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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 sheif.A5Pr, 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMEBICA. 
 =-■ - ^ 
 
Post-[aureate Idyls 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 / 
 
 OSCAR FAY ADAMS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "a brief HANDBOOK OF ENGLISH AUTHORS," "a 
 HANDBOOK OF AMERICAN AUTHORS," AND EDITOR OF 
 "through the year with THE POETS " 
 
 i^^ 
 
 BOSTON 
 D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY 
 
 32 Franklin Street 
 
 \ 
 

 Copyright, 1886, by 
 LOTHROP AND COMPANY. 
 
 Electrotypkd 
 By C. J. Peters & Son, Boston. 
 
TRUE POET AND LOYAL FRIEND. 
 
 "IVith reed and lyre" you wake the echoes sweet 
 That float and linger in the halls of song. 
 I follow after but with lagging feet. 
 And do but stammer ivhile your voice is strong. 
 
Content! 
 
 POST-LAUREATE IDYLS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Rape of the Tarts 9 
 
 At the Palace of King Lot 17 
 
 Sir Evergreen 25 
 
 Thomas and Vivien 35 
 
 The Vision of Sir Lamoracke 44 
 
 The Return from the Quest 52 
 
 The Maid's Alarm 58 
 
 The Water Carriers 64 
 
 The Passing of the Sages y^ 
 
 CONSTANTIUS AND HELENA 8l 
 
 A TALE OF TUSCANY. 
 A Tale of Tuscany 91 
 
 THE GOLDEN LOTUS, 
 The Legend of the Golden Lotus 127 
 
 LYRICS, ETC. 
 
 The Sweet South- Wind 135 
 
 On the Labrador Coast 138 
 
 What's the Sweetest News in Spring ? . . . . 140 
 
 S 
 
6 Contents. 
 
 Francesca and Paolo 142 
 
 Where are the Pipes of Pan? 143 
 
 Song 145 
 
 To A Friend who delays to Write 146 
 
 A Valentine 147 
 
 Midsummer Passes 149 
 
 Fair Friendship Raised His Placid Mask. . . 150 
 
 An Easter Grief 151 
 
 Unto Late Autumntide 152 
 
 With a Prayer-Book 153 
 
 On Truro Sands 154 
 
 Beaten 155 
 
 Reconciliation 159 
 
 Indifference 160 
 
 Easter-Friday, 1883 161 
 
 To James Russell Lowell 162 
 
 To One Who Has Suffered Much 163 
 
 To MODJESKA AS RoSALlND 164 
 
 To MODJESKA AS JULIA OF VeRONA 165 
 
 High-Water Mark i66 
 
Post-Caurcatc Byb. 
 
 O why in tripping rhyjnes relate 
 The legejids of our nursery days? 
 
 Arthurian epics, 7nore sedate^ 
 
 Suit better with our modern ways. 
 
POST-LAUREATE IDYLS, 
 
 THE RAPE OF THE TARTS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Queen of Hearts, 
 She made some tarts 
 
 All on a sum})ier''s day ; 
 The Knave of Hearts, 
 He stole those tarts 
 
 A nd carried them away / 
 The Que e 71 of Hearts, 
 Site missed those tarts 
 
 A 7td grieved for them full sore J 
 The Knave of Hearts 
 Broicght back those tarts, 
 
 And vow'd lte''d steal no more i 
 
 TSOLT, the Cornish Queen, in those dark days 
 
 When Mark, her unlov'd lord, had brought her back 
 From woodland lodge where Tristram bode with her 
 The space of one revolving moon, but now 
 Was past to Brittany, where the white hands 
 Of one with name like hers, Isolt, had snar'd 
 Him with their gleam, so changeful-hearted he, 
 Fell into bitter musings lasting long. 
 And vexed thereby the sullen Mark, who growl'd 
 His anger from behind his tangled beard, 
 
 9 
 
lO The Rape of the Tarts. 
 
 The more resentful that she took no heed. 
 So months went by, until at last there dawn'd 
 A summer morn on wave-washt Cornwall fair 
 And sweet as odorous white lilies are, 
 And sweet indeed to Queen Isolt, who lay 
 With silken broider'd hangings round her bed 
 Facing the morn. Far off the ripple broke 
 Upon the beach unheard, but flasht in air 
 Its silver, and in palace court the birds 
 Of morning sang. Then to herself the Queen : 
 
 " Lo, absent Tristram is not all in all 
 
 To me, Mark's wife. There yet abides in life 
 
 Something of worth, tho' Tristram be not here.'* 
 
 The saying pleas'd her, and she turn'd it o'er. 
 
 " Something of worth, tho' Tristram be not here." 
 
 Then rising from the couch which Mark had left 
 
 Ere rose the sun from out the Cornish sea. 
 
 She call'd her waiting maidens to their task, 
 
 And paus'd before two gowns the damsels brought, 
 
 As doubtful how she should array herself. 
 
 One of green samite, o'er which wander'd strings 
 
 Of gleaming pearls, in mazy pattern set. 
 
 So that the eye wearied to follow, held 
 
 Her but such space while one with even breath 
 
 Might count a dozen ; then her glance upon 
 
Tke Rape of the Tarts. ii 
 
 The other fell, a silken robe of blue 
 
 Shot thro' and thro' with shimmering silver lights. 
 
 And this her choice at length for that day's wear, 
 
 Not unforgetful how Sir Tristram lov'd 
 
 To see her in it; and, when her waiting maids 
 
 Had rob'd her, slowly mov'd she down the stair, 
 
 And, after morning hunger stay'd, she past 
 
 To where the palace cooks and scullions bode, 
 
 In kitchen vast, whence royal dainties came. 
 
 All sweetness seem'd her face, and music seem'd 
 
 Her voice, when she entreated one to bring 
 
 His cook's white apron for her royal use, 
 
 And when her maids had clad her in it, none 
 
 Could think her other than a gracious Queen, 
 
 Since nothing of her royal grace was hid. 
 
 So following her fancy's lead, she bade 
 
 The miCn about her bring the wheaten meal 
 
 And all the kitchen tools she glibly nam'd, 
 
 And place before her on a cross-legg'd stand 
 
 Of smoke-gloom'd oak ; and then her round white arms 
 
 She plung'd up to the elbows in the meal, 
 
 Her red lips murm'ring, 
 
 " It will serve." 
 
 Then, while 
 The cooks and scullions stood with hands on hips 
 And mouths agape to watch, she deftly mov'd 
 About her task, and not with awkwardness, 
 
12 The Rape of the Tarts. 
 
 As one unus'd to kitchen toil or cares, 
 
 But with all grace, such grace as won all hearts, 
 
 And, ere they knew her purpose, saw before 
 
 Their eyes row after row of pastry moulds, 
 
 As shapely as the hands that made, and these 
 
 The Queen herself in heated oven placed, 
 
 And, while these brown'd in torrid darkness, sang. 
 
 For sweetly could Isolt of Ireland sing: 
 
 " Ay, ay, O ay, — the winds that fan the fire ! 
 
 Fair tarts in prospect, tarts before me here ! 
 Ay, ay, O ay, — and tarts were my desire, 
 
 And one was not enough, and one was dear : 
 Ay, ay, O ay, — the winds that move so fast ! 
 
 And one was far, and one tart was nigher, 
 And one will never bake, and one will last. 
 
 Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that fan the fire ! " 
 
 Far up among the oaken rafters rang 
 Her voice, and clear as is the tinkling fall 
 Of water over rocks that chafe its course, 
 And all within the kitchen felt such stir 
 Within the blood as when the joyous wire 
 Sweet summer music makes along the veins. 
 Then one, to whom she signal'd when the strain 
 Was ended, open threw the oven doors, 
 And drew from warm concealment into light 
 
The Rape of the Tarts. 13 
 
 The tarts and bore them to Isolt, who straight 
 
 Within the cup-Hke hollow of the tarts 
 
 One after other placed with golden spoon, 
 
 On which were graven deep the Cornish arms, 
 
 The lucent jellies quivering like leaf 
 
 Of aspen when all else is still, and sound 
 
 And other motion dead within the wood. 
 
 This done she bade the cooks have careful charge 
 
 Of these, her tarts, till she should send, then past — • 
 
 Her cook's white apron doft — upward to halls 
 
 Befitting her fair presence more, and, sleep 
 
 And summer both at once assailing, slept. 
 
 Now on the selfsame morning fair Etarre, 
 Awaking with Sir Pelleas's sword across 
 Her throat and Gawain's, felt her fancy turn 
 To him who might have slain her, sleeping, yet 
 Forbore because of former love, and said 
 To him who lay beside her, false Gawain, 
 *' Go hence, and see me nevermore ! " The Prince, 
 Who deem'd he knew all women's changeful ways, 
 Laught lightly, and essayed to kiss, as oft 
 Before, the warm white hollow of her throat. 
 But she, recoiling, flasht such sudden wrath 
 He, too, drew back, and slowly rose and heard 
 From lips grown stern, from lips his own had prest, 
 The sentence, " Go ! and see me never more." 
 
14 The Rape of the Tarts. 
 
 Then he, much marveling on women's ways, 
 Obey'd, and went with slow, reluctant feet 
 Without, and mounted horse, and past across 
 The courtyard and thro' postern portal, past 
 Down garden slopes with musky breathings fill'd, 
 To where the gates, wide open, led to fields 
 And far beyond them forest shades. Thro' these 
 He went and wander'd on to where the walls 
 Of Mark's great palace rose across his view. 
 Then, for the summer noon was hot, he drew 
 His rein beneath a giant oak that made 
 A welcome shadow near the gate, and mus'd 
 Yet more on changeful women's ways till came 
 On vagrant breeze a whiff of pastry thence 
 And woke a sudden hunger in his breast. 
 
 Meanwhile in hall Isolt of Ireland slept, 
 And slumb'rous summer silence crept o'er all 
 The serving men and maids, till one whose care 
 Had been the tarts to watch, a lad in years 
 But few and wits as scant as years, awak'd 
 From dream unquiet, and awaking, saw 
 The Prince Gawain through kitchen gliding soft, 
 Bearing the great, tart-laden dish. Whereat 
 The lad rose, terror stricken, shrieking loud, 
 "The tarts." Again, and like a descant, "Gone! 
 The tarts." 
 
The Rape of the Tarts. 1 5 
 
 Loud shrill'd the cry thro'out the court, 
 And each took up the words till rang from wall 
 To wall the mournful echo : 
 
 "Gone, the tarts!" 
 Fast swell'd the cry and louder with each voice 
 That wail'd the theft until the Queen awak'd 
 And hearing what had happ'd felt her heart sink 
 And visions toothsome of the well-bak'd tarts 
 For royal supper fade to naught, and sat 
 To tears abandon'd and to grief a prey. 
 
 But false Gawain to saddle leaping, tarts 
 In dish upborne, saw all the rabble rout 
 Of palace kitchen fast behind pursue, 
 And one in saddle follow'd while the rest 
 The shrill cry echo'd, " O, the tarts ! the tarts ! " 
 Forth from the gates the chase was had until 
 The steed of Prince Gawain stumbl'd and threw 
 Him, bearing still the unspill'd tarts, upon 
 A grassy bank where those who follow'd found 
 And brought him, still tart-laden, to Isolt. 
 
 Naught said Gawain to temper his disgrace, 
 
 But let his eye a moment rest upon 
 
 The Queen, an eye that many maidens lov'd, 
 
 Then fall demurely on the toothsome tarts. 
 
 Then she, mov'd somewhat by his grace and glance, 
 
1 6 The Rape of the Tarts. 
 
 That admiration show'd, forgave the theft, 
 And thinking : 
 
 " Lo, a goodly man he seems 
 Since Tristram is not by," upon him laid 
 But two conditions. First that never should 
 He enter kitchen more in act to steal, 
 And on his knee, down-dropping at her feet, 
 With many oaths the courteous Gawain swore 
 To keep from deeds like this thro' all his life ; 
 The next that he should stay and eat with her. 
 So, nothing loth, the Prince of Courtesy stay'd 
 And ate with her the savory, toothsome tarts 
 For all an incense-breathing afternoon. 
 Till one in haste appear'd when sank the sun, 
 Crying, " I crave thy pardon, Queen, thy lord 
 Is near." 
 
 Thereat Gawain, warn'd by a look 
 Which ray'd from out her heavy-lidded eyes, 
 Departed with a word of farewell said, 
 And past to his own land, while she prepar'd 
 To meet King Mark returning from the chase. 
 
 
At the Palace of King Lot, ly 
 
 AT THE PALACE OF KING LOT, 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 j T/te King was in the parlor, counting out his money: 
 
 The Queen was in the kitchen, eating bread and honey : 
 \ The Maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes : 
 
 j There came a little Blackbird and snipp'' d off her nose. 
 
 T OT, King of Orkney in the Northern seas, 
 
 Long ere the time when, fighting sword in hand 
 'Gainst Arthur in the barons' wars he made 
 His name to all true men a byword like 
 A thing of scorn, one summer morning sat 
 Within the presence chamber all alone. 
 For knights and squires that made his island court, 
 (A tiny court rul'd by a weakling king,) 
 Were absent at the hunting every one. 
 Far better had it suited with his mood 
 To ride with them in gay companionship 
 Than to have stay'd behind. But on that day 
 The butcher, baker, chandler, and the host 
 That prospered on the waste and riot made 
 At court, their bills had brought and, clam'ring, begg'd 
 Their dues. 
 
1 8 At the Palace of King Lot. 
 
 As one who from his window sees 
 In early morning blue and cloudless skies, 
 And o'er him feels the breezes blowing soft, 
 While in his heart is peace, but later finds 
 The breezes risen to a gale, and dull. 
 Grey clouds fast shutting out the sun and sky 
 And in his bosom discontent is lord ; 
 So was it with King Lot when from his chair. 
 After the morning meal which Bellicent, 
 His Queen, had with her maids prepar'd for him — 
 Since well she knew what meats would please him 
 
 best — 
 He fain had had risen purpose-mov'd to pass 
 Without, but, rising, heard a dismal noise 
 And saw the door burst open while a throng 
 Of angry debtors clos'd him round about. 
 Shrill rang their voices 'mong the rafters high 
 O'erhead, and scarce the King could headway make 
 Against their loud-voic'd clamor, but at length. 
 When they had tir'd themselves with shriekings shrill, 
 He spake again and all attent they heard. 
 
 " Peace, fools, and leave me time to overlook 
 Your bills. This done, to-morrow at this hour 
 The seneschal shall see that all are paid." 
 
 This said, he wav'd his hand, and at the sign 
 
At the Palace of King Lot. 19 
 
 The rout of debtors vanish'd all at once 
 And swift, as oftentimes a chatt'ring flock 
 Of sparrows disappears before the sound 
 Of nearing feet, so quickly drew they off, 
 \ Each man communing with himself, the while 
 Their sharp heels clatter'd on the flinty floor. 
 
 Then like a wrathful sunshine smil'd King Lot. 
 
 " I go not to the chase to-day, it seems. 
 
 But weary hours must spend instead, forsooth, 
 
 In balancing accounts, since in my court 
 
 Of figures none knows aught, save I, the King." 
 
 At this the sullen Modred, eldest son 
 
 Of Lot, laught softly to himself, — right glad 
 
 That any business kept the kingly eye 
 
 ) From him, for full of tricks and craft was he, 
 The Artful Dodger of an early day, 
 
 1 And often in an uproar set the court. 
 
 \ 
 i,nd now the knights and squires, had gone without 
 
 n'.ilieir King, while he, with anxious face and brow 
 Al;l frown, sat 'mongst his money caskets lost 
 In calculations deep, and murm'ring low 
 Of pounds and shillings, and, at times, of pence, 
 And oft, for better aiming at results, 
 
 1 His fingers counting as do boys at school — 
 
20 At the Palace of King Lot. 
 
 Like them perplext for want of fingers more — 
 So past his morning hours away. 
 
 Meanwhile 
 Had Bellicent, the Queen, her husband left, 
 And to the kitchen gone to oversee 
 The maids, for such her careful custom was. 
 Right bitter was her tongue when these transgress'd, 
 But to obedience was she all as sweet 
 As winds from off a perfum'd bank of flowers, — 
 And this her maidens knew and strove to please. 
 But on her brow this morn there lurkt a frown. 
 And in her heart reign'd vague unrest, and why- 
 She knew not, yet she held her peace and came 
 And went on household quests and would have slill'd 
 The gnawing hunger at her heart, and all 
 In vain. 
 
 At last she to a cupboard bent 
 Her steps, an oaken cupboard built within 
 A niche, and wisely for such purpose made. 
 And open threw its doors. On oaken shelf 
 There gleam'd the glass and silver kept for days i 
 Of pomp and show, for Bellicent, the Queen, | 
 
 Had joy in burnisht silver as became | 
 
 Her state, and on her treasure gaz'd she now 
 With proper pride, but on the topmost shelf 
 Her eyes, blue as the seas that circle round 
 
At the Palace of King Lot. 21 
 
 Her island realm and dash against its crags, 
 
 Espied a wheaten loaf, and, close beside, 
 
 A jar of amber honey, of some hive 
 
 The luscious spoil. Beholding these the frown 
 
 From off her brow departed, and, therewith, 
 
 The gnawing at her heart, and putting forth 
 
 A slender arm to which a broider'd sleeve, 
 
 All of red samite, clung in shapely fold, 
 f She graspt the jar of amber sweets and next 
 
 The wheaten loaf, and, all rejoicing, bore 
 
 Them to a corner window-lit by niche 
 
 Deep sunk and narrow as the zone that bound 
 
 Her robe of scarlet samite at the waist. 
 
 A curtain loosely drawn before kept off 
 1 Intrusive eyes, and here the Queen retir'd. 
 I Upon a ledge beneath the window lay 
 I A sharpened knife with silvern hilt whereon 
 I The cunning artisan had made the dog 
 
 To chase the boar, and, seizing this, the Queen 
 I From off the loaf broad slices cut in haste, 
 i And o'er them pour'd the honey from the jar 
 ; With murmurs of delight half-heard from lips 
 
 That now in ecstasy essay'd to taste. 
 I Then o'er her senses past a drowsy calm 
 
 As, slowly eating there alone, she grew 
 
 Forgetful wholly of her lord the King, 
 
 Forgetful of the honey on her gown, 
 
22 At the Palace of King Lot, 
 
 Forgetful of the dinner to be cook'd, 
 Forgetful of the swift-approaching noon, 
 Forgetful of her kitchen and its cares. 
 And this forgetfulness was pleasant to her. 
 
 Behind the palace, in a courtyard small, 
 
 Hemm'd in by walls to which the lichen clung 
 
 In stains of gold and silver laced with black, 
 
 The moon-faced Edith paced with hasty tread, 
 
 Bearing the basket with the Monday's wash. 
 
 Bare to the elbow were her sturdy arms. 
 
 On which, all red with labor, shone the suds. 
 
 Low overhead an hempen network fine 
 
 In intricate confusion mingl'd, cross 
 
 And bar. Thereon the damsel deftly flung 
 
 The many motley garments of the court. 
 
 Diverse of shape and in strange order set, 
 
 Since here the mended hose of poorest squire 
 
 Hung neighbor to the night-rail of the King. 
 
 Glad was the maid to think her work was done. 
 
 And all her youth broke forth in gladsome song- 
 
 The song itself a thing of little wit 
 
 But humble and accordant with her toil — 
 
 " Rub, rub, and scrub ! the soap is on the shelf ! 
 There's many a one much wiser than myself ; 
 But not an old man counting o'er his pelf. 
 
A I the Palace of King Lot. 23 
 
 *' Rub, rub, and scrub ! the soajD is here by me ! 
 And soap is such to me if not to thee ; 
 And whether soap or soda let it be. 
 
 "Rub, scrub and rub ! and the slack clothes-Hne blows: 
 Scrub, rub and scrub, and where is she ? who knows ? 
 From one wash to another wash she goes." 
 
 Loud sang the maid, and all the while behind 
 An angle in the courtyard Modred sat 
 Sullen, and crouch'd with mischief in his heart. 
 Beside him glossy-wing'd, and sharp of beak, 
 A blackbird skulk'd, with evil eye upturn'd 
 To meet the evil eye of Modred bent 
 On him, and one were these in purpose ill. 
 j Scarce could the knavish Modred bide the time 
 \ When he the moon-faced, unsuspicious maid 
 ' Might harm, and oft the blackbird pertly peer'd 
 ^ Into his face, as one that sayeth " Here 
 Am I," again, and " Master, is it time ? " 
 At last it chanced that as the damsel mov'd 
 , Among the garments that o'erhung the space, 
 I And glisten'd in the sun, she turn'd her head 
 \ A moment toward the angle in the wall 
 All unregardful of the danger there. 
 Full roseate were her cheeks, but redder still 
 Her nose, wherefore, I know not, I but tell 
 
24 At the Palace of King Lot. 
 
 The tale, and this, when wicked Modred saw, 
 He aim'd a villain's finger toward, whereat 
 The bird, upstarting, flew with direful speed, 
 And, ere the maid could frame a thought of ill, 
 Had nipt the crimson'd feature with his beak. 
 Sore was the hurt and loud the damsel shriek'd, 
 And wildly from the courtyard ran in haste 
 And pain, but ere she many steps had gone 
 A cord that Modred o'er the path had stretch'd, 
 Catching her feet low fell'd her to the ground. 
 All heavily she sank to earth and lay 
 As one whom fright and pain have overcome 
 At once and stol'n away the strength to move. 
 
 This saw the Prince, the while he prais'd the bird 
 For faithful service done, and then the twain 
 Departed by a secret way that none 
 But Modred knew. Within the damsel's breast, 
 Whenas she rose and gain'd her feet 
 And naught of bird or other creature saw, 
 Both rage and grief held riot bitter there, 
 But in the heart of Modred joy was lord. 
 
Sir Evei'green, 25 
 
 SIR El^ERGREEN. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The man in tJie luilderfiess asked me 
 How many strawberries grow in the sea ; 
 A nd I answered him as I thought good, 
 A s many as red herrings grotu in the wood. 
 
 QIR BEVIS, faithful knight of Arthur's court, 
 
 Returning from some mission of his lord, 
 Who held him dear, and oft would send by him 
 Such secret message as none else might bear. 
 And who was known to all as form'd of truth 
 And loving service well compact, had found. 
 So late the hour, the gates of Camelot 
 Fast clos'd, and he without was fain to wait 
 Till morning 'neath the roof of one who dwelt 
 Beside the walls by mighty Merlin made ; 
 A kinsman whom Sir Bevis dearly lov'd. 
 Glad was the man when he Sir Bevis saw. 
 And heard the knight in courtly accents crave 
 A shelter till the morn, and gladly made 
 His kinsman of the famous Table Round 
 Right welcome to such cheer as he possest. 
 
26 Sir Evergreen. 
 
 ^> 
 
 On oaken board he threw the damask cloth, 
 
 And on it laid the snowy manchet bread, 
 
 The pasty rich, the lordly round of beef. 
 
 And from a silver flagon poured the wine. 
 
 Naught said the knight till, meat and drink consum'd, 
 
 And hunger past, his tongue was therewith loos'd 
 
 And with a voice like to the mellow roll 
 
 Of music deep and full, far heard yet close 
 
 In seeming to the eager listener's ear, 
 
 He spoke : 
 
 •' Kinsman, thou shouldst have been with me 
 These five da3^s past, which I, at Arthur's hest, 
 Have spent at court of Mark, the Cornish king 
 Who wedded fair Iseult of Ireland. 
 On him all courtesy is lost, but she 
 Is fairer than Queen Guinevere, and false, 
 Alas ! as fair, if there be any truth 
 In tales of her and Tristram buzz'd about 
 In Cornish court below us by the sea. 
 Thou shouldst have seen the feastings and the jousts 
 That graced my stay, for greatly Mark desires 
 With Arthur peace and therefore honor'd me 
 On embassage from blameless Arthur sent. 
 For me, I care not greatly for such sports, 
 But thou wast always of another mind 
 And therefore shouldst have gone along with me." 
 He ceas'd, and resting idly, chin in hand, 
 
 J 
 
I Sir Evergreen. 27 
 
 1 And elbow propt upon the board, he bent 
 A keenly mirthful gaze upon his host. 
 Then he : 
 
 "Good Bevis, tell me not of Mark, 
 Of Cornish court, of feasts or lordly jousts, 
 For here, scarce three leagues off from Camelot, 
 Have I adventure had to last my life, 
 Yea, such, I thought, were like to end my life. 
 What time that thou wert feasting with King Mark." 
 
 To whom the knight : 
 
 '^ Thou seemst in goodly trim 
 For one so late in peril of his life ; 
 But let me hear." 
 
 Thereat while evening wan'd 
 The kinsman of Sir Bevis told his tale. 
 
 ' " But two days since upon a listless morn 
 / On which the sun shone fiercely from a sky 
 ' Of brass, and all the winds were still and husht 
 
 The murmuring streets of busy Camelot 
 \^ I sought yon forest that, dim miles away, 
 
 O'erspreads the plain that sloping gently bounds 
 The west. Therein mov'd I as one who needs 
 No friend to 'company his steps, and there, 
 , Outworn by distance and by summer's heat, 
 ( Sank into sleep beside a hollow oak 
 
28 Sir Evergreen, 
 
 And woke not till what time the evening fell 
 Across the land and feebly strove the pale 
 New moon to wrestle with the dark. 
 
 Then while 
 I rose bewilder'd, scarce as yet possest 
 Of full remembrance of my journey thence, 
 So duU'd my senses with yet lingering sleep, 
 There sudden brake from covert thick of bush 
 And brier that barr'd the way with thorny front, 
 One mightier than any knight who sits 
 At meat with Arthur at the Table Round. 
 Yea, to my fears he seem'd as huge as ten 
 Though they were each as stout as Lancelot, 
 And fast he gript me by the hair and arm. 
 The field mouse is not in the cat's grim clutch 
 More helpless than was I, thy kinsman, then. 
 And tremblingly I found my voice and spoke : 
 ' Oh, who art thou who here at close of day 
 Dost hold me fast in peril of my life ? ' 
 At these my words he loudly laught in scorn 
 And slowly rolling both his gleaming eyes 
 Upon me, gript the closer till I roar'd 
 For pain. Then made he answer rough and harsh 
 As watchdog's howling when the thief is nigh : 
 
 * The lord of this great forest, lo, am I ! 
 
 And mighty through its fruits and roots am I, 
 
Sir Evergreen. 29 
 
 , Sir Evergreen am hight, and I can keep 
 Thee here till doomsday, an it pleaseth thee. 
 
 To whom then I : 
 
 ' Such fate would little please ; 
 'Twould please me much the best to be let go.' 
 
 Amaz'd, he of the wood upon me glar'd 
 
 The space of one long minute, and the woods 
 
 Were still. Then broke he into loud-voiced song : 
 
 ' Fate ! fate ! 'tis fate that holds thee pris'ner here ; 
 Fate ! fate ! sharp fate, so think not to get clear. 
 No fate, no fate so terrible as I ! 
 
 've you not heard my strength no one can beat ? 
 i, fling yourself in terror at my feet. 
 No fate, no fate so terrible as I ! ' 
 
 Full loud he sang the while I quak'd for fear, 
 And thro' the forest loud the grewsome stave 
 Resounded and the forest echoed ' I.' 
 Then as I Vv'onder'd what should me befall, 
 Once more he spoke, and, full of dread, I heard. 
 
 * Poor craven denizen of Camelot, 
 
 'Twas not to slay and eat thee that I sought 
 
30 Si J' Ev£rg}'eeit. 
 
 Thee here. Not meet were it for me to eat 
 Thy flesh, seeing I eat not meat, but still 
 On fruits and roots have waxen strong, if wax 
 Be strong and strong be wax.' 
 
 Then I : 
 
 '^^^jwax 
 They name it in the streets of Camelot.' 
 
 ' Peace, kitchen knave ! ' loud roar'd Sir Evergreen, 
 ' Thy prate is like the buzzing of some fly 
 That comes and goes and comes again, and yet 
 For nothing ; such thy foolish speech. And now 
 Hear me.' 
 
 * I cannot choose but hear, good sir ; 
 To me thy voice sounds louder than the blast 
 That down great chimneys roars at dead of night.' 
 
 At this, well-pleas'd, he of the wood relaxt 
 Somewhat his grasp and show'd his teeth in smile ; 
 A fierce array, tho' broken here and there. 
 
 ' Know then, O kitchen knave,' his words to me, 
 '• Within the dusky shadows of this wood 
 Have I these forty summers dwelt.' 
 
 Then I : 
 * And winters too, Sir Evergreen .'' ' 
 
 To which 
 
5/r Evergreen. 31 
 
 le answer made : 
 
 ' Not winters two^ dull knave, 
 3ut winters forty as the summers are, 
 'Tor have I cold nor rheumatism felt ; 
 .^et dwelling thus it well may chance I know 
 kit little of the outer world, and thou, 
 3elike, canst tell me what I fain would hear.' 
 
 JHe paus'd, as one who, at a loss for words, 
 Doth grope about the chamber of his brain, 
 And from the quest at last returns with those 
 '£e had not chosen were there room for choice ; 
 Bo far'd it with Sir Evergreen, who roar'd 
 'mpatiently his eager question forth : 
 
 to kitchen knave, or whatsoe'er thou art, 
 ilake answer truly, hast thou seen the sea ? ' 
 
 le ceas'd, and in the gloomy wood no sound 
 ^as there save faintest stir above our heads 
 f half-awakened nestlings in the nest, 
 'hen meekly question'd I : 
 
 *TheA, B, C?' 
 iNot so, O knave, the sea I mean doth wind 
 ^bout the world, as once in youth I heard 
 
 '"' ^neak, like snake about its prey. 
 ' it, hast thou seen the sea ? ' 
 
2,2 Sir Evergreen. 
 
 ' Full oft, in winter storm and summer calm, 
 Sir Evergreen,' I answered, chill with fear. 
 
 ' 'Tis well,' he roar'd, and more beside had said 
 But that I spoke again and all in wrath 
 He heard. 
 
 * Strong sir, it is not well if thou 
 Dost speak thus of the sea, for well and sea 
 Are vastly different things, tho' water lies 
 In both.' 
 
 I ended ; scarce my words were done 
 When all the temper of the man broke forth; 
 Mighty his wrath and gustily he spoke : 
 ' Well me no wells or 'twill be ill with thee ; 
 Sea me no seas, for I will seize on thee ; 
 Lie me no lies or soon wilt thou lie there.' 
 Thereat he dragg'd me past the hollow oak 
 And fiercely pointed to a torrent deep 
 That many feet below us leapt and ran 
 'Mong sharp and ragged rocks that vext its course, 
 And made as he would hurl me thitherward. 
 More had he said, and op'd his mouth to speak 
 And op'ning, chok'd, (a frog, it may be, fill'd 
 His angry throat,) but later spoke more calm : 
 * O knave, provoke me not, lest ill befall. 
 And now once more attend. There gro'^"' ""''^ ' 
 This wood, beneath the leaves and cre,^ which 
 
Sir Evergreen. 33 
 
 The ground, red berries which the seeming wise 
 
 Call straw. Full sweet and toothsome to the taste 
 
 Are they, and on them have I often din'd 
 
 Nigh to that hour in which the golden sun 
 
 In high mid-heaven stands, and all about 
 
 The leaves hang quiet in the summer's heat, — 
 
 My one regret that there were all too few 
 
 To satisfy the hunger in my breast. 
 
 Now, kitchen knave, if haply thou canst tell 
 
 How many of these berries rare within 
 
 The sea do grow, it may be I can feed 
 
 Thereon when these within the woods are gone.' 
 
 He ended here, and on me bent his gaze 
 Willi all expectancy, as one who sits 
 
 vit'iin a dry and thirsty land, and sees 
 ^he storm-clouds gather in the far southwest. 
 r^ pausing, I kept silence for a space; 
 Then, as the shadows darken'd in the w^ood, 
 Anc owls from out the hollow oak flew forth 
 Witii baleful shriek to meet the coming night, 
 Mace answer to the question as I deem'd 
 It b^st. 'The sea is wide. Sir Evergreen, 
 
 \ ' hard were it for any man to count 
 number rightly all that is therein, 
 
 - near enow for purpose practical 
 
 -"th I may answer to thy quest. 
 
34 'S'/> Evergreen. 
 
 Of berries toothsome, which the wise call straw, 
 
 (Though not a straw care I for what they say, 
 
 Notev'n the straw which breaks the camel's back. 
 
 Nor that which shows the changeful current's course,) 
 
 There grow within the angry-bosom'd sea 
 
 As many as of herrings red are found 
 
 In green and dusky confines of the wood.' 
 
 Thus I, and he before me listen'd all 
 Attent as child who, by some fireside warm, 
 On winter evenings ere the hour for bed 
 Heark'neth, delighted, to some fairy tale, 
 But keepeth silent lest a word be lost ; 
 So all in hope heard he, but at the last 
 Grew sad and loos'd his grasp, yet gaz'd 
 Upon me sternly that I dar'd not stir 
 For fear. Then, while I wonder'd at him, gave 
 A cry whose tingling echoes reach'd the stars : 
 * O knave ! I know not what red herrings be ! ' 
 Full bitterly he cried, and, turning, past 
 Adown the forest, and the forest clos'd 
 Upon him, and uncheck'd I went my way.'' 
 
 " A grewsome tale," the bold Sir Bevis said 
 
 When all was ended and the story told. 
 
 And then the twain to slumber past, and dreams. 
 
Thomas and Vivien. 35 
 
 THOMAS AND VIVIEN, 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Tom, Tom, tJie piper's son, 
 
 Stole a pig and away he ran. 
 
 The pig was eat, and Tom was beat 
 
 A 7td Tom went crying dow>i tlte street. 
 
 'T^HOMAS the young, Thomas the mischievous, 
 
 Thomas the dark-brow'd lad of Camelot, 
 After a day of mirth and reveling 
 At court, in which, tho' oft rebuk'd, his voice 
 Had ever mingl'd, louder than the rest, 
 And shriller than the storm-drave seabird's cry, 
 Alone within a triple-window'd room 
 That in his father's dwelling faced the east, 
 Upon his bed, ere sleep her wings had wav'd 
 Above him, lay and meditated much 
 In what new mischief he should next engage ; 
 Then, ere conclusion harmful could be reach'd, 
 Slipt into sleep, and dreaming, past to fields 
 Where youth and mischief held high holiday. 
 
 Sole son was he of old Sir Guy ; a man 
 Of stature humble, but of wisdom great. 
 
36 TJionias and Vivien. 
 
 Who now was counted of the Table Round, 
 
 But in his youth, as some could still recall, 
 
 Ere from the land of Cameliard he came. 
 
 The sometime piper to its lord and King 
 
 Leodogran, 'gainst whom the heathen warr'd ; 
 
 But after, when the peerless Guinevere, 
 
 The daughter of Leodogran, had been 
 
 By holy Dubric to King Arthur wed. 
 
 Had past to Camelot ; and there by dint 
 
 Of faithful service in a humble place. 
 
 But more because the King the hre of truth 
 
 And nobleness perceiv'd in him and lov'd 
 
 Him for it, was now made knight, and brightly shone 
 
 In burnisht armor at King Arthur's court. 
 
 With him the King had counsel many times, 
 
 For knowledge deep of men and things Sir Guy 
 
 Possest, and year by year his wisdom grew 
 
 The riper as his head grew white. But since 
 
 To no man living perfect wisdom comes 
 
 It hapt therefore, that in one thing, not small, 
 
 Sir Guy, the sage was wanting, and tlie King 
 
 1 o him had that day put a question hard. 
 
 " How chances it. Sir Guy," had Arthur said, 
 " That thou whom all men reverently call 
 The wi.^;est of our court, now Merlin lies 
 A pris'ner in the wood of Broceiiande, 
 
Thomas and Vivien. 37 
 
 Hast fail'd, or so it seemeLh to our eyes, 
 To rule and govern well thine only son ? " 
 He ceas'd and then, from out a passage close 
 Beside, a woman came and stood before 
 And cried : 
 
 " O King, who never yet wouldst see 
 And willingly, injustice done to aught, 
 Hearken to me. But now my son, in years 
 Scarce ten and slender as a flower, was set 
 Upon and beaten by a lad, the son, 
 It hap'neth, of thy wisest knight, Sir Guy, 
 And therefore may it please thee, noble King, 
 To see that this young Thomas, for so him 
 They call, be dealt with sternly, as is sure 
 His due." 
 
 She spoke in haste, not seeing him 
 Who stood beside the king, and courteously 
 Made Arthur answer to her, and she went 
 From out the kingly presence glad of heart. 
 When the last echo of her steps had ceas'd, 
 The King again to his companion turn'd 
 Repeating in the glances of his eyes 
 The question that before was ask'd with lips. 
 Stroking his chin in thought. Sir Guy abode 
 In silence for a space, then, sudden, flasht 
 A face of mirthful radiance on the King, 
 And be2:2:'d his lord would listen to a tale. 
 
38 Thomas and Vivien. 
 
 " Full willingly, Sir Guy," replied the King, 
 And smootli'd the gilded dragon on his robe. 
 
 " A peasant in the land of Cameliard," 
 
 Began Sir Guy, " a slender living won 
 
 By keeping ducks and geese, and round his hut 
 
 Their constant screams and quackings harshly rang 
 
 From earliest hours, — sweet music to his ears. 
 
 One spring it chanced that from the nest two geese 
 
 Came off at once leading their callow young. 
 
 One mother proudly walk'd in front of ten 
 
 Yellow as gold, and all submissively 
 
 They follow'd where she led, nor seem'd to dream 
 
 Of will apart from hers. The other goose 
 
 Was mother of but one, and this one black 
 
 And wayward, such as never had been seen. 
 
 In vain the mother strove obedience 
 
 From this to gain; and oft her comrades shook 
 
 Their heads, foreboding ills that lay in wait 
 
 For errant goslings that obey'd no law. 
 
 At last the mother strove no more but left 
 
 Her single gosling to its own wild will : 
 
 But when a year had gone the peasant saw 
 
 No finer bird amongst his flock than this 
 
 Of which such dire prediction had been made. 
 
 But she that led abroad her brc od of ten 
 
 Ere summer ended saw them fall a prey 
 
Ihonias and Vivien. 39 
 
 To enemies that lurkt in grass and pool, 
 And one by one they slowly disappear'd 
 Till autumn came and found her desolate." 
 
 "A clever tale," here spoke the King, and smil'd 
 " But all things are not rul'd by accident. 
 Sir Guy, and seldom from the thorns do men 
 Attempt the purple-cluster'd grape to pluck, 
 And this, Sir Guy, the wise, should know as well, 
 Or better, even, than the King himself." 
 Then, rising, Arthur past with thoughtful step 
 Unto the bower of Guinevere, his Queen. 
 
 Thomas the young, Thomas the mischievous, 
 
 Awak'ning on the morrow from his sleep. 
 
 Beheld from out the windows of his room 
 
 A sight that fill'd his bosom with delight. 
 
 For while as down the narrow street he glanced, 
 
 A well-fed sow, attended by the train 
 
 Of youthful swine that made her litter small. 
 
 With grunts of deep content slow rang'd along. 
 
 A moment only gaz'd the lad, then stole 
 
 With soundless steps down the long stair, and peer'd 
 
 Into the street without. In narrow lines 
 
 Thro' rifts between high houses shone the sun 
 
 And lay in golden bars across the street. 
 
 A soft breeze lifted banners from the walls 
 
40 Thomas and Vivien. 
 
 And tost them lightly in the air. Scarce had 
 The city wak'd, and only here and there 
 An early-risen scullion, rubbing eyes 
 In which the sleep yet linger'd, went his way 
 To morning task. The lagging steps of these 
 And noise of swine the only sounds that stirr'd 
 The silence of the town. All cautiously 
 The lad with careful feet, on mischief bent 
 Crept toward the trustful, unsuspicious swine, 
 But, as his shadow fell across a bar 
 Of gold, the mother felt the danger near, 
 And, shrieking, fled, with all her litter'd tribe 
 At heels. But one, the smallest, tenderest 
 Of all, because less swift of foot than all 
 The rest, the ruthless Thomas seiz'd and bore 
 Triumphant to his friend, the palace cook. 
 The twain intending later on the pig 
 To dine. 
 
 Ill reckon'd they, the knavish pair, 
 For wily Vivien thro' her lattice saw 
 The theft, and so, because she lov'd to tell 
 A tale, and more because the lad had been 
 Full oft a torment to her, later went 
 And told King Arthur what the son of Guy 
 Had done. The blameless King when he her tale 
 In silence heard, not doubting that for once 
 She spoke the truth, bade some one call Sir Guy 
 
Thomas and Vivien. 41 
 
 And Tom, and summon likewise all the court. 
 When this was done the King upon Sir Guy 
 Bent brows of sudden wrath and said : 
 
 "Thy 'one 
 Black gosling,' O Sir Guy, in growing up 
 1"o be the chiefcist goose, or what thou wilt, 
 Of all his time, is like, I fear me much, 
 To prove a very fruitful source of ill 
 Among the youth of tender age at court." 
 To this in humbleness Sir Guy replied : 
 " It may be as thou sayest ; therefore do 
 Unto him as thou wilt." 
 
 Then call'd the King 
 Sir Kay, the seneschal, and gave command 
 That at the stroke of noon Sir Kay should lay 
 On thieving Thomas full twelve stripes with rod 
 Of season'd birch ; and hearing this, a smile 
 Of joy ran round the court, and no one rais'd 
 A voice of pity, for none pitied him. 
 Then as Sir Kay the luckless Thomas led 
 From out the presence of the court and King, 
 The wily Vivien past to where the cooks 
 And scullions bode and singling out the one 
 She knew to be the friend of Thomas, drew 
 From him with all her wondrous woman's art 
 The after hist'ry of the stolen pig. 
 
42 Thomas and Vivien. 
 
 Won by the damsel's smile, before he knew, 
 The cook, a simple knave and all unus'd 
 To arts like these of Vivien's, promise gave 
 That he at noon the roasted pig would place 
 Upon the table in her private bower, 
 For on such fare full well she lov'd to dine. 
 The promise made again she smil'd and seem'd 
 As innocently fair as Enid, wife 
 To Prince Geraint, and, dazzl'd by such grace 
 To him, a kitchen servingman, he stood 
 With floury hands on hips and open mouth, 
 And wide eyes staring as she past without. 
 
 Thomas the young, Thomas the mischievous, 
 
 With dark anticipation watcht the sun 
 
 As rapidly it clomb the morning sky, 
 
 And much too short the time till from the tow'rs 
 
 Was clasht the hour of noon, but to the maid 
 
 The hours paced slow, and oft she sigh'd for noon 
 
 Impatiently exclaiming to herself 
 
 That never had been known a morn so long. 
 
 But when, on platter hot, the cook the pig 
 
 Brought in, her humor chang'd and thereupon 
 
 Grew all as sweet as breath of flowers in June. 
 
 Low bow'd the man as she within his palm 
 
 A gold'n token slipt from fingers white, 
 
 The while he heard her voice his cooking praise, 
 
TJionias and Vivien. 43 
 
 And felt the magic of her presence near 
 And vainly wish'd himself of her degree ; 
 For breath of scandal soiling Vivien's name 
 Had not so far as palace kitchen blown, 
 And therefore deem'd he still the damsel pure. 
 
 Long linger'd she o'er this her fav'rite dish, 
 And none the less 'twas sweet to her who knew 
 That high above the tumult of the streets 
 Below, in direful anguish, rang the shrieks 
 Of Tom. 
 
44 1^^^^ Vision of Sir Lainoracke. 
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAMORACKE, 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 As I was going to Sahit Ives 
 
 J met sezien 7vives. 
 Every ivife had seven sacks ; 
 Every sack had seven cats ; 
 Every cat had seven kits ; 
 Kits, cats, sacks and -wives, 
 
 How inatty were going to Saint Ives ? 
 
 ly^ING PELLINORE of Wales, the same who slew 
 
 Lot, King of Orkney in the Northern seas, 
 Three stalwart sons in wedlock lawful had. 
 Sir Lamoracke de Galis eldest was 
 Of these, the next Sir Aglavale, the third 
 The pure Sir Percivale, and these were knights 
 Of Table Round, and with them Tor, the child 
 Of shame but brother to the three no less, 
 And first created knight of Table Round 
 The Table of the great Pendragonship. 
 Sir Lamoracke among King Arthur's knights 
 Was bravest save for three, but since the three 
 Were Lancelot, Tristram and Geraint, no less 
 Of honor deem'd it reck'nin^: fourth with these. 
 
The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 45 
 
 In the mid-strength and hardihood of youth 
 He was when vision by his sister seen, 
 A holy nun much worn by fastings long, 
 Sent half the court in quest of Holy Grail ; 
 And Lamoracke went, as eager as the rest, 
 And all for holy longing underwent 
 Long toilsome days, and nights as wearisome, 
 And piteous perils manifold he knew, 
 Until, a twelvemonth past, he set his face 
 Again toward Camelot with yet no glimpse 
 Of what he sought, and sorrow in his heart. 
 
 One morning chanced it that while pacing slow 
 
 With head bent down and gaze upon the ground 
 
 On homeward way thro' forest deep that stretched 
 
 From Camelot southward many leagues, there crost 
 
 His path a ten-tin'd stag, and after rode 
 
 A knight he knew to be Sir Sagramour, 
 
 In fierce pursuit, who, seeing in the wood 
 
 A horseless knight all travel-worn and sad, 
 
 Left flying deer to its wild will and leapt 
 
 From his own horse and begg'd Sir Lamoracke 
 
 Ride in his place as being one of those 
 
 Who went in search of Hoi}' Grail. Thus said 
 
 The sweet Sir Sagramour and added thence : 
 
 " Thy face. Sir Lamoracke, is not unknown 
 
 To me." 
 
4-6 The Vision of Sir Laviorackc. 
 
 Then slowly Lamoracke answer'd him : 
 " O all for naught my quest and not for one 
 Like me the vision glorious, but thou, 
 Methinks, for knightly courtesy the peer 
 Of any at the court, might well have seen 
 What I, the son of Pellinore, have not." 
 
 " Not I," then spoke the sweet Sir Sagramour, 
 " Being ensnar'd with earthly things unto 
 My hurt, but an' I pray you, Lamoracke, ride. 
 My castle scarce a half league distant stands, 
 There mayst thou rest, at least until the morn, 
 And ride to court equipt as knight should be 
 So far as my poor store shall serve thy turn." 
 
 Then Lamoracke lookt up and answer'd him, 
 "Ah, sweet Sir Sagramour, none other suit 
 Suits with my sadden'd fortunes like to this 
 Which now I wear and therefore in array 
 Like this must I before King Arthur pass 
 Once more." 
 
 Then answer made Sir Sagramour 
 "Thou knowest best, but still I pray you ride 
 Llomeward with me and eat and rest a night ; 
 Else thou wilt never live to see thy lord 
 At all, in this or any other garb." 
 
The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 47 
 
 Full gentle was the manner of the man, 
 
 And Lamoracke for utter weariness 
 
 Gave way and past with sweet Sir Sagramour 
 
 Unto the other's castle near at hand, 
 
 Yet thinking, "on the morrow I will go." 
 
 As one who following the chase for da3'S 
 
 Scarce heeds his wearied limbs because so full 
 
 Of eager haste but home returning finds 
 
 Each step a pain and life a mockery, 
 
 So now with Lamoracke, who, with the fire 
 
 Of zeal and holy purpose quite burnt out, 
 
 Tarried for days with sweet Sir Sagramour, 
 
 Too weak for further travel and heart-sick 
 
 Withal because of failure in the Quest. 
 
 To him in those dark days came Sagramour 
 
 And whisper'd, " Courage ; failure is not crime." 
 
 And after came the wife of Sagramour 
 
 Beseeching him to be of cheer, to whom 
 
 He heark'n'd listlessly. Then came a child 
 
 The son of these, a three-years winsome lad 
 
 Who stammer'd " Courage " as he had been taught, 
 
 And seeing that Sir Lamoracke took no heed 
 
 Stammer'd his lesson o'er again, whereat 
 
 The knight, half rising on his elbow, turn'd 
 
 z\nd saw^ the boy with parted lips, and cheeks 
 
 All satin soft, and hair and eyes the hue 
 
 Of sable pansies, staring full at him; 
 
48 TJie Vision of Sir Lauioi-acke. 
 
 Then Lamoracke rose and caught the lad in arms 
 And kiss'd him oft and spoke full tenderly : 
 " Thou bidd'st me be of courage, little one ? 
 Yea, for thy sake I will," and from that time 
 Shook off, as far as might be, sad regret. 
 
 Yet still strength linger'd on its way to him, 
 And with these a sennight longer bode, 
 And after rose refresh'd and went his way. 
 But ere that time he told to please his host 
 Full many a tale of what had hapt to him 
 In Quest of Holy Grail and once the tale 
 Ran like to this. 
 
 "One morning after dreams," 
 So said Sir Lamoracke, " of Holy Grail 
 Seen by me who unworthy am to see 
 With waking eyes, I past, for then was I 
 In Cornwall by the sea, along a road 
 That wound past splinter'd crag and shallow cove 
 To fishing village of Saint Ives. Seaward 
 Saint Michael's Mount rose like a vision fair 
 All roseate with dawm and softly broke 
 Against its base the Cornish sea. A light 
 Breeze blew that gently stirr'd the leaves and then 
 Rested content while overhead a flock 
 Of birds shrill'd one to other, flying south 
 
The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 49 
 
 The sound clear falling thro' the morning air. 
 The weather-beaten fishers mended nets 
 Sitting on boats updrawn beside the sea 
 And hail'd me with * good-morrow ' as I past, 
 In simple fisher wise. Suddenly round 
 An angle in the path before me came 
 Full seven fisher-wives bending beneath 
 A heavy burden each one bore in sack 
 Of dusty leather on her shoulders old. 
 Small trace had these of brow may-blossom, cheek 
 Of apple blossom or the eye of hawk, 
 And clumsily the wrinkl'd nose of each, 
 Tip-tilted, like a thirsty duckling's bill 
 After much guzzling in the pool, did seem 
 To point the way. A wailing clamor rose 
 In air and louder grew as nearer came 
 The seven, halting where I stood aside 
 To let them pass, and lowering their sacks 
 Upon the ground- 
 in much amaze I ask'd 
 The seven what their burden was, whereat 
 The nearest shrilly pip'd forth : 
 
 " Cats, sir knight, 
 To rid the palace of King Mark of rats 
 That fright the fair Iseult, his Queen." 
 
 At this 
 Each wrinkl'd dame her knotted sack-string loost 
 
50 The Vision of Sir Lamoracke. 
 
 And forth from out the seven sacks there stalk'd 
 With pace sedate, and slowly waving tails, 
 And deep-ton'd purrings of well-fed content, 
 Full seven times seven cats and every one 
 The mother proud of seven kittens small 
 That sprawl'd and mew'd beside the sacks. 
 
 Such sight 
 I never saw in Camelot, altho' 
 Our Camelot is vaster than Saint Ives 
 And cats enow contains, as one may deem 
 Who finds his slumber broken by their wails 
 On roof and tow'r from midnight till the dawn, 
 And long I star'd at sprawling kits, and cats, 
 And sacks, and wives, until within the sacks 
 The seven wives replaced the cats and kits 
 And journey'd forward, wives, and sacks, and cats, 
 And kits, while I with musings curious 
 Past onward to Saint Ives." 
 
 "A sight indeed," 
 Here spoke Sir Sagramour, " and speedily 
 The burden of the seven wives should clear 
 The Cornish castle of its brood of rats 
 Save one, its churlish lord, for fouler rat 
 Than Mark, the craven, lives not upon earth." 
 
 To whom Sir Lamoracke : 
 
 " True, Sir Sagramour, 
 
The Vision of Sir Lavwracke. 5 1 
 
 But tell me of thy wit, which passes mine, 
 How many, reck'nest thou, to fair Saint Ives 
 Were going on that morning, kits, and cats, 
 And sacks, and wives." 
 
 So sweet Sir Sagramour 
 Knit brows, and tighten'd lips, and fingers told 
 The space of three long hours till fell the sun 
 And creeping darkness came upon the land, 
 And still no nearer was he to result 
 Than he had been at first when Lamoracke put 
 The question, nor with morning was it clear. 
 And with the morning Lamoracke went his way. 
 
52 The Return from the Quest. 
 
 THE RETURN FROM THE QUEST 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Hark! hark! 
 The dogs do bark ; 
 
 Beggars are coming to town. 
 Some in rags, 
 And some in tags, 
 
 A nd some in velvet gown. 
 
 T^HE summer brooded and the winds were husht, 
 
 And on the palace walls the sunshine slept, 
 And all within King Arthur's court withdrew 
 To where the shadows deepest lay, and thought 
 Of winter and the snow. But he, the King, 
 Sitting beside a window that o'erhung 
 The stream that murmur'd past the lichen'd walls 
 And wander'd thro' the meadows to the sea, 
 Mus'd on the time when of the Table Round 
 The number was complete and of his knights 
 Not one was absent from his place. But now 
 The seat of many a one in Arthur's hall 
 Was vacant, and from off the walls was gone 
 Full many a blazon'd, burnisht, knightly shield. 
 This had not been, so sadly Arthur mus'd, 
 But for the apparition of the Grail 
 Seen in a vision by that holy maid, 
 
The Rettcrn from the Quest. 5 3 
 
 The sister of Sir Percivale, who told 
 The wondrous tale to all his brother knights, 
 And straightway set them longing for the Quest. 
 Then, while he mus'd, the voice of Dagonet, 
 The fool, shrill'd thro' the silence, and the King 
 Lookt up. Before him stood the fool, who call'd, 
 " Arouse, my brother fool, and hark to me ! " 
 Then answer'd Arthur, nothing loth to break 
 A jest or two with little Dagonet, 
 " But why thy brother fool am I ? " 
 
 To whom 
 The jester, shaking all his bells, replied, 
 *' What sayest thou of him who constant wears 
 A thistle next his heart and knows not whence 
 His pain ? Who fain would make a shining crown 
 From lumps of lead ? And such a fool art thou. 
 And therefore shouldst thou wear a cap and bells, 
 And therefore have I call'd thee brother fool." 
 Then thus the King : 
 
 " A bitter, pointless jest ; 
 Thy wit doth not increase as doth thy age." 
 To whom, in answer, shrill'd Sir Dagonet : 
 " Said I not truly? Take my cap and bells ; " 
 Then mutter'd, past the hearing of his lord, 
 " The thistle next his heart is Guinevere, 
 His Queen," and after, spoke aloud, "Thy knights, 
 My brother fool, are not they all dull lumps 
 
54 The Return from the Quest. 
 
 Of lead ? And after all thy pains are spent 
 Upon them leaden still they yet remain. 
 Of such as these thou vainly hop'st to make 
 A shining crown of manhood in thy realm, 
 And therefore have I call'd thee 'brother fool.'" 
 "Thy wit is sharply edged, my fool," here spoke 
 The King, " and yet, for all its sharpness, fails." 
 
 Thereat the dwarf peer'd curiously up 
 
 Into his master's face, and seeing naught 
 
 Unusual in its kingly grace, had turn'd, 
 
 But turning, caught the echo of a sigh, 
 
 And knew his arrow reach'd King Arthur's heart. 
 
 Thereafter fell a silence on the twain 
 
 And Arthur mus'd as sadly as before 
 
 On hopes that had been his in long-past days 
 
 When he had plann'd the healing of the world. 
 
 Slow past a morning hour until at last 
 
 A momentary vagrant breeze, that thro' 
 
 The high, unlatticed, open window swept, 
 
 Tost aimlessly an early wither'd leaf 
 
 Into the kingly lap. Then spoke the King, 
 
 Smoothing the faded leaf : 
 
 " Sir Dagonet, 
 It may be that thy song is gentler than 
 Thy wit ; if so be, let me hear." 
 
The Return from the Quest. 5 5 
 
 Whereat 
 The dwarf, moving to where a gilded harp 
 Half hidden in a corner of the room 
 Gleam'd like a star in mellow darkness set, 
 Sudden swept all its strings impatiently, 
 And when the gust of music sank and died 
 And rose again to live in Vv'ailing, sang, — 
 And sad and bitter were the tune and words. 
 
 "High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 
 
 may; 
 The buds have blown, their perfume is no more ; 
 The time is sped, the glory past away ; 
 New time, new strife, — the hours of joy are o'er; 
 New strife, new hate, to fit this later day ; 
 New hates are deep as those that were before ; 
 High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 
 
 may." 
 
 The singer ended, and his bitter notes 
 Were follow'd by the snapping of a string. 
 Then said the King : 
 
 " Ye do the harp a wrong, 
 To make it sponsor for your grewsome stave, 
 And kinder had it been to chant a strain 
 More pleasing unto weary ears like mine." 
 
$6 The Rettim from the Quest. 
 
 To whom then sadly spake Sir Dagonet : 
 
 " No lightsome lays are left to sing ; the hours 
 Of joy are o'er ; " and while the King his words 
 Revolv'd in mind and echo found therein, 
 The dwarf obeisance made and danced away. 
 
 "High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 
 
 may," 
 The King said slowly to himself, and paus'd, 
 For sudden rose a clamor in the streets, 
 As if the countless dogs of Camelot 
 Were all one voice, such uproar was there made. 
 Then Arthur, wond'ring at the din, arose 
 And past to an apartment that o'erlookt 
 The city's streets, and peering forth, he saw 
 A train of weary pilgrims near the city walls. 
 Then open swung the weirdly sculptur'd gates, 
 And Arthur knew the men, his knights return'd 
 From Quest of Holy Grail. And first rode Bors 
 And Lancelot. Dim were the trappings once 
 So gay on men and steeds, and tatter'd shreds 
 Now wav'd and flutter'd from their garments' hems. 
 Behind rode Percivale, in dusty rags, 
 And after, others worn and torn as he, 
 And beggars never seem'd so poor as these. 
 The crest and flower of Arthur's Table Round ; 
 
The ReUwn fi^om the Quest, 57 
 
 But last of all Gawain in velvet fine 
 Flasht gayly by with knightly comrades twain, 
 For pleasant was the Quest for him who made 
 So sure the holy Quest was not for him, 
 And thus King Arthur saw his knights return 
 From Quest a twelvemonth long of Holy Grail. 
 
 Loud rose the canine clamor in the streets 
 As these rode by, a beggar throng to eyes 
 Which saw them pass beyond the city walls 
 The year before, impelled by holy zeal, 
 And he who now shone brightest, false Gawain, 
 In honor's ranks the faintest of them all, 
 But shriller rang the voice of Dagonet 
 Dancing beside the train, who, as he saw 
 The kingly face regarding all who past. 
 With slender finger pointed to the knights 
 Return'd as beggars from their bootless Quest, 
 And sang, and bitter both the notes and words, — 
 
 "High hopes — high deeds — we hope but while we 
 
 may 
 
 )> 
 
58 The Maid's Alarm. 
 
 THE MAID'S ALARM. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Little Miss Mnffet 
 Sat on a ttiffet. 
 
 Eating of curds and whey. 
 There cajne a black spider. 
 Which sat down beside her, 
 
 A nd frightened Miss AInffct away. 
 
 QUEEN GUINEVERE at Almesbury abode 
 Unknown, after her shameful flight from court, 
 And there the long days came and went, and found 
 And left her thrall to grief. One little maid 
 Companion'd her, a novice in that house, 
 To whom the Queen in lighter hours of grief — 
 For sorrow weighs not always equally. 
 Else there were none could bear — gave listless heed. 
 As one through blinding mists of care and dole 
 Might half discern a kitten at its play. 
 And smile, scarce comprehending why, so she, 
 The Queen, unto the novice's prattle turn'd 
 Half ear, dulling, it may be, thus the edge 
 Of grief, for low the maiden's voice and sweet. 
 " Sir Feumbras my father was," so said 
 
The Maid's Alarm. 59 
 
 The maid, "a knight of Arthur's Table Round, 
 A goodly man, much favor'd of his King. 
 To him King Arthur gave to wife the fair 
 Jehanne of Camelot, and I was born 
 Of these who in the selfsame summer died, 
 A lustrum since." 
 
 Low to herself the Queen, 
 "I knew them both, a simple, happy pair. 
 Who lov'd each other and who knew no sin." 
 Then spoke again the maid : 
 
 "Thereafter liv'd 
 I with the kinsfolk of my name until 
 A twelvemonth back I came to Almesbury. 
 But oft I sigh for Camelot and think 
 In dreams I hear my father call my name. 
 The name himself would give me when I pleas'd 
 Him well, for yet I had another name." 
 "Yea, and what was it .-* " said the sad-ey'd Queen. 
 To whom the novice answer'd, 
 
 " Guinevere, 
 The name that's borne at court by Arthur's Queen." 
 " A luckless name," the Queen made answer here, 
 " A name that carries with it shame and tears." 
 " And think you thus ? " in awe the novice said, 
 " Yet so it seems these latter days, if words 
 They say of Arthur's Queen indeed be true. 
 
6o The Maid's Alarm. 
 
 Perchance my father fear'd it when he call'd 
 Me Muffet in its stead. Would I might hear 
 Him call me Muffet now," — and here the maid 
 Her sentence broke in air and mus'd a space, 
 And silence fell upon the twain, and roll'd 
 Far off the thunder while a summer storm 
 Drew quickly on. 
 
 Then guilty Guinevere 
 Past into sadder musings than the maid's, 
 And nearer crept the storm and darker grew 
 The cell wherein they sat. But she, the Queen, 
 Deep wrapt in bitter thoughts, knew not of this. 
 But felt at last a pulling at her gown. 
 And, rousing, saw no form, but heard a cry, — 
 "The storm! the storm." Then came a deaf'ning 
 
 sound, 
 As if the tow'rs of all the world were thrown 
 To earth, and in the yellow, quiv'ring flame 
 She saw the novice's frighten' d face and gleam 
 Of holy symbols on the wall. Close clung 
 The maid, and when the storm grew one fierce roar, 
 And darting flame one baleful yellow glare, 
 Shudd'ring, the novice hid an awestruck face 
 Within the folds of samite black that clothed 
 The Queen. Then Guinevere the elder threw 
 One arm about the younger Guinevere, 
 And waited for the ceasing of the storm. 
 
TJie Maid's Alarm. 6 1 
 
 Guilt shielding tender Innocence, — thus ran 
 The bitter thought of Arthur's sinful wife. 
 So past an hour, until, its passion sjDent, 
 The storm rush'd angrily to other lands, 
 And drew with it the roar and gloom and glare ; 
 And after, through the casement, came a shaft 
 Of yellow sungleam, that in sport did seem 
 To move and flicker o'er the rush-spread floor. 
 Thereat the little novice rais'd her head 
 From out the sable samite folds, and fell 
 Again to harmless prattle of herself 
 And of her simple life before she came 
 To Almesbury. 
 
 " Few mates I had, nor car'd," 
 So went the tale, " and happier was I 
 To sit at home and list to tales of arms 
 Told by my father and his brother knights 
 Than roam the city streets unthrift of joy. 
 And when my mother prais'd my daily task 
 If done as she would have it, would she place 
 Upon the board before me curds. and whey 
 With snowy manchet bread for well she knew 
 What fare of all I deem'd the best. 
 
 And once 
 I sat beneath a hanging vine, that made 
 A cool, green shadow at the farther end 
 Of the long garden at my father's house. 
 
62 The Maid's Alarvi. 
 
 Over me sang the joyous birds full sweet, 
 
 And close beside uprose a lofty wall, 
 
 On which the golden moss and lichen slept. 
 
 A curious, carven, wooden bowl I held, 
 
 Fill'd almost to its brim with curds and whey, 
 
 And on the crimson-tufted tuffet where 
 
 I sat, with space enow for two, a loaf 
 
 Of toothsome manchet lay. No single care 
 
 Had I, the contents of the carven bowl 
 
 The limit of my childish wants ; but ere 
 
 The spoon to lip was lifted, all the song 
 
 Above my head was husht and silence crept 
 
 Athwart the golden afternoon. Then I, 
 
 With boding fear, turn'd to the lichen'd wall 
 
 And on its surface saw a hideous blot 
 
 With moving legs, and horny claws, and eyes 
 
 Quick darting. Scarce my father's blazon'd shield 
 
 Might hide the creature's bulk, for surely saw 
 
 I never yet a spider huge as this 
 
 Which from the wall at last, down-dropping, came 
 
 And on the crimson-tufted tuffet sat. 
 
 And sitting, turn'd its baleful glance on me. 
 
 A moment only stay'd I there in fear. 
 
 And then the horror of it on me grew 
 
 Until I fied in haste, the carven bowl 
 
 Rolling before me, and the garden walk 
 
 Whit'ning with streaming curds and whey. And when 
 
The Maid's Alarm. 63 
 
 I told the tale indoors, Sir Feumbras, 
 My father, shook his head and fear'd lest this 
 Might be an omen of dread thing to be, 
 And went at last to Merlin with the tale, 
 Whom all men counted wisest of the time." 
 With mention of the wizard's name, the Queen, 
 Who had half heard, not wholly lost, the tale, 
 Rous'd to the full ear as she ask'd, " What said 
 The sage ? " 
 
 " But little we might understand," 
 Replied the maid, '• for dark his meaning was, 
 And faint his words behind his winter beard, 
 But mostly seem'd it like to this : ' /\gain 
 In years to come a shape beside the child 
 Shall sit ; not black, like this, but fair to look 
 Upon, and safer were she by the first 
 With bowl of curds and whey.' Thus Merlin spake, 
 But I, — I know not all he meant." 
 
 Thereat 
 The Queen looked hard upon the maid, in doubt 
 If she were simple-seeming as her words ; 
 And while she gazed her face grew stern and dark, 
 The sunshine drew itself from off the floor, 
 The wind swept sobbing thro' a door ajar, 
 And, in a sudden horror, from the room 
 The maid fled shudderin;/ ! 
 
64 The Water Carriers. 
 
 THE WATER CARRIERS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Jack attd Gill went up the hill 
 
 To draw a pail of water. 
 Jack fell dawn aftd broke his crown 
 
 A nd Gill canie tu7nbling after. 
 
 " 00 all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
 
 Among the mountains by the winter sea," 
 But young Lavaine, the knight of Astolat, 
 And brother to the lily maid who died 
 For Lancelot's love, was reckon'd not of those 
 Who "fell in Lyonnesse about their Lord," 
 King Arthur, whom the three Queens bore away. 
 For he, Lavaine, who lov'd Sir Lancelot 
 But reverenced his King and conscience more, 
 Had hasten'd to the standard of his King 
 When evil-hearted Modred rais'd revolt. 
 And Lancelot, the faithless, stain'd, alas ! 
 His manhood, warring 'gainst his friend and King. 
 And so, because the lad was true and brave, 
 And modest seeming, nor was rash of speech, 
 Had Arthur made him of the Table Round 
 
The Water Carrieis. 65 
 
 And lov'cl to have him near. Whereat Lavaine 
 Greatly rejoic'd and ghidly would have died 
 To serve in any wise the blameless King. 
 But when the sun came from the under world 
 And shone upon that field of battle near 
 The winter sea, Lavaine by Arthur's side 
 Receiv'd a vengeful thrust aim'd at the King, 
 And from his horse, slow reeling, fell, and o'er 
 Him swept the host; but bluff Sir Torre, who saw 
 His brother fall, came spurring hence and dragg'd 
 Him to one side, and there, in knightly wise, 
 Gave him such tendance as his wit devis'd, 
 And left him, guarded by a humble squire, 
 But thinking, " If I live, I will return ; " 
 And scarce an hour was gone before a stroke 
 From one of Modred's men had cleft Sir Torre 
 From brain to nape. So died he for his Lord. 
 
 But of his tendance or his death Lavaine 
 Knew naught, but lay in stupor deep as death, 
 And to the eye that watch'd he seem'd as dead. 
 Whereat the humble squire mus'd to himself : 
 
 " If he be dead, he needs not me to guard ; 
 And if he be alive his foes will think 
 Him dead, and truly I do deem him dead, 
 Yet be he dead or living I must see 
 
66 The Water Carriers. 
 
 The issue of the fight," and saying went 
 
 And saw, and, seeing, met the death which might 
 
 Have spar'd him by the side of Sir Lavaine. 
 
 " So all day long the noise of battle roll'd," 
 
 Yet Sir Lavaine in stupor lay upon 
 
 The field until the sun went down, and shone 
 
 The moon at full upon his armor clasps 
 
 And glinted on the chasing of his sword. 
 
 As one who journeying in lands remote 
 
 Returning takes by slow degrees the old 
 
 Life up, so Sir Lavaine return'd from death 
 
 Or what had seem'd like death, not all at once 
 
 But dimly had a knowledge of his state 
 
 And what had past, and then, because too weak 
 
 To think, he fell in sleep again and wak'd 
 
 Not till the sun brake from the underworld. 
 
 And near him, having watch'd the barge that bore 
 
 King Arthur out of sight, there slowly drew 
 
 The bold Sir Bedivere. These two last left 
 
 Alive upon the field. 
 
 The mournful twain 
 At length slow moving from the field, because 
 Lavaine was weak from hunger and the wound, 
 Past on to where within a little wood 
 A simple hermit liv'd a blameless life. 
 
TJie Water Carriers. 6/ 
 
 Willi him the pair abode until Lavaine 
 Was heal'd and then the bold Sir Bedivere 
 Past to his own land, distant Cameliard, 
 And then, a little later, past Lavaine 
 To his. 
 
 Small joy was now at Astolat 
 For him, the last of all his race, and night 
 And day he seem'd to hear the lily maid 
 Singing her swan song from the eastern tow'r, 
 Or bluff Sir Torre stride thro' the broken halls, 
 Or else his father, dead a year agone, 
 Calling him tenderly as was his wont, 
 And so by always listening to the dead 
 He ceased to hearken to the living voice, 
 And more and more withdrew into himself. 
 
 But when the next approaching spring had fail'd 
 To stir the languid blood within his veins, 
 The dumb old servitor before him stood 
 One April morning in the castle yard 
 And pointed to the south, and then by signs 
 Essay'd to free his mind, and Sir Lavaine, 
 Half comprehending, asked him, " Shall I go 
 Thither? " Thereat the dumb old man nodded, 
 His finger once more pointing to the south. 
 So, deeming that his humble servitor 
 
68 TJie Water Carriers. 
 
 Had deeper knowledge of the best, Lavaine, 
 
 A little later gathering the few 
 
 Who serv'd for love, not hire, within the halls 
 
 Of Astolat, past with them into lands 
 
 Of Cornish name, and made a home for them 
 
 And for himself ; and, marrying a maid 
 
 Of Cornish race, saw children of his own 
 
 And all the past became a memory. 
 
 Before his home in Cornwall lay the sea, 
 
 And a thick wood behind it northward stretch'd 
 
 But to the left a dusty white road climb'd 
 
 A hill on which there frown'd a single tow'r, 
 
 And on the farther side a hamlet slept 
 
 In peace and plenty, owning him for lord. 
 
 There o'er his Cornish castle past the years 
 
 From churlish winter into spring until 
 
 Ten times the ash buds blackened with the winds 
 
 Of March since blameless Arthur past beyond 
 
 The mournful gaze of bold Sir Bedivere. 
 
 A younger copy of himself, or like 
 Himself when but eight tender seasons old, 
 Now listen'd, wonder-ey'd, to Sir Lavaine 
 When he would talk of arms and of the last 
 Great day in Lyonnesse. Jack had the lad 
 Been call'd for some past claimant for the hand 
 
The Water Carriers. 69 
 
 Of her Lavaine call'd wife, yet this Lavaine 
 Knew not, but deem'd the unfamiliar name 
 A careless fancy of his Cornish wife's, 
 Whose lightest fancy 'twas his care to please. 
 Slender the lad, as once his father was, 
 But all the blood of lusty Astolat 
 Made summer in his veins. Seldom apart 
 From him his sister Gillian was, and each 
 Without the other droopt and pin'd. Most like 
 Her aunt, the dead Elaine, young Gillian seem'd, 
 And oft the father, looking at her, felt 
 Remembrance of the distant past confuse 
 The present, till if he were boy or man 
 And this his child or playmate sister seem'd 
 Sometimes a thing of doubt. 
 
 The two, the maid 
 And Jack, lov'd better than all else to climb 
 The long white road, that steep and stony, led 
 Up to the single, broken, frowning tow'r. 
 Four trees beside the tow'r bent o'er a spring 
 That broke from out a sombre, rocky cleft. 
 Here Tristram once had drunk with fair Iseult, 
 Mark's wife, and laught to see the shining drops 
 Slip thro' her fingers, when she held her hand 
 Cupwise, that he might drink therefrom. And here 
 Had sweet Sir Percivale once stopt to drink, 
 
70 TJie IVa/er Carriers. 
 
 Returning from the Quest of Holy Grail ; 
 Here, too, had Pelleas, the bright boy knight, 
 A brief hour linger'd, flying from the court 
 In that dark time when all his early faith 
 In woman's virtue died, and good Sir Bors, 
 The false Gawain, the pure Sir Galahad, 
 And many more of that great Table Round 
 Had drunk from these sweet waters to their gain. 
 Full oft had Gillian and the stripling Jack 
 Bent o'er the spring as bent the trees above, 
 And laught to see two faces gazing up, 
 One fair and pale, the other fair and red. 
 Maid Gillian's was the one, the other his. 
 
 Now as it hapt, Lavaine in that tenth year 
 
 Fell ill of some dull fever in the blood. 
 
 And twenty mornings past and still the knight 
 
 Felt the slow poison creeping thro' his veins 
 
 And grew at last indifferent to the end. 
 
 To him maid Gillian pityingly came 
 
 And said with tears : 
 
 " Sure am I that one thing 
 Would cure this deadly fever." 
 
 Then Lavaine : 
 " Yea, dost thou think it, little maid ? then let 
 Me hear." 
 
The Water Cairiers. 71 
 
 Then she : 
 
 *' A draught of water brought 
 From spring beside the tow'r would cure, so pure 
 It is and sweet, and Jack and I would bring 
 [t gladly an' 'twould please you drink, my lord." 
 Fo whom the sick man answer'd wearily, 
 Yet thinking she by chance had spoken truth 
 As he bethought him of the water's fame : 
 " Child, since you wish it, bring, and I will drink." 
 
 Thereat and lightly sprang the maiden down 
 The steps that led to outer air, and close 
 Beside came Jack, a silver vessel swung 
 From one small hand, and so the childish twain 
 Went up the hill and quickly reach'd its top. 
 Then Jack, with Gill beside, stoopt low and fill'd 
 The vessel till the drops did chase themselves 
 All down its burnisht sides. This done, they left 
 The spring, and holding each the vessel's rim, 
 Return'd as they had come, but slower, lest 
 By haste the precious draught were spilt and lostc 
 Then as in distance smaller grew the tow'r 
 Behind, the maid broke out in tender song: 
 
 " Sweet is the sunshine coming after rain; 
 And sweet this water unto lips in pain : 
 Which is the sweeter 1 that in truth know I. 
 
72 TJie Water Carriers. 
 
 *' Light, art thou sweet ? then sweeter waters be : 
 Light, thou art grateful ; sweet this draught to me. 
 O Hght, if death be near him, let me die. 
 
 " Sweet light that fades at eve too soon away, 
 Sweet waters springing from the dark to day, 
 Which is the sweeter.'* that in truth know I. 
 
 " Pain, follow night, and henceforth from him flee ; 
 Thou needs must follow night that waits for thee ; 
 But, if thou wilt not, then O let me die." 
 
 Clear with the last line rang her voice, and Jack, 
 Who heeded not his ways when Gillian sang, 
 Slipt, as the last note ceas'd, upon a piece 
 Of sliding stone, and slipping, fell, dragging 
 The singer down, and both together roll'd. 
 All in a horror of loose stones and dust 
 And flying limbs and broken bones and crowns, 
 Far down the steep side of that rocky hill. 
 So perish'd these two of the fated house 
 Of Astolat ; and in the night that follow'd. 
 And near a dawning fierce with wind and rain, 
 Wherein the sea wag'd battle with the sky 
 And both with earth, to final judgment past 
 Lavaine. 
 
The Passing of the Sages. 73 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE SAGES, 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Three wise vien of Gotham 
 Went to sea in a bowl ; 
 If the bowl had been stronger 
 My story had been longer. 
 
 O IR VALENCE, son of Eglamour, and last 
 
 Of ten tall sons who made their father's name 
 A name of all men honor'd ere he past 
 From out the kindly winter of his age 
 To judgment and the unseen life beyond, 
 Mus'd on a mournful midnight o'er the fate 
 That left him, almost ere his beard was grown, 
 Alone, the last of all his race. For these, 
 His stalwart brothers, fell on that great day 
 In Lyonnesse, and he, returning home 
 From embassage to Breton court, had miss'd 
 By passage of a few days the chance of death 
 In battle for his lord. So, coming late 
 To that lone field of combat by the sea. 
 He found nor living friend nor foe, but thick 
 As wave-wash'd pebbles on a wintry shore 
 
74 ■^^'-^ Passing of the Sages. 
 
 Forsaken by a faithless ebbing tide, 
 
 Lay dead his foes and friends. Then past in grief 
 
 Sir Valence to the chapel nigh the field 
 
 Where Bedivere the wounded Arthur bore, 
 
 And all the man within was broken up, 
 
 And like a sudden fountain flow'd his tears, 
 
 And like a bitter wailing were his words. 
 
 " O nevermore," moaned Valence, " on this earth 
 
 Shall I the Table Round or Arthur see, 
 
 For Modred's host have slain the men I lov'd, 
 
 Not sparing one ; and tho' they say our lord. 
 
 King Arthur, cannot die, and tho' he lies 
 
 Not dead upon the field, yet he is gone. 
 
 Yea, he is gone, and all my house are dead. 
 
 And what henceforth is left to me .'' " 
 
 Thus l.e 
 In loneliness of spirit moan'd aloud, 
 And after past without the chapel down 
 The splinter'd crags to that great water's marge 
 Beneath, thinking the while, " Here will I die." 
 But while he stood on a wave-eaten rock 
 That thrust itself from shore so far beyond 
 Its fellows that its base was sunk from sight 
 Nine fathoms, and there pois'd himself in act 
 To leap into the surge, an arm arose 
 From out the flashing surface oC the lake, 
 " Cloth'd in wliite samite, mystic, wonderful," 
 
TJie Passing of the Sages. - 75 
 
 And pointed northward, while a great cry shrill'd 
 Thro' all the winter silence, warning- him 
 Therefrom. And when the echoes of that cry 
 Had lost themselves among the barren crags, 
 A voice that seem'd to come from east and west 
 And north and south at once, with murm'ring fiU'd 
 His ears, but clearer grown, resolv'd itself 
 To this : 
 
 *' Thy lord. King Arthur, is not dead, 
 But past into Avilion valleys where 
 There- falleth neither rain nor snow, nor blows 
 The gale ; but know, Sir Valence, that the way 
 To his blest presence is not by this gate 
 That thou wouldst open." 
 
 After this the voice 
 Became a murmur once again and sank 
 To silence, and the mystic arm slipt down 
 Into the bosom of the lake, and night 
 Came striding o'er the hills, and all was dark. 
 
 Thus warn'd, yet little comforted, the knight, 
 His pathway later lit by waning moon. 
 Past upward from the lake, and thence by slow 
 Removes to lands of his near Cameliard. 
 There he, sole heir to all his father's houoC 
 Possesst in these its latest, saddest days, 
 A batter'd castle and a ruin'd tow'r, 
 
y6 TJie Passijig of the Sages. 
 
 And scanty leagues of marsh thro' which there wound 
 
 A sullen river, slipping toward the sea, 
 
 Past languid days of listless idleness 
 
 Among the few retainers of his house, 
 
 And gladly would have died if that might be, 
 
 But fear'd to end his life, remembering 
 
 The voice. So joyless past the time until 
 
 A mournful midnight came, sobbing with wind 
 
 And rain, and while Sir Valence sadly mus'd 
 
 Beside a fitful, slowly sinking fire, 
 
 There stood before him Ban, his seneschal, 
 
 An aged man with thousand-wrinkl'd face, 
 
 Saying a traveller at the castle gate 
 
 Craved food and shelter for the night. 
 
 " Yea, let 
 Him in," Sir Valence said, '^ and bring him here. 
 And set before us bread and meat and wine." 
 
 Thereat old Ban departed, but return'd 
 A moment after with a stranger knight, 
 Upon whose bearded face Sir Valence gaz'd 
 An instant doubtfully before he spoke 
 In way of courtesy, because half deem'd 
 He that he knew the man. 
 
 Then said the knight : 
 " Thou know'st me not, Sir Valence, but thy sire 
 Was known to me, and likewise all thy house 
 
The Passing of the Sages, jy 
 
 But thee. Sir Sagramour am I, now bent 
 On errand northward to the court of Lot, 
 But brought by old-time yearning to thy halls 
 To welcome seek from son of Eglamour." 
 
 "Thou hast it, sweet Sir Sagramour," then spoke 
 
 Sir Valence courteously, " albeit I 
 
 Have little left to entertain a knight 
 
 Of such fair presence as he may deserve, 
 
 Yet what I have is freely thine ; I pray 
 
 You use it willingly as such." 
 
 Meantime 
 The thousand-wrinkl'd man had laid the board, 
 And placed thereon a pasty, manchet bread, 
 And gleaming flagons of red wine. 
 
 Thereto 
 Sir Valence pointed, and the twain sat down, 
 And warm'd their hearts with wine, and nurs'd the 
 
 while 
 A growing friendship each for other till 
 The fire by Ban re-kindl'd wan'd again. 
 Then Valence, pushing back his chair, began : 
 " I have not seen so glad a time as this 
 Since I return'd from Breton court, and I 
 Beseech you, sweet Sir Sagramour, to bide 
 With me such time as thy affairs allow." 
 
y8 The Passing of the Sages. 
 
 Then made the other answer, graciously, 
 " I find no other pleasure but my host's 
 Within my heart, and therefore will I bide 
 And gladly, here a little space." 
 
 So he. 
 Sir Sagramour, abode, and brighter seem'd 
 The castle for his presence, and the heart 
 Of Valence lighter grew : and Sagramour 
 Perceiving this told merry tales, and oft 
 Provok'd his host to mirth : and once the tale 
 Was in this fashion told. 
 
 " Ere Arthur came," 
 So ran the words of sweet Sir Sagramour, 
 " A petty princedom lying east from here, 
 Held on its seaward border one small town 
 Call'd Gotham, full of strange mad folk, and three 
 There were esteem'd as wise as Merlin was 
 At court of Camelot : and yet the three 
 Were madder than the rest. Now as it chanced 
 These Gotham sages all at once were fill'd 
 With wild desire to travel on the sea 
 Before their doors, and many plans they laid 
 To bring to pass fulfilment of desire ; 
 But all were fruitless, till one happy day 
 The maddest of the three within his brain 
 Conceiv'd the fancy of a giant bowl 
 
The Passing of the Sages. 79 
 
 Of wood which might be sent upon the sea, 
 
 Whilst they within, all jubilant, might ride. 
 
 So half the men in Gotham set at work 
 
 To make the bowl ; and when 'twas done and launch'd, 
 
 The sages, sitting on the bowl's sharp edge, 
 
 Their voices lifted high in gleeful song. 
 
 " * O sun, that shinest sweetest on the wise, 
 O moon, that fiingst a veil across our eyes. 
 Shine softly : now our bowl hath toucht the sea. 
 
 " ' O poppies red that lull us quick to sleep, 
 O poppies red that drowsy secrets keep, 
 Blow softly ; twice our bowl hath dipt the sea. 
 
 " * O owls, that carol in the fearsome dark, 
 O owls, that carol sweeter than the lark, 
 Sing softly : twice our bowl hath dipt the sea.' 
 
 " So sang the Gotham wise men, while the bowl 
 Upon an ebbing tide mov'd from the shore. 
 And as their figures blurr'd with distance, sang 
 Again, and fainter both the tune and words. 
 
 " ' O sea-bowl, tossing on the watery crest, 
 O sea-bowl, with three sages in thy breast, 
 Toss gently, thrice our bowl hath dipt the sea.' 
 
8o The Passing of the Sages. 
 
 "Thereafter," said Sir Sagramour, "there came 
 
 A fierce, wild gale from out the north," — then paus'd 
 
 As one whose tale is done. 
 
 " What then ? " here spoke 
 The host, impatient of the pause. 
 
 Whereat 
 The other : 
 
 " Longer far had been my tale 
 If Gotham's giant bowl had stronger been. 
 But come, we waste the hours ; I pray you go 
 With me to Orkney. In a month we will 
 Return." 
 
Constanthis and Helena. 8 1 
 
 CONSTANTIUS AND HELENA. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 " Old King- Cole 
 
 Was a merry old soul, 
 A nd a merry old sotil was lie .* 
 
 He called for his pipe 
 
 A nd lie called /or his bcnvl, 
 A nd Jie called for his fiddlers three ^ 
 
 L^ING COILUS — the first of Britain's kings 
 
 Who made the legions sent from overseas 
 By Rome, with Ccesar's eagles at their head, 
 Pause in their northward marching from the coast' 
 Upon a stormful night in April forced 
 His way, with all his warriors at his back, 
 (In number as the needles of the pine, 
 And like the pine in sinewy strength and height,) 
 Past Roman guards and sentinels o'erthrown 
 And slain, to where the sacred eagles blaz'd, 
 In fitful glare of torch and beacon ray, 
 Within the town Camelodunum call'd, 
 High on the hill that overlooks the Colne. 
 So all that stormful night the Roman blood 
 Incarnadined the Colne, and all the slopes 
 
82 Constantms and Helena, 
 
 Were strewn with carnage ; and the dawning came 
 And shot red rays athwart the crimson pools, 
 And o'er the heaps of Roman dead, and o'er 
 The joyous horde of Cole victorious, 
 And red was all the land. 
 
 Thus broke the king 
 The power of distant Rome, or so it seem'd ; 
 And merrily did Coilus rebuild 
 The city, calling to his aid the might 
 Of Bleys, the great magician, he who made 
 Brandagoras of Latangor his slave 
 A twelvemonth's space because of insult done 
 Some ancient shrine ; and on the heights arose 
 Camelodunum fairer than before, 
 A mighty city, girdl'd round with walls 
 That mounted skyward and yet fail'd to hide 
 The tow'rs and spires that lost themselves in air. 
 There, in the carv'd stone palace built by Bleys, 
 King Coilus liv'd merrily and well : 
 And with him Helena, his child, the pride 
 And chief delight of Coilus, and fair 
 As maid may be on this our earth and seem 
 In any wise as one of earth ; and oft 
 The merry king, regarding her, was mute 
 With memories of one who look'd like her 
 Some twenty changeful changing seasons back, — 
 The maiden's mother, and the only child 
 
Constarttius and Helena. 83 
 
 Of Urien of Wales. 
 
 Now while the king 
 Past merry days surrounded by his lords, 
 And lov'd by all, from Helena his child 
 To poorest beggar that e'er crav'd an alms, 
 Far overseas the legions gather'd strength, 
 And passing with their eagles o'er the strait 
 That lay between the chalk-white cliifs and Gaul, 
 Halted before Camelodunum's walls, 
 And strove, but vainly, 'gainst the might of Cole, 
 As strives some ardent climber some high cliff 
 To scale that beetles o'er its base, or waves 
 That fain would overleap the same sheer height, 
 And striving ever, ever fail. 
 
 Nathless, 
 Undaunted as the surge, Constantius, 
 The Roman leader, lay before the walls 
 With all the flower of Rome within his camp. 
 Till thrice the summer into autumn past, 
 And thrice the dead leaves redden'd all the Colne, 
 And thrice the bitter winds of winter rav'd, 
 And thrice the lark became " a sightless song." 
 But when the third springtide was wellnigh past, 
 Constantius, despairing of success, 
 Was mov'd to raise the siege, since all his art 
 Avail'd him not before the walls uprear'd 
 
84 Constantius and Helena. 
 
 By Bleys. Yet ere his thought past into act, 
 
 It chanced that he one morning heard a voice 
 
 Of mellow sweetness falling through the air, 
 
 And looking up, he saw fair Helena 
 
 Upon the walls, and listening, he heard 
 
 The words she sang, and hearing, straightway fell 
 
 In longing for the maid, and seeing, blest 
 
 The gods who granted him so fair a sight. 
 
 But she upon the walls sang on as one 
 
 Who sings for joy of heart, not heeding him, 
 
 Or seeming not to heed Constantius, 
 
 Who, far below, listen'd and look'd and lov'd. 
 
 " A star, but one, one only star saw I, 
 
 A star, one star, far through the frosty air, 
 
 One star, a star that lighten'd all my sky, 
 
 One star, my star, that sparkl'd past compare, — 
 
 I reck'd not of the cold, the star was there. 
 
 *' One star, a star that seem'd far off, yet nigh, 
 One star, one star with rays that shimmer'd fair, 
 No star but one, none other star saw I. 
 One star, my star ; a star that cannot die, — 
 They miss who seek it if the moon be there." 
 
 " My star, one star, none other star for me," 
 Constantius said within himself whenas 
 
Constaiitius a7id Helena. 85 
 
 The song was ended and the singer gone 
 From off the walls, and, ere the sun had paus'd 
 In high mid-heaven, and the noontide hour 
 Was hammer'd out from tower and spire, the King, 
 Within the carven palace built by Bleys, 
 Was told a messenger from Roman camp 
 Crav'd speedy hearing for his message brought. 
 Bluster'd King Cole : 
 
 " Yea, let him in : I fain 
 Would know what he, my foe, Constantius, 
 Would say to me by churl of his." 
 
 Low bow'd 
 The Roman, entering, at the feet of Cole, 
 To whom that other spake through frosty beard, 
 " Thou hast a message : speak, and let me hear." 
 Thereat the messenger : 
 
 " O Coilus ! 
 Constantius knows thee great, believes thee wise 
 Beyond the measure of all other men. 
 And gladly would exchange the name of foe 
 With thee for that of friend ; and therefore he. 
 My master, offers peace, — such peace as broods 
 O'er lands where plenteous content is lord. 
 And one condition only doth this peace 
 Stand fast upon : that he may have to wife 
 The princess Helena." 
 
86 Constantiiis and Helena. 
 
 He ceas'd and bow'd 
 Once more, while Coilus revolv'd in thought 
 The message of Constantius, inclin'd 
 The more to grant the Roman leader's prayer, 
 Since he was much awearied of the siege 
 Which kept him in Camelodunum pent. 
 So, turning to the lords about him, spake : 
 " You heard this Roman : what say you, my lords ? 
 But staying not for answer, bade one call 
 His daughter Helena, who straightway came. 
 To her the King made known the Roman's wish, 
 And added, " Now what says my Helena 
 Unto the suit of brave Constantius ? " 
 
 Now it had chanced that Helen, while she sang. 
 Had with a sidelong azure-lidded eye 
 Beheld the Roman leader far below, 
 Yet not so far but she might see his gaze 
 Rapt upon her, and seeing lov'd in turn. 
 Therefore when Cole, the merry, question'd her 
 What should be said, she rais'd an innocent face 
 And murmur'd: 
 
 " Surely peace is sweet to have, 
 My father : who am I to bar the door 
 Against it, and prolong the doleful siege ? " 
 
 So peace was made, and Helena was wed 
 
Constajititis and Helena. 8/ 
 
 Unto Constantius, and all the bells 
 
 Of great Camelodunum rang, and Cole, 
 
 The merry, at the marriage call'd for pipes 
 
 And bowl, and flowing bowl and pipes, and while 
 
 The pipers drank great draughts from out the bowl, 
 
 Caird loudly for his fiddlers three. 
 
3. ilak of ®u0£an|i. 
 
 A n Old- World tale. Who reads perchance 
 
 May deem it dull or idly told^ 
 Preferring latter-day roiiiance 
 
 Where well trained hearts their loves unfold. 
 
A Tale of Ttiscafiy. 91 
 
 A TALE OF TUSCANY. 
 
 Tuscany, land of fierce hates and wild loves and of 
 limitless passions, 
 
 Tuscany, home of Petrarca and Dante and lively 
 Boccaccio, 
 
 Tuscany, home of the Angelic Painter revered through- 
 out Europe, 
 j Thou art the scene of this story : in thee all its actors 
 
 lie buried. 
 
 1 
 
 Near to a stream that escaped from Fiesole's heights 
 
 and that wandered 
 Down through vast forests of chestnut and unto the 
 
 plain that stretched eastward. 
 Where it meandered at will until lost in the turbulent 
 
 Arno, 
 Stood in the days when the land was ruled o'er by the 
 
 mighty Lorenzo, 
 Stood, and still stands, although now but a ruin, four 
 
 centuries later, 
 
92 A Talc of Tuscany. 
 
 Villa Albert!, the home of a youthful and passionate 
 noble 
 
 Known far and wide for his pitiless temper that recked 
 not of mercy. 
 
 Cosmo Alberti his name, and for wife he had taken 
 Bianca, 
 
 One of the house of Bordoni and daughter of Luigi 
 Bordoni 
 
 Many times chosen a prior of merchants of silk in 
 Firenze. 
 
 Fair was the face of the maid and her voice was as 
 sweet as the nightingale's 
 
 Heard in mid-May when the forest rejoices in newly- 
 won verdure. 
 
 Gracious her manner to all and so great was the charm 
 of her presence 
 
 That at the banquets the wealth and the pride of 
 Firenze attended 
 
 None of its maidens were paid so much honor as 
 gentle Bianca. 
 
 Simple and fresh was her spirit despite all the praise 
 she excited 
 
 Equal in measure from amorous youth and from grey- 
 headed statesmen. 
 
 Nor was the fame of her beauty and sweetness con- 
 fined to Firenze ; 
 
 Roman ambassadors when they returned to the City 
 Eternal 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. 93 
 
 E 
 
 Spoke of it freely, while light-hearted gallants of Pisa 
 
 and Lucca, 
 
 Passing a season in Tuscany's proudest of cities, 
 Firenze, 
 
 Spread on returning the praise of the beautiful Floren- 
 tine maiden. 
 
 But, as it chanced, unto Cosmo Alberti, her name was 
 
 a strange one 
 Even when Tuscany rang with her manifold virtues 
 I and graces. 
 
 For from his villa he seldom went forth to the city, 
 preferring 
 
 Either to follow his own lawless will in his wide-spread 
 dominion. 
 
 Or to engage in some feud with a neighbor and, com- 
 ing off victor, 
 
 Harry his rival to death and then seize upon all his 
 possessions. 
 
 Yet unto him at last tidings of Bordoni's daughter 
 were wafted. 
 
 And, in a moment when 'customed delights seemed to 
 pall on his spirit, 
 
 Thoughts of Bianca Bordoni came into his mind and 
 he wondered 
 
 What she was like and if all that was said of her pic- 
 tured her truly. 
 
94 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 With Cosmo Albert! to think was to act, and thus 
 happed it Firenze 
 
 Saw him one day in her streets, unto which he had 
 long been a stranger, 
 
 Saw him and greeted him kindly, as Florentine pru- 
 dence suggested ; 
 
 Nor was it long before he of the Villa Alberti was 
 granted 
 
 Sight of the maiden the fame of whose charms had 
 lured him from his castle. 
 
 Pietro Brignoli, whose daughter a noble young Pisar 
 
 had wedded. 
 Gave on the day of the bridal a banquet to which were 
 
 invited 
 All of the rank and the wealth of Firenze and likewise 
 
 were summoned 
 Strangers of rank from without, and amongst these was 
 
 Cosmo Alberti. 
 Handsome was he in his costume well-fitting his station 
 
 and figure. 
 Marked among men would he be anywhere, and full 
 
 many a maiden 
 Gazing upon him felt something of love stir within her 
 
 for Cosmo, 
 Cosmo, whose eyes were for one, and one only, and 
 
 that one Bianca. 
 
w. 
 
 A Tale of Tuscany. 95 
 
 Singing was she when he saw her, a song that was made 
 
 for the bridal. 
 Sweet were the words of the song, for sweet love was 
 
 the theme of the writer, 
 Guido Donati his name, and the words of his song 
 
 were on this wise : 
 
 What is the dearest of treasures ? 
 What is the sweetest of pleasures ? 
 Bliss that o'errunneth all measures ? 
 
 Love is its name. It is Love ! 
 
 Sweet is the bliss of pursuing, 
 Dear is the joy of the wooing ; 
 Happiness lies in subduing 
 
 Hearts that are strangers to Love, 
 
 ■^ Whispered its vows are and tender; 
 
 Virtue its strongest defender ; 
 p Every true heart longs to render 
 
 Homage and honors to Love. 
 
 Ar 
 
 Ended the music, arose a great clamor of eloquent 
 
 voices 
 Praising the song and the singer and loudest was 
 
 Cosmo Alberti's. 
 
96 A Tale of Tuscany. I 
 
 Ne'er had he known until now these emotions that i 
 
 filled him with longing; ( 
 
 Never till now had he felt what it was to love purely 
 
 and nobly. 
 Love for the moment transformed his rough nature to 
 
 chivalrous manhood, ^ 
 
 Lent a new grace to his manner and softened the ring 
 
 of his lausfhter. 
 Scarce would the servants of Villa Alberti have known) 
 
 their young master 
 Could they have seen him that evening at Messer 
 
 Pietro Brignoli's. ^ 
 
 After the banquet the bridegroom and bride led thd 
 
 { 1 
 dancing together, \j 
 
 And in their steps followed gladly the Florentin i 
 
 maidens and gallants, 
 Crossing, recrossing, and turning wherever the meas \ 
 
 ure demanded, j 
 
 Touching the tips of the fingers and bowing at ever '^ 
 
 turning. ,! 
 
 Not the least graceful was Cosmo Alberti, who, joining 
 
 the dancers, 
 Joyfully found himself frequently facing Bianca 
 
 Bordoni, 
 Who for her part was well-pleased when she noted the 
 
 handsome Alberti 
 
 I 
 
I A Tale of Ttiscany. 97 
 
 ying her every movement and eagerly craving her 
 
 favor. 
 !,ong was the dance but it ended at length and the 
 
 dancers departed, 
 rosmo amongst them, his thoughts full of Bordoni's 
 1 \ beautiful daughter, 
 
 Wljiom he determined to gain, and he therefore re- 
 ! ; mained in Firenze 
 Weiek after week, and so constant was he in attending 
 
 all banquets 
 Whereto Bianca was bidden that every one saw his 
 
 devotion. 
 " See what a tamer is Love," said the gossips in strada 
 
 and loggia ; 
 "Who would have dreamed that the savage young 
 
 boar of the Villa Alberti 
 Would have forsaken his sports and his fighting for 
 
 love of a maiden." 
 Not unobserved by Bordoni the evident purpose of 
 
 Cosmo, 
 Purpose that had for its object the gaining the love of 
 
 his daughter, 
 I And not ill-pleased was the father, who viewed young 
 
 Alberti with favor. 
 As for Bianca herself she but faintly at this time re- 
 membered 
 ,)Tales she had heard of his deeds and his temper so 
 
 cruel, 
 
:'ni,l 
 
 98 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 For when his face was before her they seemed like th 
 
 veriest fancies 
 Born of the envy of those not so handsome and darinu 
 
 as Cosmo. 1 
 
 So as the summer departed and Tuscany's autumn del 
 
 scending / 
 
 Touched with the finger of fire all the trees in u\i 
 
 plain of the Arno, 
 Cosmo, not doubting Bianca's affection, demanded' of 
 
 Luigi 
 Hand of the maiden in marriage, whereat old Bordo 
 
 concealing 
 Back of his calmness of face all the joy that he felt, 
 
 for a moment 
 Seemed not to favor distinctly the suit of the ardent 
 
 young Cosmo, 
 But as if moved by the arguments earnestly urged by 
 
 the other, 
 Yielded at last, as doth one overborne, and consented. 
 
 Then gladly 
 Hastened the passionate Cosmo to gentle Bianca await- 
 ing 
 News of her lover's success and as they sat together in 
 
 silence. 
 Fuller of meaning than words could be ever, Luig 
 
 Bordoni, 
 Dignified, portly and handsome in garments of richest 
 
 black velvet, 1 
 
 J 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. 99 
 
 ;ame where they sat and spoke gravely of life and its 
 
 manifold duties, 
 poke of the pain at his heart that would follow the 
 
 loss of Bianca, 
 poke of the rumors that reached him of Cosmo's un- 
 disciplined temper, 
 Jrged the young noble to govern his household and 
 
 people with kindness, 
 Said a few words of the happiness marriage had brought 
 
 to his own life, 
 ?Ioped for as much in their future, and left them at 
 length with his blessing. 
 
 Mxed was the bridal for April, and all through the winter 
 
 young Cosmo 
 Busied himself with restoring! a win 2: of the Villa Al- 
 
 berti, 
 bearing a tower and extending the loggia and planning 
 
 out gardens. 
 Gardens which now are a wildwood, yet peopled with 
 
 moss-covered statues, 
 [Showing, however, though armless and shattered, the 
 I lines of the beauty 
 Fixed there of old by the wonderful skill of some lov'.g- 
 
 vanished sculptor. 
 So passed the winter with Cosmo, who, full of his pla'.is 
 
100 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 
 Found little time for pursuing old feuds with his neigl 
 
 bors, who therefore 
 Dwelt for the winter in peace and most fervently thankej 
 
 the occasion. 
 Easter came early in April that season but not till iIt, 
 
 springtide 
 Filled the Val d'Arno with tremulous greenness anc 
 
 starred it with blossoms, 
 While on Fiesole's heights waved the newly-won sprays 
 
 of the chestnut, 
 Sprays through which flickered the sunshine on pink- 
 flushing buds of the laurel. 
 Nor was the brightness of Tuscany's springtime confinec 
 
 to the country, 
 Strada, piazza and loggia in every part of Firenze 
 Brimmed and ran over with flowers, and at Easter thei^ 
 
 delicate fragrance \ 
 
 Conquered at mass and at vespers the odors of myrrlr 
 
 and frankincense 
 Stealing from censers of brass swung by thurifers at 
 
 the hiMi altars. 
 Scarcely had Holy Week passed when the rigors of! 
 
 Lent were forgotten. 
 Save by the monks in their cells and the nuns in iheit, 
 
 cloisters, ji 
 
 For in the Easter week happened the wedding- at Cp*:* 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. lOl 
 
 '.'Vedding long talked of before by the youth and the 
 maids of Firenze, 
 
 'bridal long talked of thereafter because of its wonder- 
 ful splendor. 
 
 ^N^ot for a decade at least had been seen in the City of 
 Flowers 
 
 Marriage attended with jubilant mirth and with pomp 
 like to this one. 
 
 'Guests from Siena and Lucca and Pisa and Rome the 
 
 Eternal, 
 ]' . . . 
 
 jBrilliant in silks and in velvets and flashing with gold 
 
 ' chains and jewels, 
 
 Sat at the banquet that followed the solemn high mass 
 
 ) at the Duomo, 
 
 pat beside Florentine nobles as richly arrayed, and 
 
 among them 
 ,Grey-bearded priors of arts and stout matrons who 
 
 once had been shapely, 
 i Maidens as stately as lilies and children half-dazed 
 
 iwith the splendor, 
 . Mingled in friendliness born of the joy that abounds at 
 a bridal. 
 Many the healths that were drunk in behalf of the 
 
 newly-wed couple ; 
 Many the wishes expressed for their happiness and to 
 
 these Cosmo 
 Gracefully worded his thanks, and, the banquet once 
 ended, the dancins: 
 
I02 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 Followed il swiftly, but even more rapidly twinkled to 
 
 music 
 Feet of the dancers in rhythmical measures, and lastly 
 
 succeeded 
 Chorus of youths and of maidens with clear ringing 
 
 voices all singing, 
 (Melody wondrous and sweet,) a fair marriage song writ 
 
 for the bridal : 
 
 When in the springtime a soft wind arises 
 Out of the south land and sweetly surprises 
 Fair folded buds from their sleep into roses, 
 Breathes on the lily till rathe it uncloses, 
 Hearts that are saddest lose some of their sorrow, 
 Hearts that are lightest a keener joy borrow, 
 When in the springtime a south wind arises 
 And in its bounty all fair gifts comprises. 
 
 When in the springtime two hearts are united, 
 Pleasure is crowned and dull pain is affrighted. 
 Love lights the path where the blissful ones wander 
 Thinking no evil and growing yet fonder. 
 Never such rapture by mortals is tasted 
 As clings to the days when ere April is wasted, 
 Pain being past and all jealousy blighted, 
 Hearts in the dearest of bonds are united. 
 
A Tale of Tuscany, 103 
 
 So the long waiting was over and these two, Bianca 
 and Cosmo, 
 
 Entered upon that new hfe which to some is a quickly 
 sped pleasure 
 
 Vanished as soon as the moon of the bridal is over and 
 nothing 
 
 Left for the lifetime which follows but weariness, hatred 
 and loathing, 
 
 But which for others is full of the joy that endureth for 
 all time, 
 
 Joy that is sister to peace and abideth forever in calm- 
 ness. 
 
 How it would be with these two was the wonder of 
 half of Firenze 
 
 Holding in mind the reports of his pitiless temper 
 aforetime. 
 
 Somewhat disturbed in his spirit was ancient Luigi 
 Bordoni 
 
 Sitting alone in his palace bereft of Bianca and doubt- 
 ing 
 
 Whether ambition were safest to follow when wedding 
 a daughter 
 
 Tender and loving as his was, and whether young Cosmo 
 Albert! 
 
 Loved her enough to subdue for her sake all his out- 
 bursts of passion. 
 
 Often and often he rode to the gates of the Villa Alberti, 
 
I04 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 Entered and found in the gardens or sitting at ease in 
 
 the loggia 
 Happiness ever and blissful content with Bianca and 
 
 Cosmo. 
 Welcome he never found lacking and so as the days 
 
 journeyed onward 
 Fainter his doubtings became and at last past away 
 
 altogether 
 Utterly routed and slain by the radiant presence of 
 
 gladness. 
 
 Now in these halcyon days the great happiness com- 
 passing these two 
 
 Spread its white wings over all who owed service to 
 Cosmo. 
 
 Wholly transformed seemed the man through his love 
 for the gentle Bianca. 
 
 It was enough for him now that she pleaded for any re- 
 tainer, 
 
 Seeking for justice to all, and the noble who once had 
 sought counsel 
 
 Only from whim of the moment or spurring of sudden- 
 moved passion. 
 
 Now was renowned throughout spacious Val d'Arna 
 for merciful dealing. 
 
 Many the banquets and feastings at Villa Albert! that 
 summer. 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. 105 
 
 Often the peasant on lands of Albert! was roused from 
 his slumbers 
 
 Nigh to the hour when the pale rose of dawn in the 
 east faintly quickens, 
 
 Hearing the rolling of wheels and the querulous neigh- 
 ing of horses 
 
 Speeding with jubilant revelers back to their homes in 
 Firenze. 
 
 All who could add to the joy of the moment were wel- 
 comed by Cosmo. 
 
 So at the Villa Alberti were gathered in friendly 
 conjunction 
 
 Poets, musicians and artists of differing orders of merit, 
 
 Nobles and sages and men who were keen at a jest or 
 a satire. 
 
 There might be seen the fair matrons and maids of the 
 City of Florence, 
 
 Cassock of priest, or the purple-hued robe of the digni- 
 fied prelate, 
 
 Merchants returned from a visit to Paris or far-distant 
 London, 
 
 Courtiers from France or ambassadors sent from some 
 German dominion. 
 
 Many the faiths of the guests but a harmony never was 
 lacking, 
 
 For at these meetings Bianchi and Neri forgot for the 
 moment 
 
io6 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 Matters at issue between them, and even the Ghibel- 
 
 line faction 
 Here at the Villa Alberti held truce with the Guelplis 
 
 their opponents, 
 Glad it w^ould seem for an interval sacred to peace 
 
 and good feeling. 
 
 When the fierce heats of the summer were over and 
 
 Tuscany's autumn 
 Once more returning had purpled the vineyards and 
 
 yellowed the cornfields. 
 Veiled with a haze the far peaks of Carrara and 
 
 breathed forth at evening 
 Hints, though but faint ones as yet, of the oncoming 
 
 chillier weather, 
 Luigi Bordoni one morning rode forth to his daughter 
 
 Bianca's, 
 Not, as his wont was, alone, but companioned upon this 
 
 occasion 
 By a fair youth, the last left of the sons of a dearly- 
 loved brother. 
 Nearly two years had he been at Ferrara on business 
 
 of Luigi's, 
 But it was ended at last and the youth had returned to 
 
 Firenze 
 Only that morning brimful of rejoicing at seeing his 
 
 kindred. 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. 107 
 
 Joyous the meeting had been 'twixt the uncle and well- 
 beloved nephew, 
 And in reply to his questionings after Bianca, his 
 
 cousin, 
 Messer Bordoni was leading the youth to the Villa 
 
 Alberti. 
 Scarce twenty-one was Franceso Bordoni when leaving 
 
 Firenze ; 
 Lightly at that time the down on his upper lip lay like 
 
 a shadow, 
 But, in his absence had lengthened and darkened till 
 
 now on returning 
 Straight as a dart a full finger's length sideways it 
 
 slenderly pointed, 
 Under it gleamed the white teeth that his clear ringing 
 
 laughter showed often, 
 And "neath the forehead above it two dark eyes looked 
 
 honestly outward, 
 Eyes that the maids of Ferrara had many times loved 
 
 to feel on them. 
 Slenderly built was the youth but withal of an elegant 
 
 figure. 
 Habited richly in garments befitting his years and his 
 
 station. 
 Crimson and white was his doublet and likewise his 
 
 close-fitting long hose 
 Crimson of hue, and a mantle that carelessly hung from 
 
 his shoulder 
 
io8 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 White, ^Yith a lining of crimson, showed also the colors 
 
 he favored. 
 Crimson moreover the cap that he \vore and that 
 
 poised as if blown there 
 Crowning the grace that yet needed no help of costume 
 
 to display it. 
 Over his doublet there hung a gold chain wrought by 
 
 skill of Cellini, 
 And at his side was a sword which the same Benvenuto 
 
 Cellini, 
 Seized with a master's own fancy, enriched with a 
 
 wonderful scabbard 
 Where was depicted the sorrowful story of her of 
 
 Rimini. 
 Goodly in raiment and person alike was the youthful 
 
 Franceso, 
 And as he journeyed that morning along with his 
 
 uncle, Luigi 
 Said to himself that the youth was a joy to the house 
 
 of Bordoni. 
 
 Noon was the hour when the uncle and nephew reached 
 
 Villa Albert! ; 
 Noon, and the shadows that lay on the greensward 
 
 were dwarfed and misshapen ; 
 Noon, and the breezes of morning had died quite away 
 
 into stillness; 
 
A Talc of Tils cany. 1 09 
 
 Noon, and the birds were asleep and the musical plash 
 
 of the fountains 
 Joyously leaping aloft in the sunshine and falling back 
 
 ever 
 Scarce broke the slumberous silence that brooded o'er 
 
 all like a blessing. 
 " Ah, what a haven of peace ! " said Franceso aloud to 
 
 his uncle, 
 " Truly a fitting abode for my beautiful cousin Bianca." 
 Hardly the sentence was uttered when she whom he 
 
 spoke of came forward 
 Beaming with joy at beholding her father and long- 
 absent cousin. 
 " Surely, Franceso, your stay in Ferrara has wondrously 
 
 changed you. 
 For when you left us you seemed like a boy and to-day 
 
 I behold you 
 Bearing the honors of manhood like any young Floren- 
 tine gallant." 
 Smiling she spoke and the youth in confusion bowed 
 
 lowly before her, 
 Paused for a moment and then answered g?iyly, " A^y 
 
 cousin Bianca, 
 Time has been busy with you and has changed from a 
 
 girl to a woman 
 Her Vv'hom I left in the care of the vigilant Sisters of 
 
 Joseph, 
 
1 10 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 Learning from them to embroider and also the curing 
 
 of roseleaves." 
 More had he said, but the master of Villa Alberti ap- 
 proaching 
 Greeted the newcomers warmly and led the wayiiUo 
 
 the Villa. 
 There for a time they conversed with each other of 
 
 various matters, 
 Whether the eloquent Savonarola would preach at the 
 
 Duomo 
 After the autumn was over and Advent had opened the 
 
 winter. 
 Whether the turbulent Arrabbiati would dare to molest 
 
 him, 
 Whether the harvests throughout the Val d' Arno v.ere 
 
 promising finely, 
 Whether the air of Firenze was purer than that of 
 
 Ferrara. 
 So passed the morning away until Cosmo, addressing 
 
 Bianca, 
 Said in his courtliest manner, "Bianca, your cousin 
 
 Franceso, 
 If he has rested as long as he wishes, might care to 
 
 examine 
 Under your guidance the gardens, or possibly also the 
 
 frescos 
 Painted last spring, my Bianca, in honor of you and our 
 
 bridal. 
 
A Talc of Tuscany. in 
 
 Go with him therefore, I pray you, and I and our ex- 
 cellent father 
 
 Later will join you, perhajDS in the gardens or else in 
 the loggia." 
 
 Ended his sentence, the speaker arose and passed out 
 with Luigi 
 
 Full of some plan for adorning the Villa which needed 
 explaining, 
 
 And at an opposite portal Bianca went forth with her 
 cousin. 
 
 Much had Franceso to speak of concerning the years 
 of his absence ; 
 
 Much had Bianca to tell him of Cosmo and how he 
 adored her. 
 
 Almost like brother and sister the cousins had been in 
 their childhood, 
 
 Sharing their joys and their sorrows and each one ad- 
 miring the other. 
 
 Now as they loitered in arbor and alley in innocent 
 converse, 
 
 Confidence, long interrupted by absence, returned, and 
 the friendship 
 
 Severed by time reunited and freely they spoke to each 
 other ; 
 
 He of the maiden he loved at Ferrara with ardent de- 
 votion, 
 
 How he would count himself happy if only Bianca 
 might see her, 
 
112 A Tale of Tiiscany. 
 
 For he was sure she would think the maid wondrously 
 lovely. 
 
 When he had ended she told of her meeting with 
 Cosmo last summer, 
 
 How she had loved from the first this young lord whom 
 Pietro Brignoli 
 
 Summoned with others to dance and to feast at the 
 fete of his daughter. 
 
 How she had feared while she loved him, recalling the 
 tales that were told her. 
 
 Tales that proclaimed him as cruel, and wholly un- 
 mindful of kindness. 
 
 But unto her he was gentle and tender, and courteous 
 ever. 
 
 Since they were wedded his love had not lost in the 
 least its deep fervor. 
 
 And his dependents united, she added, in praising their 
 master. 
 
 " Happier woman than I am most surely is none in 
 Firenze," 
 
 Gleefully ended Bianca her story of Cosmo's devo- 
 tion. 
 
 Thus as it happened the youthful and handsome Fran- 
 ceso Bordoni, 
 
 Once more abiding with Luigi his uncle, in Casa Bor- 
 doni, 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. 113 
 
 Welcome most cordial received from his cousin the 
 
 wife of Alberti, 
 Welcome in which Cosmo joined with the zeal of 
 
 impetuous natures. 
 Frequent the journeys he made from Firenze to Villa 
 
 Alberti, 
 For as the autumn departed the beautiful maid of 
 
 Ferrara, 
 Wholly unknown to herself, was supplanted by one in 
 
 Firenze, 
 Wherefore Franceso the fickle had much to impart to 
 
 his cousin 
 Of the new rapture he fervently vowed should endure 
 
 for a lifetime. 
 Smilingly listened Bianca and wholly refrained from 
 
 reproaching, 
 Feeling quite sure that his heart was untouched by the 
 
 one or the other ; 
 Hoping moreover in time to divert his uncertain affec- 
 tions 
 Into a steadier channel and fix them on one of her own 
 
 friends, 
 Giulia Donati, the well-beloved child of a Florentine 
 
 noble. 
 So the youth went and returned at his pleasure, and 
 
 sober-paced autumn 
 Glided unseen into winter, so mild was the weather, 
 
 and Cosmo 
 
114 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 Welcomed him always as one might a brother and 
 
 dreamed of no evil. 
 So might it ever have been but for one who had noted 
 
 Franceso 
 Coming and going at will and moreover seen oft with 
 
 Bianca. 
 Into the brain of Battista Marchesi, a friend of Al- 
 
 berti's, 
 Entered suspicion at once as a guest and found ample 
 
 employment, 
 When he beheld the young nephew of ancient Luigi 
 
 Bordoni 
 Gladly received by Bianca, against whom he cherished 
 
 resentment 
 Dating from days when he sued as a lover and won not 
 
 her favor. 
 Long had he sighed for revenge and the moment for 
 
 this seemed approaching. 
 Cautious, however, was he, and he waited some time 
 
 before speaking, 
 But when December was come and Battista was hunt- 
 ing with Cosmo, 
 Far from Firenze on slopes of the Apennine Alps near 
 
 Carrara, 
 Chance as it seemed led their talk to Bianca and Villa 
 
 Alberti. 
 " Ah, 'tis a week since I left my Bianca ! " said Cosmo, 
 
 " and lonely 
 
A Tale of Tuscany, 115 
 
 Truly I know she will be, so to-morrow must find me 
 
 returning." 
 " Lonely, good Cosmo ? " then answered him crafty 
 
 Marchesi, " but surely 
 That is your vanity speaking. Bianca can very well 
 
 spare you. 
 Just for a little at least, for what wife will not tire of 
 
 her husband 
 Having him constantly by her and hearing his words of 
 
 devotion. 
 Then she has with her the beautiful Giulia Donati and 
 
 likewise 
 Paola Lippi and other fair maids of Firenze and 
 
 doubtless 
 Handsome Franceso Bordoni is there at the Villa this 
 
 moment 
 Telling some wonderful tale or exciting their mirth by 
 
 his jesting. 
 O, she is doing quite well in your absence without you, 
 
 good Cosmo. 
 Better remain while the hunting is good than to think 
 
 of returning. 
 She is quite safe in the care of her friends and her 
 
 cousin Franceso." 
 Loudly laughed Cosmo when subtle Battista had fin- 
 ished, and answered : 
 " Little you know of Bianca's affection for me, good 
 
 Battista ; 
 
Ii6 A Tale of Tiiscany. 
 
 She is not like many wives who rejoice when their hus- 
 bands are absent ; 
 Ever her thoughts are of me and I surely must see her 
 
 to-morrow." 
 " Take your own course, my dear friend," said Battista, 
 
 in answer, " and doubtless 
 You are quite right and Bianca, your wife, in your 
 
 absence is lonely. 
 Pardon me, Cosmo, if I in a moment of jesting spoke 
 
 lightly 
 Of the affection a wife like Bianca must feel for her 
 
 husband. 
 Let it forever be buried and now let us speak of Fran- 
 
 ceso ; 
 Surely a more pleasant subject is he with his easy good- 
 nature. 
 How half the maids in Firenze adore him, and yet 'tis 
 
 no wonder ; 
 Who might not conquer and win the most obdurate 
 
 heart in the city 
 Had he the graces of person and eloquent tongue of 
 
 Franceso. 
 Even the matrons regard him with pleasure and almost 
 
 affection. 
 Almost, said I, nay 'tis rumored that one or two 
 
 matrons whose husbands 
 Absent just now are from home, seem disposed to the 
 
 granting of favors 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. 117 
 
 Unto Franceso, the handsome, which doubtless the 
 
 youth has accepted, 
 Being adept in affairs of the kind, if I do not mistake 
 
 him. 
 Ah, what it is to be handsome and young and thus 
 
 favored of women ! " 
 Thus unto Cosmo spoke wily Marchesi and failed not 
 
 to notice 
 Over the brow of the friend at his side a dark shadow 
 
 was creeping ; 
 Noticed and inly rejoiced and continued his talk of 
 
 Franceso, 
 Praising the youth as before and enlarging upon his 
 
 attractions. 
 Then as a close to his words very craftily added, " My 
 
 Cosmo, 
 You should know best and no doubt you are right in 
 
 returning to-morrow. 
 Truly so tender and loving a wife as is yours must be 
 
 lonely. 
 Go if you will, as for me I will hunt by myself awhile 
 
 longer." 
 Little said Cosmo the rest of that day to his friend and 
 
 companion. 
 Dark was his brow as the clouds that drive over the 
 
 sky in a tempest ; 
 Heavy his heart with the weight of suspicion that sud- 
 denly lodged there ; 
 
Ii8 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 So on the morrow he turned his face eastward and 
 
 reached home at nightfall. 
 Peaceful and quiet the short day had passed for Bianca 
 
 Albert! 
 Busied with womanly cares and with no one at hand 
 
 to distract her. 
 Paola Lippi with Giulia had ere this returned to 
 
 Firenze, 
 And on that day quite alone had she been till Fran- 
 
 ceso at sunset 
 Came to the Villa to beg her assistance in gaining the 
 
 favor 
 Of his last love, the adorable, wonderful Giulia Donati. 
 Glad was Bianca to find where his wishes now pointed 
 
 and promised 
 All in her power to incline to his suit the dear friend 
 
 of her girlhood. 
 Loud was the youth in his thanks as they sat in the 
 
 loggia together 
 While the bright moonlight streamed over their faces 
 
 and one in the garden 
 Watched them with wrath in his heart and a tremulous 
 
 hand on his dagger. 
 
 So passed an hour, and Franceso departing sped 
 
 down to the garden 
 Trusting to find at the entrance his charger awaiting 
 
 its master. 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. 119 
 
 Crimson and white was his garb as of old, and his cap 
 
 with its tassel 
 Lightly was tossed on a head that was full of a lover's 
 
 brig'at fancies. 
 Singing i. song was the youth as he passed down the 
 
 garden, and Cosmo, 
 Wholly unheeded by him, came behind with his dagger 
 
 and ended 
 With but one thrust the sweet song and the harmless 
 
 younc- life of the singer. 
 Crimson and white were the colors Franceso in life 
 
 had rrost favored ; 
 Crimson and white in his death lay the blithesome 
 
 Franceso Bordoni. 
 
 Long had lain dormant the turbulent passions of 
 
 Cosmo Alberti ; 
 Dormant and harmless they seemed until roused by the 
 
 wily Battista. 
 Fiercer than ever the tempest that now raged un- 
 
 checrced in his bosom, 
 Tempest awakened at first by the devilish craft of 
 
 Mar:hesi, 
 Tempest now roused to full height when before him 
 
 lay lifeless Franceso. 
 Dragging Bordoni away from the path he strode up to 
 
 the Villa, 
 
I20 A Tale of Tusca?iy. 
 
 Entered and meeting his most trusted servant, Arnoldo 
 
 Sacchetti, 
 Told him in brief what had chanced and then charged 
 
 him to keep the dread secret, 
 Bidding him also to safely conceal the dead form of 
 
 Franceso ; 
 Then with a smile on his lips straightway passed to the 
 
 rooms of Bianca. 
 Glad was Bianca when Cosmo she saw and mbst tender 
 
 her welcome, 
 Tender moreover was he and the fire that had now 
 
 blazed so hotly, 
 Seemed to have sunk into ashes so loving and gentle 
 
 his manner. 
 Doubted he then for a moment, so genuine seemed her 
 
 affection, 
 Whether the deed were well done that had ended the 
 
 life of Franceso, 
 Till there returned the suspicions Marches! in him had 
 
 implanted. 
 But to Bianca his look at that time betrayed nothing 
 
 but gladness 
 And in her joy at his coming no mention she made of 
 
 Franceso \ 
 
 Even when days past away and no more was he seen 
 
 at the Villa. 
 Absent just then from Firenze was Luigi Bordoni, his 
 
 uncle, 
 
A Tale of Tuscany. I2I 
 
 So that the youth was not missed from the city except 
 
 by companions 
 Young like himself, and who fancied him absent on 
 
 some lover's journey. 
 Troubled in spirit was Cosmo, perceiving no trace in 
 
 Bianca 
 Of the dismay he had looked for when day after day 
 
 brought no lover, 
 Troubled in spirit, yet not the less fixed in his direful 
 
 purpose, 
 Purpose which waited in silence the moment most fit 
 
 for disclosing. 
 More than a week past away when one morning 
 
 Bianca said lightly : 
 " What can have chanced to Franceso 1 He seems to 
 
 have left us entirely. 
 When you were absent, my Cosmo, he came every day 
 
 to the Villa. 
 That was when Giulia Donati was here, whom he loves 
 
 beyond measure." 
 " He will be with us this even at supper," said Cosmo 
 
 in answer, 
 " Full of a lover's excuses, no doubt, to account for his 
 
 absence." 
 
 Even was come and together they past to the hall of 
 the banquet, 
 
122 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 Where on the table a cover was laid for the coming 
 
 Franceso. 
 " Shall we not drink to the health of your amorous 
 
 cousin, Bianca, 
 Ere he arrives at the Villa ? " and gladly Bianca 
 
 assented. 
 Then at a sign from his master Arnoldo Sacchetti 
 
 brought forward 
 Rarest of wines and moreover a silver-rimmed skull 
 
 for a goblet. 
 This to Bianca he gave and Alberti said gently, 
 
 " Bianca, 
 It is a fancy of mine you should drink from that goblet 
 
 this evening. 
 Not the most pleasant of fancies, 'tis true, but you will 
 
 not refuse me ? " 
 Somewhat reluctant at first, but assured by the words of 
 
 her husband. 
 Quickly she drank and Arnoldo Sacchetti announced 
 
 at that moment, 
 " Messer Franceso Bordoni," and opened the doors of 
 
 a closet. 
 There with a mantle of crimson and white hanging 
 
 loose from the shoulder 
 Stood a grim skeleton awful and white in the down- 
 streaming lamplight. 
 Frozen with horror Bianca stared rigidly forward while 
 
 Cosmo, 
 
A Tale of Tu scanty. 123 
 
 Eying her sternly, burst forth in his passion : " Your 
 
 lover, Frances©, 
 Waits for you there in his closet : why linger so long 
 
 ere you greet him ? 
 That is his skull which you drank from, a pleasing love- 
 token he sends you : 
 Strange that you shrink from him now whom you lately 
 
 preferred to your husband : 
 What ? have you nothing to say to the amorous youth 
 
 who adores you ? " 
 Slowly Bianca arose and then turning to Cosmo said 
 
 firmly : 
 " Never in word or in deed have I sinned 'gainst the 
 
 bond that unites us : 
 Him you have slain was no lover of mine. I was 
 
 yours and yours only. 
 Happy was I in your love and I foolishly deemed it 
 
 eternal. 
 Were I the woman you think, I might readily crave 
 
 your forgiveness ; 
 Being the innocent wife that I am, I now leave you 
 
 forever." 
 Scarcely the sentence was uttered ere she who had 
 
 spoken fell lifeless. 
 Dying heart-broken, and he whose accusings had sud- 
 denly killed her. 
 Stood there alone, for Sacchetti had vanished, alone 
 
 with Bianca. 
 
124 A Tale of Tuscany. 
 
 Now when too late he believed in her innocence wholly, 
 
 entirely ; 
 Now when too late he perceived the abominable craft 
 
 of Marchesi ; 
 Now in his anguish, by furies pursued, he fled into the 
 
 forest. 
 
 Empty the Villa Alberti henceforward, for no one 
 would dwell there. 
 
 Gone was its master and no one knew whither for 
 many years after, 
 
 Till as it happened a hunter pursuing a deer near 
 Carrara, 
 
 Found in a desolate hollow two skeletons lying to- 
 gether, 
 
 Locked in a deadly embrace, and by shreds of their 
 clothing and jewels. 
 
 Knew them for Cosmo Alberti and crafty Battista 
 Marchesi. 
 
®l)c (^olben Cotus. 
 
 In far Japan this story old 
 
 Is carved in ivory ^ graved in brass. 
 For jealous Fame^ who loves the bold, 
 
 Lets not the gracious memory pass. 
 
TJie Legend of tJie Golden Lotus. 127 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN LOTUS. 
 
 The amber sunset faded into night, 
 
 And round the base of lofty Dandoku 
 
 The ever-present shadows in the woods 
 
 CUmg closer to the forest depths, yet rose. 
 
 Still clinging, from the mountain's shaggy knees 
 
 To shining cone of snow that pierced the sky. 
 
 And still and breathless grew the darkened land. 
 
 Slow past the hours till in the east faint lights 
 
 Wavered awhile, then eddied into calm 
 
 And waxed apace, and from their midst, blood-red, 
 
 An angry moon sailed up a cloudless sky. 
 
 And all the peering shadows backward pressed. 
 
 Each upon other, ever clustering thick 
 
 To rearward of each bush and tree. But when 
 
 The blood-red splendor of the moon had paled 
 
 To white, and long and level rays became 
 
 Long rays that sloped from heaven's mid-height, there 
 
 past 
 Down Dandoku's steep sides the merciful 
 Shaka-ni-yorai, full of holy thoughts. 
 
128 TJie Legend of the Golden Lotus. 
 
 No sound yet broke the silence, save when now 
 And then a stone, dislodged by Shaka's steps, 
 Smote sharply 'gainst its neighbor rocks, or bird, 
 Half-roused by passing feet, fluttered a wing 
 Or chirped a sleepy note. 
 
 No sound save these, 
 Till rose from out a jagged mountain cleft 
 A mystic voice that rang around the sky 
 And trembled to the limits of the world, 
 Proclaiming one of Buddha's sacred truths : 
 JVot always does the otiiward guise denote 
 The co7nplex substanee of the timer soul f 
 Lord Shaka, hearing, paused, then nearer drew 
 Toward the cleft, and peering downward, saw 
 A dragon on whose scales the moombeams shone, 
 And in whose eyes there glittered baleful fires. 
 No fear beset his soul at this strange sight, 
 But all unawed thereat, he by the edge 
 Sat down and questioned of the awful shape 
 Below, whence came this knowledge of the laws, 
 Which years of study had not shown to him. 
 " Knowing so much," said Shaka, " thou must needs 
 Know more. I wait thy farther word. Say on." 
 So saying, Shaka sat with joined palms, 
 Patiently waiting, while the dragon coiled 
 Its awful glistening length around the cliff, 
 
The Legend of the Golden Lotus. 129 
 
 And once more shook with thunders all the air, 
 As it, regarding Shaka's face serene, 
 Declared : All things that live to Buddha are 
 Opposed I There followed silence for a space. 
 Till Shaka said, " All that is good thou sayest. 
 All that is good, and yet I wait for more." 
 
 He ceased, and suddenly a soundless chill 
 Crept o'er the mountain side, and one dark cloud. 
 Coming from farthest space, enwrapt the moon, 
 And in the chill and through the gloom he heard 
 The awful voice, clear-sounding : All that live 
 Must die ! And like an echo come from far 
 And fainter : All that live must die ! 
 
 Thereat 
 The listener bowed himself and said : " Thy mouth 
 Hast spoken greater wisdom than before. 
 O clothed with knowledge, still, I pray, say on ! " 
 So spake Lord Shaka, and the shape below 
 Turned full on him the lightnings of its eyes, 
 And answered : " Lo, the last of these great truths 
 Most precious is of all the four, but weak 
 Am I, and may not utter it without 
 The meat I most desire," and while he spoke 
 The moon from out the bosom of the cloud 
 Came forth, and showed the dragon loosening 
 Its hold upon the rock, and all its length 
 
130 The Legend of the Golden Lotus. 
 
 Supinely stretching forth. 
 
 Then Shaka said : 
 " O thou so full of highest wisdom art 
 I can deny thee nothing. Name thy will." 
 Whereat the dragon, rearing high his crest, 
 Made answer like the roll of thunder heard 
 Far off in wake of a retreating storm, 
 " Man's flesh." 
 
 All pityingly Lord Shaka gazed 
 Upon the dragon, and made answer thus : 
 *' The Law forbids us to destroy a life. 
 But for the people whom I hope to teach 
 The fourth great sentence I must hear for them ; 
 Thereafter will I give myself to thee. 
 And now, O Wisdom-Bearer, tell me all." 
 
 The dragon heard, and higher raised its head, 
 And slowly opening its ponderous jaws. 
 Made answer to Lord Shaka : Happiness 
 Is greatest when the soul the body leaves ! 
 
 Rapt on these words the saintly hearer stood 
 A space, then reverently bowed his head 
 And sprang within the dragon's mouth, when lo, 
 A wonder ! As Lord Shaka's sacred feet 
 Touched lightly on the shining monster's jaws 
 
The Legend of the Golden Loins. 131 
 
 The crested head sank down and fell apart 
 Eight several ways, and into petals eight 
 That form the throne most holy briefly past 
 And left Lord Shaka seated, calm, serene, 
 Within the bosom of the Mystic Flower ! 
 
Cijrics, etc. 
 
 Why turn the page? Thei-e's nought derleaf 
 To hold attent you?- thoughtful niind. 
 
 You will? ^Tis well these lays are brief 
 If to disparage y oil' re inclined. 
 
LYRICS, ETC 
 
 THE SWEET SOUTH-WIND, 
 
 Over the fields and the waters there suddenly swept in 
 
 mid-April 
 Something that seemed like a breath that was blown 
 
 from far coasts of the sunlands. 
 Languorous was it and sweet as are lilies or odorous 
 
 spices, 
 Laden with delicate hints of a summer not far in the 
 
 distance. 
 Over the meadows and fields that, embrowned by the 
 
 cold of the winter, 
 Lay as if dead to the spring and with never a hope of 
 
 a harvest. 
 Silently passed the south-wind, and there suddenly 
 
 sprang into being 
 Millions of grass blades that tossed like an emerald sea 
 
 in the sunshine, 
 Daffodils fair as were those that gained Pluto a consort 
 
 in Hades, 
 
 US 
 
136 The Sweet South-Wind. 
 
 Buttercups golden and gleaming like gems on the hands 
 of a maiden, 
 
 Daisies that grew near the ground and yet ever and al- 
 ways gazed upward, 
 
 Violets azure and yellow and white and of wonderful 
 fragrance. 
 
 Over the trees in the orchard and forest it breathed in 
 
 its progress, 
 Bringing the sap from the roots to the near and the 
 
 farthermost branches, 
 Swelling the buds till the willow was hid in a verdurous 
 
 mist-cloud. 
 Touching the boughs of the maple that reddened with 
 
 joy at the meeting. 
 Leaving wherever it lingered assurance and promise of 
 
 summer. 
 Over the streams the beneficent breeze from the south- 
 land swept gently, 
 Filled all the waters with quick-darting life that rejoiced 
 
 in the springtime. 
 Sent all the rivers, now freed from the grasp of the 
 
 winter, exultant. 
 Moving in shimmering, glittering, sinuous curves that 
 
 led seaward. 
 
The Sweet SoiLth-Wiiid. 137 
 
 So on its way passed the wonderful wakening wind from 
 the sunlands, 
 
 Driving before it the frost and the cold of the winter, 
 reluctant, 
 
 While in their stead came the warmth and the re- 
 aroused life of the springtide, 
 
 For in the wake of the life-giving breeze flew the jubi- 
 lant swallows, 
 
 Twittered the robins and wrens, while the azure-hued 
 wing of the bluebird 
 
 Cut through the air like the scintillant blade that is 
 famed of Toledo. 
 
 Thus in mid-April the heart of another springtide was 
 
 awakened ; 
 Faster the blood ran along through the veins in the 
 
 glorious weather, 
 Generous impulses quickened and waxed in the glow of 
 
 the season. 
 Winter was banished, and with him the cold and the 
 
 afternoon twilight. 
 And, as the wail of his storms in the north passed at 
 
 last into silence. 
 May could be seen in the distance approaching, her lap 
 
 full of blossoms. 
 
138 0]i the Labrador Coast, 
 
 ON THE LABRADOR COAST, 
 
 (October, 1885.) 
 
 Down the coast of Labrador 
 
 Rode the storm-wind conqueror: 
 
 In his train the surges roared, 
 
 From black clouds the torrents poured. 
 
 Miles on miles of frowning cliffs 
 
 Marked with Time's strange hieroglyphs 
 
 Felt the waves their bases shock, 
 
 Heard strange cries that seemed to mock 
 
 With their shrill discordant glee 
 
 Sounds of human agony. 
 
 Drifting wildly with the blast 
 
 Scores of vessels southward past. 
 
 Down upon their rain-swept decks 
 
 Leaped the surges with white necks; 
 
 Thundered on their oaken sides 
 
 Angry force of mighty tides. 
 
 And through shrieking rigging tore 
 
 Fiercest gales that fled to shore. 
 
 On to land the vessels sped, 
 
 On to death the storm-wind led, 
 
On the Labrador Coast. 139 
 
 Miles on miles of blackened cliffs 
 Saw the helpless, feeble skiffs 
 Swung from schooners' sides and then 
 Oared by stout-armed fishermen, 
 Shattered, broken at their feet : 
 Heard mad waves the dirge repeat 
 Of the men who met their doom 
 Where the wildest surges boom 
 When along stern Labrador 
 Rides the storm-wind conqueror ! 
 
140 What's the Sweetest News in Spring"^ 
 
 WHATS THE SWEETEST NEWS IN SPRING? 
 
 What's the sweetest news in spring 
 That the blithesome swallows bring, 
 When from southern lands they fly- 
 Through our cloudier northern sky 
 After frosts and cold succumb ? 
 " April 'j- past and May has come / " 
 
 April's past and May has come ! 
 One may hear it in the hum 
 Of the silly bees that seek 
 Honey from the petals meek 
 Of the violet and the daisy ; 
 See it in the curving, hazy, 
 Vaporous line that marks a river 
 Winding slow where rushes quiver ; 
 Feel it in the thrill that stirs 
 All the Maytide's messengers. 
 
 May is come and April's past ! 
 Joy of spring is here at last ; 
 One may hear it in the note 
 Swelling from the bluebird's throat; 
 
What's the Sweetest N'ezvs in Spjingf 141 
 
 See it in the rosy snow 
 Heaped along the orchard row; 
 Feel it in the odors stealing 
 Forth from lily-banks revealing 
 Mid green spears small waxen bells. 
 Every sense the message tells 
 May is come and April's past ; 
 Summer gladness ripens fast. 
 
 April's past and May is come ! 
 Greening woods no more are dumb; 
 Every tree is vocal now; 
 Every winter-twisted bough 
 Hides its scars with leaf or flower. 
 Now is come the fairest hour 
 Held in fee of all the year ; 
 Winds breathe low and skies are clear ; 
 Neither cold nor heat can smite ; 
 All sweet influences unite 
 In the Maytide hour to make 
 Earth seem sweeter for our sake. 
 Who the winter's cold remembers 
 Or believes in drear Novembers 
 When of joy this is the sum, — 
 April's past and May has come ? 
 That's the sweetest news in spring 
 Which the happy swallows bring. 
 
142 France sea and Paolo, 
 
 FRANCESCA AfID PAOLO, 
 
 In that dim-lighted land where bide 
 
 The spirits who have sinned below, 
 One newly come saw by her glide, 
 
 In silence mournfully and slow, 
 That other who upon her turned 
 
 Sad eyes that ahvay swam in tears, 
 And moved dry lips that constant burned 
 
 With kisses never through the years 
 Of dateless aeons to be kissed. 
 
 Forever doomed the one to see 
 Her loved Paolo near, and list 
 
 In vain for loving words ; to be 
 Forever witness of his pain, 
 
 And look and long for aye to ease 
 The anguish of his heart. Sad twain ! 
 
 What lovers' torments like to these ? 
 
Where are the Fi^es of Pan ? 143 
 
 WHERE ARE THE PIPES OF PAN? 
 
 In these prosaic days 
 
 Of politics and trade, 
 When seldom Fancy lays 
 
 Her touch on man or maid, 
 
 The sounds are fled that strayed 
 Along sweet streams that ran ; 
 
 Of song the world's afraid ; 
 Where are the Pipes of Pan ? 
 
 Within the busy maze 
 
 Wherein our feet are stayed, 
 There roam no gleesome fays 
 
 Like those which once repaid 
 
 His sight who first essayed 
 The stream of song to span, 
 
 Those spirits all are laid. 
 Where are the Pipes of Pan ? 
 
144 Whe7'e are the Pipes of Pan ? 
 
 Dry now the poet's bays ; 
 
 Of song-robes disarrayed 
 He hears not now the praise 
 
 Which erst those won who played 
 
 On pipes of rushes made, 
 Before dull days began 
 
 And love of song decayed. 
 Where are the Pipes of Pan ? 
 
 E7ivoy. 
 Prince, all our pleasures fade ; 
 
 Vain all the toils of man ; 
 And Fancy cries dismayed, 
 
 " Where are the Pipes of Pan ? " 
 
Song. 145 
 
 If you love me, come and be 
 In my heart of hearts and see 
 How I think of naught but thee ! 
 
 If you hate me, tell me so, 
 
 I should love you still, I know, — 
 
 Hate to love will sometimes grow. 
 
 If you neither love nor hate, 
 For your grace I ne'er will wait ; 
 You will never be my fate ! 
 
146 To a Ftieiid who Delays to Write. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO DELAYS TO WRITE, 
 
 Springtime goes, 
 Comes the rose, — 
 Ne'er a letter yet ! 
 
 Summer's reign 
 O'er again, — 
 
 Still he doth forget ! 
 
 Autumn fast 
 Slideth past, — 
 
 Can he mean to let 
 
 Winter drear 
 End the year, — 
 
 End, and still forget ? 
 
A Valentine, 147 
 
 A VALENTINE, 
 
 There is a little maid 
 
 Of whom I'm much afraid. 
 
 Shall I confess it ? 
 She wears a sealskin coat ; 
 Its grace and shape I note 
 
 And needs must bless it. 
 
 She wears a little bonnet : 
 A bird that's perched upon it 
 
 To fly seems ready. 
 My heart, not over-bold, 
 When her I do behold. 
 
 Goes quite unsteady. 
 
 She has a little muff 
 
 In which, from breezes rough, 
 
 Her hands find shelter. 
 My wits, when her I see 
 Clad all so daintily. 
 
 Fly helter-skelter. 
 
148 A Valentine. 
 
 Who is this little maid 
 Of whom I'm so afraid ? 
 
 Dare I reveal it? 
 This little maid is she 
 Whose eyes these verses see ; 
 
 I can't conceal it. 
 
 But if she should divine 
 I'd be her valentine, 
 
 As here I sing it, 
 I'll dare to hope she may 
 Be surely mine some day. 
 
 Sweet skies, soon bring it. 
 
MidsiLinmer Passes. 149 
 
 MIDSUMMER PASSES, 
 
 With faltering step the sweet Midsummer paused 
 
 Upon the last stair of the worn July. 
 
 Behind her blushed the roses and before 
 
 The scarlet poppies shimmered in the corn. 
 
 From far-off woods a heated breath came past, 
 
 Blown from dark cedars and tall groves of pine, 
 
 Yet all its sweetness might not serve to soothe 
 
 The bitterness of fair Midsummer's pain, 
 
 Who felt her sceptre slipping from her grasp 
 
 And saw one coming with his heated brows 
 
 Girt round with wheatstraws, bold young August brown. 
 
150 Friendship Raised His Placid Mask. 
 
 FAIR FRIENDSHIP RAISED HS PLACID 
 MASK. 
 
 Fair Friendship raised his placid mask and showed 
 Beneath, not brows where cahn Content should reign, 
 
 Nor smiles wherein all-perfect Joy abode, 
 
 But Discord's face, distort with many a pain ! 
 
An Easter Grief. 151 
 
 Al^ EASTER GRIEF, 
 
 The Easter brightness fades away ; 
 
 A chill has numbed the bursting leaf ; 
 A shadow falls across the day 
 
 And in our hearts is bitter grief. 
 
152 Unto Late Aiitimintide, 
 
 UNTO LATE AUTUMNTIDE. 
 
 With lurid torch October fired the woods ; 
 Brief grew the days, and long and chill the nights ; 
 The birds flew southward and their songs made glad 
 No more the hours. Then changed the maple's gold 
 To russet brown. November's step was heard 
 Along the leafstrewn ways, and, blown by winds 
 And drenched by autumn rains, October fled 
 Before her down the path where summer v/ent : 
 So waned the year to later autumntide. 
 
Wi^/i a Prayer-Book. 153 
 
 WITH A PRAYER-BOOK. 
 
 In Common Prayer our hearts ascend 
 To that white throne where angels bend. 
 Now grant, O Lord, that those who call 
 Themselves by Thy dear name may all 
 Show forth Thy praise in lives that tend 
 
 To noble purpose, lofty end, 
 And unto us thy blessing lend 
 As low upon our knees we fall 
 
 In Common Prayer. 
 
 In this dear Book past ages blend 
 Their voice with ours ; we do commend 
 Our souls, in doubt and sin held thrall, 
 To His fond care, and cot and hall 
 Alike to him petitions send 
 
 In Common Prayer. 
 
154 ^^^ Truro Sands. 
 
 ON TRURO SANDS, 
 
 TO W. M. F. 
 
 On Truro sands we walked, dear friend, 
 Slow following up that low shore's trend. 
 The crescent moon dipt in the sea, 
 Soft darkness fell on you and me 
 As on we wandered past the bend 
 
 That marked the fishing hamlet's end. 
 And felt the breeze against us spend 
 Its gentle force. Ah, sweet to be 
 
 On Truro sands ! 
 
 Some Presence did our steps attend 
 
 And to that hour a blessing lend, 
 So one in heart, my friend, were we, 
 And set from selfish fancies free. 
 
 How dull were life, that hour unkenned. 
 
 On Truro sands ! 
 
Beaten, 155 
 
 BEATEN, 
 
 Where is the spirit of striving that once was so strong 
 
 in my heart ? 
 And where is the lofty devotion that attended my steps 
 
 at the start ? 
 I was so full of my purpose and never gave way to a 
 
 doubt, 
 Never looked forward to failure, whatever dark clouds 
 
 were about, 
 Always believed in hard fighting, and never once 
 
 trusted to luck, 
 Put my whole soul in my doing, and honest each blow 
 
 that I struck. 
 
 What is the guerdon of labor, of honesty what the 
 
 reward ? 
 Only a pittance at most, and simplicity conquered by 
 
 fraud. 
 Where is the joy of believing when faith is met by a 
 
 sneer? 
 Why should we look to the future expecting the skies 
 
 to be clear ? 
 
156 Beaten. 
 
 Always the strongest are prospered : why may it not be 
 
 so again, 
 If there's a heaven hereafter reserved for the children 
 
 of men ? 
 Might has the best of us here, and may it not be so 
 
 beyond ? 
 I who am vanquished in battle have little to do but 
 
 despond. 
 Never for me will the prospect be brightened again 
 
 by a hope ; 
 I have grown old in the conflict, and care not with evil 
 
 to cope. 
 
 Beaten am I in the struggle, the doom of the conquered 
 
 is mine ; 
 Darkness and clouds are about me, the morrow I may 
 
 not divine. 
 Now I await the dread moment when I shall have done 
 
 with it all. 
 When the long strife shall be ended, and I turn my 
 
 face to the wall. 
 
0oitnct0. 
 
 How oft the sonnefs fourteen lines 
 Fail to convey the bardling's thought : 
 
 The poet in that space ensh?^i7ies 
 Some theme with 77iighty meaning fraught. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 As one who, wandering in a weary land 
 
 Alone, where thorns and briers beset the way. 
 And clouds and darkness have o'ercome the day, 
 
 Suddenly feels from out the dark a hand 
 
 In his, and hears a voice of mild command 
 At which the clouds disperse, the sunshine gay 
 Returns, and all within his heart is May 
 
 As forth he goes unto some happy strand, — 
 
 So I, in darkness groping, hear your voice 
 Again, and feel your hand in mine, 
 
 (For what is distance to true hearts that love ?) 
 And all my darkness ends, for at the sign 
 Of your forgiveness I once more rejoice 
 
 And feel sweet Peace descending like a dove. 
 159 
 
l6o Indifference. 
 
 INDIFFERENCE. 
 
 What is indifference, do you ask of me ? 
 
 O well I know the meaning of the phrase. 
 
 It is to find grey ash instead of blaze 
 That warmed you once ; to lose, alas ! the key 
 Which turned in friendship's wards ; to sometime see 
 
 The eyes that shone for you in other days 
 
 Now coldly meet your own in passing gaze ; 
 To know that what has been no more shall be. 
 
 It is to find that you in naught believe, 
 
 To know that youth has fled far down the past, 
 
 To feel that hope will ne'er again be born, 
 And love is but a poor worn cheat at last. 
 It is all this, yet not for this to grieve^ — 
 
 To live^ and heed not that one lives forlorn ! 
 
Easter 'Friday. 1 6 1 
 
 EASTER-FRIDAY, 1883. 
 
 [In memory of J. T. F,, who entered into rest on Friday in Easter-Week, 1882.] 
 
 O YEAR gone down into the sullen past, 
 
 Relentless year that hast no tidings brought 
 Of him who suddenly from earth was caught 
 
 And lifted higher while our tears fell fast ; 
 
 Thou canst not triumph over us at last, 
 
 Because thy silence so with grief is fraught 
 That joy is weighted with a mournful thought 
 
 When at this Easter eyes are backward cast ; 
 
 For, past all doubting, well each heart doth know, 
 Howe'er it fare with us whose heavy load 
 
 Each moment lends its petty might to swell, 
 With him no longer sorrow makes abode, 
 But peace and rest abide, and never go ; 
 And with his noble soul it now is well ! 
 
1 62 To James Rtissell Lowell, 
 
 TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 What rarer, finer bliss than his who feels, 
 
 While happy friends and neighbors press his hands, 
 The warmth of handclasps given in other lands 
 
 Still left upon his palms ? Though o'er him steals 
 
 The rapture of home-coming, on its heels 
 Follows the joy of holding in the bands 
 Of memory all the hours whose golden sands 
 
 Were run with friends remote whom space conceals. 
 
 Such bliss is thine, O poet, coming back 
 After long absence from thy native shores : 
 
 For, while all England saddens with farewells, 
 Thine own dear land, expectant, opens doors 
 Of welcome wide for thee on homeward track, 
 And every voice the heartfelt greeting swells. 
 
To One Who Has Stiff e red Mueh. 163 
 
 TO ONE WHO HAS SUFFERED MUCH, 
 
 I KNOW, dear friend, your hours are drear and cold ; 
 
 I know your path is harsh with briers and flints ; 
 
 Yet in the darkest day come happy ghnts 
 Of distant brightness underneath the fold 
 Of blackest cloud, and ever to the bold 
 
 The roughest road will show the faintest prints 
 
 Of weary feet. Look up ! When morning tints 
 Are in the sky the night grows pale and old. 
 
 The longest lane a sad world hath will turn 
 At last, and, round the turning, mayhap, waits 
 Some joy to greet you that shall fill your life 
 With bliss past all belief. Not always stern 
 The future, nearer seen. Sometimes the Fates 
 Do smile, and Peace comes aurely after strife. 
 
164 To Modjeska as Rosalind. 
 
 TO MODJESKA AS ROSALIND. 
 
 When from the poet's brain fair Arden's glades 
 Were peopled with the lightsome folk we know, 
 A shade of discontent was seen to grow 
 
 Upon his brow, as he through long decades 
 
 In vision saw this loveliest of his maids 
 By beardless boys enacted, and her show 
 Of maiden grace obscured and hidden so 
 
 In guise of youths half-won from boyish trades. 
 
 Soon changed the vision, and through centuries far 
 A group of women fair he then did see. 
 
 Whose hearts, one after other, were beguiled 
 By some Orlando's youth and bravery. 
 And in the throng, and radiant as a star. 
 
 On thee, the mighty Master, looking, smiled ! 
 
To Modjeska as Julia of Verona. 165 
 
 TO MODJESKA AS JULIA OF VERONA. 
 
 The tender maid of old Verona's town, 
 
 Whom Proteus loved and yet could lightly leave 
 When sight of Silvia did his soul bereave 
 
 Of friendship's dues and honor's fair renown, 
 
 (More faithless he than many an untaught clown,) 
 Has waited long for one who should conceive 
 Her gentle nature best, and thus inweave 
 
 All maiden graces in the woman's crown. 
 
 Not until now has the interpreter 
 
 Appeared. No other eyes than ours have seen 
 Verona's constant Julia as she seemed. 
 To thee was given the skill to plead in her 
 The cause of hapless maids with fervor keen. 
 Before of Julia we had merely dreamed ! 
 
1 66 High -Water Mark. 
 
 HIGH -WATER MARK. 
 
 One glorious day gleams through my memory still, 
 
 Though lagging years have come and gone erewhile ; 
 
 That day whereon I seemed to reconcile 
 My aspirations with myself, to thrill 
 With noblest ardor and to feel no chill 
 
 Of low-born aim nor motive, nor the vile 
 
 Persuasions of my baser self beguile 
 My soul from resolution pure to ill. 
 
 My soul may never mount so high again, 
 And never may my sluggish spirit glow 
 With feeling free as then from all alloy : 
 But yet should this be bitter truth, the pain 
 Is deadened when within my heart I know 
 That I rose o?ice and burned with highest joy ! 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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