Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 7

III.

In Euphan Barnet's lowly room, Adown that darksome wynd, A ladye fair is lying there, In illness sair declined; Her cheeks now like the lily pale, The roses waned away, Her eyes so bright have lost their light, Her lips are like the clay.

On her fair breast a missal rests, Illumed with various dyes, In which were given far views of heaven In old transparencies.

There hangs the everlasting cross Of emerald and of gold, That cross of Christ so often kissed When she her beads had told.

Those things are all forgotten now, Far other thoughts remain; And as she dreams she ever renes, "I seek for Ballenden."

Oh Ballenden! oh Ballenden!

Whatever, where'er thou be, That ladye fair is dying there, And all for love of thee.

IV.

In the old howf of the Canongate There is a little lair, And on it grows a pure white rose, By love implanted there; And o'er it hangs a youthful man, With a cloud upon his brow, And sair he moans, and sair he groans, For her who sleeps below.

No n.o.ble lord nor banneret, Nor courtly knight is he, No more than a simple advocate, Who pleadeth for his fee.

He holds a letter in his hand, On which bleared eyes are bent, It came afar from Almanzar, The Duke of Bonavent--

A n.o.ble duke whom he had seen In his castle by the sea, When for one night he claimed the right Of his high courtesie; And that letter said, "Kind sir, I write In sorrow, sooth to say, That my dear child, fair Emergilde, Hath from us flown away;

"And all the trace that I can find Is this, and nothing more, She took to sea at Tripoli For Scotland's distant sh.o.r.e.

It is a feat of strange conceit That fills us with alarms: Oh seek about, and find her out, And send her to our arms."

V.

And who is he this letter reads With tears the words atween?

Yea! even he she had sought to see, The sair-sought Ballenden.

Yet little little had he thought, When away in that far countrie, That a look she had got of a humble Scot Would ever remembered be.

But tho' he had deemed himself forgot By one so far away, Her image had still, against his will, Him haunted night and day.

And when he laid him on his bed, And sair inclined to sleep, That face would still, against his will, Its holy vigil keep.

Oh gentle youth, thou little thought, When away in our north countrie, That up and down, thro' all the town, That ladye sought for thee.

And little little did thou wot What in Euphan's room was seen, Where, as she died, she whispering sighed, "I die for Ballenden."[A]

[Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who, having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without ever having seen her. In 1162 he quitted the court of England and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her on board a vessel, visited him on s.h.i.+pboard, took him by the hand, and attempted to cheer him. Rudel recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his pa.s.sion, when his expressions of grat.i.tude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry which the countess raised to his memory. His verses "On Distant Love" were well known. They began thus:

Angry and sad shall be my way If I behold not her afar, And yet I know not when that day Shall rise, for still she dwells afar.

G.o.d, who has formed this fair array Of worlds, and placed my love afar, Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray, Of seeing her I love afar.

VII.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR.

I.

The baron has gone to the hunting green, All by the ancient Castle of Weir, With his guest, Sir Hubert, of Norman kin, And a maiden, his only daughter dear-- The Ladye Tomasine, famed around For beauty as well as for courtesie, Wherever might sensible heads be found, Or ears to listen, or eyes to see.

Nor merely skin-deep was she fair: She had a spirit both true and leal, As all about the Castle of Weir Were many to know, and many to tell.

Right well she knew what it was to feel Grim poverty in declining day, With a purse to ope, and a hand to deal, And tears to bless what she gave away; Yet she was blithe and she was gay.

And now she has gone to the hunting green, All on this bright and suns.h.i.+ny day, To fly her favourite peregrine, With her hunting coat of the baudykin, Down which there flowed her raven hair, And her kirtle of the red sendal fine, With an eagle's plume in her heading gear.

II.

If the knight had not a hawk on his wrist, He had kestrel eyes both cunning and keen, And the quarry of which he was in quest Was the heart of the lovely Tomasine; But the ladye thought him a kestrel kite, With a grovelling eye to the farmer's coop, And wanted the bold and daring flight That mounts to the sun to make a swoop.

The Baron of Weir points to the sky, "Ho! ho! a proud heron upon the wing!

Unhood, my Tomasine dear, untie!

Off with the jesses--away him fling!"

"Up! up! my Guy," cried the laughing maid, As with nimble fingers she him unjessed, "Up! up! and away! and earn thy bread, Then back to thy mistress to be caressed."

Up sprang the bird with a joyful cry, And eyed his quarry, yet far away, Still up and up in the dark blue sky, That he might aim a swoop on his prey; Then down as the lightning bolt of Jove On the heron, who, giving a scream of fear, Shoots away from his enemy over above, And makes for the rus.h.i.+ng Water of Weir.

III.

The Water of Weir is rus.h.i.+ng down, Foaming and furious, muddy and brown, From the heights where the laughing Naiads dwell, And cascades leap from the craggy fell, Where the mountain streamlets brattle and brawl, 'Midst the mountain maidens' echoing call, Through pools where the water-kelpies wait For the rider who dares the roaring spate.

Rain-fed, proud, turgid, and swollen, Now foaming wild, now sombre and sullen; Dragging the rushes from banks and braes, Tearing the drooping branches of trees, Rolling them down by scallop and scaur, Involving all in a watery war-- Turned, and whirled, and swept along, Down to the sea to be buried and gone.

The peregrine, fixed on the wader's back, Is carried along in her devious track, As with a weak and a wailing scream The victim crosses the raging stream.

"I will lose, I will lose my gay peregrine!"

Cried shrilly the Ladye Tomasine: She will hurry across the bridge of wood, With its rail of wattle which long hath stood; Her nimble feet are upon the plank That will bear her over from bank to bank; She has crossed it times a thousandfold: Time brings youth and Time makes old; The wattles have rotted while she was growing, The wind is up and the waters rowing, And to keep her feet she must use her hand.

"Come back! come back!" was the baron's command, Too late!--go wattles--a piercing scream!

And the maid falls into the roaring stream!

Round and round, in eddying whirl, Who shall save the peris.h.i.+ng girl?

Round and round, and down and away, Nothing to grasp, and nothing to stay.

The baron stands fixed and wrings his hands, And looks to Sir Hubert, who trembling stands.

Sir Hubert! one moment now is thine-- The next! and a power no less than divine Can save this maid of so many charms From the grasp of Death's enfolding arms.

Spring! spring! Sir Hubert, the moment is thine To save a life, and a love to win.

No! no! the dastard kestrel kite Aye hugs the earth in his stealthy flight.

Hope gone! the pool at the otter's cave Will prove the Ladye Tomasine's grave.

Ho! ho! see yonder comes rus.h.i.+ng down A lithe young hind, though a simple clown-- Off bonnet and shoes, and coat and vest, A plunge! and he holds her round the waist!

Three strokes of his arm, with his beautiful prize All safe, although faint, on the bank she lies!

A cottager's wife came running down, "Take care of the ladye," said the clown.

He has donned his clothes, and away he has gone, His name unuttered, his home unknown.

IV.

Up in the ancient Castle of Weir Sat the baron, the knight, and the fair Tomasine; And the baron he looked at his daughter dear, While the salt tears bleared his aged eyne; And then to the steward, with hat in hand: "Make known unto all, from Tweed to Tyne, A hundred rose n.o.bles I'll give to the man Who saved the life of my Tomasine."

Sir Hubert cried out, in an envious vein, "Who is he that will vouch for the lurdan loon?

There's no one to say he would know him again, And another may claim the golden boon."

Then said the ladye, "My eyes were closed, And I never did see this wondrous man; And the cottar woman she hath deposed He was gone ere his features she could scan."