Part 7

Till blood for blood atones!

Ay, though he's buried in a cave,

And trodden down with stones,

And years have rotted off his flesh,--

The world shall see his bones!

"Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream

Besets me now awake!

Again--again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;

And my red right hand grows raging hot,

Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay,

Will wave or mould allow;

The horrid thing pursues my soul,--

It stands before me now!"

The fearful Boy looked up, and saw

Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep

The urchin eyelids kissed,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,

Through the cold and heavy mist;

And Eugene Aram walked between,

With gyves upon his wrist.

----T. Hood.

THE VOYAGE WITH THE NAUTILUS

|I made myself a little boat,

As trim as trim could be;

I made it of a great pearl shell

Found in the Indian Sea.

I made my masts of wild sea-rush

That grew on a secret shore,

And the scarlet plume of the halcyon

Was the pleasant flag I bore.

For my sails I took the butterfly's wings.,

For my ropes the spider's line;

And that mariner old, the Nautilus,

To steer me over the brine.

For he had sailed six thousand years,

And knew each isle and bay;

And I thought that we, in my little boat,

Could merrily steer away.

The stores I took were plentiful:

The dew as it sweetly fell;

And the honey that was hoarded up

In the wild bee's summer cell.

"Now steer away, thou helmsman good,

Over the waters free;

To the charmed Isle of the Seven Kings,

That lies in the midmost sea."

He spread the sail, he took the helm;

And, long ere ever I wist,

We had sailed a league, we had reached the isle

That lay in the golden mist.

The charmed Isle of the Seven Kings,

'Tis a place of wondrous spell;

And all that happed unto me there

In a printed book I'll tell.

Said I, one day, to the Nautilus,

As we stood on the strand,

"Unmoor my ship, thou helmsman good,

And steer me back to land;

"For my mother, I know, is sick at heart,

And longs my face to see.

What ails thee now, thou Nautilus?

Art slow to sail with me?

Up! do my will; the wind is fresh,

So set the vessel free."

He turned the helm; away we sailed

Towards the setting sun:

The flying-fish were swift of wing,

But we outsped each one.

And on we went for seven days,

Seven days without a night;

We followed the sun still on and on,

In the glow of his setting light.

Down and down went the setting sun,

And down and down went we;

'Twas a splendid sail for seven days

On a smooth descending sea.

On a smooth, descending sea we sailed,

Nor breeze the water curled:

My brain grew sick, for I saw we sailed

On the down-hill of the world.

"Good friend," said I to the Nautilus,

"Can this the right course be?

And shall we come again to land?"

But answer none made he;

And I saw a laugh in his fishy eye

As he turned it up to me.

So on we went; but soon I heard

A sound as when winds blow,

And waters wild are tumbled down

Into a gulf below.

And on and on flew the little bark,

As a fiend her course did urge;

And I saw, in a moment, we must hang

Upon the oceans verge.

I snatched down the sails, I snapped the ropes,

I broke the masts in twain;

But on flew the bark and gainst the rocks

Like a living thing did strain.

"Thou'st steered us wrong, thou helmsman vile!"

Said I to the Nautilus bold;

"We shall down the gulf; were dead men both!

Dost know the course we hold?"

I seized the helm with a sudden jerk,

And we wheeled round like a bird;

But I saw the Gulf of Eternity,

And the tideless waves I heard.

"Good master," said the Nautilus,

"I thought you might desire

To have some wondrous thing to tell

Beside your mother's fire.

"What's sailing on a summer sea?

As well sail on a pool;

Oh, but I know a thousand things

That are wild and beautiful!

"And if you wish to see them now,

You've but to say the word."

"Have done!" said I to the Nautilus,

"Or I'll throw thee overboard.

"Have done!" said I, "thou mariner old,

And steer me back to land."

No other word spake the Nautilus,

But took the helm in hand.

I looked up to the lady moon,

She was like a glow-worm's spark;

And never a star shone down to us

Through the sky so high and dark.

We had no mast, we had no ropes,

And every sail was rent;

And the stores I brought from the charmed isle

In the seven days' sail were spent.

But the Nautilus was a patient thing,

And steered with all his might

On the up-hill sea; and he never slept,

But kept the course aright.

And for thrice seven nights we sailed and sailed;

At length I saw the bay

Where I built my ship, and my mother's house'

Mid the green hills where it lay.

"Farewell!" said I to the Nautilus,

And leaped upon the shore;

"Thou art a skilful mariner,

But I'll sail with thee no more!"

----M. Howitt.

THE DOOM-WELL OF ST MADRON

|Plunge thy right hand in St Madron's spring,

If true to its troth be the palm you bring:

But if a false sigil thy fingers bear,

Lay them the rather on the burning share."

Loud laughed King Arthur when-as he heard

That solemn friar his boding word:

And blithely he sware as a king he may,

"We tryst for St Madron's at break of day."

"Now horse and hattock, both but and ben,"

Was the cry at Lauds, with Dundagel men;

And forth they pricked upon Routorr side,

As goodly a raid as a king could ride.

Proud Gwennivar rode like a queen of the land,

With page and with squire at her bridle hand;

And the twice six knights of the stony ring,

They girded and guarded their Cornish king.

Then they halted their steeds at St Madron's cell:

And they stood by the monk of the cloisteredwell;

"Now off with your gauntlets," King Arthur he cried,

"And glory or shame for our Tamar side."

'Twere sooth to sing how Sir Gauvain smiled,

When he grasped the waters so soft and mild;

How Sir Lancelot dashed the glistening spray

O'er the rugged beard of the rough Sir Kay.

Sir Bevis he touched and he found no fear:

'Twas a bénitée stoup to Sir Belvidere,

Now the fountain flashed o'er King Arthur's Queen

Say, Cornish dames, for ye guess the scene.

"Now rede me my riddle, Sir Mordred, I pray,

My kinsman, mine ancient, my _bien-aime_;

Now rede me my riddle, and rede it aright,

Art thou traitorous knave or my trusty knight?"

He plunged his right arm in the judgment well,

It bubbled and boiled like a cauldron of hell:

He drew and he lifted his quivering limb,

Ha! Sir Judas, how Madron had sodden him.

Now let Uter Pendragon do what he can,

Still the Tamar river will run as it ran:

Let king or let kaiser be fond or be fell,

Ye may harowe their troth in St Madron's well.

----R. S. Hawker.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE

|A knight of gallant deeds

And a young page at his side,

From the holy war in Palestine

Did slow and thoughtful ride,

As each were a palmer and told for beads

The dews of the eventide.

"O young page," said the knight,

"A noble page art thou!

Thou fearest not to steep in blood

The curls upon thy brow;

And once in the tent, and twice in the fight,

Didst ward me a mortal blow."

"O brave knight," said the page,

"Or ere we hither came,

We talked in tent, we talked in field,

Of the bloody battle-game;

But here, below this greenwood bough,

I cannot speak the same.

"Our troop is far behind,

The woodland calm is new;

Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs,

Tread deep the shadows through;

And, in my mind, some blessing kind

Is dropping with the dew.

"The woodland calm is pure--

I cannot choose but have

A thought from these, o' the beechen trees,

Which in our England wave,

And of the little finches fine

Which sang there while in Palestine

The warrior-hilt we drave.

"Methinks, a moment gone,

I heard my mother pray!

I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me

Wherein she passed away;

And I know the heavens are leaning down

To hear what I shall say."

The page spake calm and high,

As of no mean degree;

Perhaps he felt in nature's broad

Full heart, his own was free:

And the knight looked up to his lifted eye,

Then answered smilingly--

"Sir page, I pray your grace!

Certes, I meant not so

To cross your pastoral mood, sir page,

With the crook of the battle-bow;

But a knight may speak of a lady's face,

I ween, in any mood or place,

If the grasses die or grow.

"And this I meant to say --

My lady's face shall shine

As ladies' faces use, to greet

My page from Palestine;

Or, speak she fair or prank she gay,

She is no lady of mine.

"And this I meant to fear--

Her bower may suit thee ill;

For, sooth, in that same field and tent,

Thy _talk_ was somewhat still:

And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear

Than thy tongue for my lady's will!"

Slowly and thankfully

The young page bowed his head;

His large eyes seemed to muse a smile,

Until he blushed instead,

And no lady in her bower, pardiè,

Could blush more sudden red:

"Sir knight,--thy lady's bower to me

Is suited well,' he said.

_Beati, beati, mortui!_

From the convent on the sea,

One mile off, or scarce so nigh,

Swells the dirge as clear and high

As if that, over brake and lea,

Bodily the wind did carry

The great altar of St Mary,

And the fifty tapers burning o'er it,

And the Lady Abbess dead before it,

And the chanting nuns whom yesterweek

Her voice did charge and bless,--

Chanting steady, chanting meek,

Chanting with a solemn breath,

Because that they are thinking less

Upon the dead than upon death.

_Beati, beati, mortui!_

Now the vision in the sound

Wheeleth on the wind around;

Now it sweepeth back, away--

The uplands will not let it stay

To dark the western sun:

_Mortui!_-- away at last,--

Or ere the pages blush is past!

And the knight heard all, and the page heard none.

"A boon, thou noble knight,

If ever I served thee!

Though thou art a knight and I am a page,

Now grant a boon to me;

And tell me sooth, if dark or bright,

If little loved or loved aright

Be the face of thy ladye."

Gloomily looked the knight--

"As a son thou hast servëd me,

And would to none I had granted boon

Except to only thee!

For haply then I should love aright,

For then I should know if dark or bright

Were the face of my ladye.

"Yet it ill suits my knightly tongue

To grudge that granted boon,

That heavy price from heart and life

I paid in silence down;

The hand that claimed it, cleared in fine

My father's fame: I swear by mine,

That price was nobly won!

"Earl Walter was a brave old earl,

He was my father's friend;

And while I rode the lists at court

And little guessed the end,

My noble father in his shroud

Against a slanderer lying loud,

He rose up to defend.

"Oh, calm below the marble grey

My father's dust was strown!

Oh, meek above the marble grey

His image prayed alone!

The slanderer lied: the wretch was brave--

For, looking up the minster-nave,

He saw my father's knightly glaive

Was changed from steel to stone.

"Earl Walter's glaive was steel,

With a brave old hand to wear it,

And dashed the lie back in the mouth

Which lied against the godly truth

And against the knightly merit:

The slanderer,'neath the avenger's heel,

Struck up the dagger in appeal

From stealthy lie to brutal force--

And out upon the traitor's corse

Was yielded the true spirit.

"I would mine hand had fought that fight

And justified my father!

I would mine heart had caught that wound

And slept beside him rather!

I think it were a better thing

Than murdered friend and marriage-ring

Forced on my life together.

"Wail shook Earl Walter's house;

His true wife shed no tear;

She lay upon her bed as mute

As the earl did on his bier:

Till--' Ride, ride fast,' she said at last,

' And bring the avengëd's son anear!

Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee,

For white of blee with waiting for me

Is the corse in the next chambere.'

"I came, I knelt beside her bed;

Her calm was worse than strife.

'My husband, for thy father dear,

Gave freely when thou wast not here

His own and eke my life.

A boon! Of that sweet child we make

An orphan for thy father's sake,

Make thou, for ours, a wife.'

"I said, 'My steed neighs in the court,

My bark rocks on the brine,

And the warrior's vow I am under now

To free the pilgrim's shrine:

But fetch the ring and fetch the priest

And call that daughter of thine,

And rule she wide from my castle on Nyde

While I am in Palestine.'

"In the dark chambere, if the bride was fair,

Ye wis, I could not see,

But the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed,

And wedded fast were we.

Her mother smiled upon her bed

As at its side we knelt to wed,

And the bride rose from her knee

And kissed the smile of her mother dead,

Or ever she kissed me.

"My page, my page, what grieves thee so,

That the tears run down thy face?"--

"Alas, alas! mine own sister

Was in thy lady's case:

But _she_ laid down the silks she wore

And followed him she wed before,

Disguised as his true servitor,

To the very battle-place."

And wept the page, but laughed the knight,

A careless laugh laughed he:

"Well done it were for thy sister,

But not for my ladye!

My love, so please you, shall requite

No woman, whether dark or bright,

Unwomaned if she be."

The page stopped weeping, and smiled cold--

"Your wisdom may declare

That womanhood is proved the best

By golden brooch and glossy vest

The mincing ladies wear;

Yet is it proved, and was of old,

Anear as well, I dare to hold,

By truth, or by despair."

He smiled no more, he wept no more,

But passionate he spake--

"Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,

When none beside did wake!

Oh, womanly she paled in fight,

For one belovëd's sake!--

And her little hand, defiled with blood,

Her tender tears of womanhood

Most woman-pure did make!"

--"Well done it were for thy sister,

Thou tellest well her tale!

But for my lady, she shall pray

I' the kirk of Nydesdale.

Not dread for me but love for me

Shall make my lady pale;

No casque shall hide her woman's tear--

It shall have room to trickle clear

Behind her woman's veil."

--"But what if she mistook thy mind

And followed thee to strife,

Then kneeling did entreat thy love

As Paynims ask for life?"

--"I would forgive, and evermore

Would love her as my servitor,

But little as my wife.

"Look up--there is a small bright cloud

Alone amid the skies!

So high, so pure, and so apart,

A woman's honour lies."

The page looked up--the cloud was sheen--

A sadder cloud did rush, I ween,

Betwixt it and his eyes.

Then dimly dropped his eyes away

From welkin unto hill--

Ha! who rides there?--the page is 'ware,

Though the cry at his heart is still:

And the page seeth all and the knight seeth none,

Though banner and spear do fleck the sun,

And the Saracens ride at will.

'

He speaketh calm, he speaketh low,--

"Ride fast, my master, ride,

Or ere within the broadening dark

The narrow shadows hide."

"Yea, fast, my page, I will do so,

And keep thou at my side."

"Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way,

Thy faithful page precede.

For I must loose on saddle-bow

My battle-casque that galls, I trow,

The shoulder of my steed;

And I must pray, as I did vow,

For one in bitter need.

"Ere night I shall be near to thee,--

Now ride, my master, ride!

Ere night, as parted spirits cleave

To mortals too beloved to leave,

I shall be at thy side."

The knight smiled free at the fantasy,

And adown the dell did ride.

Had the knight looked up to the page's face,

No smile the word had won;

Had the knight looked up to the page's face,

I ween he had never gone:

Had the knight looked back to the page's geste,

I ween he had turned anon,

For dread was the woe in the face so young,

And wild was the silent geste that flung

Casque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprung

And stood--alone, alone.

He clenched his hands as if to hold

His soul's great agony--

"Have I renounced my womanhood,

For wifehood unto _thee_,

And is this the last, last look of thine

That ever I shall see?

"Yet God thee save, and may'st thou have

A lady to thy mind,

More woman-proud and half as true

As one thou leav'st behind!

And God me take with Him to dwell--

For Him I cannot love too well,

As I have loved my kind."

She looketh up, in earth's despair,

The hopeful heavens to seek;

That little cloud still floateth there,

Whereof her loved did speak:

How bright the little cloud appears!

Her eyelids fall upon the tears,

And the tears down either cheek.

The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel--

The Paynims round her coming!

The sound and sight have made her calm,--

False page, but truthful woman;

She stands amid them all unmoved:

A heart once broken by the loved

Is strong to meet the foeman.

"Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep,

From pouring wine-cups resting?"--

"I keep my master's noble name,

For warring, not for feasting;

And if that here Sir Hubert were,

My master brave, my master dear,

Ye would not stay the questing."

"Where is thy master, scornful page,

That we may slay or bind him?"--

"Now search the lea and search the wood

And see if ye can find him!

Nathless, as hath been often tried,

Your Paynim heroes faster ride

Before him than behind him."

"Give smoother answers, lying page,

Or perish in the lying!"--

"I trow that if the warrior brand

Beside my foot, were in my hand,

'Twere better at replying!"

They cursed her deep, they smote her low

They cleft her golden ringlets through:

The Loving is the Dying.

She felt the scimitar gleam down,

And met it from beneath

With smile more bright in victory

Than any sword from sheath,--

Which flashed across her lip serene,

Most like the spirit-light between

The darks of life and death.

_Ingemisco, ingemisco!_

From the convent on the sea,

Now it sweepeth solemnly,

As over wood and over lea

Bodily the wind did carry

The great altar of St Mary,

And the fifty tapers paling o'er it,

And the Lady Abbess stark before it,

And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly

Beat along their voices saintly--

_ Ingemisco y ingemisco!_

Dirge for abbess laid in shroud

Sweepeth o er the shroudless dead,

Page or lady, as we said,

With the dews upon her head,

All as sad if not as loud,

_Ingemiso, ingemisco_

Is ever a lament begun

By any mourner under sun,

Which, ere it endeth, suits but _one_??

----E. B. Browning.

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

|Little Ellie sits alone

'Mid the beeches of a meadow

By a stream-side on the grass,

And the trees are showering down

Doubles of their leaves in shadow

On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by,

And her feet she has been dipping

In the shallow waters flow:

Now she holds them nakedly

In her hands, all sleek and dripping,

While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,

And the smile she softly uses

Fills the silence like a speech

While she thinks what shall be done,

And the sweetest pleasure chooses

For her future within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile

Chooses--"I will have a lover,

Riding on a steed of steeds:

He shall love me without guile,

And to _him_ I will discover

The swan's nest among the reeds.

"And the steed shall be red-roan,

And the lover shall be noble,

With an eye that takes the breath:

And the lute he plays upon

Shall strike ladies into trouble,

As his sword strikes men to death.

"And the steed it shall be shod

All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind;

And the hoofs along the sod

Shall flash onward and keep measure,

Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize

All the glory that he rides in,

When he gazes in my face:

He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes

Build the shrine my soul abides in,

And I kneel here for thy grace!'

"Then, ay, then he shall kneel low,

With the red-roan steed anear him

Which shall seem to understand,

Till I answer, 4 Rise and go!

For the world must love and fear him

Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

"Then he will arise so pale,

I shall feel my own lips tremble

With a yes I must not say,

Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'

I will utter, and dissemble--

'Light to-morrow with to-day!'

"Then he'll ride among the hills

To the wide world past the river,

There to put away all wrong;

To make straight distorted wills,

And to empty the broad quiver

Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot-page

Swim the stream and climb the mountain

And kneel down beside my feet--

'Lo, my master sends this gage,

Lady, for thy pity's counting!

What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send

A white rosebud for a guerdon,

And the second time, a glove;

But the third time--I may bend

From my pride, and answer--' Pardon,

If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot-page will run,

Then my lover will ride faster,

Till he kneeleth at my knee:

'l ama duke's eldest son,

Thousand serfs do call me master,

But, O Love, I love but thee!'

"He will kiss me on the mouth

Then, and lead me as a lover

Through the crowds that praise his deeds:

And, when soul-tied by one troth,

Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile

Not yet ended, rose up gaily,

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,

And went homeward, round a mile,

Just to "see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,

Winding up the stream, light-hearted,

Where the osier pathway leads,

Past the boughs she stoops--and stops.

Lo, the wild swan had deserted,

And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow.

If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,

Sooth I know not; but I know

She could never show him--never,

That swan's nest among the reeds!

----E. B. Browning.

THE THREE SAILORS

|There were three sailors in Bristol city,

Who took a boat and went to sea.

But first with beef and captains' biscuit,

And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was guzzling Jack and gorging Jimmy,

And the youngest he was little Billy.

Now very soon they were so greedy,

They didn't leave not one split pea.

Says guzzling Jack to gorging Jimmy,

I am confounded hung-ery.

Says gorging Jim to guzzling Jacky,

We have no wittles, so we must eat we.

Says guzzling Jack to gorging Jimmy,

Oh! gorging Jim, what a fool you be.

There's little Bill as is young and tender,

We're old and tough--so let's eat _he_.

Oh! Bill, we're going to kill and eat you,

So undo the collar of your chemie.

When Bill he heard this information,

He used his pocket-handkerchee.

Oh! let me say my catechism,

As my poor mammy taught to me.

Make haste' make haste, says guzzling Jacky,

Whilst Jim pulled out his snicker-snee.

So Bill went up the main top-gallant mast,

When down he fell on his bended knee.

He scarce had said his catechism,

When up he jumps; "There's land I see!

"There's Jerusalem and Madagascar,

And North and South _Ameri-key._

"There's the British fleet a-riding at anchor,

With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."

So when they came to the Admiral's vessel,

He hanged fat Jack, and flogged Jim _my._

But as for little Bill, he made him

The captain of a Seventy-three.

----W. M. Thackeray.

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX

16----

|I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate bolts undrew,

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,

Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,

Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,

Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.