PS 3539 .Y75F7 1916 ■■HilH lliiHiia^^^^ ^ •" '^ .. -^ & < >^^4*'' C, U"' .'1 '?> 'o^«^- ^v Sd .0^ x^ '^i v^ r « o ^ N5> ^ ..> \' V w. <>. O 'OK" .0-7'. % 'T^- ,o'> V '.<£. '^^ .V ^-V, Oku' ^'V ' FROM THE LIMBO OF FORGOTTEN THINGS A BOOK OF VERSE BY MARY STUART TYSON BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 1916 4^ copykight, 1916 Shermax, French ^ Company DEC 20 1916 ©CI,A4r,:3172 TO THE MEMORY OF MY PARENTS NOTE The author's thanks are due to Con- temporary Verse for permission to re- print " Eastereven " and '' The Quest," which appeared in its pages, the latter in sliffhtly altered form. CONTENTS PAGE The Marriage of a King 1 On the Stairway at Blois 27 OTHER POEMS Of My Verse Children 45 Easter Even 46 The Quest 47 Somewhere in Flanders 48 Off the Coast 51 Return out of Estrangement .... 52 On an Ancient Stone Circle .... 54 Forgetfulness 55 Sufficiency 56 Scamander 57 Leaves 59 Autumn Roses 60 To Madonna Beatrice D'Este .... 61 Absence 62 Rain Song for a Child 63 Mme. Anna Pavlowa 64 M 65 The Name of Petrarch's Lady . ... 66 To Sir J. Forbes-Robertson 67 A Song op Autumn 68 The Grave and the Rose 69 L'Envoi 70 THE MARRIAGE OF A KING " Philip (Augustus') second wife was Ingeborg of Denmark, whom he married in 1193, and di- vorced the day after their marriage. He soon afterward married Agnes of Meran. Ingeborg ap- pealed to the Pope, who took her cause in hand, and, on Philip's refusing to abandon Agnes, placed the kingdom under an interdict. The services ceased in all the churches : the people were without prayers. In the end the king was obliged to yield. He sent away Agnes of Meran, who died of grief, and took Ingeborg back." Victor Duruy, " His- tory of France." Translated by Mrs. M. Carey. Note. The cause of Philip's repudiation of Ingeborg has never been known to history. For the purposes of romance I have assumed it to be his already formed attachment to Agnes. Author. PRELUDE The passion of a long dead king Thrills through the ages down to me ; Hundreds of 3'ears ago he loved Agnes de Meranie. Agnes, we know not if thine eyes Were blue or dusk as autumn wood, Or what thy face, when vividly Throbbed thy Tyrolean blood. We only know thy spell was bound About thy love ; and we afar Behold thee with his ravished eyes, Fair as a dawn-lit star. We know that when the great, dread curse Pressed on his heart his people's pain, He put thee from him, nevermore To see thy face again. We know the curse was lifted up. The Church smiled and the land drew breath. Agnes, what meant her smile to thee? Thy wound was unto death. THE MARRIAGE OF A KING PART I Merania. The courtyard of the castle of the Duke Berthold. Morning. Soldiers walk to and fro. Knock- ing is heard. First Soldier What summons is without? \\^oice, without:^ Open the gate To a poor wandering monk. I bring great news. [Enter a French monk on a jaded horse^ Monk He! I have ridden up and down the highways, Bidding the people everywhere rejoice. But send and fetch me first a stoup of wine, My throat is dry with bawling out my tidings. [Wine is brought. The ]\Ioxk drinks deep\ Second Soldier Haste and deliver, our impatience waits. 1 2 Cbe yardage ot a Mm Monk Enough amazement will I give to you. Know then my sovereign lord, the king of France, Has of late taken to himself as wife None other than the Princess Ingeborg Of Denmark's royalty. First Soldier The king of France Wedded to Denmark's princess? Is this true? Monk True by the Mass ! I saw it with these eyes — The king, the queen and all the royal train, Processions, music, and high carnival. Straightway I hastened forth to be of those To spread the word and see the people gape. I am not one who loves to stay at home Shut in the monastery, where all night The monks bray in the church, and through the day They labor without ceasing, save at meals. No, let me take the road with my good horse. Mix with my kind for jest and gaiety. Such disposition brought me by good chance To witness the event I have disclosed ; And further wish to travel brings me here. As everywhere is welcome strange far news. Cf)e ^attiage of a i^ing 3 First Soldier Strange news indeed, for almost we had thought Our princess, so well loved and beautiful, Might be the queen to sit on France's throne. Monk What profit would be gotten by my king In an alliance with Merania? No, he soars higher. Mark the word I sa}'. Beneath King Philip Capet's rule our land Will rise to be the greatest in the world, Stretching her boundaries from sea to sea. No city now with Paris may compare ; You have not seen her newly paven streets ; The vast cathedral rising in her midst In honour of Our Lady ; nor the wall Now building to surround her with defence. I drink to her, our king, and to his bride. And let me not forget to give you thanks ; For I and my poor jade are wearied out With sojourning on your rough mountain ways. First Soldier Well, no one here may want for food or caring; So enter in and rest you from wayfaring. [Exeunt'] CJ)e (©arriage of a l^ing The following evening. The Chamber of the Princess Agnes. She is seated upright on a chair. Her ladies stand apart from her near the window, and speak to one another in under- tones. First Lady Since yestermorn she has not spoken word. Second Lady Nor touched her hitc, nor yet has tasted meat. The broidery frame stands idle by the couch ; No deed of grace or sign of gentle pity, As she is wont to the unfortunate. But ever has she sat as one in trance From the dark hour that brought the messenger. Third Lady How did the night pass, you who slept with her ? Fourth Lady The arras murmured to the wandering gusts. The rushes stirred and lifted on the floor As though an unseen footfall traversed them. C!)e Q^amage of a H^ing 5 Without the dogs howled, tugging at the leash. The armour of the passing sentinels Clanked as they walked ; there was no other sound. Third Lady No stifled sob? No lamentable moan.'' Fourth Lady Notliing. So still she lay I deemed her dead. And all the love I bear unto my lady Was centred on the wish it might be so. But when was ever death so merciful? Through the long watches of the night I felt Those fixed eyes staring into nothingness. First Lady Our lady's pride would hold her eyes from tears. Fourth Lady I think no sense of what the word might mean Holds place wuthin her bosom ; only pain So deep it overwhelms all other sense. Second Lady Great wonder if it could be otherwise ; Her love once given is forever given. O ! Philip, king of France, what reckoning Hast thou to meet in the last judgment's call ; 6 Cbe Carriage of a lining Thou and the haughty bride whom thou hast taken, Ingeborg, princess of the northern land, Who owned the day that should have been our lady's, The night that should have brought her happi- ness. Fourth Lady Now day and night are both the same to her. First Lady The evening falls apace. The level sun Burns only on the highest battlements, Where the long shadow creeps up from the court It has already swallowed in its gloom. . . . But what is this ? A clamour is without ; The drawbridge falls, and the portcullis lifts ; What cortege enters through the castle gate? — Mother of God ! What standard waves below ? Confirm my sight, and prove I am not mad. [She seizes the wrist of her nearest com- panionl Second Lady Christ's mercy ! 'Tis the fleur-de-lis of France. Cf)e ^attiage of a lining 7 Third Lady Oh, look to where our princess has arisen As one who newly wakens from the dead. First Lady Again the spirit gleams from out her eyes ; The life-blood courses through its unused chan- nels. Second Lady Below the portal swings ; and on the stair, Hark to the ringing sound of mailed feet. l^The arras part, and Philip Augustus, king of France, stands in the doorway. He kneels to the princess, howi/ng his forehead on her hands. The ladies re- tire^ Philip My queen, my love, behold me body and soul Prostrate before thee. I could not endure Apart from thee, nor bear the galling chain I forged myself so short a time gone by. {^Rising to his feet} 'Tis ended. Ingeborg I have divorced. I put her from me the ensuing day Of marriage, and forthwith to Compiegne Summoned my prelates to annul the bond. This have they done. Since then by day and night, 8 Clje Carriage of a Mn^ With all haste have I posted furiously, So that I might the sooner reach thy feet. I have no words to tell why I dared come; I onl}^ plead my utter need of thee. And may the company before high God, Angels, archangels, and the saints of France, Bear witness to the oath which now I swear; No queen shall sit beside me on my throne Save Agnes, Princess of Merania. Agnes Hardly I hear the words which thou hast said, I only hear thy voice. I only know Thou art before me, thou in very truth; And I who have no life apart from thee Am standing in the presence of my lord. [They are clasped in one another^ s arms, xcliile their lips meet in a long silence^ Philip Weep, my beloved. I weep. Upon my breast Let fall thy blessed tears of happiness. And freely cleanse thy heart from suffer- ing. . . . Now call for thine attendants and thy dames, Bid them prepare thee as befits a queen, And bring thee to the chapel in this hour, Where I shall wait thee. In my retinue I hither bring the Bishop of Auxerre Cbe Q^artiage of a i^fng 9 In readiness for consecrating rite. There will I take thee though the earth in won- der Beneath my feet should gape and fall asunder. [Exit Agnes] What ho, without! Bid the lord bishop enter, The chaplain of the castle, and my nobles, I\Iy 'squires, my attendants, and my pages, [Enter the Bishop of Auxerre, the Chap- lain, Nobles, etc. To Chaplain] Sir priest, give heed to my lord bishop's words. He knows, and shall instruct you in my will. [Exeunt all save the Bishop and the Chap- lain] Chaplain My lord, what is it your French king would do? I tremble when I think what this may mean. Bishop E'en that he wed tonight with the maid here; So be prepared to render me assistance In all that may concern the ritual. Chaplain But this is grievous sin he contemplates ; Doth he not fear the holy wrath of Rome? 10 Ci)e ^attiage of a l^ing Bishop He fears no Pope, nor saint, nor God, nor devil. As you would guard your peace place not your- self In opposition to the king of France. He goes to win the lady's father now, Setting himself thereby an easy task. Dost think your Duke will be rejoiced, or no, At such an high alliance for his house.'' Chaplain Dread power of kings in this our mortal day ! Nothing remains for me but to obey. [^Exeunt ^ INTERLUDE The candles flare from the altar Through the incense-burdened air; They gleam on a priest intoning, On two who are kneeling there. One is a king in his purple, One is a lady fair; Fitful, they gleam on her jewels, Fitful, they gleam on her hair. The ring is placed on her finger. His hand is joined to her hand. The company there assembled Are shivering where they stand. They tremble as though were passing On the air a wandering ghost. As they bend in adoration Before the uplifted Host. He leads her down from the altar. He leads her forth from the place. Her eyes are rapt in a vision. His eyes never leave her face. PART II Rome. The Papal Court. Pope Innocent III is seated on his throne surrounded hy his cardinals. Innocent Full three years has the insolent French king Defied the might of Rome's authority, Openly living with his concubine In impious outrage to all Christendom ; The while his lawful wife appealed in vain For reinstatement in her queenly rights. My predecessor, the weak Celestine, Sent but entreaties and remonstrances That she might be restored. Let Philip now Find in me one who is inflexible To make him bend his head to Holy Church, And learn her dictates are inviolable. He wUl not stand against her awful curse Wherewith I threaten him, unless he give To my command instant obedience. Is not my legate yet returned from France.'* A Cardinal Your Holiness, e'en now he waits without. 13 14 Cbe ^atriage of a H^ing Innocent Bid him to enter. J[Aside^ Scarce can I re- tain My patience till I hear the word he bring. IThe cardinal Legate enters and kneels to Innocent] Lord Cardinal, I welcome you ; but pray Make no delay in telling what befell, And how this king's pride grovelled in the dust. Legate Your Holiness, the mandate is delivered. It was with difficulty that I gained With the adulterous Philip, audience. When to receive me he at length consented, He listened to me with such absent mind As showed the more insulting to your words. But understanding in the end their purport. Turning his gaze on me, his proud lip curled. And answering not at all, his eyes once more Resumed the look of one whose thoughts are far Away from present trivial happenings. So he dismissed me from the presence chamber. [Innocent, trembling with rage, rises with upraised arni] Innocent Now let the interdict descend on him. Let the whole realm of Philip lie accursed. Cl)e ^attiage of a i^ing i5 Not only may the place of his abode Be desolated, but let my decree Be published through the length and breadth of France. No sacrifice of the most holy Mass ; No baptism save to the newly bom; To no one may be absolution given; Nothing — save unction in extremity. No marriage, burial ; let the doors be shut In every church within his wide domain, That this most blasphemous of kings may feel Upon his neck the iron heel of Rome. Let him be crushed beneath a people's hate, Denied all spiritual sustenance; His days deserted, but his fearful nights Filled with unquiet ghosts of those who lie In ground unhallowed. May they drive him forth To eat grass as the Babylonian king. Know ye all ages, and in every land. No power before the will of Rome can stand. \_Exeunt'\ 16 Cbe Qiarriage of a i^ing Paris. The palace of the king. Agnes alone in her chamber. Agnes Time is too long that I have known his sorrow. Too long I know the word of sunderance Is mine to utter, for he will not speak. Night must no more descend upon my silence; I will take courage while I am alone; Ere we shall sit together in the twilight, And the slow veil of the enshrouding dark Fall and enfold us in its still embrace. Then should I fail as I have failed before . . . When after he has left me each grey morn. My will is strong to turn itself to speech And hear at last the answer from his lips. Yet even so, I mind me 'twas of late I sat among the barons of the court In the assembly of the council hall ; And I know not with what solicitude My look was fastened on his countenance. That, set in stern lines of accustomed pain Made my determination gather force. Sudden he turned his eyes to rest on mine. And their dark trouble softened with such grace As though an eagle had become a dove. Then could I not for rapture stay my blush, Ci)e Carriage of a l^ing 17 Nor check the flow of my quick-welling tears. And all resolve was drowned and swept away. . . . No more of that . . . To reach the dreaded end? Each one of us a separate way to take? Oh, might I bear the agony alone, And he be spared ! But so it cannot be. . . . He comes to me, his step is on the stair. Within my soul I hold his every kiss ; Within my body hold his little child, His life, so lately and so wondrously Stirring in me as stirs the quickening spring. Holy Saint Agnes, lady of the lamb, Sustain me, strengthen me in my ordeal. [Enter Philip] Dearest my lord, I fain would speak with thee. I, seeing trouble Avritten on thy brow, Cannot contain the ache within my breast. It is my need to know thy trouble's cause. Philip Come to the window, where the lingering day May from thy beauty borrow radiance. Sit here by the embrasure in the light ; Let me sit near thee, lowly at thy feet. Lift thy long unbound tresses to my lips. Thus — thus — as ever. Only at thy side May Philip find a peace for his vext mind. Thy presence breathes o'er me thine alpenrose. 18 Cije Qiattiage of a l^ing Pale pasque flower, and gold anemone, Pansies in iridescent purple bloom Fringing the lip of thine eternal snows ; Saint Bruno's lily, and blue columbine Dashed with the foam of icy cataracts. Thy gentle power calms my turbulence. . . . Thou knowest the strength of my long-nurtured wish. Unity for the whole fair land of France, And her extension. Now on every hand With John of England have I compromised; Binding my son in marriage with his niece, Giving him Arthur's homage for the fiefs That will be thus dismembered from my realm. Heavily on me weigh my cares of state. Agnes Nay, it is more. For ever is thy wont To meet such crises with a kindling glance And arm thyself for conflict. By the Rood I conjure thee, and by thy saints of France, Withhold not from me utterance of thy grief, Although my heart should break in listening. Philip Woe unto me if I should answer thee ! Woe unto me if I should hold my peace! My people pine, beloved ; the dead pass by Unsanctified to burial. No sound Of marriage bells is heard, no more the Host Cije ^attiage of a l^ing i9 Is raised on the high altars ; so to each Is now denied the blessed Sacrament. And all because my kiss lies on thy lips ; Because we sit with intertwined arms ; With eyes that read fulfilment of our dreams In one another's gazing steadfastly. Yet O my love, the vision fades and breaks ; And racked, I turn to bury my face deep In thy warm hair, and with thy soft hands press All sight from out my eyes, sound from my ears. Yet even thus, I see my people come To the blank, desolate, and silent church. Through my hands' pressure on thy covering hands I hear their wail. Agnes My king, my love, my lord, There is no other way but I must go. . . . Nay, strain me not so fiercely to thy breast ; See, Agnes kneels to thee, their king and hers, And prays that thus be raised the interdict. For thee to suffer Agnes to depart. Philip I cannot let thee. I will go with thee. Leaving my barren throne. But to remain, Knowing thy lonely anguish far away — Lifting my life up like an empty cup The wine has spilled from.'' Rather might I die. 20 Cf)e 6i^arriage of a Mm Agnes The kings of this world have a trust to keep, The King of Heaven, their Exemplar, giveth. And it is for thy people that I plead; They look to thee, their sovereign and their father. Who but thyself knows to redress their wrongs. Soothe their poor grievances, defend their land Against encroachment of the foreign foe. Create for them wiser and better laws, And give the blessing of internal peace? Like lost sheep of my wild Tyrolean hills. The}' will lie perished in the driving snow Without thy guiding hand to succour them. Philip Thou wringest my soul. I can no more with- stand, But must fall vanquished in the unequal fight I wage against the mighty power of Rome. There is no other way of life but this — The way of death in life for thee and me. Agnes Thy kingly word ? Ah ! God, the path lies plain. . . . Yet once more, O beloved, and once more Thy kiss — my bosom to thy bosom claspt — One only time again, for 'tis the last. EPILOGUE The Castle of Poissy. The Princess Agnes lies dying. Her ladies kneel about her couch. She speaks to them. Lois and Constance, Alice, Eulalie, You whose true love has been without alloy. No less in this sad end of time for me, Than when you followed me in my great joy; You know that I have tried to hold my life From slipping in its misery away ; You know I can no more maintain the strife. And must accept defeat as best I may. Perchance Our Lady, of the pierced heart. Will deign to have compassion upon me. Who cannot look to her ere I depart. But drop my eyelids in humility. In mercy has she gathered to her breast My little son, his father never saw. Meekly I render thanks. And for the rest, Her pity may transcend the human law. You know that never could I stay my thought On what the learned doctors fain would say ; And that their reasoning but went for naught When clear before me my heart's counsel lay. 21 22 Cfje Carriage of a l^ing They have condemned my sin beyond reprieve, For that I cannot tell them I repent. To silence their insistence should I weave A lie in answer to their argument? But ah ! the guilt they pass so lightly by Still in my last hour overshadows me ; It was through me rose up the people's cry, Whose heads were bowed beneath the Pope's decree. For to their faith the Church's sealed door Denied them their salvation's hope to win. I sinned in causing pain, but sorrow more For making likewise my beloved to sin. Forgive my failure to abide with you ; Gather yet closer, you I love so well ; Let no priest come for penitence to sue. Nor let them toll for me the passing bell. Before my dying eyes no means of grace ; No crucifix on dying lips of mine ; This ring, his pledge of love, has claimed their place — So on my last thought may his image shine. Amen. ON THE STAIRWAY AT BLOIS A TRAGIC DIALOGUE Qui veut oi'r chanson? C'est du grand Due de Guise, Et bon, bon, bon, bon, Di, dan, di dan don Cost du grand Due de Guise. Anon. TO ALICE W. Alice, this passion of the past, Dead more than thrice a hundred years, Whither, with all its joys and fears Does it lead, after all, at last? But through the centuries of wars. The centuries of moral strife, Such force maintains its primal life Unchanging, constant as the stars. Bear gently with me, as is meet. It may be this has little worth; But you were present at its birth And so I lay it at your feet. PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE Henri de Lorraine, Due de Guise, called Le Balafrc from the scar on his face won on the field of Dormans. Chicot, jester to Henry III of Valois, King of France. Charlotte de Beaune Semblan^ay, Mar- quise de Noirmoutier, Mistress of the Due de Guise. A Messenger. There are heard also the voices of the Sieur DE Marillac, a courtier; the Sieur de Revoi,, Secretary of State; and the Cardinal de Guise, speaking from within the castle. The action takes place in the chateau of Blois on the morning of the twenty-third of December, 1588. ON THE STAIRWAY AT BLOIS The interior whorl of the open stairway of Francis I in the cliateaur. Half way up the stair to the left may he seen the door leading into the Council Chamber of Henry III. Chicot the jester is crouched in an embrasure of one of the "windows. The early morning sky is lowering, and the light that falls on the ele- mental beauty of the carved stone is sombre and sad. Chicot is watching the pages as they play at cup and ball below in the Court- yard. Throughout the following he remains unobserved to the other persons speaking. Chicot Bravo ! Bravo ! That was well caught, I swear ! But presently will be one better caught ! Rare sport these games of ball, now here — now there — And M'hen the victor's guerdon is a crown ! Hien! But the game plays out. Come up, brave ball ; With all the many pairs of hands outstretched 'Tis over likely thou wilt not be missed. 27 28 Dn tbe ^taittoap at iBlote Come, flaunt thy title of Le Balafre, And find within the means to glut thy pride. Yet doubt not that the scar marring thy cheek, Vain as thou art of it, was easier To heal than others thou shalt soon receive. For through the lengths of all the royal rooms, And up and down the secret inner stair Huddle my lord d'Epernon's trusty guard, Each one well armed with tried and tempered steel. Much fitter than would be the blade I bear To drink of blood so high and menacing. [He ruefully examines an old sword blade which he carries; but quickly brighten- ing, continues^ The Mass is sung. God's blessing now is sure Upon the issue of the enterprise. Why tarry longer, Duke? Would that my lord The King had trusted this same work to me — Aha ! It would be short. [He thrusts in the air with the blade as if stabbing an invisible enemy. As he does so a step is heard entering the stairxvay from the Court^ Hist! [He whets the blade against the window'\ He! J' ay Guise. [He crouches out of sight. As the step advances. Henri Due de Guise is seen €)n tbe ^taittuap at 15loi$ 29 ascending, rounding the curve of the central pillar, on his way to keep his appointment with the king. His eyes are as the eyes of a man seeing nothing of the world outside, hut fixed as in con- templation of an inner vision. He pauses, his gaze upon the vision seem- ing to deepen, and murmurs involun- tarUy'\ Guise Her eyes ! — her lips ! — [Again footsteps are heard on the lower stair. They mount hurriedly, find a messenger enters. He hands the duke a handkerchief from which a paper drops, and as quickly goes down and disappears. Guise picks up the paper, reads it, crumples it in his hand and lets it fall, saying shortly^ The ninth. [His eyes regain the vision J Her eyes ! — her lips ! — Her soft hair at the pressure of my hand Yielding to curl its golden tendrils round My fingers, as her gentle spirit twines Itself about my inmost being's core. [His look strays to the sky seen through the window^ 30 Dn tht ^taittoap at 15\oi$ How strange the morn, how alien to the night! The morn with sombre clouds veiling the sun, The night all luminous with her bright hair. Its gold creating consciousness of light Throughout the darkness that encircled us. The morn whose cheek is cold and stained with tears, The night all warm and dewy sweet with her. \_Another and softer step sounds from he- low. Faltering yet resolute it ascends, and as it comes nearer Charlotte, Mar- quise de Noirmoutier is seen approach- ing the duke where he has paiised on the stairway. Her arms are half extended. Her face has a deadly pallor, while the lips quiver. The conflict betzceen love, fear of the duke^s anger, terror for his safety and determination in her purpose is evident in her mien. He turns and looks at her. His face becomes rigid and stern. Her gaze meets his unswerv- ingly'] I have forbidden that thou come to me Ere I should visit thee again. And now What I commanded thou dost disregard. Charlotte Suffer me now to speak, for so I must, A power stronger even than thy will, i)n tht ^tairUjap at iaioi$ 31 Which until now has swayed me flesh and soul, Holds me in domination. Yesternight A horror of great darkness came o'er me ; Such fear as I had never felt before Though knowing well that danger compassed thee. . . . It was as if Death crept into my bed, Death wearing thy similitude. I lay With all my heart's blood frozen at its source, Unable to cry out. . . . And this was ere The moon had set upon our trance of love. And while the rapture of thy long last kiss Still laved me in its flood when thou wert gone. [Her voice breaks in a sob] Thou knowest I have prayed thee heretofore To fly, or be the first to strike the blow. But more to fly this murder-ridden court Inimical to thee, where in the dark Of every corner of the castle walls May lurk assassins hungry for thy life By day no less than night. And thou hast shut My mouth with kisses till my senses swooned. This may no longer be. Though I have known Of the repeated warnings come to thee, [He starts, froxeming, but makes a gesture of contempt^ Ever my fears have all been soothed away. h2 Dn the ^taitttia^ at IBlois They cannot be since the stark terror seized Upon my soul and would not be gainsaid. And since the dawning of this winter day Again from unknown sources thou art warned — [Catchmg sight of the fallen paper'\ Another message lies there at thy feet ! Guise It doth amaze me that the sport of fools Should hold so high a place in thy esteem. But more than this, that thou should'st enter- tain The very shadow of a thought that I Who am Lieutenant General of France — Her king that is to be — should pay regard To such weak babble of ingenious lies. Dost thou recall the time of Barricades When Paris woke to her true loyalty, Hailing me for the conqueror who drove The Germans from our land? How thereupon The multitude would have beset the Louvre To crush the viper brood of Italy In person of its ineffectual head, But that my clemency withheld its hand? In the streets thronging with my followers What but my presence, and without my sword, Had saved the hireling Swiss from massacre? What followed? From the city, stealthily. Thou knowest that the wretched Valois fled, S)n tbe ^tajtbap at IBtob a^ Too cowardly to show his face to me And to a people righteous in revolt. The while his mother to ensure his flight Made pretence to consider my demands. Thereafter all I had required of him Has graciously been granted. Dost thou think He dare defy me having tried my strength? Charlotte Here all is otherwise. Paris is far, The Valois' followers many, and the town Notorious in hostility to thee And to the cause in thee personified. The king, unworthy of the clemency Shown unto him, would be incapable Of acting likewise. Guise I was not aware I spoke to thee of clemency from him. [TJie coldness of his looTc pierces her. De- spairingly she covers her face with her hands while the tears trickle between her fingers. Guise speaks with more kindness^ Touching the messages which thou art pleased To call by name of warnings, I had thought They had been hid from thee. 34 Dn tf)e ^taittoap at IBIoig Charlotte Thou canst not hide Thy peril, howsoever shadowed forth, From knowledge of the woman loving thee And kneeling in entreaty at thy feet. [^She kneels before him, clasping her hands. He raises her, catching her to his breast. She throws her arms about his neck with a half uttered cry. He holds her closer, kissing her lips. A long pause^ O Henri, my love! Oh, captive me, Weak in the fortress of thine arms ! But no. This weakness only strengthens the resolve Of love so strong that it can brave thine ire And in the throne room of the citadel. Let come what may, defy its lord's command. Guise Sweet, my most sweet, dearer than life to me. Dearer to me for all thy fears for me. These fears are but the phantasm of the night The full day shatters. Nothing bodes me ill. The Holy League is strong, the paltry king Is weaker than the worm beneath my heel. The Bearnais? what should I dread from him. An heretic whom God condemns unheard.'' And when the nation in security Shall find in me its high demands fulfilled, No vision of the half awakened brain £Dn tf)e ^taittoap at 15loi9i 35 Shall sooner be forgot than all thy fears. Thou shalt be as the queen — the only one — And never queen of France more loved than thou; Not Agnes de Meranie, not Queen Berthe Nor she whom once they called La belle des Belles. Dost thou remember how we grieved for her, By her pale image with its sculptured lambs ? Too early death had severed her from love. And we have sorrowed for those two sad queens Living in cruel exile from their lords, For life apart is sadder far than death. Yet we exulted in our sorrowing To know their passions' fulness, till at length We lost the sense of theirs within our own. Charlotte Thy words fall on my ears with hollow sound Of clods upon the coffin in a grave, And I am conscious of no other thing Than of thy living presence here and now. This much I know, the present instant's sure, It may be snatched from all-devouring doom. Now — go back now — and cross the court and drop Over the ramparts to the river's strand ; There stalwart hands will bear thee swiftly on Within the boat that leads thee to thy friends. 36 jDn tJje ^tairtoap at 13Iois One moment more and it may be too late, Ere the curved horror of this fateful stair Engulf thee as the maelstrom of the sea, Wherein 'twere safer thou shouldst hurl thyself Than pass beyond the threshold of that door. Guise \^With returning sternness, disengaging her arms-l Charlotte, affairs concerning my estate Are brought to such a pass, that if mine eyes Beheld Death enter at the window there I would not by the open door escape. [Charlotte's arms fall to her sides. She stands with unseeing eyes. Guise with a long gaze at her full of the intensity of his passion, suddenly turns, and with- out looking hack goes up the stair and in at the door of the Council Chamber which shuts behind him with a clang. At the sound Charlotte starts and rushes up the steps to the door, flinging her arms upward against the iron-bound wood and pressing her face upon it. She utters a low moan. Chicot has crept from his hiding place, following and peering at her with curiosity. Ar- rested by her moan he pauses. From within Charlotte can hear her lover SDn tJje ^tairtoap at IBIois 37 as he speaks in jesting tones with the courtiers, and presently she is able to distinguish the words that are said^ The voice of the Sieur de Marillac. My lord, your face is pale. The imice of Guise It is with cause, I yet am cold from having been exposed So early to the bleakness of the morn. The fire dies down. Ho, lackey, bring more wood, And fetch my silver shell with sweets therein From some of my retainers whom you find. . . . Though, being long to wait for his return. Monsieur de Morfontaine, be good enough To have word sent to the king's gentleman, Requesting that he shortly hither bring Some damsons or some trifle of the king's. . . . Ah, that is well. . . . My lords here in my box Are plums conserved with meticulous skill, I find they rightly suit my appetite. Honour me in enjoying them with me. [^An inner door is heard to open, and there is borne to Charlotte's ears the zroice of the Sieur de Revol, Secretary of State, who has entered the Council 38 SDn tbe ^taittoap at lBloi0 Chamber from the private apartments of the king^ The voice of the Sieur de Revol His Majesty is pleased to wait the Duke In the Old Cabinet. The voice of Guise Indeed? 'Tis well. My spirit ever in obedience Bows to my liege lord's bidding. Sirs, adieu. I leave these plums for whoso wishes them. \_There is a noise as of the silver box hav- ing been tossed upon the table. Im- mediately afterward the footsteps and the closing of a door tell that Guise has entered the king^s private chambers. The silence is tense and unbroken. Charlotte has never relaxed her atti- tude, her body pressed closely against the door^ \^A sound comes from the far inner rooms, — a muffled voice — a loud and dread- ful cry; then tumult and confused mur- muring. Charlotte regardless of all else is tearing at the fastening of the door. It has been barred from within. She beats against it with her head and Jiands'l £Dn tht ^taittuap at 15Ioi0 39 The voice of the Cardinal de Guise [Loud and instinct with horror and alarm. ] They are murdering my brother ! Charlotte O my God ! [She continues to beat upon the door. Her forehead and hands are bleeding and the woodzvork is stained with her blood. The cries and clamour within have in- creased, and they draw nearer bearing with their sound another, as of stagger- ing and trampling feet. Then there is a heavy fall. On the instant all is still. The castle seems to hold its breath. Charlotte zvith a last cry falls backward dozen the steps. Chicot, who has watched her •with the fascination of terror, is seized zcith a violent trembling, and, gibbering, stares at her as she lies with bloodstained face and palms upturned to the beau^ tiful insensate traceries of stone^ L'ENVOI Alice, I give you this my verse. If you, as I, have humbly sought, You find a philosophic thought Mid passion's rapture and its curse. Yet — if we ask of those who slake Their thirsting at these springs of fire, They say, One hour's fulfilled desire Is worth the heart's eternal break. And so I leave it as it stands ; Leaving as well the high emprise To tell of ways more nobly wise To other minds and other hands. NOTE In the foregoing the historical data of Michelet have mainly been followed with the exception of the actual meeting of Guise and Mme. de Noir- moutier on the stairway, which is of course an invention. Mezeray is responsible for the pres- ence there of Chicot, and for his pun, as Guise passed that way to the Council Chamber. We have attempted to throw around the passion of these lovers more glamour than would seem warrantable, when we remember that they were products of the Court of Catherine de Medicis, not to speak of their many other and former love intrigues ; yet in approaching the figures of the past we venture to feel that liberty may be taken; for we walk with Gautier . . . among the ruins of a buried world, In the mystery of shadows Amid the limbo of forgotten things. OTHER POEMS OF MY VERSE CHILDREN My little bed within my little room, Quiet and white and shrouded in soft gloom, Your narrow length has held me in delight Of sweet austere conception in the night. You have upheld me in the pangs of birth, In travail not as travail of the earth. On you I bore the children of my brain With joyous transport unalloyed by pain. Children of fantasy, whose merit lies Mayhap but solely in their parent's eyes, I would not give such travail brought to me For earthly parenthood's reality. 45 46 jTrom tfte Limbo EASTER EVEN A ROBIN sang As the late twilight melted into night: No leaves, no flowers yet In the young April where his feet are set. But sure foreknowledge fills him with delight. The memory of a thorn-crowned head, Whose blood but yesterday his breast ensan- guined. Leaves nor regret nor sorrow ; His heart is filled with joy of the tomorrow. Would God, O Bird, That all men might be stirred With understanding of the song I heard ! HDf jForgotten Cbings; 47 THE QUEST TO C. T. D. When shall we look for the birds that are winging, Where shall we seek for that joyous throng? When the leaves are fresh and the flowers are springing, Where the heart of the woods is wild with song. All May long by the wings that hover, The notes that quiver, the breast that gleams, We are guided in quest of the woodland lover In haunted country by haunted streams. Find him or lose him on hill or in hollow. In arching branches or brambled trails, The wild life calls and we still must follow Though hot noon passes and sunlight pales. 48 iftom tbe Limbo SOMEWHERE IN FLANDERS On the sodden ground Stirs a living form, Among the dead forms There on the ground. Victory — and defeat Have rolled by. Beyond, His friends have taken the enemy's trench. In his heart Lust of battle, Burning thirst to avenge his country's wrongs Have gone. Only is left the longing Insatiable For his soul's peace. Out of the mist A figure in khaki Moves towards him. S>f Jforgotten Cijings 49 Now he is here. . . . Ah ! that face so kind, So full of holiness — Could but proclaim A priest of Christ. The form on the ground Stirs again ; With his failing voice He utters a cry — " Father, Show me the Cross." The man in khaki Looks sadly down. Alas! He has no cross — Nothing to satisfy that last appeal. To close in peace Those dying imploring eyes. Pityingly He stoops to the ground And binds together Two fragments of wood, Torn and blackened By the shrapnel. 50 iFtom tf)e Limbo Lo, the symbol! Compassionately The man in khaki Places it before The dying eyes — Presses it upon The dying lips that smile; The solemn and alien symbol - While to the ears of his mind Roll the words of the Shema', " Hear, O Israel : The Lord our God Is one Lord "... Tenderly His hands close the eyes of the dead, And on the breast Lovingly He lays the symbol — The solemn and alien symbol — For the man in khaki Is a Jew. W iForgotten Cftingg 5i OFF THE COAST The soft hot winds rejoice, The sun streams over me, And in my ears is the voice Of my old friend the sea. The wild birds cry above, The waters lap below, And in my heart is the love That only pain may know. 52 Jfrom tht JLimlio RETURN OUT OF ESTRANGEMENT PENLLYN Back to the place of my wild fresh childhood, Wild fresh meadows, and woods green and deep — O my country, take me to j^our keeping, Take me and fold me and let me sleep. Give me the wind in the leaves of the corn fields, Shedding their fragrance through the day and night, Where the earth dips to the lip of the wood- land, Steeped in the radiance of the August light. Steeped in the light that draws the tasselled tresses upward. Signal of the ripening of the golden breasts. Under the stars, though no wind seems stirring Still is heard the restfulness of their unrest. O'er the rounded summits of the full-leaved trees of summer Looms the distant thunder head against the sky, Df Jforgotten Cf)ing$ 53 Sky intensely blue above tlie quivering heat haze Rising from the mown fields of wheat and oats and rye. Ripening apples dropping on the sward of the orchard Close cut, and green as when the year was young ; Yellowing pears and reddening apples dropping From the overburdened boughs where late they hung. O my country, your long meadow marshland, Where the cows graze, where the grasshoppers play, Here the mists of evening draw from out your keeping Strange sweet scents unknown to the day. Fold me awhile from the sense of human sorrow, War of world's words, and dread anxiety ; Even earth's beauty seems elsewhere half alien, Here alone I find reality. 54 JFrom tl)e LimlJO ON AN ANCIENT STONE CIRCLE IN THE MULL HILLS. I. O. M. Stones, what your mystic purport none can say. Here through the centuries man makes or mars You stand. The empty moor is yours by day — By night the silent pageant of the stars. £Df iFotgotten Cl)ing$ 55 FORGETFULNESS God gave this gift to man. Of all that He Has ever given this is of the best, For by it we are freed from the unrest And ceaseless anguish born of memory. The lotos flower around us blooms though we Of roses of our youth be dispossessed. It is forgetfulness that calms the breast And silences the past's wild reveille. Old voices sound no longer in our ears, And of the clasp of hands we used to know We dream no more with passionate regret. Over it all is drawn the veil of years ; And though we loved and suffered long ago, Peace is about us now — for we forget. 56 JTrom t!)e JLimlJO SUFFICIENCY My eyes looked into his eyes, And there was written the love of old Buried by many a winter's snow And lying beneath the mold. Like a drift of blossoms across my face Came the lost spring back from its silent place. . . . SDf Jforgotten Cl)ing:si 57 SCAMANDER (The National Oeographic Magazine tells how the Scamander is decreasing in volume, and may soon be- come altogether dry.) The river has wearied, wearied, In his ceaseless fall and flow Since the Argive host embattled On his plain laid Ilion low. As the higher gods forsaking The fane of their own making, So the god of the stream is taking His leave though loth to go. The sand that clogs his current And breaks his strengthless wave He dreams are the warrior corpses His glory was to lave ; And the dry reeds rattle, The clash of spears in battle, When the careless feet of cattle Stamp on their ancient grave. 58 JFrom tfje JLimlJO From his cold springs of Ida He leaps to meet the foe, Only to wander, aimless. On the blank plain below. Till his final waves have wended To the sea and with her blended, And his long dream ended In her he rests from woe. f)f JForgotten Cl)ing0 59 LEAVES The year is dying again. The leaves lie over the garden path Sodden and dank with the rain. The wind that slew them in wrath Now their pallid ruin despises. . And the wind of memory rises With an impulse mad and vain, Only to drive against my heart The sodden leaves of pain. . . . 60 jFrom tbt JLimlio AUTUMN ROSES " Sweetest of roses is an Autumn rose." Francois Villon. Autumn, you bring me today Not the pain of the past, Only the present glory ; Wind in the yellowing leaves, Meadows sunlight-steeped, Low-hung mists on the stream ; And from far on the air, Thrillingly, piercingly sweet, The unseen meadow-lark's song; And sweeter than roses of June, These blooming late in the year Loved and immortalized by The long dead poet of France. Still, O Roses, you lift Your open hearts to the sun ; Not the before nor beyond Can your serenity touch In the perfection of now. Only to lift up your leaves Into the warmth and the light, Only to be what you are — Roses — this is enough ! SDf JFotgotten C|)ing0 6i TO MADONNA BEATRICE D'ESTE Princess, an enviable lot is thine ! Fate summons death to take thee from mis- chance, Lest gathering gloom make thy bright spirit pine, Or sorrow cause thy feet to flag i' the dance. 62 Jfcom tbe JLimlJO ABSENCE From afar your thoughts were turning Unto me, I was aware; Till it seemed by your deep yearning You had almost drawn me there. And it seemed I hastened to you, And I stood beside your bed, Called you by your name and clasped you, To my bosom held your head. £Df jFotgotten Cbing0 63 RAIN SONG FOR A CHILD Little raindrops, falling raindrops, Dripping fast and dripping slow. From where come ye. Whither go ye, With your voices soft and low? From the sky we seek the flowers That lie buried out of sight. And we find them, And we wake them, And we lead them to the light. 64 iFrom t[)e Limbo MME. ANNA PAVLOWA She is the mist that hovers above the cataract, The light that glimmers dimly on the lone marsh tract ; She is the spirit of the earth, the lily upward growing. The sea foam, and the wild wind and the thistle down 'tis blowing. £>f JForgotten C!){ng0 65 M I KNOW how meek her face must be With silent lips and close shut eyes ; I know — though I may only see Where the white heap of lilies lies. The time she lingered here with us The grosser human elements Could not her gentle spirit touch, Clothed in its high habiliments. Pain, Death and Love were hers ; and she Now understands the nothingness Of two — of one the victory ; And so the knowledge stays with me Of how meek her sweet face must be. 66 ifrom tbt Limtio THE NAME OF PETRARCH'S LADY What melodies his spirit must have heard, What cadences within its sound have caught ; The scent of all the flowers of the world Must have o'erwhelmed him merely at its thought. M JForgotten Ci)ing0 67 TO SIR J. FORBES-ROBERTSON HIS FAREWELL IN HAMLET When you have hence departed o'er the sea, Take with you knowledge of the memory — Nor time nor waste of waters can efface — You leave behind you as in legacy. Our eyes beheld the eternal love and hate Once more; the soul 'twixt hell and heaven's gate. You wrought for us the miracle anew, And all our thanks are still inadequate. You go. We count our loss, but by our gain : Hamlet has lived for us in you. Our pain To bear the knowing that forevermore We shall not look upon his like again. 68 JFrom tfje Limlio A SONG OF AUTUMN (From the French of Paul Verlaine.) The long drawn sobs, Like violin throbs, Of Autumn's pain, Wound my breast With weariest Refrain. Pale, when around Me falls the sound — A knell deep — Rises in me Old Memory, And I weep. And without goal Is borne my soul On blasts unkind. Hither and yon, A dead leaf blown By the wind. flDf JFotgotten C!)in00 69 THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE (From the French of Victor Hugo.) To the rose said the sombre grave, " With those dews that the mom to thee gave What doest thou, lovely flower? " To the grave said the flower then, " What doest thou with those men Who fall in thy chasm, dread power? " Said the rose, " Dark grave, I have made With the dews of the morn, in the shade, A perfume ambrosial and sweet." Said the grave, " O plaintive flower, I make with each soul in my power An angel for Heaven meet." 70 JLimtio of Jforgotten Cljingg L'ENVOI TO H. B. T. My father, if perchance you may have pined Because of all you could not give to me, Would you might know that you have left behind A priceless legacy. You showed me an ideal high and pure, You stirred my young sense of infinity, And gave to me to hold forever sure The love of poetry. With noble language of man's noblest thought You set my springs of childish fancy free. Still was my youth with its inspiring fraught, And my maturity. My gratitude for always lies so deep Its utterance must needs come falteringly. Your gift to me I have and hold and keep, The love of poetry. 1 18 ^\ , •> ■^1'- ^^v 1- /• ^0^ <1 J^ ,0 vO. <. -^0 . >%■ ,<>^^*. A sV 4,^ -^ .v**^'* c^^ V^ ^ ^^'(^ -^^n^ ^0 .^ .^■^ 4 o ,v ,.. 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