Classic Poem

“C OME hither, come hither, my little foot-page!
And beare to my gaye Ladye
This ringe of the good red gowde, and be sure
Rede well what she telle the to thee.

“And take tent, little Page, if my Ladye's cheeke
Be with watchinge and weepinge pale;
If her locks are unkempt, and her bonnie eyes redde;
And come backe and telle me thye tale.

“And marke, little Page, when thou showest the ringe,
If she snatche the it hastelye,
If the red blude mount up her slendere throate
To her forehedde of ivorye.

“And take good heede if, for gladness or griefe,
It chaunge the my Ladye's cheere;
You shalle know by her eyes; if their lichte laugh oute
Through the miste of a startlinge teare,

“(Like the Summer sunne thro' a morninge cloude,)
There neede the no furthere tokenne,
That mye Ladye brighte, to her owne true Knighte,
Hath keepit her faithe unbrokenne.

“Now ride, little Page, for the sunne peeres oute
Owre the rimme of the eastern heavenne,
And backe thou must bee, with thy tidinges, to mee,
Ere the shadow falles far at evenne.”

Awaye, and awaye! and he's farre on his waye,
The little foot-page alreddye;
For he's backed on his Lordes own gallante graye,
That steede so swift and steddye.

But the Knighte stands there like a charmedde manne,
Watchinge, with eare and eye,
The clatteringe speede of his noble steede,
That swifte as the windes doth flye.

But the windes and the lichtninges are loitererres alle
To the glaunce of a luver's mynde;
And Sir Alwynne, I trow, had thocht Bonnybelle slowe,
Had her fleetnesse outstrippit the winde.

Beseemed to him, that the sunne once more
Had stayedde his course that daye;
Never sicke manne longed for morninge licht
As Sir Alwynne for eveninge graye.

But the longeste daye must ende at laste,
And the brighteste sunne must sette;
Where stayde Sir Alwynne at peepe of dawne,
There at even he stayethe him yette.

And he spyethe at laste—“Not soe, not soe
'Tis a small graye cloude, Sir Knighte,
That risethe up, like a courser's hedde,
On that borderre of gowden lichte.”

“Bot harke! bot harke! for I heare it nowe;
'Tis the comynge of Bonnybelle!”
“Not soe, Sir Knighte; from that rockye height
'Twas a clatteringe stone that felle.”

“That slothfulle boye! but I'll think no more
Of him and that lagginge jade to-daye.”
“Righte, righte, Sir Knighte!” “Nay, now, by this lichte,
Here cometh my Page and my gallante graye!

“Howe nowe, little Page! ere thou lichtest downe,
Speake but one worde out hastylye;
Little Page, haste thou seen mye Ladye luve?
Hathe mye Ladye keepit her faithe with me?”

“I've seene thye Ladye luve, Sir Knighte,
And welle hathe she keepit her faithe with thee.”
“Lichte downe, lichte downe, mye trustye Page!
A berrye browne barbe shall thy guerdon be.

“Telle on, telle on; was mye Ladye's cheeke
Pale as the lilye, or rosye redde?
Did she put the ringe on her finger smalle?
And what was the very firste worde she sedde?”

“Pale was thye Ladye's cheeke, Sir Knighte,
Blent with no streake of the rosye redde;
I put the ringe on her finger smalle,
But there is no voice amongste the dedde.”


There are torches hurryinge to and froe
In Raeburne Towerre to-nighte;
And the chapelle dothe glowe with lampes alsoe,
As if for a brydalle ryte.

But where is the Bryde? and the Brydegroome where?
And where is the holye Prieste?
And where are the guestes that shoulde biddenne be,
To partake of the marriage feast?

The Bryde from her chamberre descendethe slowe,
And the Brydegroome her hand hath ta'en;
And the guestes are mette, and the holy Prieste
Precedethe the marriage traine.

The Bryde is the fayre Maude Winstanlye,
And Dethe her stern Brydegroome;
And her father followes his onlye childe
To her mothere's yawninge tombe.

An agedde manne! and a wofulle manne!
And a heavye moane makes he;
“Mye childe! mye childe! mine onlye childe!
Would God I had dyedde for thee!”

An agedde manne, those white haires telle,
And that bendedde back and knee;
Yette a stalwart Knighte, at Tewkesburye fighte,
Was Sir Archibalde Winstanlye!

'Tis a movinge thinge to see the teares
Wrunge oute frae an agedde eye,
Seldome and slowe, like the scantye droppes
Of a fountaine that's neere a drye.

'Tis a sorrye sighte to see graye haires
Brocht downe to the grave with sorrowe!
Youth lukes thro' the cloude of the presente daye
For a goldonne gleame to-morrowe.

But the palsyedde hedde, and the seeble knees,
Bereste of earthlye staye! . . . .
God help thee nowe, old Winstanlye!
Gude Christians for thee praye!

Bot manye a voice in that burialle traine
Breathes gloomily aparte,
“Thou hadst not been childeless nowe, olde manne,
But for thine owne harde hearte!”

And many a mayde, who strewethe floweres
Alore the Ladye's biere,
Weepes oute, “Thou hadst not dyede sweet Maude
If Alwynne had beene heere!”


What solemne chaunte ascendethe slowe;
What voices peale the straine?
The Monkes of St. Switholm's Abbaye name
Have mette the funeralle traine

They hold their landes, full manye a roode,
From the Knightes of Raeburne Towerre;
And everre when Dethe doth claime his prey.
From within that lordlye bowerre,

Then come the holye Fatheris forthe,
The shrowdedde curse to meete
And see it laide in ba-circle grave
With requiem sadde and sweete.

And nowe they turne, and leade the waye
To that laste home so nigh,
Where alle the race of Winstanlye
In dust and darkness lye.

The holye altarre blazethe brighte
With waxen taperres high;
Elsewhere, in dimine and doubtfulle lichte
Dothe alle the chapelle lye.

Huge, undefinedde shadowes falle
From pillare and from tombe;
And manye a grimme olde monumente
Lookes ghastelye through the gloome.

And many a rustye shirt of maile
The eye maye scantlye trace;
And crestedde helmette, blacke and barred,
That grinnes with sterne grimace.

Bannerre and scutcheon from the walles
Wave in the cald nighte aire;
Gleames oute their gorgeous heraldrye
In the entering torches' glare.

For nowe the mourninge companye
Beneathe that archedde doore,
Beare in the lovelye, lifelesse claye,
Shall passe thereoute no more.

And up the soundinge aisle ye stille
Their solemne chaunte may heare,
Tille 'neath that blazonned catafalque
They gentlye reste the biere.

Then ceasethe everye sounde of life;
So deepe that awfulle hushe,
Ye heare from yon freshe-opennedde vaulte
The hollowe deathe-winde rushe.

Backe from the biere the mournerres all
Retire a little space;
Alle bot that olde bereavedde manne.
Who takethe there his place

Beside the dedde: but none may see
The workinges of his mynde;
So lowe upon that sunkenne breste
Is that graye hedde declinede.


The masse is saide; they raise the dedde;
The palle is flunge aside;
And soone that coffinned lovelyenesse
The darksome pit shalle hide.

It gapeth close at hande. Deep downe
Ye may the coffinnes see
(By the lampe's dull glare, freshe kindledde
Of many a Winstanlye.

And the gildedde nails on one looke brighte,
And the velvette of crainoisie,
She hathe not laine there a calenderre yeere,
The laste Dame Winstanlye.

“There's roome for thee heere, O daughter deere!”
Methinkes I heare her saye;
“There's roome for thee, Maude Winstanlye;
Come downe, make no delaye.”

And, from the vaulte, two grimlye armes
Upraised, demaunde the dedde! . .
Hark! hark! 'tis the tramp of a rushinge steede!
'Tis the clanke of an armedde tredde!

There's an armedde hedde at the chapelle doore;
And, in armoure all hedighte,
In coal-blacke steele, from hedde to heele,
In steppes an armedde Knighte!

And uppe the aisle, with heavy tredde,
Alone advauncethe he;
To barre his waye dothe none essaye
Of the fun'ralle companye.

And never a voice amongst them alle
Doth aske who he mote be;
Nor why his armedde steppe disturbes
That sadde solemnitye.

Yette manye an eye, with fixedde stare,
Dothe sternelye on him frowne;
Bot none may trace the stranger's face—
He weares his vizorre downe.

He speakes no worde, bot waves his hande,
And straighte theye alle obeye;
And ev'rye soule that standethe there
Falles backe to make him waye.

He passethe on; no hande dothe stirre;
His steppe the onlye sounde;
He passethe on, and signes them sette
The coffinne on the grounde.

A momente gazinge downe thereonne,
With foldedde armes dothe staye:
Then stooppinge, with one mightye wrench
He teares the lidde awaye.

Then risethe a confusedde sounde,
And some half forwarde starte,
And murmurre, “Sacriledge!” And some
Bear hastilye aparte

The agedde Knighte, at that straunge sighte
Whose consciousnesse hathe fledde;
Bot signe nor sounde disturbethe him
Who gazethe on the dedde.

And seemethe sune, as that faire face
Dothe alle exposedde lye,
As if its holye calme o'erspredde
The frowninge faces bye.

And nowe, beside the virginne corse
Downe kneeles the straunger Knighte,
And backe his vizorrede helme he throwes,
Bot not in openne sighte;

For to the pale, colde, clammy face,
His owne he stoopethe lowe;
And kissethe firste the bludelesse cheeke,
And then the marble browe.

Then, to the dedde lippes gluede, so long
The livinge lippes do stay,
As if in that sadde silente kisse
The soule had paste awaye.

Bot suddenne, from that mortal trance,
As with a desp'rate straine,
Up! up! he springes—his armoure ringes—
His vizorre's downe againe.

With many a flourre, her weepinge maydes
The Ladye's shroude have dressed;
And one white rose is in the faulde
That veiles her whiterre breste.

One gowden ringlette on her browe
(Escapedde forthe) dothe straye;
So on a wreathe of driftedde snowe
The wintrye sunbeames playe.

The mailedde hande hath ta'en the rose
From offe that breste so fayre;
The faulchion's edge, from that pale hedde,
Hath shorne that gowden haire.

One heavye sigh!—the first and last—
One deepe and stifledde groane!
A few longe strides, a clange of hoofes,
And the armedde stranger's gone!