Complete Works of Frank Norris

by Frank Norris

For misery is the same in ev’ry age;

  Oppression, famine, poverty, and strife

  Ground down the Pharaoh’s swart vassalage

  E’en as with us they grind the humbler life.

  Like as the eupatrid made the helot serve;

  Like as the Roman equite crushed the plebs;

  Like as the baron long oppressed the serf,

  Wat’ring with blood and sweat his hungry glebes;

  And listening to each epoch’s woful cries,

  And hearing them re-echoed in our own, —

  With them we, can the quicker sympathize.

  We love to tell of ills ourselves have known;

  Like evils swarm each land, each century;

  Grief hath no age, no nationality.

  But Pleasure’s beaming front and joyous face

  With ev’ry epoch changes swift its hue,

  And ev’ry nation, each succeeding race,

  Produces for itself enjoyments new.

  The eupatrid with fair tumultuous glance

  Before the Olympian games raised loud acclaim;

  Rejoiced to see the circling choric dance,

  The chariot fly, or the dull cestus maim.

  Within the Coliseum’s mighty girth

  The equite Habet cried with down-turned thumb.

  Over the tournament’s red-listed earth

  The baron bent, while not a voice was dumb;

  Real blood — real death — real gasp and dying moan —

  Aroused the equite’s mind, the baron’s heart;

  While we, a dainty age, and milder grown,

  Find our diversion in the mimic art;

  The merits of an age are all its own,

  Its evils are those common to mankind.

  We cannot claim its virtues when ’tis flown,

  We are but heirs of ills it leaves behind.

  The glorious arts of Greece with Greece expired,

  What age has ever followed where she led?

  Where now that iron justice which inspired

  The Roman sire his offspring’s blood to shed?

  And where is now that doubtless faith and blind,

  The valor, love, romance, and poetry,

  That sacred reverence for womankind,

  That roused self-sacrificing chivalry?

  Romance, pure Art, stern Justice, all are flown!

  Flown with the age by which they were ordained.

  Whate’er the merits be we call our own,

  Such now, by us, can never be attained. — .

  But ev’ry evil which their states perplexed

  They have bequeathed to us to work us woe.

  Still unresolved that evil which them vexed,

  That never-ending strife ‘twixt high and low.

  The feudal baron from his gloomy tower

  Rode o’er his host of toiling serfs rough-shod;

  And oft they felt his steel’s resistless power,

  And oft they writhed beneath his cruel rod.

  The feudal baron yet remains to-day,

  But, changed into the modern moneyed lord,

  Still o’er the people holds more cruel sway,

  But ’tis with hoarded gold and not with sword.

  Still do his vassals feel his iron heel.

  His power awes — his government alarms;

  Still rings the world with sound? of clashing steel:

  ’Tis of machinery and not of arms.

  Still live the grievances of feudal day,

  But all its romance perished when it died,

  E’en as the hue and fragrance pass away

  Soon as the rose is dead and flung aside.

  The pride, the pomp, the pageantry, are fled;

  What once to all was well-known commonplace

  Is told in legends, or is wholly dead,

  Or undervalued by a colder race.

  Yet time there was when squire, page, and knight

  Portcullis, keep, and barbican were real;

  When tournaments were things of daily sight,

  And Chivalry arrayed in flashing steel; —

  And time there was when the brave errant-knight

  Was not a fancy of a minstrel’s tale,

  But fought in very earnest for the right,

  Or wandered wide to find the Holy Grail;

  Or when on bridge or road, backed by his page,

  He held his post with ever-ready lance,

  And pledged himself all comers to engage

  To win the favor of his lady’s glance.

  CANTO I. HOW SIR CAVERLAYE OF VOYSVENEL DEPARTED FROM SPAIN AND CAME INTO FRANCE.

  “LET soft entreaty cease then here,

  Let fall no more the idle tear,

  And let reproach and meek complaint

  Be bounded by their fit restraint.

  I cease to din your wearied ears

  With further grief-begotten prayers.

  All my fond heart I gave to you,

  A heart that loved as love but few,

  And now I spare to rave and burn

  Because that priceless gift you spurn;

  But though my breast with pain is torn

  Still shall you listen to my scorn.

  “And in your pride did you then think

  That Guhaldrada e’er would sink

  Dejected, when you cooled apace?

  And, when you wearied of her face,

  Sink, and then fade like some meek flower,

  The sun’s poor plaything for an hour,

  Who, when he drew his beams away,

  Pined — sickened — died before its day?

  “If thus you thought, well did it show

  That her you did as little know

  As you knew how your heart to move,

  As you know what it is to love! —

  Ay, and of love what couldst thou know?

  The cold, thin blood that feedeth slow

  The starved mouths of your shrivelled heart

  To warm pulsations ne’er could start;

  Your veins ne’er throbbed in love’s fierce tide,

  You no wild, headstrong passions ride;

  You cannot know the fire that doth

  Burn in the Spanish Visigoth, —

  A love that soul and body thrills

  As earth and air the sunlight fills;

  A love itself no limits sets,

  A love that man and God forgets.

  For him it loves fair fame forsakes,

  Of him it loves a god it makes,

  Leaves love of God un recked apart,

  Leaves God of soul for god of heart.

  Yet why such speech to you address?

  For you such words are meaningless, —

  Words that sound light as zephyrs do, —

  Yet with such love I once loved you.

  Ay — for I scorn it to conceal —

  Thou’st ever tricked and cozened well.

  Go now, and to men’s scornful eyes

  Exultingly display your prize.

  Proud Guhaldrada’s quivering heart,

  Which, by the finesse of your art,

  You from her bosom deftly reft;

  Go, — glory in your skilful theft!

  “Though in your palm my fond heart lies,

  It, for itself, you love nor prize,

  Or prize it only as it bears

  The proof of your successful snares.

  The savage queens who ta’en in war

  Adorned the Cæsar’s gilded car

  Were dear to him, but only dear

  As trophies of triumphant war.

  And thus go thou, and vaunting prove

  The conquest of my boundless love.

  Yet think not Guhaldrada’s love

  Can, like an outworn hawking-glove,

  Be tossed off that a newer one

  And fresher ye may lightly don;

  Think not a rival she would brook

  To pity her with soothing look.

  “Though her, awea
ried, you may spurn,

  Ne’er to another shalt thou turn.

  Thou palest now — ha! be it so?

  Then listen, traitor, e’er you go:

  I know not if within your breast

  Another lives, a cherished guest,

  Or if, incensed at this delay,

  Towards her ye burn to wend your way.

  But if within the ocean’s bound

  There such a one be haply found,

  Let my deep curse be o’er her shed

  Drear as the pall that sheets the dead;

  Thus, though ’tis given as a foe,

  One kiss on thee I here bestow,

  And cursed the lips that next shall press

  Thine own in love and tenderness.

  May all their life’s deep ruby hue

  Fly from that pledge of lovers true;

  When on her lips you print that kiss,

  May that one moment’s fleeting bliss,

  That sets her cheek in gentle glow,

  Be e’en the last she e’er shall know.

  From that same instant may foul fame

  Cling like a blight about her name;

  May evil crouch behind her back,

  Misfortune press upon her track.

  May that one kiss become a blot

  Upon her life, and fest’ring rot,

  And, like a canker, ever grow

  Until it hath consuméd slow

  Her friends, her peace, her love, her life,

  Turned fellowship to mortal strife,

  Made her abhorred of her own mind,

  Her name a byword to mankind;

  And, like that born of Judas’ breath,

  Be it the herald of her death.

  Blinded by staring eyes of scorn,

  Deafened by shouts of hatred born,

  Dazed, stunned, and reft of ev’ry hope,

  Eagerly downward may she grope,

  Down to that tomb, her welcome rest;

  Down to that self-dug grave, unblest;

  Buried in ruin self-devised,

  Disowned, dishonored, and despised.”

  When she had ceased, when, proud and tall,

  She’d swept, disdainful, from the hall,

  Sir Caverlaye of Voysvenel

  Sat long, as one beneath a spell,

  Sat thoughtful in his carven chair,

  Sat gazing fixedly in air.

  That he had sinned full well he knew,

  Faithless he had been, and untrue.

  And, now in grief and bitterness,

  He owned his blinded guiltiness;

  He’d thought he loved her, and he wot

  That Yvernelle was long forgot;

  Thought that her image, which was traced

  Upon his heart, had been effaced

  By this dark countess of old Spain,

  And that it ne’er would come again.

  Thus had he lingered by her side,

  And heedless let the Spring-time glide

  To Summer’s glowing loveliness,

  Till all her heart was wholly his.

  But those flames, less of love than lust,

  Soon burned themselves to smouldering dust,

  And, like their smoke, his visions fair

  Soon vanished to the empty air.

  And then his fever-blinded glance

  Turned once more to his native France;

  All else forgot, he saw again

  The blue hills of his own Touraine.

  Once more he saw his castle’s keep

  Poised airy on the hill-side steep,

  Once more he heard the mavis sing,

  His native notes the woodland ring.

  Once more he saw with tightened heart

  The fretted spires of Brittomarte;

  Once more saw stout Sir Raguenel,

  Once more saw blue-eyed Yvernelle.

  Then restless grew, and vexed at heart,

  And from the others kept apart,

  And oft was thoughtful, stern, and cold,

  And oft was tender as of old.

  At times from revels fled away,

  At times was feverishly gay;

  To Guhaldrada oft was curt,

  To her entreaties answered short.

  Until she ceased to question him,

  Stirred by suspicion vague and dim,

  Fixed on him sidelong, searching look

  That seemed to read him as a book.

  Till when, one day, to madness stung,

  She turned on him with furious tongue,

  And when — for who may safely hide

  Aught from the eye of jealous pride? —

  Him she reproached with angry tears

  For that his heart had ne’er been hers,

  In gloomy silence he had heard,

  Nor had denied with sign or word.

  And Guhaldrada’s haughty mind

  All that he shrank to tell divined;

  Though deep his sleep, he wakened now

  And roused himself, and bared his brow

  Freed from enchantment’s tangled skein,

  He marvelled how it e’er had been.

  Grievous the wrong and foul the stain;

  Yet to begin his life again

  It even now was not too late;

  Time was there yet to bend his fate.

  Then, with his new-born purpose fired,

  With high resolve and aim inspired,

  Striding exultant from the hall,

  He sought his trusty charger’s stall;

  With hands that trembled oft for haste

  The steel-faced harness on him placed;

  Seized from its rack his beam-like lance,

  And then, without one backward glance,

  Forth from the castle-gates he rode

  And took, for France, the northern road.

  Boots not in devious song to tell

  The divers ‘haps that him befell,

  Ills that beset him faring forth

  On his long journey toward the north.

  How he on Andalusia’s plain

  Was by banditti all but slain;

  How, the swift Gaudiana o’er,

  Him his brave steed in safety bore;

  How that in Salamanca gay

  He bore the jousting prize away,

  Or how his very wine-flask froze

  Amid the Pyrenees’ still snows.

  But now his journey’s end is neared;

  Two days already hath he fared

  Through the broad reach of hill and plain

  And valleys of his own Touraine.

  In town and inn, familiar names;

  In market squares, familiar games;

  The mower’s well-known cadenced song

  Rising the well-known fields among.

  Familiar landmarks near and far,

  Recalling scenes of chase and war.

  Here the dead pine-tree, gaunt and hoar,

  Where brave Lexvallen slew the boar;

  Yonder the “Tor” with lichens gray,

  Near which the stag was brought to bay;

  The ford at which was Repfort drowned,

  The cliff where fell his fav’rite hound;

  And farther on the copse-wood gray

  Round which was fought the bloody fray:

  Such scenes though e’en forgotten long

  All told him he was coming home.

  Down in the dingle long and deep,

  Where Brittomarte’s cool shadows sleep,

  The hunter’s note swells clear and high;

  The bell-tongued pack are at full cry;

  The hooded falcons beat their wings

  And struggle at their silken strings.

  The hunt is up, the stag is off;

  With eager shout and merry laugh

  The woodland rings and rings again.

  The neighing horses join the strain;

  In mingled din horn, horse, and hound

  Drown one another’s varied sound.

  See!
galloping in foremost place

  Stout old Raguenel leads the chase.

  So fast he rides his horse’s breath

  Strikes on the hounds that fly beneath.

  “Wind, wind à morte!” — the stag is down!

  The swarming pack are flung upon

  His struggling, tortured, writhing frame;

  So close they press upon the game

  You scarce may see his dun-hued hide

  Beneath their snarling, living tide.

  “Back, drive them back!” With whistling lash

  Amidst the pack the verderers dash.

  He makes one struggle vain to rise,

  One moment rolls his blood-rimmed eyes,

  Then rolls upon the trampled loam, —

  Sir Raguenel’s spear has driven home.

  Down from the castle through the dell

  Comes riding fair-haired Yvernelle,

  Bearing with modest mien and grace

  The cloths and ewer to the chase.

  And fair she was, with large, soft eyes

  That mocked the azure of the skies;

  And her white cheeks (else were they cold)

  Blushed with the sun’s kiss over-bold;

  A chlamys wrought in gray and gold

  Fell round in many a loving fold,

  Her beauty free from taint or stain,

  The fairest maid in all Touraine.

  When Camelon left feud and raid

  To hurry to the last crusade,

  With his old comrade Raguenel

  He left his daughter Yvernelle.

  The straggling remnant that again

  Reached home with Thibault of Champagne

  Told how in thickest battle’s brunt

  Unhorsed, his wounds all in the front,

  He kept the Saracens at bay

  While wounded Robert sped away;

  Watered the desert with his blood,

  And fell where fighting he had stood.

  They buried him in foreign ground,

  And Yvernelle a parent found

  In grizzled, kindly Raguenel,

  And reverenced him almost as well.

  Just as the train with eager eyes

  Were gathering round the fallen prize,

  And breathless from his eager race,

  Wiping his hot and sweating face,

  First at the death, — Sir Raguenel

  Then from the hand of Yvernelle

  Taking the ewer in silver wrought

  To lave his blood-stained hand and coat, —

  Down through an alley’s covered way

  That toward the distant high-road lay,

  Armed at all points, his vizor down,

  A warrior stern came riding on;

  Back on his haunches reined his steed,

  Crying, while startled all gave heed:

  “Hold! in St. Hubert’s name forbear!

  Who so presumptuous as to dare

  To chase the deer within the bounds

  Of Voysvenel’s own hunting-grounds?