To what my father bids; but I A maid full fain would live and die, Since I am born to be a queen."
"Yea, yea, for such as thou hast seen, That may be well," the other said. "But come now, come; for by my head This one must be from Paradise; Come swiftly then, if thou art wise, Ere aught can snatch him back again."
She caught her hand, and not in vain She prayed; for now some kindly thought To Cecily's brow fair color brought, And quickly 'gan her heart to beat As Love drew near those eyes to greet, Who knew him not till that sweet hour.
So over the fair, pink-edged flower, Softly she stepped; but when she came Anigh the sleeper, lovely shame Cast a soft mist before her eyes Full filled of many fantasies. But when she saw him lying there She smiled to see her mate so fair; And in her heart did Love begin To tell his tale, nor thought she sin To gaze on him that was her own, Not doubting he was come alone To woo her, whom 'midst arms and gold She deemed she should at first behold; And with that thought love grew again Until departing was a pain,
Though fear grew with that growing love, And with her lingering footsteps strove As from the place she turned to go, Sighing and murmuring words full low. But as her raiment's hem she raised, And for her merry fellow gazed Shamefaced and changed, she met her eyes Turned grave and sad with ill surprise: Who while the Princess mazed did stand Had drawn from Michael's loosened band The King's scroll, which she held out now To Cecily, and whispered low, "Read, and do quickly what thou wilt, Sad, sad such fair life to be spilt: Come further first."
With that they stepped A pace or two from where he slept, And then she read,
"Lord Seneschal, On thee and thine may all good fall; Greeting hereby the King sendeth, And biddeth thee to put to death His enemy who beareth this; And as thou lovest life and bliss, And all thy goods thou holdest dear,
Set thou his head upon a spear A good half furlong from the gate, Our coming hitherward to wait, - So perish the King's enemies!"
She read, and scarcely had her eyes Seen clear her father's name and seal, Ere all love's powers her heart did feel, That drew her back in spite of shame, To him who was not e'en a name Unto her a short hour agone. Panting she said, "Wait thou alone Beside him, watch him carefully, And let him sleep if none draw nigh. If of himself he waketh, then Hide him until I come again, When thou hast told him of the snare, If thou betrayest me, beware! For death shall be the least of all The ills that on thine head shall fall. What say I?—thou art dear to me, And doubly dear now shalt thou be, Thou shalt have power and majesty, And be more queen in all than I. Few words are best, be wise, be wise!"
Withal she turned about her eyes Once more, and swiftly as a man Betwixt the garden trees she ran, Until, her own bower reached at last, She made good haste, and quickly passed Unto her secret treasury.
There, hurrying since the time was nigh For folk to come from meat, she took From 'twixt the leaves of a great book A royal scroll, signed, sealed, but blank, Then, with a hand that never shrank Or trembled, she the scroll did fill With these words, writ with clerkly skill, — "Unto the Seneschal, Sir Rafe, Who holdeth our fair castle safe, Greeting and health! O well beloved, Know that at this time we are moved To wed our daughter, so we send Him who bears this, our perfect friend, To be her bridegroom; so do thou Ask nought of him, since well we know His race and great nobility, And how he is most fit to be Our son; therefore make no delay, But wed the twain upon the day Thou readest this; and see that all Take oath to him, whate'er shall fall To do his bidding as our heir; So doing still be lief and dear As I have held thee yet to be." She cast the pen down hastily
At that last letter, for she heard How even now the people stirred Within the hall: nor dared she think What bitter potion she must drink If now she failed, so falsely bold That life or death did she infold Within its cover, making shift To seal it with her father's gift, A signet of carnelian.
Then swiftly down the stairs she ran And reached the garden; but her fears Brought shouts and thunder to her ears, That were but lazy words of men Full fed, far off; nay, even when Her limbs caught up her flying gown The noise seemed loud enough to drown The twitter of the autumn birds,
And her own muttered breathless words That to her heart seemed loud indeed.
Yet therewithal she made good speed And reached the fountain seen of none, Where yet abode her friend alone, Watching the sleeper, who just now Turned in his sleep and muttered low. Therewith fair Agnes saying nought From out her hand the letter caught; And while she leaned against the stone Stole up to Michael's side alone, And with a cool, unshrinking hand Thrust the new scroll deep in his band, And turned about unto her friend: Who, having come unto the end Of all her courage, trembled there With face upturned for fresher air, And parted lips grown gray and pale, And limbs that now began to fail, And hands wherefrom all strength had gone, Scarce fresher than the blue-veined stone That quivering still she strove to clutch. But when she felt her lady's touch, Feebly she said, "Go! let me die And end this sudden misery
That in such wise has wrapped my life, I am too weak for such a strife, So sick I am with shame and fear: Would thou hadst never brought me here!" But Agnes took her hand and said, "Nay, Queen, and must we three be dead Because thou fearest? All is safe If boldly thou wilt face Sir Rafe."
So saying, did she draw her hence,
Past tree, and bower, and high-pleached fence
Unto the garden's further end,
And left her there, and back did wend,
And from the house made haste to get A gilded maund wherein she set A flask of ancient island wine,
Ripe fruits and wheaten manchets fine, And many such a delicate
As goddesses in old time ate, Ere Helen was a Trojan queen; So passing through the garden green She cast her eager eyes again Upon the spot where he had lain, But found it empty, so sped on Till she at last the place had won Where Cecily lay weak and white Within that fair bower of delight.
Her straight she made to eat and drink, And said, "See now thou dost not shrink From this thy deed; let love slay fear Now, when thy life shall grow so dear, Each minute should seem lost to thee If thou for thy felicity
Couldst stay to count them; for I say, This day shall be thy happy day."
Therewith she smiled to see the wine Embraced by her fingers fine; And her sweet face grow bright again With sudden pleasure after pain. Again she spoke, "What is this word That, dreaming, I perchance have heard, But certainly remember well; That some old soothsayer did tell Strange things unto my lord, the King, That on thy hand the spousal ring No Kaiser's son, no King should set, But one a peasant did beget, - What say'st thou?"
But the Queen flushed red; "Such fables I have heard," she said; "And thou-is it such scath to me,
The bride of such a man to be?" "Nay," said she, "God will have him King:
How shall we do a better thing With this or that one than He can? God's friend must be a goodly man."
But with that word she heard the sound Of folk who through the mazes wound Bearing the message; then she said, "Be strong, pluck up thine hardihead, Speak little, so sha'l all be well, For now our own tale will they tell."
And even as she spoke they came, And all the green place was aflame With golden raiment of the lords; While Cecily, noting not their words, Rose up to go; and for her part
By this had fate so steeled her heart, Scarce otherwise she seemed, than when She passed before the eyes of men At tourney or high festival.
But when they now had reached the hall, And up its very steps they went, Her head a little down she bent; Nor raised it till the dais was gained, For fear that love some monster feigned To be a god, and she should be Smit by her own bolt wretchedly. But at the rustling, crowded dais She gathered heart her eyes to raise, And there beheld her love, indeed, Clad in her father's serving weed, But proud, and flushed, and calm withal, Fearless of aught that might befall, Nor too astonied, for he thought, — "From point to point my life is brought Through wonders till it comes to this; And trouble cometh after bliss, And I will bear all as I may, And ever, as day passeth day,
My life will hammer from the twain, Forging a long-enduring chain."
But 'midst these thoughts their young eyes
And every word did he forget Wherewith men name unhappiness, As read again those words did bless With double blessings his glad ears. And if she trembled with her fears, And if with doubt, and love, and shame, The rosy color went and came
I know not; some faint quivering In the last words; some little thing That checked the cold words' even flow. But yet they set his heart aglow, And he in turn said eagerly, -
"Surely I count it nought to die For him who brought me unto this; For thee, who givest me this bliss; Yea, even dost me such a grace To look with kind eyes in my face, And send sweet music to my ears.'
But at his words she, mazed with tears, Seemed faint, and failing quickly, when Above the low hum of the men Uprose the sweet bells' sudden clang, As men unto the chapel rang; While just outside the singing folk Into most heavenly carols broke. And going softly up the hall Boys bore aloft the verges tall Before the bishop's gold-clad head.
Then forth his bride young Michael led, And nought to him seemed good or bad Except the lovely hand he had;
But she the while was murmuring low, "If he could know, if he could know, What love, what love, his love should be!"
But while 'mid mirth and minstrelsy The ancient Castle of the Rose Such pageant to the autumn shows The King sits ill at ease at home, For in these days the news is come That he who in his line should wed
In her sweet cheeks and smooth bright Lies in his own town stark and dead,
Slain in a tumult in the street.
Brooding on this he deemed it meet, Since nigh the day was come when she Her bridegroom's visage looked to see, To hold the settled day with her, And bid her at the least to wear Dull mourning guise for gold and white. So on another morning bright, When the whole promised month was past, He drew anigh the place at last Where Michael's dead head, looking down Upon the highway with a frown, He doubted not at last to see. So 'twixt the fruitful greenery He rode, scarce touched by care the while, Humming a roundel with a smile.
Withal, ere yet he drew anigh,
He heard their watch-horn sound from high, Nor wondered, for their wont was so, And well his banner they might know Amidst the stubble-lands afar:
But now a distant point of war
He seemed to hear, and bade draw rein, But listening cried, "Push on again! They do but send forth minstrelsy Because my daughter thinks to see The man who lieth on his bier."
So on they passed, till sharp and clear They heard the pipe and shrill fife sound; And restlessly the King glanced round To see that he had striven for, The crushing of that sage's lore, The last confusion of that fate.
But drawn still nigher to the gate They turned a sharp bend of the road, And saw the pageant that abode The solemn coming of the King.
For first on each side, maids did sing, Dressed in gold raiment; then there came The minstrels in their coats of flame; And then the many-colored lords,
The knights' spears, and the swordmen's swords,
Backed by the glittering wood of bills.
So now, presaging many ills, The King drew rein, yet none the less He shrank not from his hardiness, But thought, "Well, at the worst I die, And yet perchance long life may lie Before me- I will hold my peace; The dumb man's borders still increase." But as he strengthened thus his heart He saw the crowd before him part, And down the long, melodious lane, Hand locked in hand there passed the twain, As fair as any earth has found,
Clad as kings' children are, and crowned. Behind them went the chiefest lords, And two old knights with sheathed swords The banners of the kingdom bore.
But now the king had pondered sore, By when they reached him, though, indeed, The time was short unto his need, Betwixt his heart's first startled pang And those old banner-bearers' clang Anigh his saddle-bow; but he Across their heads scowled heavily, Not saying aught a while: at last, Ere any glance at them he cast,
He said, "Whence come ye? what are ye? What play is this ye play to me?"
None answered, Cecily, faint and white, The rather Michael's hand clutched tight, And seemed to speak, bit not one word The nearest to her could have heard. Then the King spoke again, — "Sir Rafe,
And thus thou diddest well to do," The King said. "Tell me on what day Her old life she did put away."
"Sire, the eleventh day this is Since that they gained their earthly bliss," Quoth old Sir Rafe. The King said nought, But with his head bowed down in thought, Stood a long while; but at the last Upward a smiling face he cast, And cried aloud above the folk: "Shout for the joining of the yoke Betwixt these twain! and thou, fair lord, Who dost so well my every word, Nor makest doubt of anything, Wear thou the collar of thy King; And a duke's banner, cut foursquare, Henceforth shall men before thee bear In tourney and in stricken field.
"But this mine heir shall bear my shield, Carry my banner, wear my crown, Ride equal with me through my town, Sit on the same step of the throne; In nothing will I reign alone; Nor be ye with him miscontent, For that with little ornament Of gold and folk to you he came; For he is of an ancient name That needeth not the clink of gold The ancientest the world doth hold; For in the fertile Asian land, Where great Damascus now doth stand, Ages agone his line was born,
yet men knew the gift of corn: And there, anigh to Paradise, His ancestors grew stout and wise; And certes he from Asia bore No little of their piercing lore.
"Look then to have great happiness, For every wrong shall he redress."
Then did the people's shouting drown His clatter as he leapt adown, And, taking in each hand a hand Of the two lovers, now did stand Betwixt them on the flower-strewn way, And to himself meanwhile 'gan say,
"How many an hour might I have been Right merry in the gardens green; How many a glorious day had I Made happy with some victory;
What noble deeds I might have done, What bright renown my deeds have won ; What blessings would have made me glad; What little burdens had I had; What calmness in the hope of praise; What joy of well-accomplished days, If I had let these things alone; Nor sought to sit upon my throne Like God between the cherubim.
But now, but now, my days wax dim, And all this fairness have I tost Unto the winds, and all have lost For nought, for nought! yet will I strive My little end of life to live; Nor will I look behind me more, Nor forward to the doubtful shore."
With that he made the sign to turn,
And straight the autumn air did burn With many a point of steel and gold; And through the trees the carol rolled Once more, until the autumn thrush Far off 'gan twittering on his bush, Made mindful of the long-lived spring.
So mid sweet song and taboring, And shouts amid the apple-grove, And soft caressing of his love, Began the new King Michael's reign. Nor will the poor folk see again A king like him on any throne, Or such good deeds to all men done; For then, as saith the chronicle, It was the time, as all men tell, When scarce a man would stop to gaze At gold crowns hung above the ways
Robert Buchanan was born in 1841, and was educated at the High School and the University of Glasgow. His first work, Undertones, appeared in 1860, followed by Idyls and Legends of Inverburn in 1865, and London Poems in 1866. Mr. Buchanan edited Wayside Poems, and contributed to the Danish Ballads in 1866. American editions of his poems are published by Roberts Brothers. It is impossible as yet to assign him any definite rank among poets. His poems seem to give promise of something better than he has yet accomplished.
FROM A SKETCH OF INVERBURN.
SEVEN pleasant miles by wood, and stream, and moor, Seven miles along the country road that wound
Uphill and downhill in a thin red line,
Then from the forehead of a hill, behold
Lying below me, sparkling ruby-like,—
The village! quaint old gables, roofs of thatch, A glimmering spire that peeped above the firs,
The sunset lingering orange-red on all,
And nearer, tumbling through a mossy bridge, The river that I knew! No wondrous peep Into the faery land of Oberon,
Its bowers, its glowworm-lighted colonnades Where pygmy lovers wandered two by two, Could weigh upon the city wanderer's heart With peace so pure as this! Why, yonder stood, A fledgeling's downward flight beyond the spire,
« PreviousContinue » |