The Pre-Raphaelites- From Rossetti to Ruskin
Page 20
And ever the great bell overhead
35 Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,
The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.
[They sing all together.]
How long ago was it, how long ago,
He came to this tower with hands full of snow?
40 ‘Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down,’ he said,
And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.
He watch’d the snow melting, it ran through my hair,
Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.
‘I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,
45 For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;
‘In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,
But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;
‘Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry,
I am so feeble now, would I might die.’
50 And in truth the great bell overhead
Left off his pealing for the dead,
Perchance, because the wind was dead.
Will he come back again, or is he dead?
O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?
55 Or did they strangle him as he lay there,
With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!
Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.
Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive
60 Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.
Through the floor shot up a lily red,
With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,
For he was strong in the land of the dead.
What matter that his cheeks were pale,
65 His kind kiss’d lips all grey?
‘O, love Louise, have you waited long?’
‘O, my lord Arthur, yea.’
What if his hair that brush’d her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?
70 His eyes were grown quite blue again,
As in the happy time.
‘O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
75 My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see,
If ye take me by the hand?’
And ever the great bell overhead,
And the tumbling seas mourn’d for the dead;
80 For their song ceased, and they were dead.
The Tune of Seven Towers
No one goes there now:
For what is left to fetch away
From the desolate battlements all arow,
And the lead roof heavy and grey?
5 ‘Therefore,’ said fair Yoland of the flowers,
‘This is the tune of Seven Towers.’
No one walks there now;
Except in the white moonlight
The white ghosts walk in a row;
10 If one could see it, an awful sight, –
‘Listen!’ said fair Yoland of the flowers,
‘This is the tune of Seven Towers.’
But none can see them now,
Though they sit by the side of the moat,
15 Feet half in the water, there in a row,
Long hair in the wind afloat
‘Therefore,’ said fair Yoland of the flowers,
‘This is the tune of Seven Towers.’
If any will go to it now,
20 He must go to it all alone,
Its gates will not open to any row
Of glittering spears – will you go alone?
‘Listen!’ said fair Yoland of the flowers,
‘This is the tune of Seven Towers.’
25 By my love go there now,
To fetch me my coif away,
My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow,
Oliver, go to-day!
‘Therefore,’ said fair Yoland of the flowers,
30 ‘This is the tune of Seven Towers.’
I am unhappy now,
I cannot tell you why;
If you go, the priests and I in a row
Will pray that you may not die.
35 ‘Listen!,’ said fair Yoland of the flowers,
‘This is the tune of Seven Towers.’
If you will go for me now,
I will kiss your mouth at last;
[She sayeth inwardly.]
(The graves stand grey in a row,)
40 Oliver, hold me fast!
‘Therefore,’ said fair Yoland of the flowers,
‘This is the tune of Seven Towers.’
Golden Wings
Midways of a walled garden,
In the happy poplar land,
Did an ancient castle stand,
With an old knight for a warden.
5 Many scarlet bricks there were
In its walls, and old grey stone;
Over which red apples shone
At the right time of the year.
On the bricks the green moss grew,
10 Yellow lichen on the stone,
Over which red apples shone;
Little war that castle knew.
Deep green water fill’d the moat,
Each side had a red-brick lip,
15 Green and mossy with the drip
Of dew and rain; there was a boat
Of carven wood, with hangings green
About the stern; it was great bliss
For lovers to sit there and kiss
20 In the hot summer noons, not seen.
Across the moat the fresh west wind
In very little ripples went;
The way the heavy aspens bent
Towards it, was a thing to mind.
25 The painted drawbridge over it
Went up and down with gilded chains,
’Twas pleasant in the summer rains
Within the bridge-house there to sit.
There were five swans that ne’er did eat
30 The water-weeds, for ladies came
Each day, and young knights did the same,
And gave them cakes and bread for meat.
They had a house of painted wood,
A red roof gold-spiked over it,
35 Wherein upon their eggs to sit
Week after week; no drop of blood,
Drawn from men’s bodies by sword-blows,
Came ever there, or any tear;
Most certainly from year to year
40 ’Twas pleasant as a Provence rose.
The banners seem’d quite full of ease,
That over the turret-roofs hung down;
The battlements could get no frown
From the flower-moulded cornices.
45 Who walked in that garden there?
Miles and Giles and Isabeau,
Tall Jehane du Castel beau,
Alice of the golden hair,
Big Sir Gervaise, the good knight,
50 Fair Ellayne le Violet,
Mary, Constance fille de fay,
Many dames with footfall light.
Whosoever wander’d there,
Whether it be dame or knight,
55 Half of scarlet, half of white
Their raiment was; of roses fair
Each wore a garland on the head,
At Ladies’ Gard the way was so:
Fair Jehane du Castel beau
60 Wore her wreath till it was dead.
Little joy she had of it,
Of the raiment white and red,
Or the garland on her head,
She had none with whom to sit
65 In the carven boat at noon;
None the more did Jehane weep,
She would only stand and keep
Saying, ‘He will be here soon.’
Many times in the long day
70 Miles and Giles and Gervaise past,
Holding each some white hand fast,
Every time they heard her say:
&
nbsp; ‘Summer cometh to an end,
Undern cometh after noon;
75 Golden wings will be here soon,
What if I some token send?’
Wherefore that night within the hall,
With open mouth and open eyes,
Like some one listening with surprise,
80 She sat before the sight of all.
Stoop’d down a little she sat there,
With neck stretch’d out and chin thrown up,
One hand around a golden cup;
And strangely with her fingers fair
85 She beat some tune upon the gold;
The minstrels in the gallery
Sung: ‘Arthur, who will never die,
In Avallon he groweth old.’
And when the song was ended, she
90 Rose and caught up her gown and ran;
None stopp’d her eager face and wan
Of all that pleasant company.
Right so within her own chamber
Upon her bed she sat; and drew
95 Her breath in quick gasps; till she knew
That no man follow’d after her:
She took the garland from her head,
Loosed all her hair, and let it lie
Upon the coverlit; thereby
100 She laid the gown of white and red;
And she took off her scarlet shoon,
And bared her feet; still more and more
Her sweet face redden’d; evermore
She murmured: ‘He will be here soon;
105 ‘Truly he cannot fail to know
My tender body waits him here;
And if he knows, I have no fear
For poor Jehane du Castel beau.’
She took a sword within her hand,
110 Whose hilts were silver, and she sung,
Somehow like this, wild words that rung
A long way over the moonlit land: –
Gold wings across the sea!
Grey light from tree to tree,
115 Gold hair beside my knee,
I pray thee come to me,
Gold wings!
The water slips,
The red-bill’d moorhen dips.
Sweet kisses on red lips;
120 Alas! the red rust grips,
And the blood-red dagger rips,
Yet, O knight, come to me!
Are not my blue eyes sweet?
The west wind from the wheat
125 Blows cold across my feet;
Is it not time to meet
Gold wings across the sea?
White swans on the green moat,
Small feathers left afloat
130 By the blue-painted boat;
Swift running of the stoat;
Sweet gurgling note by note
Of sweet music.
O gold wings,
Listen how gold hair sings,
135 And the Ladies Castle rings,
Gold wings across the sea.
I sit on a purple bed,
Outside, the wall is red,
Thereby the apple hangs,
140 And the wasp, caught by the fangs,
Dies in the autumn night.
And the bat flits till light,
And the love-crazed knight
Kisses the long wet grass:
145 The weary days pass, –
Gold wings across the sea!
Gold wings across the sea!
Moonlight from tree to tree,
Sweet hair laid on my knee,
150 O, sweet knight, come to me!
Gold wings, the short night slips,
The white swan’s long neck drips,
I pray thee, kiss my lips,
Gold wings across the sea.
155 No answer through the moonlit night;
No answer in the cold grey dawn;
No answer when the shaven lawn
Grew green, and all the roses bright.
Her tired feet look’d cold and thin,
160 Her lips were twitch’d, and wretched tears,
Some, as she lay, roll’d past her ears,
Some fell from off her quivering chin.
Her long throat, stretch’d to its full length,
Rose up and fell right brokenly;
165 As though the unhappy heart was nigh
Striving to break with all its strength.
And when she slipp’d from off the bed,
Her cramp’d feet would not hold her; she
Sank down and crept on hand and knee,
170 On the window-sill she laid her head.
There, with crooked arm upon the sill,
She look’d out, muttering dismally:
‘There is no sail upon the sea,
No pennon on the empty hill.
175 ‘I cannot stay here all alone,
Or meet their happy faces here,
And wretchedly I have no fear;
A little while, and I am gone.’
Therewith she rose upon her feet,
180 And totter’d; cold and misery
Still made the deep sobs come, till she
At last stretch’d out her fingers sweet,
And caught the great sword in her hand;
And, stealing down the silent stair,
185 Barefooted in the morning air,
And only in her smock, did stand
Upright upon the green lawn grass;
And hope grew in her as she said:
‘I have thrown off the white and red,
190 And pray God it may come to pass
‘I meet him; if ten years go by
Before I meet him; if, indeed,
Meanwhile both soul and body bleed,
Yet there is end of misery,
195 ‘And I have hope. He could not come,
But I can go to him and show
These new things I have got to know,
And make him speak, who has been dumb.’
O Jehane! the red morning sun
200 Changed her white feet to glowing gold,
Upon her smock, on crease and fold,
Changed that to gold which had been dun.
O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau,
Fair Ellayne le Violet,
205 Mary, Constance fille de fay!
Where is Jehane du Castel beau?
O big Gervaise ride apace!
Down to the hard yellow sand,
Where the water meets the land.
210 This is Jehane by her face;
Why has she a broken sword?
Mary! she is slain outright;
Verily a piteous sight;
Take her up without a word!
215 Giles and Miles and Gervaise there,
Ladies’ Gard must meet the war;
Whatsoever knights these are,
Man the walls withouten fear!
Axes to the apple-trees,
220 Axes to the aspens tall!
Barriers without the wall
May be lightly made of these.
O poor shivering Isabeau;
Poor Ellayne le Violet,
225 Bent with fear! we miss to-day
Brave Jehane du Castel beau.
O poor Mary, weeping so!
Wretched Constance fille de fay!
Verily we miss to-day
230 Fair Jehane du Castel beau.
The apples now grow green and sour
Upon the mouldering castle-wall,
Before they ripen there they fall:
There are no banners on the tower.
235 The draggled swans most eagerly eat
The green weeds trailing in the moat;
Inside the rotting leaky boat
You see a slain man’s stiffen’d feet.
The Haystack in the Floods
Had she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
5 Beside the haystack i
n the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
10 To which the mud splash’d wretchedly;
And the wet dripp’d from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.
15 By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride
Ahead, to see what might betide
When the roads cross’d; and sometimes, when
20 There rose a murmuring from his men,
Had to turn back with promises;
Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb’d, made giddy in the head
25 By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup: all for this,
30 To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.
For when they near’d that old soak’d hay,
They saw across the only way
That Judas, Godmar, and the three
35 Red running lions dismally
Grinn’d from his pennon, under which,
In one straight line along the ditch,
They counted thirty heads.
So then,
While Robert turn’d round to his men,
40 She saw at once the wretched end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said:
‘Nay, love, ’tis scarcely two to one,
45 At Poictiers where we made them run
So fast – why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near,
Nought after this.’
But, ‘O,’ she said,
‘My God! my God! I have to tread
50 The long way back without you; then
The court at Paris; those six men;
The gratings of the Chatelet;
The swift Seine on some rainy day