Classic Poem

I.

O Arcady, green Arcady! fair land,
Through which, by others led, I oft have trod,
Tracing their footsteps on the golden sand,
Indelible, — or on the pregnant sod,
From which, when feet, like Jove's swift Herald's, shod
With winged sandals, touch the sacred soil,
Thick spring immortal flowers, but to the hand
Is an unyielding clod, whose sordid toil,
As if for earth-hutched gold, seeks poesy's bright spoil.

II.

If I have deemed thy secret springs and glades
Like real, and more lovely than possess
A place on earth, — if o'er all earthly maids
Loved thy sweet Queen, the Queen and Shepherdess
Of gentle spirits, — in thy wilderness
O let me build a bower, where some may rest,
Who seek thy green and never-withering shades,
And haply praise the simple hand that drest
Its wild of tangled boughs, though rudely at the best.

III.

And what, great Queen, shall be thy poet's theme?
Ah, of what else should youthful poets sing
But that of which young maidens muse and dream?
And while they speak of whatsoever thing,
Of that their hearts will still be whispering: —
Sweet Love — the prisoner and the liege of sense,
Fresh spring of virtue, honor's crystal stream,
Green youth of eld, full store of indigence,
Life of all living things, the might of innocence.

IV.

But now to tell what might in love may be: —
There was a lady in the ancient time,
A lady of great worth and dignity,
And for her worthiness I weave this rhyme,
In a far distant age and different clime,
And bind these simple posies in a wreath,
To show her faith and sweet benignity;
The priest had shrived her only son for death,
Prayers for his life no more, but for his soul he saith.

V.

But she before our Lady's shrine to kneel
Went forth at midnight, when no eye could see,
And to that mother pure did make appeal,
That she for mothers' love would piteous be.
And in her need and great extremity
She vowed, if Christ might yield his help divine
Through her petition, and her son would heal,
That he should wed the maid that at her shrine
Knelt earliest at morn, befal him joy or tine.

VI.

And he, so piteous is heaven's Queen,
All suddenly grew well of his disease, —
Such cure could ne'er by mortal help have been,
From death itself as well might it release;
And still the sacred marvel to increase,
They heard him in his sleep an Ave raise,
And on awaking, tell that he had seen
One like the Virgin Mother, clothed in rays,
Whose smile had thrilled his heart into that song of praise.

VII.

The chapel then, in great beatitude
The lady sought; and in her heart, she spelt
Words as she went of silent gratitude;
With such deep joy her gentle heart did melt,
To think that heavenly saints her grief had felt;
And with her vow her heart kept strict accord,
When lo! she sees in humblest attitude
Before the shrine a maiden that adored,
With meek uplifted eyes, the Mother of the Lord.

VIII.

The sun still stood upon the skiey shore
Of the blue east, and through the glistering air
Threw his slant beams, that in the open door
Pencilled with golden light her flowing hair,
And all her form; that she so meekly fair,
And still, and rapt as pictured saint might be,
Like saint-like seemed as her she did adore:
Ah wherefore looked the dame that sight to see,
As one that wakes through fear and sees his fantasy.

IX.

Young hearts forgive her if, one moment, she
Looked on that lovely maid with half-disdain,
When, mindful of her heir's great dignity,
She marked her tattered mantle, coarse and plain —
Beggars or peasants seen with equal pain —
But soon, for she was kind, she took the maid,
Who in her face looked sad and wonderingly,
And kissed her cheek, and gentle speeches said,
And in her castle soon like high-born dames arrayed.

X.

With wonder did the youth her beauty see,
But he was one that oft in musings deep
Of what he deemed his own high destiny,
With books and stars would nightly vigil keep,
While all his fellows were amort with sleep.
So in his heart rank grew the weeds of pride,
Though with some flowers of worth and piety,
And made him loathe the thought that through his bride
His race with beggars base, and hinds should be allied.

XI.

But he was young, and young was then romance,
And oft in thought did cruel pagans fall,
And faitours vile went down before his lance,
And lovely maids he freed from wicked thrall,
Yet for one loveliest maid he did it all;
And what if she, so fair but poorly dight,
So strangely brought, should be a maid perchance
Of noble lineage, but disguised to sight,
And sent, in high adventure, to approve his might.

XII.

But when he said, as to his fancied bride,
That he must leave her sight to seek her praise,
Nearer in soul because apart so wide,
And peril life in lists and bloody frays,
To make her name be heard in minstrels' lays,
And o'er all hearts maintain her empery;
Mutely she gazed, and heard him vacant-eyed:
And when he sought reply, — I would with me
That thou should'st stay, she said, that I may look on thee.

XIII.

So he forsook the mansion, though with pain,
Both for her beauty and the vow that brought
For her dear sake his dying breath again;
And in his sovereign's court advancement sought,
Yet never peace might find, nor quiet thought;
Nor ever could he see that sweetest head,
With its soft ring of light in niche or pane,
But with a thought of her from whom he fled,
And whom he loved, yet loathed, and almost wished were dead.

XIV.

And years passed on, but he would not return,
And still the lady to the maid was kind,
And sought by love to recompense his scorn;
And for his absence though she inly pined,
She never sought her promise to unbind,
For in his stead had blissful Mary's dower,
A dearer daughter, of her heart been born:
But she, ah! pale, and like a lily-flower,
Became the cottage rose in that high-fashioned bower.

XV.

At length unto the lady spoke the maid,
With eyes that shunned to raise their glance aloft,
And words that seemed at their own sound affrayed,
So tremblingly she spoke, and low, and soft,
In slow and measured tone, as if full oft
She to herself the pondered speech had said, —
" Than he should longer from thy arms be stayed,
O dearest lady, who from mine has fled,
'Twere better I were gone, and well if I were dead.

XVI.

" So let me seem to die; a flower I know
That grows with innocent look upon the heath,
And yet whose virtue can make sleep to show
A nearer semblance to resemblant death —
Can freeze the eye, and still the pulse and breath;
And he shall hear, nor long will linger hence,
And I, a time, into the tomb will go;
Back to my native humbleness from thence,
And still thy hapless vow be held in reverence. "

XVII.

At length the lady yielded her consent,
Though with great sorrow and compunction deep,
And toward the maiden with a true intent
A mother's care for her no less to keep:
And to an abbey near, when waked from sleep,
She thought to take her, with great secrecy,
So like a jewel for a season lent,
To her that gave, the maid returned should be,
The lustre all undimmed of her virginity.

XVIII.

But when the tidings to his ears were brought,
And how without complaint she pined and died,
And of her sad and gentle looks he thought,
And how the frost of his ingrateful pride
Had killed that fairest flower by love espied, —
Love, that revenges still his broken hest,
His grief to its own height of passion wrought,
And late remorse, the heart's unbidden guest,
With self-disdainful shame his guilty mind possessed.

XIX.

Homeward he hasted, but along the way
Heard not the birds, though they sung loudly too,
Nor did the greenness of the fields in May
Make his heart fresh as wont with youth to do;
He heard no song, he saw no pleasant hue,
In nothing dared his heart to take delight,
Ne in the springing leaves, nor glistering day;
And when the moon rose fair and silver bright,
And pale-looked stars peered out, — he knew that it was night.

XX.

Unto the tomb wherein he deemed she lay,
All unperceived of any eye he went,
And while they still misdeemed him far away,
He stood before that ancient mounument;
He knew not in himself with what intent.
Beneath the portal's crevice, from within,
Into the moonlight crept a golden ray
That made it seem more ghastly-pale and thin;
He wrenched the door ajar, and wonderingly stepped in.

XXI.

And there within an open tomb was laid,
With lighted tapers at her head and feet,
That flickered in the blast, a lovely maid,
Whose youthful innocence and beauty sweet
Kept the flowers fresh upon her winding-sheet:
And as the gusty wind did rise and fall,
From old armorial tombs with knights displayed,
Armed shadows seemed to threat upon the wall,
As if to guard from harm her slumbers virginal.

XXII.

He on his knees sank awed and tremblingly
Before that image of fair maidenhed,
While life and death changed looks dissemblingly;
For such a paleness in his features spread,
That she the live might seem, and he the dead;
And all around the shadows toward the maid
And flamy tapers bended semblably,
While he, with arms upon his sword-hilt stayed,
And fixed and marble look bent forward half-affrayed.

XXIII.

Is it the wind-gust through the creviced door?
Is it the light that flickers on her shroud?
Is it the wind that sighs? — half from the floor
Upstarting to his feet, he gasps aloud,
And stares with eyes all-wide and wonder-brow'd,
To see her slowly from the tomb arise,
And on her loosened arm half-leaning o'er
Look in his face with wild and dreamy eyes,
Like one that wakes from sleep disturbed with fantasies.

XXIV.

And each unto the other was a dream;
And so they gazed, without a stir or breath,
Until her head into the golden stream
Of her wide tresses, loosened from their wreath,
Sunk back, as she did yield again to death: —
Then rose the youth, and freed from his amaze
At what a thing so strange as this should seem,
Sought from its dreamy couch her head to raise;
The other trembling hand upon her heart he lays.

XXV.

And still it beat, at which his own grew mute,
And then beat loudly, as with quick low cries
And soft as breathings of a love-touched lute, —
Sweet maid, he said, my love, my bride, arise!
And kissed awake her drowsy-lidded eyes;
This place is dreary-cold, and full of fears,
Come hence with me; — nor long he urged his suit,
But bore her forth, who only with her tears
And heart that throbbed tumultuous, tells him that she hears.

XXVI.

What ails old Hubert at the castle gate,
That, like a sick-brained girl, he screams aloud,
Tale-witched upon the hour of midnight late? —
Pale looked the boldest in the gathering crowd
To see one bear a maiden in a shroud;
Only the lady blanched not to behold. —
Next morn the sun arose with look elate,
And for a bridal tricked himself with gold,
And early waked the birds, numbed in the moonlight cold.

XXVII.

And sweetest flowers made open into sight,
For posied garlands with green holly blent;
And never to the church his beams did light
A maid like her so fair and innocent:
Men could not stint to view her as they went,
And whisper of the marvels that befel.
And there her love with blushes did she plight,
And clamored of the thing the village bell;
At length the sun went down — I have no more to tell.