Dante Gabriel Rossetti
¶[1828-1882}
The Blessed Damozel
¶THE blessed Damozel lean'd outFrom the gold bar of Heaven:Her blue grave eyes were deeper muchThan a deep water, even.She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.
¶Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary's giftOn the neck meetly worn;And her hair, lying down her back,Was yellow like ripe corn.
¶Herseem'd she scarce had been a dayOne of God's choristers;[1150]The wonder was not yet quite goneFrom that still look of hers;Albeit, to them she left, her dayHad counted as ten years.
¶(To one it is ten years of years:. . . Yet now, here in this place,Surely she lean'd o'er me,—her hairFell all about my face. . . .Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.The whole year sets apace.)
¶It was the terrace of God's houseThat she was standing on,—By God built over the sheer depthIn which Space is begun;So high, that looking downward thence,She scarce could see the sun.
¶It lies from Heaven across the floodOf ether, as a bridge.Beneath, the tides of day and nightWith flame and darkness ridgeThe void, as low as where this earthSpins like a fretful midge.
¶But in those tracts,with her, it wasThe peace of utter lightAnd silence. For no breeze may stirAlong the steady flightOf seraphim; no echo there,Beyond all depth or height.
¶Heard hardly, some of her new friends,Playing at holy games,Spake, gentle-mouth'd, among themselves,Their virginal chaste names;And the souls, mounting up to God,Went by her like thin flames.[1151]And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'dInto the vast waste calm;Till her bosom's pressure must have madeThe bar she lean'd on warm,And the lilies lay as if asleepAlong her bended arm.
¶From the fixt lull of Heaven, she sawTime, like a pulse, shake fierceThrough all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,In that steep gulf, to pierceThe swarm; and then she spoke, as whenThe stars sang in their spheres.
¶'I wish that he were come to me,For he will come,' she said.'Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven?On earth, has he not pray'd?Are not two prayers a perfect strength?And shall I feel afraid?
¶'When round his head the aureole clings,And he is clothed in white,I'll take his hand, and go with himTo the deep wells of light,And we will step down as to a streamAnd bathe there in God's sight.
¶'We two will stand beside that shrine,Occult, withheld, untrod,Whose lamps tremble continuallyWith prayer sent up to God;And where each need, reveal'd, expectsIts patient period.
¶'We two will lie i' the shadow ofThat living mystic treeWithin whose secret growth the DoveSometimes is felt to be,While every leaf that His plumes touchSaith His name audibly.[1152]'And I myself will teach to him,—I myself, lying so,—The songs I sing here; which his mouthShall pause in, hush'd and slow,.Finding some knowledge at each pause,And some new thing to know.'
¶(Alas! to her wise simple mindThese things were all but knownBefore: they trembled on her sense,—Her voice had caught their tone.Alas for lonely Heaven! AlasFor life wrung out alone!
¶Alas, and though the end were reach'd ? . . .Was thy part understoodOr borne in trust? And for her sakeShall this too be found good ?—May the close lips that knew not prayerPraise ever, though they would?)
¶'We two,' she said, 'will seek the grovesWhere the lady Mary is,With her five handmaidens, whose namesAre five sweet symphonies:—Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,Margaret and Rosalys.
¶'Circle-wise sit they, with bound locksAnd bosoms covered;Into the fine cloth, white like flame,Weaving the golden thread,To fashion the birth-robes for themWho are just born, being dead.
¶'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb.Then I will lay my cheekTo his, and tell about our love,Not once abash'd or weak:And the dear Mother will approveMy pride, and let me speak.[1153]'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,To Him round whom all soulsKneel—the unnumber'd solemn headsBow'd with their aureoles:And Angels, meeting us, shall singTo their citherns and citoles.
¶'There will I ask of Christ the LordThus much for him and me:—To have more blessing than on earthIn nowise; but to beAs then we were,—being as thenAt peace. Yea, verily.
¶'Yea, verily; when he is comeWe will do thus and thus:Till this my vigil seem quite strangeAnd almost fabulous;We two will live at once, one life;And peace shall be with us.'
¶She gazed, and listen'd, and then said,Less sad of speech than mild,—'All this is when he comes.' She ceased:The light thrill'd past her, fill'dWith Angels, in strong level lapse.Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled.
¶(I saw her smile.) But soon their flightWas vague 'mid the poised spheres.And then she cast her arms alongThe golden barriers,And laid her face between her hands,And wept. (I heard her tears.)
The King's Tragedy
¶James I of Scots.—20th February, iqyjI CATHERINE am a Douglas born,A name to all Scots dear;And Kate Barlass they've called me nowThrough many a waning year.[1154]This old arm's withered now. 'Twas onceMost deft 'mong maidens allTo rein the steed, to wing the shaft,To smite the palm-play ball.
¶In hall adown the close-linked danceIt has shone most white and fair;It has been the rest for a true lord's head,And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed,And the bar to a King's chambere.
¶Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass,And hark with bated breathHow good King James, King Robert's son,Was foully done to death.
¶Through all the days of his gallant youthThe princely James was pent,By his friends at first and then by his foes,In long imprisonment.
¶For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir,By treason's murderous broodWas slain; and the father quaked for the childWith the royal mortal blood.
¶I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care,Was his childhood's life assured;And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke,Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yokeHis youth for long years immured.
¶Yet in all things meet for a kingly manHimself did he approve;And the nightingale through his prison-wallTaught him both lore and love.
¶For once, when the bird's song drew him closeTo the opened window-pane,In her bowers beneath a lady stood,[1155]A light of life to his sorrowful mood,Like a lily amid the rain.
¶And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note,He framed a sweeter Song,More sweet than ever a poet's heartGave yet to the English tongue.
¶She was a lady of royal blood;And when, past sorrow and teen,He stood where still through his crownless yearsHis Scottish realm had been,At Scone were the happy lovers crowned,A heart-wed King and Queen.
¶But the bird may fall from the bough of youth,And song be turned to moan,And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate,When the tempest-waves of a troubled StateAre beating against a throne.
¶Yet well they loved; and the god of Love,Whom well the King had sung,Might find on the earth no truer heartsHis lowliest swains among.
¶From the days when first she rode abroadWith Scottish maids in her train,I Catherine Douglas won the trustOf my mistress, sweet Queen Jane.
¶And oft she sighed, "To be born a King!"And oft along the wayWhen she saw the homely lovers passShe has said, "Alack the day!"
¶Years waned,—the loving and toiling years:Till England's wrong renewedDrove James, by outrage cast on his crown,To the open field of feud.[1156]'Twas when the King and his host were metAt the leaguer of Roxbro' hold,The Queen o' the sudden sought his campWith a tale of dread to be told.
¶And she showed him a secret letter writThat spoke of treasonous strife,And how a band of his noblest lordsWere sworn to take his life.
¶"And it may be here or it may be there,In the camp or the court," she said:"But for my sake come to your people's armsAnd guard your royal head."
¶Quoth he, " 'Tis the fifteenth day of the siege,And the castle's nigh to yield.""O face your foes on your throne," she cried,"And show the power you wield;And under your Scottish people's loveYou shall sit as under your shield."
¶At the fair Queen's side I stood that dayWhen he bade them raise the siege,And back to his Court he sped to knowHow the lords would meet their Liege.
¶But when he summoned his Parliament,The louring brows hung round,Like clouds that circle the mountain-headEre the first low thunders sound.
¶For he had tamed the nobles' lustAnd curbed their power and pride,And reached out an arm to right the poorThrough Scotland far and wide;And many a lordly wrong-doerBy the headsman's axe had died.
¶'Twas then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme,The bold o'ermastering man:—[1157]"O King, in the name of your Three EstatesI set you under their ban!
¶"For, as your lords made oath to youOf service and fealty,Even in likewise you pledged your oathTheir faithful sire to be:—
¶"Yet all we here that are nobly sprungHave mourned dear kith and kinSince first for the Scottish Barons' curseDid your bloody rule begin."
¶With that he laid his hands on his King:—"Is this not so, my lords?"But of all who had sworn to league with himNot one spake back to his words.
¶Quoth the King:—"Thou speak'st but for one Estate,Nor doth it avow thy gage.Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence 1"The Graeme fired dark with rage:—"Who works for lesser men than himself,He earns but a widess wage!"
¶But soon from the dungeon where he layHe won by privy plots,And forth he fled with a price on his headTo the country of the Wild Scots.
¶And word there came from Sir Robert GraemeTo the King at Edinbro':—"No Liege of mine thou art; but I seeFrom this day forth alone in theeGod's creature, my mortal foe.
¶"Through thee are my wife and children lost,My heritage and lands;And when my God shall show me a way,Thyself my mortal foe will I slayWith these my proper hands."[1158]Against the coming of ChristmastideThat year the King bade callI' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of PerthA solemn festival.
¶And we of his household rode with himIn a close-ranked company;But not till the sun had sunk from his throneDid we reach the Scottish Sea.
¶That eve was clenched for a boding storm,'Neath a toilsome moon half seen;The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high;And where there was a line of the sky,Wild wings loomed dark between.
¶And on a rock of the black beach-side,By the veiled moon dimly lit,There was something seemed to heave with lifeAs the King drew nigh to it.
¶And was it only the tossing furzeOr brake of the waste sea-wold ?Or was it an eagle bent to the blast?When near we came, we knew it at lastFor a woman tattered and old.
¶But it seemed as though by a fire withinHer writhen limbs were wrung;And as soon as the King was close to her,She stood up gaunt and strong.
¶'Twas then the moon sailed clear of the rackOn high in her hollow dome;And still as aloft with hoary crestEach clamorous wave rang home,Like fire in snow the moonlight blazedAmid the champing foam.
¶And the woman held his eyes with her eyes:—"O King, thou art come at last;[1159]But thy wraith has haunted the Scottish SeaTo my sight for four years past.
¶"Four years it is since first I met,'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu,A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud,And that shape for thine I knew.
¶"A year again, and on Inchkeith IsleI saw thee pass in the breeze,With the cerecloth risen above thy feetAnd wound about thy knees.
¶"And yet a year, in the Links of Forth,As a wanderer without rest,Thou cam'st with both thine arms i' the shroudThat clung high up thy breast.
¶"And in this hour I find thee here,And well mine eyes may noteThat the winding-sheet hath passed thy breastAnd risen around thy throat.
¶"And when I meet thee again, O King,That of death hast such sore drouth,—Except thou turn again on this shore,—The winding-sheet shall have moved once moreAnd covered thine eyes and mouth.
¶"O King, whom poor men bless for their King,Of thy fate be not so fain;But these my words for God's message take,And turn thy steed, O King, for her sakeWho rides beside thy rein!"
¶While the woman spoke, the King's horse rearedAs if it would breast the sea,And the Queen turned pale as she heard on the galeThe voice die dolorously.[1160]When the woman ceased, the steed was still,But the King gazed on her yet,And in silence save for the wail of the seaHis eyes and her eyes met.
¶At last he said:—"God's ways are His own;Man is but shadow and dust.Last night I prayed by His altar-stone;To-night I wend to the feast of His Son;And in Him I set my trust.
¶"I have held my people in sacred charge,And have not feared the stingOf proud men's hate,—to His will resign'dWho has but one same death for a hindAnd one same death for a King.
¶"And if God in His wisdom have brought closeThe day when I must die,That day by water or fire or airMy feet shall fall in the destined snareWherever my road may lie.
¶"What man can say but the Fiend hath setThy sorcery on my path,My heart with the fear of death to fill,And turn me against God's very willTo sink in His burning wrath?"
¶The woman stood as the train rode past,And moved nor limb nor eye;And when we were shipped, we saw her thereStill standing against the sky.
¶As the ship made way, the moon once moreSank slow in her rising pall;And I thought of the shrouded wraith of the King,And I said, "The Heavens know all."[1161]And now, ye lasses, must ye hearHow my name is Kate Barlass:—But a little thing, when all the taleIs told of the weary massOf crime and woe which in Scotland's realmGod's will let come to pass.
¶'Twas in the Charterhouse of PerthThat the King and all his CourtWere met, the Christmas Feast being done,For solace and disport.
¶'Twas a wind-wild eve in February,And against the casement-paneThe branches smote like summoning handsAnd muttered the driving rain.
¶And when the wind swooped over the liftAnd made the whole heaven frown,It seemed a grip was laid on the wallsTo tug the housetop down.
¶And the Queen was there, more stately fairThan a lily in garden set;And the king was loth to stir from her side;For as on the day when she was his bride,Even so he loved her yet.
¶And the Earl of Athole, the King's false friend,Sat with him at the board;And Robert Stuart the chamberlainWho had sold his sovereign Lord.
¶Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber thereWould fain have told him all,And vainly four times that night he stroveTo reach the King through the hall.
¶But the wine is bright at the goblet's brimThough the poison lurk beneath;[1162]And the apples still are red on the treeWithin whose shade may the adder beThat shall turn thy life to death.
¶There was a knight of the King's fast friendsWhom he called the King of Love;And to such bright cheer and courtesyThat name might best behove.
¶And the King and Queen both loved him wellFor his gentle knightliness;And with him the King, as that eve wore on,Was playing at the chess.
¶And the King said, (for he thought to jestAnd soothe the Queen thereby;)—"In a book 'tis writ that this same yearA King shall in Scotland die.
¶"And I have pondered the matter o'er,And this have I found, Sir Hugh,—There are but two Kings on Scottish ground,And those Kings are I and you.
¶"And I have a wife and a newborn heir,And you are yourself alone;So stand you stark at my side with meTo guard our double throne.
¶"For here sit I and my wife and child,As well your heart shall approve,In full surrender and soothfastness,Beneath your Kingdom of Love."
¶And the Knight laughed, and the Queen too smiled;But I knew her heavy thought,And I strove to find in the good King's jestWhat cheer might thence be wrought.[1163]And I said, "My Liege, for the Queen's dear loveNow sing the song that of oldYou made, when a captive Prince you lay,And the nightingale sang sweet on the spray,In Windsor's castle-hold."
¶Then he smiled the smile I knew so wellWhen he thought to please the Queen;The smile which under all bitter frownsOf hate that rose between,For ever dwelt at the poet's heartLike the bird of love unseen.
¶And he kissed her hand and took his harp,And the music sweedy rang;And when the song burst forth, it seemed'Twas the nightingale that sang.
¶"Worship, ye lovers, on this May:Of bliss your \alends are begun:Sing with us, Away, Winter, awaylCome, Summer, the sweet season and suntAwa\e for shame,—your heaven is won,—And amorously your heads lift all:Than\ Love, that you to his grace doth calll"
¶But when he bent to the Queen, and sangThe speech whose praise was hersIt seemed his voice was the voice of the SpringAnd the voice of the bygone years.
¶"The fairest and the freshest flowerThat ever I saw before that hour,The which o' the sudden made to startThe blood of my body to my heart.* * # # # # #Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creatureOr heavenly thing in form of nature?"[1164]And the song was long, and richly storedWith wonder and beauteous things;And the harp was tuned to every changeOf minstrel ministerings;But when he spoke of the Queen at the last,Its strings were his own heart-strings.
¶"Unworthy but only of her grace,Upon Love's roct^ that's easy and sure,In guerdon of all my love's spaceShe too\ me her humble creature.Thus fell my blissful aventureIn youth of love that from day to dayFlowereth aye new, and further I say.
¶"To reckon all the circumstanceAs it happed when lessen gan my sore,Of my rancor and woful chance,It were too long,—/ have done therefor.And of this flower I say no moreBut unto my help her heart hath tendedAnd even from death her man defended."
¶"Aye, even from death," to myself I said;For I thought of the day when sheHad borne him the news, at Roxbro' siege,Of the fell confederacy.
¶But Death even then took aim as he sangWith an arrow deadly bright;And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof,And the wings were spread far over the roofMore dark than the winter night.
¶Yet truly along the amorous songOf Love's high pomp and state,There were words of Fortune's trackless doomAnd the dreadful face of Fate.
¶And oft have I heard again in dreamsThe voice of dire appeal[1165]In which the King then sang of the pitThat is under Fortune's wheel.
¶"And under the wheel beheld I thereAn ugly Pit as deep as hell,That to behold I quaked for fear:And this I heard, that who therein fellCame no more up, tidings to tell:Whereat, astound of the fearful sight,I wist not what to do for fright."
¶And oft has my thought called up againThese words of the changeful song:—"Wist thou thy pain and thy travailTo come, well might'st thou weep and wail!'And our wail, O God I is long.
¶But the song's end was all of his love;And well his heart was grac'dWith her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyesAs his arm went round her waist.
¶And on the swell of her long fair throatClose clung the necklet-chainAs he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside,And in the warmth of his love and prideHe kissed her lips full fain.
¶And her true face was a rosy red,The very red of the roseThat, couched on the happy garden-bed,In the summer sunlight glows.
¶And all the wondrous things of loveThat sang so sweet through the songWere in the look that met in their eyes,And the look was deep and long.
¶'Twas then a knock came at the outer gate,And the usher sought the King.[1166]"The woman you met by the Scottish Sea,My Liege, would tell you a thing;And she says that her present need for speechWill bear no gainsaying."
¶And the King said:—"The hour is late;To-morrow will serve, I ween."Then he charged the usher strictly, and said:"No word of this to the Queen."
¶But the usher came again to the King,"Shall I call her back?" quoth he:"For as she went on her way, she cried,'Woe! Woe! then the thing must be!' "
¶And the King paused, but he did not speak.Then he called for the Voidee-cup;And as we heard the twelfth hour strike,There by true lips and false lips alikeWas the draught of trust drained up.
¶So with reverence meet to King and Queen,To bed went all from the board;And the last to leave of the courtly trainWas Robert Stuart the chamberlainWho had sold his sovereign lord.
¶And all the locks of the chamber-doorHad the traitor riven and brast;And that Fate might win sure way from afar,He had drawn out every bolt and barThat made the entrance fast.
¶And now at midnight he stole his wayTo the moat of the outer wall,And laid strong hurdles closely acrossWhere the traitors' tread should fall.
¶But we that were the Queen's bower-maidsAlone were left behind;[1167]And with heed we drew the curtains closeAgainst the winter wind.
¶And now that all was still through the hall,More clearly we heard the rainThat clamored ever against the glassAnd the boughs that beat on the pane.
¶But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook,And through empty space aroundThe shadows cast on the arras'd wall'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tallLike spectres sprung from the ground.
¶And the bed was dight in a deep alcove;And as he stood by the fireThe king was still in talk with the QueenWhile he doffed his goodly attire.
¶And the song had brought the image backOf many a bygone year;And many a loving word they saidWith hand in hand and head laid to head;And none of us went anear.
¶But Love was weeping outside the house,A child in the piteous rain;And as he watched the arrow of Death,He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheathThat never should fly again.
¶And now beneath the window aroseA wild voice suddenly:And the King reared straight, but the Queen fell backAs for bitter dule to dree;And all of us knew the woman's voiceWho spoke by the Scottish Sea.
¶"O King," she cried, "in an evil hourThey drove me from thy gate;[1168]And yet my voice must rise to thine ears;But alas! it comes too late!
¶"Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour,When the moon was dead in the skiesO King, in a death-light of thine ownI saw thy shape arise.
¶"And in full season, as erst I said,The doom had gained its growth;And the shroud had risen above thy neckAnd covered thine eyes and mouth.
¶"And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke,And still thy soul stood there;And I thought its silence cried to my soulAs the first rays crowned its hair.
¶"Since then have I journeyed fast and fainIn very despite of Fate,Lest Hope might still be found in God's will:But they drove me from thy gate.
¶"For every man on God's ground, O King,His death grows up from his birthIn a shadow-plant perpetually;And thine towers high, a black yew-tree,O'er the Charterhouse of Perth!"
¶That room was built far out from the house;And none but we in the roomMight hear the voice that rose beneath,Nor the tread of the coming doom.
¶For now there came a torchlight-glare,And a clang of arms there came;And not a soul in that space but thoughtOf the foe Sir Robert Graeme.
¶Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots,O'er mountain, valley, and glen,[1169]He had brought with him in murderous leagueThree hundred armed men.
¶The King knew all in an instant's flash,And like a King did he stand;But there was no armor in all the roomNor weapon lay to his hand.
¶And all we women flew to the doorAnd thought to have made it fast:But the bolts were gone and the bars were goneAnd the locks were riven and brast.
¶And he caught the pale queen in his armsAs the iron footsteps fell,—Then loosed her, standing alone, and said,"Our bliss was our farewell!"
¶And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer,And he crossed his brow and breast;And proudly in royal hardihoodEven so with folded arms he stood,—The prize of the bloody quest.
¶Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer:"Catherine, help!" she cried.And low at his feet we clasped his kneesTogether side by side."Oh! even a King, for his people's sake,From treasonous death must hide!"
¶"For her sake most!" I cried, and I markedThe pang that my words would wring.And the iron tongs from the chimney-nookI snatched and held to the King:—"Wrench up the plank! and the vault beneathShall yield safe harboring."
¶With brows low-bent, from my eager handThe heavy heft did he take;[1170]And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore:And as he frowned through the open floor,Again I said, "For her sake!"
¶Then he cried to the Queen, "God's will be done!"For her hands were clasped in prayer.And down he sprang to the inner crypt;And straight we closed the plank he had ripp'dAnd toiled to smoothe it fair.
¶(Alas! in that vault a gap once wasWherethro' the King might have fled;But three days since close-walled had it beenBy his will; for the ball would roll thereinWhen without at the palm he play'd.)
¶Then the Queen cried, "Catherine, keep the door,And I to this will suffice!"At her word I rose all dazed to my feet,And my heart was fire and ice.
¶And louder ever the voices grew,And the tramp of men in mail;Until to my brain it seemed to beAs though I tossed on a ship at seaIn the teeth of a crashing gale.
¶Then back I flew to the rest; and hardWe strove with sinews knitTo force the table against the door;But we might not compass it.
¶Then my wild gaze sped far down the hallTo the place of the hearthstone-sill;And the Queen bent ever above the floor,For the plank was rising still.
¶And now the rush was heard on the stair,And "God, what help?" was our cry.And was I frenzied or was I bold ?I looked at each empty stanchion-hold,And no bar but my arm had I![1171]Like iron felt my arm, as throughThe staple I made it pass:—Alack! it was flesh and bone—no more!'Twas Catherine Douglas sprang to the door,But I fell back Kate Barlass.
¶With that they all thronged into the hall,Half dim to my failing ken;And the space that was but a void beforeWas a crowd of wrathful men.Behind the door I had fall'n and lay,Yet my sense was wildly aware,And for all the pain of my shattered armI never fainted there.
¶Even as I fell, my eyes were castWhere the King leaped down to the pit;And lo! the plank was smooth in its place,And the Queen stood far from it.
¶And under the litters and through the bedAnd within the presses allThe traitors sought for the King, and piercedThe arras around the wall.
¶And through the chamber they ramped and stormedLike lions loose in the lair,And scarce could trust to their very eyes,—For behold! no King was there.
¶Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried,—"Now tell us, where is thy lord?"And he held the sharp point over her heart:She dropped not her eyes nor did she start,But she answered never a word.
¶Then the sword half pierced the true true breast:But it was the Graeme's own sonCried, "This is a woman,—we seek a man!"And away from her girdle-zoneHe struck the point of the murderous steel;And that foul deed was not done.[1172]And forth flowed all the throng like a sea,And 'twas empty space once more;And my eyes sought out the wounded QueenAs I lay behind the door.
¶And I said: "Dear Lady, leave me here,For I cannot help you now;But fly while you may, and none shall reckOf my place here lying low."
¶And she said, "My Catherine, God help thee!"Then she looked to the distant floor,And clasping her hands, "Oh God help him,"She sobbed, "for we can no more!"
¶But God He knows what help may mean,If it mean to live or to die;And what sore sorrow and mighty moanOn earth it may cost ere yet a throneBe filled in His house on high.
¶And now the ladies fled with the Queen:And through the open doorThe night-wind wailed round the empty roomAnd the rushes shook on the floor.
¶And the bed drooped low in the dark recessWhence the arras was rent away;And the firelight still shone over the spaceWhere our hidden secret lay.
¶And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams litThe window high in the wall,—Bright beams that on the plank that I knewThrough the painted pane did fallAnd gleamed with the splendor of Scotland's crownAnd shield armorial.
¶But then a great wind swept up the skies,And the climbing moon fell back;[1173]And the royal blazon fled from the floor,And nought remained on its track;And high in the darkened window-paneThe shield and the crown were black.
¶And what I say next I partly sawAnd partly I heard in sooth,And partly since from the murderers' lipsThe torture wrung the truth.
¶For now again came the armed treadAnd fast through the hall it fell;But the throng was less; and ere I saw,By the voice without I could tellThat Robert Stuart had come with themWho knew that chamber well.
¶And over the space the Graeme strode darkWith his mantle round him flung;And in his eye was a flaming lightBut not a word on his tongue.
¶And Stuart held a torch to the floor,And he found the thing he sought;And they slashed the plank away with their swords;And O God! I fainted not!
¶And the traitor held his torch in the gap,All smoking and smouldering;And through the vapor and fire, beneathIn the dark crypt's narrow ring,With a shout that pealed to the room's high roofThey saw their naked King.
¶Half naked he stood, but stood as oneWho yet could do and dare;With the crown, the King was stript away,—The Knight was reft of his battle-array,—But still the Man was there.[1174]From the rout then stepped a villain forth,—Sir John Hall was his name;With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vaultBeneath the torchlight-flame.
¶Of his person and stature was the KingA man right manly strong,And mightily by the shoulder-bladesHis foe to his feet he flung.
¶Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall,Sprang down to work his worst;And the King caught the second man by the neckAnd flung him above the first.
¶And he smote and trampled them under him;And a long month thence they bareAll black their throats with the grip of his handsWhen the hangman's hand came there.
¶And sore he strove to have had their knives,But the sharp blades gashed his hands.Oh James! so armed, thou hadst battled thereTill help had come of thy bands;And oh! once more thou hadst held our throneAnd ruled thy Scottish lands!
¶But while the King o'er his foes still ragedWith a heart that nought could tame,Another man sprang down to the crypt;And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'dThere stood Sir Robert Graeme.
¶(Now shame on the recreant traitor's heartWho durst not face his KingTill the body unarmed was wearied outWith two-fold combating!
¶Ah! well might the people sing and say,As oft ye have heard aright:—[1175]"0 Robert Grceme, 0 Robert Grxme,Who slew our King, God give thee shame!"For he slew him not as a knight.)
¶And the naked King turned round at bay,But his strength had passed the goal,And he could but gasp:—"Mine hour is come;But oh! to succor thine own soul's doom,Let a priest now shrive my soul!"
¶And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength,And said:—"Have I kept my word?—Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave?No black friar's shrift thy soul shall save,But the shrift of this red sword!"
¶With that he smote his King through the breast;And all they three in that penFell on him and stabbed and stabbed him thereLike merciless murderous men.
¶Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Graeme,Ere the King's last breath was o'er,, Turned sick at heart with the deadly sightAnd would have done no more.
¶But a cry came from the troop above:"If him thou do not slay,The price of his life that thou dost spareThy forfeit life shall pay!"
¶O God! what more did I hear or see,Or how should I tell the rest?But there at length our King lay slainWith sixteen wounds in his breast.
¶O God! and now did a bell boom forth,And the murderers turned and fled;—Too late, too late, O God, did it sound!—And I heard the true men mustering round,And the cries and the coming tread.[1176]But ere they came to the black death-gapSomewise did I creep and steal;And lo! or ever I swooned away,Through the dusk I saw where the white face layIn the Pit of Fortune's Wheel.
¶And now, ye Scottish maids who have heardDread things of the days grown old,—Even at the last, of true Queen JaneMay somewhat yet be told,And how she dealt for her dear lord's sakeDire vengeance manifold.
¶'Twas in the Charterhouse of Perth,In the fair-lit Death-chapelle,That the slain King's corpse on bier was lainWith chant and requiem-knell.
¶And all with royal wealth of balmWas the body purified:And none could trace on the brow and lipsThe death that he had died.
¶In his robes of state he lay asleepWith orb and sceptre in hand;And by the crown he wore on his throneWas his kingly forehead spann'd.
¶And, girls, 'twas a sweet sad thing to seeHow the curling golden hair,As in the day of the poet's youth,From the King's crown clustered there.
¶And if all had come to pass in the brainThat throbbed beneath those curls,Then Scots had said in the days to comeThat this their soil was a different homeAnd a different Scotland, girls!
¶And the Queen sat by him night and day,And oft she knelt in prayer,[1177]All wan and pale in the widow's veilThat shrouded her shining hair.
¶And I had got good help of my hurt:And only to me some signShe made; and save the priests that were thereNo face would she see but mine.
¶And the month of March wore on apace;And now fresh couriers faredStill from the country of the Wild ScotsWith news of the traitors snared.
¶And still as I told her day by day,Her pallor changed to sight,And the frost grew to a furnace-flameThat burnt her visage white.
¶And evermore as I brought her word,She bent to her dead King James,And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breathShe spoke the traitors' names.
¶But when the name of Sir Robert GraemeWas the one she had to give,I ran to hold her up from the floor;For the froth was on her lips, and soreI feared that she could not live.
¶And the month of March wore nigh to its end,And still was the death-pall spread;For she would not bury her slaughtered lordTill his slayers all were dead.
¶And now of their dooms dread tidings came,And of torments fierce and dire;And nought she spake,—she had ceased to speak,—But her eyes were a soul on fire.
¶But when I told her the bitter endOf the stern and just award,[1178]She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three timesShe kissed the lips of her lord.
¶And then she said,—"My King, they are dead!"And she knelt on the chapel-floor,And whispered low with a strange proud smile,—"James, James, they suffered more!"
¶Last she stood up to her queenly height,But she shook like an autumn leaf,As though the fire wherein she burnedThen left her body, and all were turnedTo winter of life-long grief.
¶And "O James!" she said,—"My James!" she said,—"Alas for the woful thing,That a poet true and a friend of man,In desperate days of bale and ban,Should needs be born a King!"
Lovesight
¶WHEN do I see thee most, beloved one?When in the light the spirits of mine eyesBefore thy face, their altar, solemnizeThe worship of that Love through thee made known?Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,)Close-kissed and eloquent of still repliesThy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,And my soul only sees thy soul its own?O love, my love! if I no more should seeThyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,—How then should sound upon Life's darkening slopeThe ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,The wind of Death's imperishable wing?
Heart's Hope
¶BY what word's power, the key of paths untrod,Shall I the difficult deeps of Love explore,Till parted waves of Song yield up the shore[1179]Even as that sea which Israel crossed dryshod?For lo! in some poor rhythmic period,Lady, I fain would tell how evermoreThy soul I know not from thy body, norThee from myself, neither our love from God.Yea, in God's name, and Love's, and thine, would IDraw from one loving heart such evidenceAs to all hearts all things shall signify;Tender as dawn's first hill-fire, and intenseAs instantaneous penetrating sense,In Spring's birth-hour, of other Springs gone by.
Genius in Beauty
¶BEAUTY like hers is genius. Not the callOf Homer's or of Dante's heart sublime,—Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones of time,—Is more with compassed mysteries musical;Nay, not in Spring's or Summer's sweet footfallMore gathered gifts exuberant Life bequeathesThan doth this sovereign face, whose love-spell breathesEven from its shadowed contour on the wall.As many men are poets in their youth,But for one sweet-strung soul the wires prolongEven through all change the indomitable song;So in like wise the envenomed years, whose toothRends shallower grace with ruin void of ruth,Upon this beauty's power shall wreak no wrong.
Silent Noon
¶YOUR hands lie open in the long, fresh grass,—The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edgeWhere the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn hedge.'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-flyHangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky,—[1180]So this wing'd hour is dropped to us from above.Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,This close-companioned inarticulate hourWhen twofold silence was the song of love.
720 Love-sweetness
¶SWEET dimness of her loosened hair's downfallAbout thy face; her sweet hands round thy headIn gracious fostering union garlanded;Her tremulous smiles; her glances' sweet recallOf love; her murmuring sighs memorial;Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses shedOn cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so ledBack to her mouth, which answers there for all:—What sweeter than these things, except the thingIn lacking which all these would lose their sweet:—The confident heart's still fervor: the swift beatAnd soft subsidence of the spirit's wing,Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring,The breath of kindred plumes against its feet?
7 2 / Heart's Compass
¶SOMETIMES thou seem'st not as thyself alone,But as the meaning of all things that are;A breathless wonder, shadowing forth afarSome heavenly solstice hushed and halcyon;Whose unstirred lips are music's visible tone;Whose eyes the sun-gate of the soul unbar,Being of its furthest fires oracular—The evident heart of all life sown and mown.Even such love is; and is not thy name Love?Yea, by thy hand the Love-god rends apartAll gathering clouds of Night's ambiguous art;Flings them far down, and sets thine eyes above;And simply, as some gage of flower or glove,Stakes with a smile the world against thy heart.
722 Her Gifts
¶HIGH grace, the dower of queens; and therewithalSome wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity;A glance like water brimming with the skyOr hyacinth-light where forest-shadows fall;Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthralThe heart; a mouth whose passionate forms implyAll music and all silence held thereby;Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrineTo cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;Hands which for ever at Love's bidding be,And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:—These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er.Breathe low her name, my soul; for that means more.