Collected Poems Volume II Part 92

Not till I saw before me in the lane The pedlar and my uncle did I halt And look at that which clasped my finger still As with a band of ice.

My hand was bare!

I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought I had been dreaming. There had been no ring!

The poor man I had left there in the porch, Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild; But only wished to look upon her grave.

And I--I was the madman! So I said Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts, I'd not go back that night to find the keys, No, not for all the rubies in the crown Of Prester John.

The high State Funeral Was held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sight For Peterborough! For myself, I found Small satisfaction in a catafalque That carried a dummy coffin. None the less, The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque, Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good, And worthy of a picture in his rhymes; The more because he said it shadowed forth The ironic face of Death.

The Masque, indeed Began before we buried her. For a host Of Mourners--Lords and Ladies--on Lammas eve Panting with eagerness of pride and place, Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp, And at the Bishop's Palace they found prepared A mighty supper for them, where they sat All at one table. In a Chamber hung With 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wine And feasted, while the torches and the Queen Crept through the darkness of Northampton lanes.

At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke, After the Queen was buried; and at eight The Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymes With tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lips Had more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it, Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells, And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:--

_Toll!_--From the Palace the Releevants creep,-- A hundred poor old women, nigh their end, Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each head An ell of snow-white holland which, some said, Afterwards they might keep, --_Ah, Toll!_--with nine new s.h.i.+llings each to spend, For all the trouble that they had, and all The sorrow of walking to this funeral.

_Toll!_--And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamed Following, a long procession, two by two, Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du Preau Her French Confessor, unafraid to show The golden Cross that gleamed About his neck, warned what the crowd might do Said _I will wear it, though I die for it!_ So subtle in malice was that Jesuit.

_Toll!_--Sir George Savile in his Mourner's Gown Carried the solemn Cross upon a Field Azure, and under it by a streamer borne Upon a field of Gules, an Unicorn Argent and, lower down, A scrolled device upon a blazoned s.h.i.+eld, Which seemed to say--I AM SILENT TILL THE END!-- _Toll! Toll!_--IN MY DEFENCE, G.o.d ME DEFEND!

_Toll!_--and a hundred poor old men went by, Followed by two great Bishops.--_Toll, ah toll!_-- Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four n.o.ble lords; Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords; Then, with a Bannerol, Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the sky The Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and Crest Borne by a Herald on his glittering breast.

And now--ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls-- That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall, Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by.

The Crown Imperial Burns on the Coffin-head. Four Bannerols On either side, uplifted by four squires, Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires.

_Toll!_ The Chief Mourner--the fair Russell!--_toll!_-- Countess of Bedford--_toll!_--they bring her now, Weeping under a purple Cloth of State, Till, halting there before the Minister Gate, Having in her control The fair White Staves of office, with a bow She gives them to her two great Earls again, Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train.

_Toll!_ At the high Cathedral door the Quires Meet them and lead them, singing all the while A mighty _Miserere_ for her soul!

Then, as the rolling organ--_toll, ah toll!_-- Floods every glimmering aisle With ocean-thunders, all those knights and squires Bring the false Coffin to the central nave And set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave.

The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wise Valanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold: All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were set Within it, as jewels in some huge carcanet: Above was this device IN MY DEFENCE, G.o.d ME DEFEND, inscrolled Round the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say "Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day."

The s.e.xton paused anew. All looked at him, And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand, As if, in that dim light, beclouded now With blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to see The smouldering ruby again.

"Ye know," he said, "How master William Wickham preached that day?"

Ford nodded. "I have heard of it. He showed Subtly, O very subtly, after his kind, That the white Body of Beauty such as hers Was in itself Papistical, a feast, A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering, And an Abomination in the sight Of all true Protestants. Why, her very name Was Mary!"

"Ay, that's true, that's very true!"

The s.e.xton mused. "Now that's a strange deep thought!

The Bishop missed a text in missing that.

Her name, indeed, was Mary!"

"Did you find Your keys again?" "Ay, Sir, I found them!" "Where?"

"Strange you should ask me that! After the throng Departed, and the n.o.bles were at feast, All in the Bishop's Palace--a great feast And worthy of their sorrow--I came back Carrying my uncle's second bunch of keys To lock the doors and search, too, for mine own.

'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrust The key into the lock, the great grey porch Grew cold upon me, like a tomb.

I pushed Hard at the key--then stopped--with all my flesh Freezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs, The door was locked already, and--_from within_!

I drew the key forth quietly and stepped back Into the Churchyard, where the graves were warm With sunset still, and the blunt carven stones Lengthened their homely shadows, out and out, To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart, Seeing the footprints of that mighty Masque Along the pebbled path. A queer thought came Into my head that all the world without Was but a Masque, and I was creeping back, Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again.

Yet--I grew bold, and tried the Southern door.

'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner side To foil my own, and softly, softly, click, I turned it, and with heart, sirs, in my mouth, Pushed back the studded door and entered in ...

Stepped straight out of the world, I might have said, Out of the dusk into a night so deep, So dark, I trembled like a child....

And then I was aware, sirs, of a great sweet wave Of incense. All the gloom was heavy with it, As if her Papist Household had returned To pray for her poor soul; and, my fear went.

But either that strange incense weighed me down, Or else from being sorely over-tasked, A languor came upon me, and sitting there To breathe a moment, in a velvet stall, I closed mine eyes.

A moment, and no more, For then I heard a rustling in the nave, And opened them; and, very far away, As if across the world, in Rome herself, I saw twelve tapers in the solemn East, And saw, or thought I saw, cowled figures kneel Before them, in an incense-cloud.

And then, Maybe the sunset deepened in the world Of masques without--clear proof that I had closed Mine eyes but for a moment, sirs, I saw As if across a world-without-end tomb, A tiny jewelled glow of crimson panes Darkening and brightening with the West.

And then, Then I saw something more--Queen Mary's vault, And--it was open!...

Then, I heard a voice, A strange deep broken voice, whispering love In soft French words, that clasped and clung like hands; And then--two shadows pa.s.sed against the West, Two blurs of black against that crimson stain, Slowly, O very slowly, with bowed heads, Leaning together, and vanished into the dark Beyond the Catafalque.

Then--I heard him pray,-- And knew him for the man that prayed to me,-- Pray as a man prays for his love's last breath!

And then, O sirs, it caught me by the throat, And I, too, dropped upon my knees and prayed; For, as in answer to his prayer, there came A moan of music, a mighty shuddering sound From the great organ, a sound that rose and fell Like seas in anger, very far away; And then a peal of thunder, and then it seemed, As if the graves were giving up their dead, A great cowled host of shadows rose and sang;--

_Dies irae, dies illa Solvet saeclum in favilla, Teste David c.u.m Sibylla._

I heard her sad, sad, little, broken voice, Out in the darkness. 'Ay, and David, too, His blood is on the floors of Holyrood, To speak for me.' Then that great ocean-sound Swelled to a thunder again, and heaven and earth Shrivelled away; and in that huge slow hymn Chariots were driven forth in flaming rows, And terrible trumpets blown from deep to deep.

And then, ah then, the heart of heaven was hushed, And--in the hush--it seemed an angel wept, Another Mary wept, and gathering up All our poor wounded, weary, way-worn world, Even as a Mother gathers up her babe, Soothed it against her breast, and rained her tears On the pierced feet of G.o.d, and melted Him To pity, and over His feet poured her deep hair.

The music died away. The shadows knelt.

And then--I heard a rustling nigh the tomb, And heard--and heard--or dreamed I heard--farewells, Farewells for everlasting, deep farewells, Bitter as blood, darker than any death.

And, at the last, as in a kiss, one breath, One agony of sweetness, like a sword For sharpness, drawn along a soft white throat; And, for its terrible sweetness, like a sigh Across great waters, very far away,-- _Sweetheart!_

And then, like doors, like world-without-end doors That shut for Everlasting, came a clang, And ringing, echoing, through the echo of it, One terrible cry that plucked my heart-strings out, _Mary!_ And on the closed and silent tomb, Where there were two, one shuddering shadow lay, And then--I, too,--reeled, swooned and knew no more.

Sirs, when I woke, there was a broad bright shaft Of moonlight, slanting through an Eastern pane Full on her tomb and that black Catafalque.

And on the tomb there lay--my bunch of keys!

I struggled to my feet, Ashamed of my wild fancies, like a man Awakening from a drunken dream. And yet, When I picked up the keys, although that storm Of terror had all blown by and left me calm, I lifted up mine eyes to see the scroll Round the rich crest of that dark canopy, IN MY DEFENCE, G.o.d ME DEFEND. The moon Struck full upon it; and, as I turned and went, G.o.d help me, sirs, though I were loyal enough To good Queen Bess, I could not help but say, _Amen!_ And yet, methought it was not I that spake, But some deep soul that used me for a mask, A soul that rose up in this hollow sh.e.l.l Like dark sea-tides flooding an empty cave.

I could not help but say with my poor lips, _Amen! Amen!_ Sirs, 'tis a terrible thing To move in great events. Since that strange night I have not been as other men. The tides Would rise in this dark cave"--he tapped his skull-- "Deep tides, I know not whence; and when they rose My friends looked strangely upon me and stood aloof.

And once, my uncle said to me--indeed, It troubled me strangely,--'Timothy,' he said, 'Thou art translated! I could well believe Thou art two men, whereof the one's a fool, The other a prophet. Or else, beneath thy skin There lurks a changeling! What hath come to thee?'

And then, sirs, then--well I remember it!

'Twas on a summer eve, and we walked home Between high ghostly hedges white with may-- And uncle Robin, in his holy-day suit Of Reading Tawny, felt his old heart swell With pride in his great memories. He began Chanting the pedlar's tune, keeping the time Thus, jingle, jingle, slowly, with his keys:--

I

Douglas, in the moonless night --_m.u.f.fled oars on blue Loch Leven!_-- Took her hand, a flake of white --_Beauty slides the bolts of heaven._-- Little white hand, like a flake of snow, When they saw it, his Highland crew Swung together and murmured low, "Douglas, wilt _thou_ die then, too?"

And the pine trees whispered, weeping, "_Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!_ Little white hand like a tender moonbeam, soon shall you set the broadswords leaping, It is the Queen, the Queen!" they whispered, watching her soar to the saddle anew.

"There will be trumpets blown in the mountains, a mist of blood on the heather, and weeping, Weeping, weeping, and _thou_, too, dead for her, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true."

II

Carry the queenly la.s.s along!

--_Cold she lies, cold and dead,_-- She whose laughter was a song, --_Lapped around with sheets of lead!_-- She whose blood was wine of the South, --_Light her down to a couch of clay!_-- And a royal rose her mouth, And her body made of may!

--Lift your torches, weeping, weeping, Light her down to a couch of clay.

They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping, Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance!

Hus.h.!.+ Between the solemn pinewoods, carry the lovely lady sleeping, Out of the cold grey Northern mists, with banner and scutcheon, plume, and lance, Carry her southward, palled in purple, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,-- _O, ma patrie, La plus cherie, Adieu, plaisant pays de France!_

Well, sirs, that dark tide rose within my brain!

I s.n.a.t.c.hed his keys and flung them over the hedge, Then flung myself down on a bank of ferns And wept and wept and wept.

It puzzled him.

Perchance he feared my mind was going and yet, O, sirs, if you consider it rightly now, With all those ages knocking at his doors, With all that custom clamouring for his care, Is it so strange a grave-digger should weep?

Well--he was kind enough and heaped my plate That night at supper.

But I could never dig my graves at ease In Peterborough Churchyard. So I came To London--to St. Mary Magdalen's.

And thus, I chanced to drink my ale one night Here in the Mermaid Inn. 'Twas All Souls' Eve, And, on that bench, where master Ford now sits Was master Shakespeare-- Well, the lights burned low, And just like master Ford to-night he leaned Suddenly forward. 'Timothy,' he said, 'That's a most marvellous ruby!'

My blood froze!