more he said,
And his brow darkened from its red:
But he spake on — " For guerdon good,
Prize to the stoutest man at arms —
Perchance some soldier, stern and rude —
That lord will yield the maid, whose charms
Are my soul's star. Grant, sire, that I
May ride to win that prize, or die. "

The Prince unclasped his ruff's fine band,
Then leant his cheek upon his hand,
And read Sir Gawen with an eye
Wise with the wine's solemnity.
" I doubt, " he said, " if knightly laws
Should gild success in such a cause.
A bugle horn may fitly be
Prize in a game of archerie;
A runlet, and a Lincoln gown
Guerdon the strife of clown with clown.
But, by St. George! it seems not well
That a true-hearted damosell,
In modesty of maidenhood,
Should bide the fate of jousting rude.
When the first Romans won that course
In tourney with the Sabine horse,
Each knight, for guerdon of his game,
Seized to himself a Sabine dame.

But this, sir knight, the clerks agree,
Covered the Roman chivalry
With the world's scorn and infamy.
I know it is the wont of France
To hang such issues on the lance,
Also of lands beyond the Rhine —
That river of the sapient vine;
But nathless, in our better land,
We win not so a lady's hand.
Seeking the hand, we wile the heart
With strategies of manly art.
Besides, such wooing of the sword
Binds shrewish mate to wretched lord. "

He ceased: Sir Gawen spake more low,
And the full truth essayed to show.
Black Edward heard him, and replied —
" If thou may'st win a willing bride,
Get thee to horse, good knight and tried;
And, certes, of these gentlemen,
A band will ride,
To prove the prowess of Guienne
By Seine's fair side.
The friend of Edward should not be
A needy child of errantry,
And leave his court, to journey forth
Like a Scots horseman of the north.
Strife for the maid of Rousillon —
Sir Gawen's mistress — be his own.
The knights of France — none worthier live
In any land — will doubtless give
To all, such entertainment good
Of arms, and feats of hardihood,
As well may stay the sturdiest mood.
By my own knighthood! I would fain
Myself join stout Sir Gawen's train,
And leave my cares of Aquitaine
To hark the bugles of the Seine. "
And the brave knights, with blithe accord,
Welcomed the fair speech of their lord,
With thunders of the banquet board.

Felton, La Poule, and Percy bold —
So is the old true story told —
With other knights of good renown,
By the next midday left the town.
Sir Gawen went upon the way,
Mounted upon his stately gray.
The sable steed, with haughty tread,
Came after, by a stout groom led: —
A charger worthy to uphold
A monarch, when his crown of gold
Totters upon his royal brows,
And he arrays, with muttered vows,
The broken remnants of his host
From turmoil of a battle lost,
To dare, in storm of final strife,
Issues of empire, death, and life.

So journeying earnestly, the band
Drew freely to the northern land;
And by the way, brave rumours heard —
For the wide country side was stirred —
Of open lists, and knightly sport,
In presence of the Regent's court,
At the good town of Bar-by-Seine.
The earnest horsemen rode amain —
Their swift desire brooked small delay —
And soon drew on to Fontenay.
There heard they certain news at last
That three days of the jousts were past;
That Eustace, Lord of Saimpi, held
Possession of the listed field.
That lord had done his devoir well;
Himself scarce shaken in his selle,
His lance nine knights had overthrown —
To bide his mighty brunt was none.
And, with the news, came doubtful tale
Of sorrows of the maiden pale,
Young Jocelind of Rousillon,
For whose fair hand such course was run.
For five days were the jousts decreed,
Three days were past, and urgent need
Was now to press their way with speed.

Past Cravant, riding in the land,
Of fair Champaign, the English band,
Worn by the route, made brief delay
At a good hostel by the way.
Biding to mend their travel's want,
The knights sent on a pursuivant,
To Charles, the Regent, to declare
Their near approach, and purpose fair.

The lists were ordered, on a plain,
A little north of Bar-by-Seine,
And now, what time the band delay
At the good hostel by the way,
The barriers of the lists are down,
And Charles comes riding from the town.
Hark to the trumpet's shrill fanfare,
And the glad shouts that rend the air!
The sun is at his midday height,
But fleecy clouds half veil his light;
And breathing freshly of the main,
A far-flown wind sighs up the Seine.
So the glad riders all will say
Some words in honour of the day,
As marshalled onward by the din
They pass, in state, the lists to win.

The Regent on his hackney goes,
Crowned with a chaplet of the rose.
Such sportive wreath suits better far
Than crown of state, or helm of war
With the soft beauty of his brow.
And all who mark him will avow
That fate ne'er bound the weightier care
Of a realm's rule on locks so fair.
And stern men note his girlish bloom,
Mating so well with rose and plume,
And, softened from their sternness, say
" Now let him win, whenas he may,
Pastime in sportive holiday,
And his proud ringol put away.
Our royal boy is wise with youth,
And well eludes the colder truth —
Cheating his cares, which are his foes,
With sweet deceptions of the rose. "

So passing on his hackney stout,
Charles led the vanguard of the rout,
And reached the lists; then left his steed,
With a right gallant grace, to lead
The white-browed maid of Rousillon,
Queen of the tourney, to her throne.
Pale as a white flower is her cheek —
Pale and without one ruddy streak;
Her eyes are sad, but stern and proud —
Sad with a sorrow unavowed —
Stern with a strength of heart unbowed.
From her sweet lips, of late so bright,
Gone are the roses of delight.
The subtil tide which late distained
Their ripeness, wearying cares have drained,
And their wan lines are much compressed
With stern resolve and wild unrest.
Pray God the damsel's dark-blue eyes
May sparkle soon in happier wise,
And cheek and lip win back their dyes.