Part 3

The holy friar knelt him there And crossed him, and began to tell His beads, each counted for a prayer, Until the sound of vesper-bell Stole through the darkling twilight air And warned them of the day’s farewell.

Each day at morn and noon and night Her trusted handmaid she did send To learn if her belovèd knight In life’s estate was like to mend, And on the eve of April’s flight This message came her heart to rend.

“Tell thou my lady fair,” he said, To her who bore the answer back, “To-morrow will I leave this bed And wear my suit of armour black; To-morrow will I win and wed Or lose both love and life, alack.”

The Lady Ursalie knew well He could not rise, so ill he was, And shuddered as her maid did tell His dying state, then forth did pass Unto the chapel, as the bell Proclaimed the holy evening mass.

The morrow broke with golden rush And chased the gloom of night away; The pipe of blackbird, song of thrush, Rose with the skylark’s roundelay, The wild flowers started with a blush To meet the first bright morn of May.

The palace-yard was all prepared; Bright-hued pavilions stood around, The banners waved, the armour glared, The eager steeds tore up the ground, And twenty princes who had dared The tourney in the lists were found.

The King and Queen on daïsed throne Received each knight on bended knee; But like an image carved in stone Sat lovely Lady Ursalie And none who saw her would have known For her the tourney was to be.

But one there knelt in sable mail Of whom the King in accents rude, Did ask his name, and why this bale Of armour black, he did intrude; He answered: “I am Sir Verale, Long months thy daughter have I wooed.

And by this sable suit I wear, This sterling blade of Spanish steel, This iron shield and trusty spear,-- But chiefly by the love I feel, I ask to wife thy daughter fair And that, proud King, is why I kneel.”

When Lady Ursalie that voice Did hear, her heart beat high with fears, Her troubled soul did half rejoice And memory filled her eyes with tears; But as she smiled upon her choice There fell a clash of shields and spears.

Knight after knight was overthrown, Some ready for the bier and shroud, At last the black knight stood alone-- And in the air applause rang loud As proudly strode he to the throne Pursued by all the noble crowd.

Then cried the King: “Right nobly won, Most puissant, worthy Sir Verale, I would the words were well undone That erst in anger I did rail.” The knight replied, “Words injure none, And after-grief doth not avail.

And now, O King, thou soon shalt wis Thy daughter is forever mine, And when thy loving liegemen miss Both thee and all thou callest thine, They shall recall the Black Knight’s kiss And know that love hath power divine.”

Then at the Lady Ursalie The Black Knight looked and she arose. But what strange visage she did see That his raised vizor did disclose-- Is still an awful mystery Which only that dead lady knows.

For when her eyes of lustre rare Gazed there, where none could see a face, A flash of lightning rent the air; And, passing in a moment’s space, The Black Knight was no longer there And of his steed there was no trace.

All looked at Lady Ursalie, Who blushed with love like any bride: “No power can take my soul from thee, I come, I come,” she faintly cried, And swooned in arms held hastily And smiling closed her eyes and died.

But who the Black Knight was none knew, Though one said who had second sight, He watched a raven as it flew In circles slow and did alight Upon the tourney ground and grew Into a sable horse and knight.

By some, it is believed and said, That Sir Verale gave one deep sigh And turned himself on his sick bed And muttered a low welcome cry, And ere the watchers knew, was dead, As his dear lady’s soul passed by.

THE GOLDEN LINE.

As each small ripple of the mighty sea Reflects a tiny image of the sun Until in radiance joining one by one, They do present a path of brilliancy; In this broad stripe of gold that comes to me From the horizon, as though God had spun A thread of golden thought for me alone, Out of His universal mystery-- So from the mirror of each human soul Shall flash the radiance of God’s great love Which ever shineth on us from above Until Love’s splendour lighteth up life’s whole, And man shall look on man, and soul through soul behold One flaming line of Truth, God’s pure and shining gold.

SWEET OF MY LIFE.

Love is to life as perfume to the rose, A sweet unseen enjoyment that doth lend Rapture to beauty--so doth Nature send The harmony of happiness that flows Half-way between hot Passion’s leaps and throes And Apathy, where worn-out feelings end, Throughout the universe, there doth attend Upon all active ordering, repose. O Thou! the fair embodiment of good, Who first within me struck the chord of Love, Necessity of Life! in thee doth move The pure quintessence of pure womanhood, Without thy love my life would be as bare As fairest rose without its perfume rare.

HASTINGS.

The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray, O! sing of the battle on Hasting’s shore, When the arrows of Normandy won the day.

Flushed by debauch at the break of day, Their keen-edged axes athirst for gore, The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.

Proud soldiers fell down on their knees to pray, Lord! yield us the victory, we implore; When the arrows of Normandy won the day.

King Harold, whose heart never felt dismay, Spake loud of the deeds they had done before; The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.

Taillefer the jongleur, sang well his lay And laughed as he flung up the lance he bore, When the arrows of Normandy won the day.

Duke William in England proclaimed his sway; King Harold lay dead; the battle was o’er; The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray, But the arrows of Normandy won the day.

SHELLEY.

A bird of song, far soaring to its home, Over the sea-waves cleaves with tireless wing The cloudless blue; but, swiftly gathering, A storm breaks up the crystal into foam That dashes mountain-high ’gainst Heaven’s dome Now darkened. Down the aerial harpies fling The sweet-voiced minstrel and sad surges sing The dirge of death with sorrow burdensome. O Heart of Hearts! high-beating o’er the world From whom fell sweetest song that unto man Told love and life, since life and love began; Like some lone bird thou wert by Nature hurled Into the restless jaws of death’s devouring sea With still a Song of Songs to bear thee company.

MORNING.

The gray of dawn peeps up behind night’s folds, While darkling clouds yet dim the distant sky; Long miles of mist disperse along the wolds, And from the dewy boughs the songsters fly.

The feathered minstrels of the opening day, Refreshed by long and undisturbed repose, Arrange the plumes that night has turned astray, And all their ruffled beauties now disclose.

The late, lone bat, like some lost refugee, Seeks dark security from pressing morn, And scatters, as it hides in hollow tree, Bright butterflies that soon the scene adorn.

The busy ants from their great hills descend In careful haste, and cross the grassy plain, Saluting silently each passing friend, But disregarding strangers with disdain.

The lumbering beetle, lazy and begrimed, With laggard steps begins the dreary day, After the toiling snail hath long beslimed His burdened march upon the open way.

Along its silken threads the spider walks, And shakes the hanging dew-drop to the ground; No chance entanglement his duty balks, As patiently he treads each subtle round.

Forth from the little door of his domain The gentle bee, armed with industrious powers, Seeks treasure-trove, and soon returns again, Weighed with the honey of a hundred flowers.

Within the wood the dove begins to coo, Telling, with swelling breast, his gentler mate How he has sought her presence but to sue, And all day long her love will supplicate.

Out of the root-roofed archway of yon beech, The natural portal of his spacious cell, The nut-brown squirrel doth his neck far reach, To spy if all is safe within the dell.

The marigolds unfold their yellow heads, That vie in colour with the saffron sun; The violets stretch within their scented beds, And raise their beauteous faces, one by one.

Along the meadow land the daisies pied Proclaim their presence to the pearl-laid grass; The morning-glories, in their prudish pride, Ope wide their eyes, to gaze in nature’s glass.

And whilst within the parsonage dull sleep Still holds the inmates with mesmeric power, The martins one unending circle keep, In morning service round the old church tower.

The robin, rosy from his early bath, With quaint conceit, which unto him belongs, Hops, uninvited, down the garden path And breaks the silence with his tuneless songs.

Whereat the watch-dog rousing from his sloth, Chases the bold invader far away, And, careless though the chanticleer be wroth, With joyful bark proclaims the break of day.

LOVE’S VOICE.

As little streams that start to find the sea Proclaim with babbling tongues their voyaging And with proud riot make the meadows ring, Or fill the wild woods with much noisy glee, As of their course they tell each waving tree And wandering bird that chances near to wing; So shallow lovers in the world’s ear sing Their plaint of passion with vain minstrelsy. But vast as restless ocean’s deep expanse, Superbly splendid, solemnly sublime, Whose music beats upon the shore of time In rhythmic beauty, is my heart’s romance: But as no song can sound the mighty sea, My soul is silent in its love for thee.

LILIES AND POPPIES.

White lilies languish on their graceful stems, Red poppies laugh amid the growing corn; Lilies at poppies look with lofty scorn And cherish dear their own chaste diadems; Poppies at lilies scoff, their scarlet gems Blaze in the splendor of a life, love-born And love-begetting, and do most adorn Those whom love’s beauty unto death condemns. Lay the white blossoms on the lowly bier Of her who passed away, so pure and young,-- Fling the red passion-poisoned flowers among Her syren-sisters who live sinning here. O! star-souled lily! white for none to blame. O! blood-stained poppy! red with blush of shame.

TO BACCHUS.

The poet sings in love-sick verse Plaints thy goblets soon disperse; Pluck the willow from his head, ’Twine the vine-leaf in its stead, Fill the bowl with drink divine, Give the wounded minstrel wine; And the fool now fraught with pain, Ne’er shall weep for love again. See! it scarcely stains his lips, Yet to draughts have turned his sips. Subtle raptures swiftly fill Every vein with fiery thrill; Long before its rage is o’er Pants the reeling wretch for more; Squeeze the grape, fill high the bowl, Wine shall cheer the wounded soul. Let the ruddy torrent flow, Heal all wounded hearts below, Freely let the red stream pour, With its storm the blood shall roar; Surges of mad ecstacy Shall embroil life’s phantasy; Clouds of joy before the brain Dull the deeper sense of pain. Love is great; but in life’s dream Wine alone shall reign supreme; To old Bacchus! drink and sing; Cupid’s Victor! Pleasure’s King!

LOVE’S WHISPERS.

I hear soft breathings in the gentle breeze, Though whence or how they spring I cannot tell. They whisper on the hill and in the dell, Along the streamlets and among the trees; Like the sweet humming of a thousand bees In harmony, as if some magic spell Fashioned the dew to music as it fell, Like merry mermaids, chanting ’neath the seas, Or fairy chorus in a moon-lit grove, Or band of nightingales, each to its rose Trilling of love when all things else repose. Such sweet sounds haunt me wheresoe’er I rove Shaping themselves to words that sing to me, “Happy art thou of men, thy loved one loves but thee!”

WORK.

Work! use all thy will, give all thy might, Ply all thy strength, Until the golden dawn of early light Shall change at length Into deep purple shades, soft, pure and bright, That bring glad tidings of the peaceful night.

Work! while the subtle seasons onward roll In certain course, The ways of this frail world to help control; That keen remorse In life’s last moment--’ere thy deeds unroll May strike no sudden anguish to thy soul.

Work! taking lessons from the mighty Past, What men have done; Yet let not those old masters hold thee fast, They have begun; What later souls must finish. They have cast The first stones at earth’s evil--not the last.

Work! but seek not false Ambition’s flame To light thee on; Not so the men of wisdom ever came In days long gone; No sordid dream,--no bare desire for Fame Has left on Memory’s lips one worthy name.

Work! in the hope of sowing seedlings great; Let others reap,-- That, when stern Nature bids thy step abate, Thy body sleep, Thy soul shall tremble not at Death’s dark gate, But calm and sure shall meet its After-Fate.

WHERE BLUE BELLS NOD.

Where blue-bells nod beneath the trees And violets scent the summer breeze I love to lie the whole day long And listen to the wild bird’s song, While bees hum in their harmonies.

Proud wealth can buy its days of ease, But not made up of hours like these; To none doth rank or fame belong Where blue-bells nod.

In vain the arts may strive to please The sense with novel images; For me, this sweet, cool fern among, All Nature’s right, all Art is wrong; Ah! leave me with my birds and bees, Where blue-bells nod.

LOSS AND GAIN.

Since thou hast come the world and I have parted, Like chance-met friends whom love has never chained, Away it spins, mad-brained and merry-hearted, While I count o’er what I have lost and gained. My losses are the breath of idle greeting, The siren-song of pleasure, folly’s laugh, Wealth’s patron smile, the pedant’s wit most fleeting, And all that goes to make youth’s epitaph. My gain is thee, who hath removed my blindness, Torn off the mask of sin, stript shame’s disguise, Shown me man’s frailty, taught me gold’s unkindness, And made a very heaven beneath the skies. So do I feel like one from dreams awaking Who laughs at night and all its foolish making.

TRIO.

FOUNDED ON A WELL KNOWN PASSAGE OF DANTE.

I.

Do you remember, dear, the day we sat And read together from an old love-book Alone in that sweet, calm, sequestered nook Which Nature made for souls to marvel at? Beneath us stretched a soft and shining mat Of velvet verdure; leaves and blossoms shook As songsters all their melodies forsook To hear a legend from Love’s laureate We knew no fear, for there was no one by, The stream seemed in its ripple to repeat That tale of Lancelot, so sadly sweet, Whom love enthralled in endless slavery. Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.

II.

When from your lips the words fell on mine ear Full many a thought our souls together drew In sympathy, that with the story grew Still more intense, and oh! so wondrous near. Our eyes were dimmed by Love’s all-pitying tear And from our cheeks the blushing colour flew As if ashamed of its divulgent hue;-- How well we understood the story, dear! The blue vault overhead bore not a cloud Upon its surface; on our sky of love Not e’en the shadow of a sigh did move, Where now the soul-storm rages long and loud. Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.

III.

But one sweet passage from the book you read The o’ergrown bud of love contrived to burst, And all the beauty it had warmly nursed Broke in our trembling hearts and blossomèd. Youth’s long-fought fire our unloosed fancies fed; Our souls felt Love’s unsatiable thirst; O! happiest moment then, but now the worst, When life’s blue sky grew all aflame with red! But when you told how that long looked for smile Was kissed by noble Lancelot, then--then-- You kissed my quivering lips; nor read again; And bliss eternal breathed in us awhile. Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.

DE SENECTUTE.

Ninety years forever fled Seem but ninety minutes past, As I, waiting for the last, Live alone among the dead.

Musing in the gloom and glow, Lo! I see a ghostly train, Spectres conjured by the brain, Images of long ago.

From the soul rise strangled cries, Death-groans from the sins it wrought; From the mind spring buried thought, Poisoned hopes, vain sympathies.

In a weird, phantasmal band, Seen as though in life’s eclipse, Perished women kiss my lips, Dead men take me by the hand.

Infant figures glad with glee, Cluster in unbidden band, Clasp my old and palsied hand Pulsing high with memory.

Pass light fingers through my hair, Once like their’s all tangled gold, Silvery now and thin and old, Bleached with age and blanched with care.

Softly touch my parchment skin, Laugh and touch again and ask That I throw aside time’s mask, Dull with years and dark with sin.

Look into my dim, dead eyes, Dimmer now with tears that start From the little left of heart That to those dear souls outflies.

Crowds of spirit-children pass, Faces, lost long years ago, Buds, soon buried in the snow, Playmates--comrades in the class.

Chide me for my childish tears, Bid me join the childish game, Call me by a childish name None have named for scores of years.

Youths, high-souled, with aims that age Neither blighted nor betrayed, Look with truth-lit eyes that made Noble life’s short pilgrimage.

Friends whose friendship now I crave, Hearts whose love I yet would feel, One by one before me steal, In and out my living grave.

All things I have seen and known, Read in book and dreamed in dream, Stand as true as they did seem When I claimed them for my own.

I have tried the truth of life, Kissed love’s lips till they grew cold, Drained the cup and clutched the gold, Mingled in the human strife.

Seen men come and go like leaves Through the falls of many years, Joined their laughter, shared their tears, In the plot the great God weaves.

Ninety years forever fled, Seem but ninety minutes past, And I, waiting for the last, Live alone among the dead.

THE COMING OF SUMMER.

Grim Winter rose and girded on his sword To battle with the world. At each swift blow The wind hissed cold, and at the sound abhorred Birds ceased their singing and the river’s flow Stayed in its course, the sun’s warm glow Reached not the flowers through the air’s dark frown, The last leaves perished, and the crystal snow Paled the soft bosom of the earth so brown And all her pulsing life was frozen down.

Within Time’s wondrous palace of past years Nature sat grieving on her ancient throne; Her furrowed cheeks were wet with scalding tears, And from her wrinkled mouth ’scaped many a moan; For she was brooding on delights long flown, When all was bright and happy and the land Flourished in fruitfulness, and there was known No sign of sorrow, ere stern Winter’s hand Gave right of spoil to all his ruthless band.

“Ah me!” she cried aloud in accents sad, “That ever son of Time should work such woe, And he of all the offspring I have had, The eldest, unto whom my love did go Like streams that meadow margins overflow With rainy surfeit for the thirsty earth; Whom I had hoped from childhood would upgrow Rich in high thought, bold deed and noble worth, And yet Woe’s curse fell on him from his birth.”

In simple beauty Spring knelt gently down, Kissed the sad tears from Nature’s care-worn face, Smoothed from her thoughtful brow each troublous frown With tender hands, that left of pain no trace, And then upstood in modest maiden grace, Saying: “Behold! mine hour hath come to me; I go to make my love a resting-place Against his coming from beyond the sea-- A throne most fitting for his sovereignty.”

So Spring walked forth into the icy cold, And as her first soft footfall touched the earth, A joyous thrill on everything took hold, And from the spot a snowdrop white had birth; Then a bold robin piped across the dearth Of frozen land a loud defiant sound; Then Winter knew his power was little worth, And sped him forth to higher vantage ground, With all his yelling rout fast flying round.

The birds set up a chorus of glad song, Watching their nests among the shady trees; Insects in quick innumerable throng Made live the earth and air; gold-laden bees Scorned the fine butterflies that flew at ease Among the blossomed beauties of the fields; The strong young leaves defied the assaulting breeze, Spreading the brightness of their verdant shields To guard the nurseling fruit that Autumn yields.

Where the thin moonbeams cast their joys along A verdured vale of rapturous delight Spring caught the echoes of the herald’s song, And saw the flowerets in the dead of night Lift up their watchful faces, glad and bright, And heard the birds soft singing through the shade, Singing for Summer and the morning light; Then sank her soul within her, and afraid, She watched the circuit that the fast moon made.

As Death, unseen, poised high his vengeful dart, And Nature knelt beside Spring’s fallen form, Night’s outer curtain ’gan to wave and part Before the sun’s first breath, so bright and warm; The diamond dew to rainbows did transform, The flowers raised up their heads to their full height, The breeze bore on its wings a music storm As every bird sang forth in full delight And loudest strain the sighings of the night.

And Spring, revived a little, moved her head, And to her mother said, in accents mild: “Before he comes, alas! I may be dead. O hasten to him, mother, for thy child, And give him this, I plucked it in the wild, And tell him ere King Death his mantle throws I would he kissed my lips, and on me smiled. O haste thee, mother mine! take this white rose, And bid him come my dying eyes to close.”