Chapter 1

Bibliographical Note:

These facsimiles have been made from copies in the Yale University Library _The Lay of Marie_ (In.B4645.816L) and the British Library _Vignettes_ (Il642.bbb.36)

Reprint of the 1816 and 1818 eds.

THE LAY OF MARIE

and

VIGNETTES IN VERSE

MATILDA BETHAM

with an introduction for the Garland edition by Donald H. Reiman

THE LAY OF MARIE: A POEM

BY

MATILDA BETHAM.

1816

TO

LADY BEDINGFELD.

To whom,--as Fancy, taking longer flight, With folded arms upon her heart's high swell, Floating the while in circles of delight, And whispering to her wings a sweeter spell Than she has ever aim'd or dar'd before-- Shall I address this theme of minstrel lore? To whom but her who loves herself to roam Through tales of earlier times, and is at home With heroes and fair dames, forgotten long, But for romance, and lay, and lingering song? To whom but her, whom, ere my judgment knew, Save but by intuition, false from true, Seem'd to me wisdom, goodness, grace combin'd; The ardent heart; the lively, active mind? To whom but her whose friendship grows more dear, And more assur'd, for every lapsing year? One whom my inmost thought can worthy deem Of love, and admiration, and esteem!

PREFACE

As there is little, in all I have been able to collect respecting MARIE, which has any thing to do with the Poem, I have chosen to place such information at the end of the book, in form of an Appendix, rather than here; where the only things necessary to state are, that she was an Anglo-Norman Minstrel of the thirteenth century; and as she lived at the time of our losing Normandy, I have connected her history with that event: that the young king who sees her in his progress through his foreign possessions is our Henry III.; and the Earl William who steps forward to speak in her favour is William Longsword, brother to Richard Coeur de Lion. Perhaps there is no record of minstrels being called upon to sing at a feast in celebration of a victory which involves their own greatest possible misfortune; but such an incident is not of improbable occurrence. It is likely, also, that a woman, said to be more learned, accomplished, and pleasing, than was usually the case with those of her profession, might have a father, who, with the ardour, the disobedience, the remorse of his heroic master, had been, like him, a crusader and a captive; and in the after solitude of self-inflicted penitence, full of romantic and mournful recollections, fostered in the mind of his daughter, by nature embued with a portion of his own impassioned feelings, every tendency to that wild and poetical turn of thought which qualified her for a minstrel; and, after his death, induced her to become one.

* * * * *

The union of European and Eastern beauty, in the person of Marie, I have attempted to describe as lovely as possible. The consciousness of noble birth, of injurious depression, and the result of that education which absorbed the whole glowing mind of a highly gifted parent, a mind rich with adventures, with enthusiasm and tenderness, ought to be pourtrayed in her deportment; while the elegance and delicacy which more particularly distinguish the gentlewoman, would naturally be imbibed from a constant early association with a model of what the chivalrous spirit of the age could form, with all its perfections and its faults; in a situation, too, calculated still more to refine such a character; especially with one who was the centre of his affections and regrets, and whom he was so soon to leave unprotected. That, possessing all these advantages, notwithstanding her low station, she should be beloved by, and, on the discovery of her birth, married to a young nobleman, whose high favour with his sovereign would lead him to hope such an offence against the then royal prerogative of directing choice would be deemed a venial one, is, I should think, an admissible supposition.

* * * * *

That a woman would not be able to sing under such afflicting circumstances might be objected; but history shews us, scarcely any exertion of fortitude or despair is too great to be looked for in that total deprivation of all worldly interest consequent to such misfortunes. Whether that train of melancholy ideas which her own fate suggests is sufficiently removed from narration to be natural, or not near it enough to be clear, the judgment of others must determine. No wish or determination to have it one way or another, in sentiment, stile, or story, influenced its composition; though, occasionally, lines previously written are interwoven; and, in one instance, a few that have been published.

* * * * *

Her Twelve Lays are added in a second Appendix, as curious in themselves, and illustrative of the manners and morals of an age when they formed the amusement of the better orders.

THE LAY OF MARIE.

CANTO FIRST.

The guests are met, the feast is near, But Marie does not yet appear! And to her vacant seat on high Is lifted many an anxious eye. The splendid show, the sumptuous board, The long details which feuds afford, And discontent is prone to hold, Absorb the factious and the cold;-- Absorb dull minds, who, in despair, The standard grasp of worldly care, Which none can quit who once adore-- They love, confide, and hope no more; Seek not for truth, nor e'er aspire To nurse that immaterial fire, From whose most healthful warmth proceed Each real joy and generous deed; Which, once extinct, no toil or pain Can kindle into life again, To light the then unvarying eye, To melt, in question or reply, Those tones, so subtil and so sweet, That none can look for, none repeat; Which, self-impell'd, defy controul,-- They bear the signet of the soul; And, as attendants of their flight, Enforce persuasion and delight.

Words that an instant have reclin'd Upon the pillow of the mind, Or caught, upon their rapid way, The beams of intellectual day, Pour fresh upon the thirsty ear, O'erjoy'd, and all awake to hear, Proof that in other hearts is known The secret language of our own. They to the way-worn pilgrim bring A draught from Rapture's sparkling spring; And, ever welcome, are, when given, Like some few scatter'd flowers from heaven; Could such in earthly garlands twine, To bloom by others less divine.

Where does this idle Minstrel stay? Proud are the guests, august the day; And princes of the realm attend The triumph of their sovereign's friend;-- Triumph of stratagem and fight Gain'd o'er a young and gallant knight, Who, the last fort compell'd to yield, Perish'd, despairing, in the field.

The Norman Chief, whose sudden blow Had laid fair England's banner low; Spite of resistance firm and bold Secur'd the latest, surest hold Its sceptre touch'd across the main, Important, difficult to gain, Easy against her to retain;-- Baron de Brehan--seem'd to stand An alien in his native land; One whom no social ties endear'd Except his child; and she appear'd Unconsciously to prompt his toil,-- Unconsciously to take the spoil Of hate and treason; and, 'twas said, The pillage of a kinsman dead, Whom, for his large domain, he slew: 'Twas whisper'd only,--no one knew. At tale of murderous deed, his ear No startling summons seem'd to hear; Yet should some sudden theme intrude Of friend betray'd--ingratitude;-- Or treacherous counsel--follies nurs'd In ardent minds, who, dying, curs'd The guileful author of their woes; His troubled look would then disclose Some secret anguish, inward care, Which mutely, sternly, said, Forbear!

He spake of policy and right, Of bold exploits in recent fight,-- Of interest, and the common weal, Of distant empire, slow appeal. Skill'd to elicit thoughts unknown In other minds, and hide his own, His brighter eye, in darting round Their purposes and wishes found. Praises, and smiles, and promise play'd Around his speech; which yet convey'd No meaning, when, the moment past, Memory retold her stores at last.

Courtiers were there, the old and young, Of high and haughty lineage sprung; And jewell'd matrons: some had been, Erewhile, spectators of a scene Like this, with mien and manners gay; Who now, their hearts consum'd away, Held all the pageant in disdain, And seem'd to smile and speak with pain. Of such were widows, who deplor'd Husbands long lost, but still ador'd; To grace their children, fierce and proud, Like martyrs led into the crowd: Mothers, their sole remaining stay, In some dear son, late snatch'd away; Whose duty made them better brook Their lords' high tone and careless look; Whose praises had awaken'd pride In bosoms dead to all beside.

Warriors, infirm with battles grown, Were there, in languid grandeur thrown On the low bench, who seem'd to say, "Our mortal vigour wanes away;" And gentle maid, with aspect meek, While cloud-like blushes cross her cheek, Restless awaits the Minstrel's power To dispossess the present hour, And by a spirit-seizing charm, Her thoughts employ, her fancy warm, And snatch her from the mute distress Of conscious, breathless bashfulness.

Young knights, who never tamely wait, Crowd in the porch, or near the gate, By quick return, and sudden throng, Announcing the expected song.

The Minstrel comes, and, by command, Before the nobles of the land, In her poor order's simple dress, Grac'd only by the native tress, A flowing mass of yellow'd light, Whose bold swells gleam with silver bright, And dove-like shadows sink from sight. Those long, soft locks, in many a wave Curv'd with each turn her figure gave; Thick, or if threatening to divide, They still by sunny meshes hide; Eluding, by commingling lines, Whatever severs or defines.

Amid the crowd of beauties there, None were so exquisitely fair; And, with the tender, mellow'd air, The taper, flexile, polish'd limb, The form so perfect, yet so slim, And movement, only thought to grace The dark and yielding Eastern race; As if on pure and brilliant day Repose, as soft as moonlight, lay.

Reluctant still she seem'd,--her feet Sought slowly the appointed seat: Her hand, oft lifting to her head, She lightly o'er her forehead spread; Then the unconscious motion check'd, And, struggling with her own neglect, Seem'd as she but by effort found The presence of an audience round.

Meanwhile the murmurings died away Which spake impatience of delay: A pitying wonder, new and kind, Arose in each beholder's mind: They saw no scorn to meet reproof, No arrogance to keep aloof; Her air absorb'd, her sadden'd mien, Combin'd the mourning, captive queen, With _her_ who at the altar stands To raise aloft her spotless hands, In meek and persevering prayer, For such as falter in despair. All that was smiling, bright, and gay, Youth's show of triumph during May, Its roseate crown, was snatch'd away! Yet sorrows, which had come so soon, Like tender morning dew repos'd, O'er hope and joy as softly clos'd As moist clouds on the light at noon.

Opprest by some heart-withering pang, Upon her harp she seem'd to hang Awhile o'erpower'd--then faintly sang:

"Demand no lay of long-past times; Of foreign loves, or foreign crimes; Demand no visions which arise To Rapture's eager, tearless eyes! Those who can travel far, I ween, Whose strength can reach a distant scene, And measure o'er large space of ground, Have not, like me, a deadly wound! Near home, perforce, alas, I stray, Perforce pursue my destin'd way, Through scenes where all my trouble grows, And where alone remembrance flows. Like evening swallows, still my wings Float round in low, perpetual rings; But never fold the plume for rest One moment in the tranquil nest; And have no strength to reach the skies, No power, no hope, no wish to rise!

"Blame me not, _Fancy_, if I now restrain Thy wandering footsteps, now thy wings confine; Tis the decree of Fate,--it is not mine! For I would let thee free and widely stray-- Would follow gladly, tend thee on thy way, And never of the devious track complain, Never thy wild and sportive flights disdain! Though reasonless those graceful moods may be, They still, alas! were passing sweet to me.

"Unhappy that I am, compell'd to bind This murmuring captive! one who ever strove By each endearing art to win my love; Who, ever unoffending, ever bright, Danc'd in my view, and pleas'd me to delight! She scatter'd showers of lilies on my mind; For, oh! so fair, so fresh, and so refin'd, Her child-like offerings, without thorns to pain, Without one canker'd wound, or earthly stain.

"And, _darling!_ as my trembling fingers twine Those fetters round thee, they are wet with tears! For the sweet playmate of my early years I cannot thus afflict, nor thus resign My equal liberty, and not repine! For I had made thee, infant as thou art, Queen of my hopes, my leisure, and my heart; Given thee its happiest laugh, its sweetest tear, And all I found or conquer'd every year.

"I blame me now I let thy sports offend Old Time, and laid thy snare within his path To make him falter, as it often hath; For he grew angry soon, and held his breath, And hurried on, in frightful league with Death, To make the way through which my footsteps bend, Late rich in all that social scenes attend, A desert; and with thee I droop, I die, Beneath the look of his malignant eye.

"Me do triumphant heroes call To grace with harp their festal hall? O! must my voice awake the song?-- My skill the artful tale prolong? Yes! I am call'd--it is my doom! Unhappily, ye know not whom, Nor what, impatient ye demand! How hostile now the fever'd hand, Across these chords unwilling thrown, To echo plainings of my own! Little indeed can ye divine What song ye ask who call for mine!

"Till now, before the courtly crowd I humbly and I gaily bow'd; The blush was not to shame allied Which on my glowing cheek I wore; No lowly seemings pain'd nay pride, My heart was laughing at the core; And sometimes, as the stream of song Bore me with eddying haste along, My father's spirit would arise, And speak strange meaning from these eyes, At which a conscious cheek would quail, A stern and lofty bearing fail: Then could a chieftain condescend In me to recognize his friend! Then could a warrior low incline His eye, when it encounter'd mine! A tone can make the guilty start! A glance can pierce the conscious heart, Encountering memory in its flight, Most waywardly! Such wounds are slight; But I withdraw the painful light!

"Fair lords and princes! many a time For you I wove my pictur'd rhyme; Refin'd new thoughts and fancies crude In deep and careful solitude; 'And, when my task was finish'd, came To seek the meed of praise or blame; While, even then, untir'd I strove To serve beneath the yoke of love. Whene'er I mark'd a fearful look, When pride, or when resentment, spoke, I bent the tenor of my strain, And trembled lest it were in vain. By many an undiscover'd wile I brought the pallid lip to smile, Clear'd the maz'd thought for ampler scope, Sustain'd the flagging wings of hope; And threw a mantle over care Such as the blooming Graces wear! I made the friend resist his pride, Scarce aiming what he felt to hide From other eyes, his own implor'd That kindness were again restor'd. As generous themes engag'd my tongue In pleadings for the fond and young: Towards his child the father leant, In fast-subsiding discontent: I made that father's claims be felt, And saw the rash, the stubborn, melt; Nay, once, subdued, a rebel knelt.

"Thus skill'd, from pity's warm excess, The aching spirit to caress; Profuse of her ideal wealth, And rich in happiness and health, An alien, class'd among the poor, Unheeded, from her precious store, Its best and dearest tribute brought; The zeal of high, adventurous thought, The tender awe in yielding aid, E'en of its own soft hand afraid! Stealing, through shadows, forth to bless, Her venturous service knew no bound; Yet shrank, and trembled, when success Its earnest, fullest wishes crown'd! This alien sinks, opprest with woe, And have you nothing to bestow? No language kind, to sooth or cheer?-- No soften'd voice,--no tender tear?-- No promise which may hope impart? No fancy to beguile the heart; To chace those dreary thoughts away, And waken from this deep dismay!

"Is it that station, power, or pride, Can human sympathies divide? Or is she deem'd a thing of art, Form'd only to enact a part, Whose nice perceptions all belong To modulated thought and song, And, in fictitious feeling thrown, Lie waste or callous in her own?

"Is it from poverty of soul; Or does some fear some doubt, controul? So round the heart strong fibres strain, That it attempts to beat in vain? Does palsy on your feelings hang, Deaden'd by some severer pang? If so, behold, my eyes o'erflow! For, O! that anguish well I know! When once that fatal stroke is given,-- When once that finest nerve is riven, Our love, our pity, all are o'er; We even sooth ourselves no more!

"Back, hurrying feelings! to the time I learnt to clothe my thoughts in rhyme! When, climbing up my father's knees, I gaily sang, secure to please! Rounded his pale and wasted cheek, And won him, in his turn, to speak: When, for reward, I closer prest, And whisper'd much, and much carest; With timorous eye, and head aside, Half ask'd, and laugh'd, and then denied; Ere I again petition made To hear the often-told crusade. How, knowing hardship but by name, Misled by friendship and by fame, His parents' wishes he disdain'd, With zeal, nor real quite, nor feign'd; And fought on many a famous spot;-- The suffering of a captive's lot; My Georgian mother's daring flight; The day's concealment, march by night; Her death, when, touching Christian ground, They deem'd repose and safety found: How, on his arm, by night and day, I, then a happy infant, lay, And taught him not to mourn, but pray. How, when, at length, he reach'd his home, His heart foretold a gentle doom; With tears of fondness in his eyes, Hoping to cause a glad surprize; Full of submission, pondering o'er What he too lightly priz'd before; The curse with tenfold vengeance fell.-- Those who had lov'd him once so well, In whose indulgence perfect trust Had still been wise, though most unjust, Were in the grave!--Their hearts were cold! His penitence might still be told-- Told to the winds! for few would hear, Or, hearing, deem that tale sincere His patrimony's lord denied, Who, hardening in possession's pride, Affirm'd the rightful owner died.

"A victim from devouring strife, And slavery, return'd with life; Possessions, honours, parents gone, The very hand that urg'd him on, Now, by its stern repelling, tore The veil that former falsehood wore!

"When he first bar'd his heart before thy view, Told all its inmost beatings--told them true; Nay, e'en the pulse, the secret, trembling thrill, On which the slightest touch alone would trill [Errata: kill]; While thou, with secret aim, collected art, Didst wind around that bold, confiding heart, And, in its warm and healthful breathings fling A subtle poison, and a deadly sting!

"Where shall we else so fell a traitor find? The wilful, hard misleader of the blind And what can be the soul-perverter's meed, Plotting to lure his friend to such a deed, As made self-hatred on the conscience lay That heavy weight she never moves away? O! where the good man's inner barriers close 'Gainst the world's cruel judgments, and his foes Enfolding truth, and prayer, and soul's repose, Thine is a mournful numbness, or a din, For many strong accusers lurk within!

"And, since this fatal period, in thine eyes A shrewd and unrelaxing witness lies; While, on the specious language of the tongue, Deceit has hateful, warning accents hung; And outrag'd nature, struggling with a smile, Announces nought but discontent and guile; Each trace of fair, auspicious meaning flown, All that makes man by man belov'd and known. Silence, indignant thought! forego thy sway! Silence! and let me measure on my way!

"Soul-struck, and yielding to his fate, My father left his castle gate. 'Thou,' he would cry, with flowing eyes, 'That moment wert the sacrifice! Little, alas! avails to thee Wealth, honours, titles, ancestry; All lost by me! I dar'd to lift On high thy welfare, as a gift! To save thee, dearest, dar'd resign Thy worldly good! it was not mine! But, O! I felt around thee twin'd My very self,--my heart and mind! All that may chance is dead to me, Save only as it touches thee! Could self-infliction but atone For one who lives in thee alone; If my repentance and my tears Could spare thy future smiling years, The fatal curse should only rest Upon this firm, though guilty breast? Yet, tendering from thy vessel's freight Offerings of such exceeding weight, And free thee from one earthly chain! Envy and over-weening hate Would on thy orphan greatness wait; Folly that supple nature bend For parasites to scorn thy friend; And pamper'd vanity incline To wilful blindness such as mine!

"'Thee to the altar yet I bring! Hear me, my Saviour and my King! Again I for my child resign All worldly good! but make her thine! Let her soft footsteps gently move, Nor waken grief, nor injure love; Carelessly trampling on the ground That priceless gem, so rarely found; That treasure, which, should angels guard, Would all their vigilance reward!

"'My mind refuses still to fear She should be cold or insincere; That aught like meanness should debase One of our rash and wayward race, No! most I dread intemperate pride, Deaf ardour, reckless, and untried, With firm controul and skilful rein, Its hurrying fever to restrain!