The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 25

Whom the Lord of Miolan deigned to spare In ruth to womanhood, And she, alas, is the maiden fair Who wept in the walnut wood.

But who is he, with step of fate, Goes gloomily through the castle gate In me morning's virgin prime?

Why scattereth he with frenzied hand The fierce flame of that burning brand, Chaunting an ancient rhyme?

The eagle, scared from her blazing nest, Whirls with a scream round his sable crest.

What muttereth he with demon smile.

Shaking his mailed hand the while Toward the Chateau of La Sone, Where champing steed and bannered tent Gave token of goodly tournament, And the Golden Dolphin shone?

"Woe to the last of the Dauphin's line, When the eagle shrieks and the red lights s.h.i.+ne Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak!

Burn, beacon, burn!"--and as he spoke From the ruined towers curled the pillared smoke, As the light flame leapt from the ancient oak And answered the eagle's shriek.

Man and horse down the hillside sprang And a voice through the startled forest rang-- "I ride, I ride to win my bride.

Ho, Eblis! to thy servants side; Thou hast sworn no foe Shall lay me low Till the dead in arms against me ride."

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II.

Deliciously, deliciously Cometh the dancing dawn, Christine, Christine comes with it, Leading in the morn.

Beautiful pair!

So cometh the fawn Before the deer.

Christine is in her bower Beside the swift Isere Weaving a white flower With her dark brown hair.

Never, O never, Wandering river.

Though flowing for ever, E'er shalt thou mirror Maiden so fair!

Hail to thee, hail to thee, Beautiful one; Maiden to match thee, On earth there is none.

And there is none to tell How beautiful thou art: Though oft the first Rudel Has made the Princes start, When he has strung his harp and sung The Lily of Provence, Till the high halls have rung With clash of lifted lance Vowed to the young Christine of France.

Ah, true that he might paint The blooming of thy cheek.

The blue vein's tender streak On marble temple faint; Lips in whose repose Ruby weddeth rose.

Lips that parted show Ambushed pearl below: Or he may catch the subtle glow Of smiles as rare as sweet, May whisper of the drifted snow Where throat and bosom meet.

And of the dark brown braids that flow So grandly to thy feet.

Ah, true that he may sing Thy wondrous mien.

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Stately as befits a queen, Yet light and lithe and all awing As becometh Queen of air Who glideth unstepping everywhere.

And he might number e'en The charms that haunt the drapery-- Charms that, ever changing, cl.u.s.ter Round thy milk-white mantle's l.u.s.tre,-- Maiden mantle that is part of thee.

Maiden mantle that doth circle thee With the snows of virgin grace; Halo-like around thee wreathing, Spirit-like about thee breathing The glory of thy face.

But these dark eyes, Christine?

Peace, poet, peace, Cease, minstrel, cease!

But these dear eyes, Christine?

Mute, O mute Be voice and lute!

O dear dark eyes that seem to dwell With holiest things invisible, Who may read your oracle?

Earnest eyes that seem to rove Empyrean heights above, Yet aglow with human love.

Who may speak your spell?

Dear dark eyes that beam and bless, In whose luminous caress Nature weareth bridal dress,-- Eyes of voiceless Prophetess, Your meanings who may tell!

O there is none!

Peace, poet, peace.

Cease, minstrel, cease, For there is none!

O eyes of fire without desire, O stars that lead the sun!

But minstrel cease, Peace, poet, peace.

Tame Troubadour be still; Voice and lute Alike be mute, It pa.s.seth all your skill!

Sooth thou art fair, O ladye dear.

Yet one may see The shadow of the east in thee;

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Tinting to a riper flush The faint vermilion of thy blush; Deepening in thy dark brown hair Till suns.h.i.+ne sleeps in starlight there.

For she had scarce seen summers ten, When erst the Hermit's call Sent all true Knights from bower and hall Against the Saracen.

Young, motherless, and pa.s.sing fair, The Dauphin durst not leave her there, Within his castle lone, To kinsman's cold or casual care, Not such as were his own: And so the sweet Provencal maid Shared with her sire the first Crusade.

And you may hear her oft, In accents strangely soft.

Still singing of the rose's bloom In Sharon,--of the long sunset That gilds lamenting Olivet, Of eglantines that grace the gloom Of sad Gethsemane; And of a young Knight ever seen In evening walks along the green That fringes feeble Siloe.

Young, beautiful, and pa.s.sing fair-- The ancient Dauphin's only heir, The fairest flower of France,-- Knights by sea and Knights by land Came to claim the fair white hand, With sigh and suppliant lance; And many a s.h.i.+eld Displayed afield The Lily of Provence.

Ladye love of prince and bard Yet to one young Savoyard Swerveless faith she gave-- To the young knight ever seen When moonlight wandered o'er the green That gleams o'er Siloe's wave.

And he, blest boy, where lingers he?

For the Dauphin hath given slow consent That, after a joyous tournament, The stately spousals shall be.

Christine is in her bower That blooms by the swift Isere, Twining a white flower With her dark brown hair.

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The skies of Provence Are bright with her glance, And nature's matin organ floods The world with music from the myriad throats Of the winged Troubadours, whose joyous notes Brighten the rolling requiem of the woods.

With melody, flowers, and light Hath the maiden come to play, As fragile, fair, and bright And lovelier than they?

O no, she has come to her bower That blooms by the dark Isere For the bridegroom who named the first hour Of day-dawn to meet her there: But the bridal morn on the hills is born And the bridegroom is not here.

Hie thee hither, Savoyard, On such an errand youth rides hard.

Never knight so dutiful Maiden failed so beautiful: And she in such sweet need, And he so bold and true!-- She will watch by the long green avenue Till it quakes to the tramp of his steed; Till it echoes the neigh of the gallant Grey Spurred to the top of his speed.

In the dark, green, lonely avenue The Ladye her love-watch keepeth, Listening so close that she can hear The very dripping of the dew Stirred by the worm as it creepeth; Straining her ear For her lover's coming Till his steed seems near In the bee's far humming.

She stands in the silent avenue, Her back to a cypress tree; O Savoyard once bold and true, Late bridegroom, where canst thou be?

Hark! o'er the bridge that spans the river There cometh a clattering tread, Never was shaft from mortal quiver Ever so swiftly sped.

Onward the sound, Bound after, bound, Leapeth along the tremulous ground.

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From the nodding forest darting.

Leaves, like water, round them parting.

Up the long green avenue, Horse and horseman buret in view.

Marry, what ails the bridegroom gay That he strideth a coal black steed, Why cometh he not on the gallant Grey That never yet failed him at need?

Gone is the white plume, that clouded his crest, And the love-scarf that lightly lay over his breast; Dark is his s.h.i.+eld as the raven's wing To the funeral banquet hurrying.

Came ever knight in such sad array On the merry morn of his bridal day?

The Ladye trembles, and well she may; Saints, you would think him a fiend astray.

A plunge, a pause, and, fast beside her.

Stand the sable horse and rider.

Alas, Christine, this shape of wrath In Palestine once crossed thy path; His arm around thy waist, I trow, To bear thee to his saddle-bow.

But thy Savoyard was there.

In time to save, tho' not to smite, For the demon fled into the night From Miolan's matchless heir.

Alas, Christine, that lance lies low-- Lies low on oaken bier!