Accolon of Gaul Part 5

Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyes Are dew-drops where twin heavens s.h.i.+ne confessed; She, all the maiden modesty's surprise Blus.h.i.+ng her temples,--to deep loins and breast Tempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed,-- Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wise Of some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed, Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone, In rapport with shy Silence to make sound; So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to bound A thistle's flas.h.i.+ng to a woody rise, A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.

IV.

Hear Satyrs and Sylva.n.u.s in sad shades Of dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark dance With rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades: Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance, Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glance The advent of some Innocence, who wades Thro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance, In braided shadows, when two hairy arms Hug her unconscious beauty panting white; Till tearful terror, struggling into might, Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades, Exhausted, to the grim l.u.s.t her rich charms.

THE LAST SCION OF THE HOUSE OF CLARE.

_Year 13--._

Barbican, bartizan, battlement, With the Abergavenny mountains blent, Look, from the Raglan tower of Gwent, My lord Hugh Clifford's ancient home Shows, clear morns of the Spring or Summer, Thrust out like thin flakes o' a silver foam From a climbing cloud, for the hills gloom glummer, Being s.h.a.ggy with heath, yon.--I was his page; A favorite then; and he of that age When a man will love and be loved again, Or die in the wars or a monastery: Or toil till he stifle his heart's hard pain, Or drink, drug his hopes and his lost love bury.

I was his page; and often we fared Thro' the Clare desmene in Autumn hawking-- If the baron had known how he would have glared From their bushy brows eyes dark with mocking!

--That of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean-- Had growled to his yeomen, "A score! mount, Keene!

Forth and spit me this Clifford, or hang With his crop-eared page to the closest oak!"

For he and the Cliffords had ever a fang In the other's side,... but I see him choke And strangle with wrath when his hawker told-- If he told!--how we met on that flowery wold His daughter, sweet Hortense of Clare, the day Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst To trail with its galling jesses away; An untrained haggard the falconer cursed, Vain whistled to lure; when the eyas sped Slant, low and heavily overhead By us; and Sir Hugh,--who had just then cast His peregrine fierce at a heron-quarry,-- In his stirrups rising, thus--as it pa.s.sed, By the jesses caught and to her did carry, Lingering slender and tall by a rose Whence she pulled the berries--But no two foes Her eyes and Sir Hugh's!--And I swear each felt A song in their hearts!--For I heard him quaver Somewhat and then--by Mary!--he knelt!-- And the Lady herself in her words did waver And wonder with smiles. Then daintily took The hawk on her fist where it pruned and shook Its callowness ragged, as Hugh did seize Softly the other hand long and white,-- Reached forth to him craving him rise from his knees,-- And mouthed with moist kisses an hundred quite.

Tho' she blushed up burning, no frowned "Beware!"

But seemed so happy! when crus.h.i.+ng thro'-- Her st.u.r.dy retainer with swarthy stare-- The underwoods burst; and her maiden crew Drew near them naming her name, and came With leaves and dim Autumn blossoms aflame.-- "Their words?" I know not! for how should I?-- I paged my master but was no spy.

Nothings, I think, as all lovers', you know; Yet how should I hear such whispered low, Quick by the wasted woodland yellow?

When up thro' the brush thrashed that burly fellow With his ale-coa.r.s.e face, and so made a pause In the pulse of their words, there my lord Sir Hugh Stood with the soil on his knee: No cause Had he--but his hanger he halfway drew-- Then paused, thrust it _clap_ in its sheath again And bowed to the Lady and strode away; Up, vault, on his steed--and we rode amain Gay to his towers that merry day.

He loved and was loved,--why, I knew!--for look, All other sports for the chase he forsook; To ride in the Raglan marches and hawk And to hunt and to wander. And found a lair, In the Strongbow forest, of bush and of rock, Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare, How often I wis not, met him by chance-- Perhaps!--Sweet sorceress out of romance, Those tomes of Geoffrey--for she was fair!

Her large, warm eyes and hair,... ah, hair, How may one picture or liken it!

With the golden gloss of its full brown, fit For the Viviane face of lovable white Beneath;--like a star that a cloud of night Stops over to threaten but never will drench Its tremulous beauty with mists that quench.--

Heigho!--but they ceased, those meetings. I wot Watched of the baron, his menial crew; For she loved too well to have once forgot The place and the time of their trysting true.

But she came not--ah! and again came not: "_Why and when?_" would question Sir Hugh In his labored scrawls a crevice of rock-- The lovers' post--in its coigne would lock.

Until near Yule Love gat them again A twilight tryst--by frowardness sure.-- They met. And that day was gray with rain-- Or snow, and the wind did ever endure A long, bleak moaning thorough the wood, Smarted the cheek and chapped i' the blood; And a burne in the forest cried "sob and sob,"

And whimpered forever a chopping throb Thro' the rope-taunt boughs like a thing pursued.

--And there it was that he learned how she (My faith! how it makes me burn and quiver To think what a miserable despot he-- Lord Richard Strongbow, aye and ever To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed With an Eastern Earl--some Lovell: one whom (That G.o.d in His mercy had smote him dead!) Hortense of Clare--but in baby bloom-- Never had mirrored with maiden eyes.

Sealed over a baby to strengthen some ties-- Of power or wealth--had been bartered then And sold and purchased, and now ... but when To her lover, the Clifford, she told this--there He had faced with his love the talons of Death-- Only for her, who did stay with a stare Of reproach all his heat and say in a breath, "Is love, that thou sware to me aye and so often, To live too feeble or--how?--doth it soften And weaken away and--to die?--why die?-- Live and be strong! and this is why."-- Her words are glued here so!... I remember All as well as that sullen December, That bl.u.s.tered and bullied about them and Spat stiff its spiteful and cold-cutting snow Where they talked there dreamily hand in hand, While the rubbing boughs clashed rattling low.

Her last words these, "By curfew sure On Christmas eve at the postern door."

And we were there, and a void horse too: Armed: for a journey I hardly knew Whither, but why you well can guess.

I could have uttered a certain name-- Our comrade's sure--of what loveliness!

Waited with love, impatience aflame.

While Raglan bulged its baronial girth To roar to its battlements Yule and song; Retainers loud rollicked in wa.s.sail and mirth Where the mistletoe 'round the vast hearths hung, And holly beberried the elden wall Of curious oak in the banqueting hall.

And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned With flesh; where the whole wild-boar was roasted And the dun-deer flanks and the roebuck haunches; Fat tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted, Old casks of wine were broached for paunches Of the va.s.sals that reveled in bower and stall; Pale pages who diced and bluff henchmen who quarr'led Or swore in their cups, while lean mastiffs all, O'er bones of the feast in their kennels snarled; For Hortense--drink! drink!--by the Virgin's leave, Were wed to this Lovell this Christmas Eve.

"Was she long--Did she come?"... By that postern we Like shadows lurked. Said my lord Sir Hugh: "Yon tower, remember!--that cas.e.m.e.nt, see!-- When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue And signals thrice slowly, thus--'tis she."

And about his person his gaberdine drew, For the wind it hugged and the snow beat thro'.

Did she come?--We had watched for an hour or twain Ere that light burned there in the central pane And was flourished thrice and departed so.

Then closer we packed to the postern portal Horses and all in the stinging snow.

Stiff with the cold was I.--Immortal Minutes we waited breath-bated and listened Shuddering there in the gusty gale.

Whizzing o'er parapets sifted and glistened Wild drift, thro' battlements hissed in a veil.

Quoth my lord Sir Hugh, for his love was a-heat, "She feels for the spring in the hidden panel 'Neath the tapestry ... ah! thou hast pressed it, sweet!

--How black gulps open the secret channel!

Now cautiously step, and thy bridal garb Swirled warm with a mantle o' fur ... she plants One foot--then a pause--on the stair--So, Barb, So!--If the tempest that barks and pants Would throttle itself with its yelps! then I Might hear but one footstep echo and sing Down the ugly ... there! 'tis her fingers try The ma.s.sy bolts which the rust makes cling."

But ever some whim of the wind that shook The clanging ring of a creaking hook In the b.u.t.tress or wall; and we waited so Till the East grew gray. Did she come?--ah, no!

I must tell you why, and enough: 'Tis said On the eve of the marriage she fled the side Of the baron, the bridegroom too she fled, With a mischievous laugh, "_I'll hide! I'll hide!_ Seek! and be sure to seek well!" and led A wild chase after her, but defied All search for--a score and ten more years, And the laughter of Yule was changed to tears.

But they searched and the snow was bleared with the glare Of torches that hurried thro' chamber and stair; And tower and court re-echoed her name, But she laughed no answer and never came.

So over the channel to France with his King And the Black Prince, sailed to the wars--to deaden The ache of the mystery--Hugh that Spring, And fell at Poitiers: for his loss lay leaden On hope, and his life was a weary sadness, So he flung it away with a very gladness.

And the baron died--and the bridegroom, well,-- Unlucky that bridegroom, sooth!--to tell Of him there is nothing. The baron died; The last of the Strongbows he, gramercy!

And the Clare estate with its wealth and its pride Devolved to the Bloets, Walter or Percy.

Ten years and a score thereafter. And they Ransacked the old castle and mark!--one day In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest From Flanders, of sinister ebon, carved Sardonic with masks 'round an olden crest, Gargoyle faces distorted and starved: Fast fixed with a spring which they forced and lo!

When they opened it--ha, Hortense!--or, no!-- Fantastic a skeleton jeweled and wreathed With flowers of dust, and a minever About it hugged, which quaint richness sheathed Of a bridal raiment and lace with fur.

--I'd have given such years of my life--yes, well!-- As were left me then so her lover, Hugh, For such time breathed as it took one to tell How she forever, deemed false, was true!

He'd have known how it was, "For, you see, in groping For the puny spring of that panel--hoping And fearing as nearer and nearer grew The boisterous scramble--why, out she blew Her windy taper and quick--in this chest Wary would lie for--a minute, mayhap, Till the hurry all pa.s.sed; but the death-lock pressed --Ere her heart was aware--with a hungry snap."

ON THE JELLICO-SPUR.

TO MY FRIEND, JOHN FOX, JR.

You remember, the deep mist,-- Climbing to the Devil's Den-- Blue beneath us in the glen And above us amethyst, Throbbed and circled and away Thro' the wild-woods opposite, Torn and shattered, morning-lit, Scurried up a dewy gray.

Vague as in Romance we saw From the fog one riven trunk, Its huge h.o.r.n.y talons shrunk, Thrust a hungry dragon's claw.

And we climbed two hours thro'

The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, To that wooded rock that shows Undulating peaks of blue: The vast c.u.mberlands that sleep, Weighed with soaring forests, far To the concave welkin's bar, Leagues on leagues of purple sweep.

Range exalted over range Billowed their enormous spines, And we heard the priestly pines Hum the wisdom of their change.

We were sons of Nature then; She had taken us to her, Closer drawn by brier and burr, There on lonely Devil's Den.

We were pupils of her moods: Taught the beauties of her loins In those bloom-anointed coignes,-- Love in her eternal woods: How she bore or flower or bud; Pithed the wiry sapling-oak; In the long vine zeal awoke Aye to climb a leafy flood.

Her waste fantasies of birth: Sponge-like exudations fair-- Dainty fungi everywhere Bulging from the loamy earth.

Coral-vegetable things; Crystals clamily exhaled; Bulbous, marble-ribbed and scaled, Vip'rous colored; then close rings Of the Indian Pipe that cleft Pink and white the woodland lax,-- Blossoms of a natural wax The brown mountain-fairies left.

We on that parched precipice, Stretched beneath the chestnuts' burrs, Breathed the balsam of the firs, Felt the blue sky like a kiss.

Soft that heaven; stainless as The grand woodlands lunging on, Wound majestic in the sun, Or as our devotion was!

Freedom sat there cragged we saw, Freedom whom hoa.r.s.e forests sang; Heaven-browed her eyes, whence sprang Audience august with law.

Wildernesses, from her hips Sprung the giant forests there, Tossed the cataracts from her hair, Thunders lightened from her lips.

Oft some scavenger, with vane Motionless, above we knew Wheeled thro' alt.i.tudes of blue By his rapid shadow's stain.

Or some cloud of sunny white,-- Puffed a lazy drift of pearl,-- Balmy breezes o'er would whirl Shot with coruscating light.

So we dreamed an hour upon Those warm rocks, dry, lichen-scabbed.

Lounged beneath long leaves that dabbed At us coins of shade and sun.

Then arose and down some gorge Made a bowldered torrent broad The hurled pathway of our road Tumbled down the mountain large.

At that farm-house, which you know, Where old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers spun Gay rag-carpets in the sun, By green apple-boughs built low, Rested from our hot descent; One deep draught of cider cool, Unctuous, our fierce veins to dull At old Hix's eloquent....

On Wolf Mountain died the light; A colossal blossom, rayed With rent petaled clouds that played 'Round a calyxed fury bright.

Down the moist mint-scented vale To the mining camp we turned, Thro' the twilight faint discerned With its crowded cabins pale.

Ah! those nights!--We wandered forth On some shadow-haunted path When the moon was late and rathe The large stars; sowed south and north, Cl.u.s.tered bursting heavens down: And the milky zodiac, Rolled athwart the belted black, Myriad-million-moted shone.

And in dreams we sauntered till In the valley pale beneath, From a dew-drop's vapored breath To faint ghosts, there gathered still, Grave creations weird of mist: Then we knew the moonrise near, As with necromance the air Pulsed to pearl and amethyst.

Shrilled the insects of the dusk, Grated, buzzed and strident sung Till each leaf seemed tuned and strung For high Pixy music brusque.

Stealing steps and stealthy sighs As of near unhallowed things, Rustled hair or fluttered wings, Seemed about us; then the eyes Of plumed phantom warriors Burned mesmeric from some bush Mournful in the goblin hush, Then materialized to stars.