Book Ea^I^ 
 
 CopghtN", 
 
 ISI^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
lotie I^ettersi of a 
 iSorman ^rinces^si 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET PERKINS 
 
T&3^'i^ ^j^ 
 
 ^1.1^ 
 
 
 Copyrighted, 1914 
 
 by 
 
 Margaret Perkins, 
 
 Hutchinson, 
 
 Kansas. 
 
 Published by^ 
 
 Crane CBi> Company 
 
 Topeka, Kansas 
 
 1914. 
 
 DEC 28 1914 
 
 'CU388970 
 
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 IN THE records of the Middle Ages you 
 will find no mention of Hersilie, relative and 
 ward of William the Conqueror. There was, 
 indeed, nothing in the life of this young girl to 
 appeal to a chronicler to whom the broken heart 
 of a princess can be of no consequence unless a 
 kingdom happens to be shattered with it. Her 
 name, therefore, seems to have been writ in the 
 water of that sea which was probably her grave. 
 Just what blood relation Hersilie bore to Wil- 
 liam is uncertain. She may have been the 
 daughter of Adeliz, the Conqueror's sister ; or 
 of one of the half-brothers whom his mother, 
 Arlette, bore to the nobleman she married after 
 the irregular union of the Norman's parents was 
 dissolved by the death of Robert le Diable. She 
 was of his household when the famous subju- 
 gator reared a royal fortress on the ashes of the 
 ancestral seat of an ancient Saxon family con- 
 sanguineous to the unfortunate King Harold. 
 Elric, the youngest son, was the single survivor 
 of the ruthless assault upon his home. With- 
 drawing to a natural fastness on his confiscated 
 estate, he became a leader of those patriots who 
 strove to restore the Saxon dynasty in the person 
 of Edgar Atheling. 
 
It chanced one evening that Hersilie and her 
 attendants, overtaken by a midsummer storm, 
 were bewildered near the forest retreat of Elric. 
 Natural courtesy, seconded by the hospitality of 
 his race, impelled the Saxon outlaw to offer the 
 shelter of his secret biding-place to the distressed 
 strangers. With such courtly grace did he min- 
 ister to them as to completely charm his gentle 
 guest. And Elric, when he presently conducted 
 the party to the castle road, did not attempt to 
 dissemble the consciousness that the sweet prin- 
 cess was bearing away his heart. 
 
 Safeguarded by a trusted companion of the 
 princess, there had been many meetings, and 
 plans for marriage and flight were almost con- 
 summated before William discovered the at- 
 tachment. Elric was a Saxon, and the king's 
 active enemy. Moreover, the Conqueror had 
 promised Hersilie, instead of a fief, to a Norman 
 follower who had rendered distinguished service 
 at Hastings. ''You will never see his face 
 again," was the sole response to Hersilie's piteous 
 pleadings for her lover. 
 
 It would seem that the fragmentary letters 
 were composed with no other motive than the 
 slight alleviation that comes from translating 
 into words the heart's heaviness. The first few 
 very faintly hint that the princess hoped her 
 beloved was a prisoner in some donjon from 
 which he would find means of escape. But, 
 judging again from the letters, there gradually 
 grew in her heart the conviction that Elric was 
 dead. She, too, could die ; but never could she 
 
become the bride of another. Perhaps she hoped 
 that after she had fared forth "in virgin sanctity" 
 to find her lover, if that lover still lived, her 
 stony guardian might so far soften as to send 
 him the pitiful proof of her deathless love. 
 
 Princess Hersilie utterly disappeared on the 
 eve of her marriage to the Norman baron. The 
 superlatively romantic affirm that Elric returned 
 in time to claim his bride. Others are of opin- 
 ion that the Saxon was dead, and that his high- 
 hearted fiancee preferred death to disloyalty. 
 But those more familiar with the social customs 
 of that lawless age believe the young princess 
 planned to entrust herself to the sisters of Saint 
 Lucine; and that in the night journey across 
 the bay to the Abbey, her boat was capsized. 
 
 Such, in brief, is the story of this obscure and 
 ill-starred young princess as I have heard (or, 
 possibly, dreamed) it. 
 
 M. P. 
 
I THOUGHT once, in a dream, that Love came near 
 With silken flutter of empurpled wings 
 That wafted faint, strange fragrance from the things 
 Abloom where age and season never sere. 
 The joy of mating birds was in my ear, 
 And flamed my path with dancing daffodils 
 Whose splendor melted into greening hills 
 Upseeking, like my spirit, to revere. 
 
 But me, alas. Love lingered not to bless, — 
 
 The vision and the glory moved apart. 
 
 A tomb this sorrovz-scented, twilit heart 
 
 That might have known a temple's spaciousness. 
 
 O, in a dream no dawn can nullify 
 
 Love came so very near — and passed me by ! 
 
AT dawning from his chantry in a tree, 
 I heard a mavis singing matinly. 
 My heart interpreted his melody : 
 
 "O, little mate! 
 Come nestle on this bloomy spray, 
 The while I pipe a roundelay 
 To celebrate the horning day 
 All roseate. 
 
 "Above the green. 
 Soft blue impearled with filmy white 
 Allures to paths of happy flight ; 
 Far westerly retreats the night 
 From day's demesne. 
 
 "For you and me 
 Love hangs a world in buoyant air, 
 And makes the birdling's lot a care. 
 O, little mate! The day is fair 
 For you and me." 
 
I HAD this from the beadsman bowed and lame 
 Who mumbles prayers in Norman William's name 
 
 Leonatine, as fair as she was good, 
 
 Had entered, by the gate of motherhood, 
 
 The lovely Land of Promise which as maid 
 
 She saw in her chaste dreaming, flower-arrayed 
 
 And all-desirable ; for which she prayed 
 
 In Santa Lia's chapel as the wife 
 
 Of Alfredo. And now, in joyance rife. 
 
 Her soul was soaring with the cherubim 
 
 And singing praiseful paeans unto Him 
 
 Who in sweet, nestling helplessness once pressed 
 
 Soft lips and cheek to Mother Mary's breast. 
 
 And, as in adoration rapt she lay, 
 
 Her thoughts like incense wafting up, they say 
 
 She was aware, though not as with the ear. 
 
 Music ineffable was breathing near ; 
 
 And through the open dormer window came 
 
 A figure luminous as in a frame 
 
 Of light that was not of the moon or sun, 
 
 But was all radiances blent in one. 
 
 For not a moment did she feel afraid. 
 
 Or wonderstruck because an angel made 
 
 The earth-flight for to see so fair a thing 
 
 As was her little one. So, beckoning 
 
 With pretty gesture, spoke she : '*Sire, you came 
 
 Myriad miles to see my babe. Her name 
 
 Is Melicent." And thereupon she drew 
 
 The covering aside that he might view 
 
 The tiny face. The angel looked, and smiled 
 
 Benignantly upon the sleeping child, 
 
 The while one slender, shining finger went 
 
 To lightly touch the brow of Melicent. 
 
"Thy child is dedicate to God," he said, 
 And nothing more. Back-floating from the bed, 
 Enwreathed with light and melody he passed 
 The casement, smiling blessings to the last. 
 
 The ancient almoner averred she grew 
 So winsome, all the little wild things knew 
 Her for a friend. The butterfly would light 
 Upon her hand ; the whinchat stayed his flight 
 For her ; the furry creatures understood, 
 And followed when she wandered in the wood. 
 Acknowledging her loving sisterhood. 
 
 From lovely childhood to a lovelier youth 
 She passed, so sheltered as to scarce feel ruth. 
 Of sin and suffering what could she know 
 Whose heart was stranger to the ways of woe? 
 But oft she pondered in that gentle heart 
 The angel's words that destined her, apart 
 From life's sweet, common blessedness, to dwell 
 In prayer and penance in a convent cell. 
 
 It was the Easter week when Melicent, 
 In novice white, across the churchyard went, 
 Through Santa Lia's forest to a slough 
 Where store of tall ascension lilies grew. 
 And whilst she broke the stems, a hooded tern 
 Perched near her. From the flock beside a bum 
 Sedgy of marge, a snow-white lamb outpressed 
 And followed in her footsteps, all unguessed 
 Till, blossom-burdened, paused the maid to rest 
 Where shyly peeped the fair forget-me-not 
 From ferny covert — an enchanting spot. 
 The yeanling close beside the maiden crept 
 In drowsy confidence, and soon both slept. 
 
A youngling knight was Giselbert a-quest 
 
 To stain his maiden sword for those oppressed ; 
 
 Wending a weary distance from his hall 
 
 That some high hazarding might him befall. 
 
 What time his charger fed in yonder stall, 
 
 Strolled Giselbert anenst the little glade 
 
 Where slept the snowy lamb and snowy maid. 
 
 His quaky knees he cushioned on the moss 
 
 And piously made symbol of the cross. 
 
 "An angel," murmured he, through lips of pale; 
 
 "A vision blessed as the Holy Grail." 
 
 Never was given mortal man to see 
 
 In any clime a purer trinity — 
 
 Lilies and lamb and lass. In one white arm 
 
 The lilies lay ; the other clasped from harm 
 
 The dainty lamb. Her snooded locks adown 
 
 Their fillet fell and lay upon her gown, 
 
 A burnished wonder. He must see that face 
 
 Fashioned and tinted with celestial grace. 
 
 Unhelmeted and worshiping, he bent 
 
 Above the flower-fair face of Melicent. 
 
 Perhaps she felt his presence ; or a bird 
 Shrilling of spring aroused her, for she stirred. 
 Oping on Giselbert eyes sleepy -sweet 
 And blue as were the blossoms at his feet. 
 "Thou art no vision ; may the Lord be praised!" 
 Breathed Giselbert. On Melicent he gazed 
 So ardently her startled spirit wrote 
 A rose response on brow and cheek and throat. 
 "Sweet maid of mystery, here ends my quest," 
 Quoth Giselbert; "this throbbing heart would rest 
 Within thy tranquil bosom. O'er three shires 
 Fare thou with me where shine the stately spires 
 
Of my chateau. God, whose liege knight I "be, 
 Most graciously has led me unto thee. 
 O, peerless lady, say not *Nay' to me!" 
 
 A-flutter like a fettered bird she turned 
 
 Her eyes from his that through her being burned 
 
 So strangely. Then, '*Sir Knight," she sadly said, 
 
 "Nor thee nor any other may I wed ; 
 
 My baby brow has known the sacred seal 
 
 That consecrates to God. I must be leal. 
 
 A few weeks hence, at holy Whitsuntide, 
 
 Must Melicent become the Church's bride." 
 
 ''That shall not be," cried Giselbert ; " I sv/ear 
 
 By every filament of sunny hair 
 
 That hath my heart enmeshed, thou wilt not wear 
 
 The sable robe. My men shall fell each stone 
 
 Of yonder cloister till I have mine own." 
 
 Day after day went Giselbert to woo 
 The gentle girl until her love so grew 
 That she forgot her vow. So they were wed, 
 And, darkling, to the lordly castle fled. 
 Where Melicent was mistress scarce a year 
 Before she stood beside her husband's bier. 
 
 Each morning crept the stricken bride to lay 
 Her head upon the sepulcher and pray, 
 "God, pardon him whose love for me was stain 
 So foul that Thou didst punish us amain." 
 
 Once, when her pallid cheek had pressed the mold 
 From dawn until the evening dew was cold 
 And dankish on the golden, humbled head, 
 One seemed to say, "Sad heart, be comforted" — 
 
A being clad in radiance that streamed 
 From where the firstling lamp of evening beamed. 
 "O, Sire, what of my darling can you tell?" 
 She questioned ; and he answered, ''It is well 
 With Giselbert, and with thee it is well." 
 "With me, whose heart is like a withered leaf 
 Driven and shattered in the gale of grief?" 
 "Yet," interposed the angel, "once it knew 
 The sun's warm kiss ; the coolness of the dew." 
 "My heart is like an ember cold and gray," 
 Moaned Melicent, and heard the angel say, 
 "A moment in the breath of love it glowed." 
 "My heart," she wailed, "it is a seed one sowed 
 To fail of fruitage." O, as sweet and low 
 As soul-sensed melody, his answer : "Know 
 Thy heart night-dark, untenanted, a seed 
 Of which the master Husbandman has need. 
 He sows the broken heart from which upspring 
 The leaves of healing for life's suffering. 
 The blossom of the broken heart is cheer ; 
 Its perfume, love enwafted far and near ; 
 Its priceless fruit is sweet compassion's tear. 
 The sad, the sick, the sinful for thee wait — 
 The broken heart to God is dedicate." 
 
 The beadsman said that Melicent returned 
 To Santa Lia with a heart that yearned 
 Love-needy folk to comfort ; and that she 
 Was noted for her ceaseless ministry 
 Unto the sorrowful and indigent. 
 "I serve because I love," said Melicent. 
 
1 DREAMED, dear, yesternight, you came for me — 
 Not soul in search of soul, but loverwise — 
 Your lips upon my tresses reverently. 
 The holy flame of passion in your eyes, 
 And tenderly entreated, "Love, arise." 
 And gladsomely I let you lead me, all 
 My senses thrilling with the sweet surprise ; 
 Yet palpitant with terror lest the fall 
 
 Of fleeing feet disturb some sleeper in the hall. 
 
 Almost as cognizant, its gracious aid 
 The midnight forest lent to you and me : 
 No dusky form, or eldritch wail dismayed ; 
 But friendly little gossips in the tree 
 Awoke to peer and twitter drowsily 
 On limbs that lightly wavered to and fro 
 To sift the moon through leafy canopy. 
 Fair, phantom light, as golden as the glow 
 
 Of other happy moons that waned so long ago ! 
 
 Your woodland lodge we gained, with columbine 
 Compassionate and ivy half concealed ; 
 And incense-sweet with honeysuckle vine. 
 Dew-dank and weary, on the hearth we kneeled 
 And with the sacred nuptial taper sealed 
 Our love as at an altar. When its beam 
 Shone softly through the shadows and revealed 
 The face of each to other, by that gleam 
 
 Your soul I saw. O, love of mine, it was a dream ! 
 
WHO wisely bide 
 Upon the crests of happy hills ; 
 Whom winds enclasp and sunshine thrills, 
 
 Are fortified 
 Against the siege of pensive shade 
 That makes the lowlanders dismayed. 
 
 Who scale the heights, 
 Reflect the flush of nascent day. 
 And in its last refulgent ray 
 
 Are beckoning lights 
 To whom I raise revering eyes — 
 I who am neither brave nor wise. 
 
BEFORE you came, this heart of mine 
 A fairy garden seemed 
 With lavender and eglantine ; 
 
 And lovely lilies gleamed 
 Above the purple-pansy sod 
 Where ruthless passion never trod. 
 
 Now, autumn bleakly broods^where vines 
 
 With lifeless tendrils cling ; 
 Like tears the falling leaves ; the shrines, 
 Bat-sought, are crumbling. 
 A cricket's dirgeful fife is heard 
 Where caroled once the April bird. 
 
 Yet, where the shattered censer swings 
 The faintest fragrance dwells ; 
 
 The crimson rose's ash upsprings 
 In snowy asphodels. 
 
 No change can utterly efface 
 
 What once was Love's abiding-place. 
 
IF Heaven had been pleased to let you be 
 A keeper of the sheep, a peasant me, 
 Within a shepherd's cottage thatched with vine 
 Now might we know the bliss of days divine : 
 At dawn the pilgrim songster's soft salute 
 From cloudland where he trills his elfin flute ; 
 The marvel of uncouth, familiar things 
 Turned gorgeous, like the furnishings of kings, 
 In sunrise tint ; the diamonded furze 
 Through which to lead your fleecy loiterers ; 
 The heavy sweetness of syringa bloom 
 At midday, and the glory of the broom ; 
 The turning of the sun toward the west 
 To seek in distant seas his moisty rest ; 
 The benison of twilight, and the bleat 
 Of far-off lambs ; the air as honey sweet 
 With clover ; and the vesper chant of bees ; 
 The sleepy note of nestlings in the trees ; 
 The green of earth and rose of sky obsessed 
 By stealthy night ; soft sheen of stars ; and best, 
 The beat of steps impetuous and near ; — 
 Your voice, the comfort of your arms, my dear. 
 
How shall I name this sense elusive, shy, 
 Of joyousness? It is the lightened load 
 Of plodding pilgrim as, adown the road 
 Rain-drenched and dismal, seems he to espy 
 A sunny shimmer ; the assuaging sigh 
 When glimpses he, the thirst -tormented one, 
 Flaunting defiant frondage to the sun. 
 Those desert palms that never draw more nigh. 
 'Tis hope of pardon to the guilt -oppressed ; 
 And it is rest a mother knows, sob-bought. 
 Who croons, in the drear dawn, a lovesome name, 
 Her baby dream-enfolded to her breast ; 
 Yet, it is but the sweet, seductive thought 
 Thou mayst return, one day, thine own to claim. 
 
LONELY cloud, so frail and fair, 
 As you float 
 On the drowsy wind up there 
 
 Like a boat 
 Drifting, drifting listlessly, 
 May I liken you to me? 
 
 * 'Little sister," so you seem 
 
 To reply, 
 *'We are part of Heaven's scheme, 
 You and I ; 
 Child of sunshine and the dew 
 I was earthly -bom as you. 
 
 '*Yet my little hour I go, 
 
 Troubled maid, 
 Even where the storm-blasts blow, 
 
 Unafraid ; 
 Confident that from the sod 
 All things upward wend to God." 
 
AT night, when I am very sad, the sea 
 Comes singing to my casement — singing low 
 And luUingly as one soothed long ago 
 A grieving little child in Normandy : 
 
 "Sleep, little princess. The sun's crimson car 
 Has rolled down the hill to the sea. 
 
 Birds from their neighboring nursery are 
 A lullaby cheeping to thee : 
 
 'Sleep, for no birdling or babe is afar 
 From Him who guards tov/er and tree.' 
 
 "Sleep, little princess. The shepherdess-moon 
 Is tending her flock in the sky. 
 Silvery star-sheep are peeping, and soon 
 
 A slumbering princess will spy. 
 'Sleep, little lambkin,' they'll tenderly croon, 
 . 'For love that is sleepless is nigh.' " 
 
I MARKED a star, as dimmed the day, 
 A fair, sweet star that motherly 
 The casement's velvet brushed away 
 And bent with gentle gaze toward me. 
 
 O, boundless love! As dimmed the day, 
 
 Amidst my amaranth and rue 
 I seemed to hear one softly say, 
 'My child, I am not far from you." 
 
DEAR heart, the homing hour is here, 
 The task is done. 
 Toilers, and they who course the deer 
 Turn, one by one, 
 At day's demise. 
 Where dwells a deathless glow 
 
 In loving eyes. 
 I hear them hearthward go 
 To castle or to cottage on the lea ; 
 But him I love comes never home to me. 
 
I HEAR 
 Such sound as shudders round a bier. 
 The wind is fondling in the twilight chill 
 Pallid and pulseless leaves that wont to thrill 
 If he were near. 
 
 When I 
 
 Insensate and unlovely lie, — 
 
 (My heart forgetful of its deadly hurt) 
 Ah, love, shall I be passionless, inert, 
 If you come nigh? 
 
COMES now the birthnight of that baby blest 
 Of whom the wise of all the world make quest. 
 
 To Magi it befell 
 
 (Star-summoned from the cell 
 Of priestly lore) to seek him in the west. 
 
 At times, when desert-day 
 
 Poured pitiless, moaned they, 
 " 'Tis death we seek by sun or scimitar.** 
 
 But when to dusky skies 
 
 They lifted haggard eyes, 
 "God leads," they praised, "for yonder hangs his Star." 
 
 From simple shepherds learned they of his birth 
 Whom Heaven homaged with exalted mirth — 
 
 The firmament afire, 
 
 And angels in a choir 
 Proclaiming, "Peace is come to dwell on earth." 
 
 Aloft careening beast 
 
 The wise ones from the east 
 Rejoicing saw the Star stand overhead. 
 
 They found a grotto-place 
 
 Bright with a baby's face, 
 And fell, adoring, at his manger-bed. 
 
 Uprose the Star-led, their devotion told 
 In gifts of sweetest spicery and gold. 
 
 As easterly they fared. 
 
 The placid herdsfolk stared, 
 And faltered out of wondering lips, "Behold!" 
 
 But one, intrepid, ran 
 
 Athwart the caravan : 
 "Your faces, stately pilgrims, shine so bright ; 
 
 Whence gleams that glory, pray?" 
 
 Benignly answered they, 
 "O, brother, we have seen the Prince of Light!" 
 
WHEN I remember all thy knightly ways 
 Thy selflessness ; thy high integrity ; 
 Thy warding of the weak ; thy gentle phrase ; 
 Ay, all that made the preciousness of thee, — 
 Thej'- solace me. 
 
 When I recall thy valor's halberd-beat 
 On adamant ; thy fortitude in long 
 Misfortune, and disdain to feel defeat ; 
 Thy pride in stainless honor, scorn of wrong, — 
 It makes me strong. 
 
 And when in every scourged sense I feel 
 The healing recollection that I had 
 Thy peerless love, — to me thou didst reveal 
 Thy soul in regal gold and purple clad, — 
 Then am I glad. 
 
THE peaks that rift the saffron sheen 
 Of sunset skies 
 In purple loveliness, when seen 
 By nearer eyes, 
 Are bleakly bare. 
 To brave those boulders gray 
 
 No climbers dare. 
 O, in some future may 
 This mountain mass of unfulfilled desires 
 Be unto me as yonder haloed spires ! 
 
So sweet the wordless prophecy these bring : 
 The fair and ancient augury unscrolled 
 With every leaf of grass that pricks the mold 
 To flutter in the pageantry of spring ; 
 The miracle of cherry-blooms that fling 
 A wondrous whiteness, like a wedding veil, 
 Round dreary boughs late grieving to the gale ; 
 The message of the moth's aspiring wing 
 From chrysaloid restraint and darkness freed. 
 Their meaning mute I sensed, ah, long ago : 
 "The law of life ye see in us who wane 
 And wax to loveliness." No smallest seed 
 That sleeps and quickens underneath the snow 
 But whispers, "Thy beloved lives again." 
 
THOU art my hearths desire. 
 I like to think, when clustered round the throne 
 The singing stars, and all the heavens were strown 
 With melody, unto thy voice alone 
 God tuned my spirit's lyre. 
 
 How knew I thy dear face? 
 Before He set this earthy sphere a-spin 
 God said, "Each soul thereon shall be a]!twin ; 
 The other's likeness I will etch within 
 
 The heart's most secret place." 
 
 And when I go to thee 
 Who watch unweariable where souls upfleet, — 
 Dear love, the worship in thine eyes to meet! 
 And hear, *'I knew thou wouldst so come, my sweet, 
 
 In virgin sanctity." 
 
ALAND of leal there is, I know, 
 (Anear God's throne it lies.) 
 A place pervaded with the glow 
 
 Of joyful lovers' eyes 
 Forever cleansed from teary stain 
 
 And dimness of despair ; 
 Where, dearest, we shall meet again. 
 And I shall know thee, there. 
 
 Sometime, beyond the cruel reach 
 
 Of arrogance and state, 
 We two will wander on that beach 
 
 Where severed spirits mate. 
 And I shall clasp thee in that blest 
 
 And beauteous otherwhere ; 
 Upon thy bosom find my rest, 
 
 For I shall love thee, there.