FROISSART BALLADS, 
 
FROISSART BALLADS, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 PHILIP PENDLETON OOOKE. 
 
 " Emrni venuta certa fantasia, 
 Che non posso cacciarmi da la testa, 
 Di seriver un istoria in poesia 
 Affatta ignota o poco manifesta." 
 
 FORTEGUERRI. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 
 1847. 
 
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1847, 
 BY CAREY AND HART, 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District 
 of Pennsylvania. 
 
 C. SHERMAN, PRINTER, 
 19 St. James Street. 
 
C775 
 
 TO THE 
 
 HON. J. P. KENNEDY, 
 
 THESE POEMS ARE INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY 
 HIS FRIEND, AND KINSMAN, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 BJ807896 
 

CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface 
 
 Emily : a Proem to the Froissart Ballads - 13 
 
 The Master of Bolton 
 
 Geoffrey Tetenoire - * - 
 
 Orthone - 126 
 
 Sir Peter of Beam ... 137 
 
 Oar Lady s Dog - 153 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Mountains - - - - - - 161 
 
 Florence Vane - - . - 171 
 
 The Power of the Bards - 174 
 
 To Edith - 179 
 
 Life in the Autumn Woods - - 182 
 
 To my Daughter Lily 187 
 
 The Murder of Cornstalk - - 191 
 
 Young Rosalie Lee 204 
 
 Love and^e Kind - - 206 
 
 Imaginary Ills - - 208 
 
 The Story of Ugolino - - - - 211 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE motto of my title-page the opening lines of the Ricciar- 
 detto of the Roman poet and prelate, Forteguerri gives an accu 
 rate idea of the plan of the Froissart Ballads, as I originally con 
 ceived it : 
 
 " A certain freak has got into my head, 
 Which I can t conquer for the life of me, 
 
 Of taking up some history, little read, 
 Or known, and writing it in poetry." 
 
 
 The Proem was written whilst my " freak" or purpose was still 
 of this limited character ; and it represents the ballads not then 
 begun, but spoken of as finished as versified transcripts from 
 Froissart. Perhaps, if I had carried out this purpose of fidelity to 
 the noble old chronicler, my poetry would have been all the better 
 for it. I have, however, not done so. The Master of Bolton, and 
 Geoffrey Tetenoire are no where in Froissart, but stories of my 
 own invention. The only material aid I have drawn from his 
 chronicles, in the first of these poems, is in the jousting scenes of 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 its concluding parts. They are borrowed "with a difference" 
 from his account of" the deeds of arms at St. Ingilbert, otherwise 
 called Sandingfeld, in the justs enterprised by Sir Raynold of Roy, 1 
 the young Sir Boucequant, and the Lord of Saimpi." I have 
 also adopted my names generally from his sonorous Norman and 
 Frank lists. The hawking incident is taken from a fine old story, 
 by what author I do not recollect, called Love s Falconrie an 
 appropriation which the plan of my labours, aiming at no origi 
 nality of story was supposed to warrant. In Geoffrey Tetenoire, 
 Froissart supplies nothing except Geoffrey himself, and the fact 
 that he drove the Countess of Montpensier and Ventadore from 
 her castle of Ventadore. The remaining poems, Orthone, Sir 
 Peter of Beam, and Our Lady s Dog, are written upon the origi 
 nal plan, and as faithful to the text of Froissart as the necessities 
 of verse permitted me to make them. 
 
 The reader may be disposed to undervalue poems professing to 
 be versifications of old stories, on the ground of a want of origi 
 nality. I ask only, in anticipation of this, that he will recollect 
 the fact that, from Chaucer to Dryden, such appropriations of old 
 story were customary with the noblest poets of our English lan 
 guage. Of the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer, the plots, and even 
 most of the incidents, of all except one or two, have been traced 
 by Tyrwhitt and other editors to earlier (chiefly Italian) sources. 
 Even amongst the best poets of a recent day, the practice has been 
 to some extent retained. Until the world thinks the less of the 
 Canterbury Tales, or of the Basil Pot of John Keats, for the fact 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 that they trace to the Filocopo and Decameron, I shall hope to be 
 justified in that plan of my work to which, in three poems out of 
 five, I have adhered, and to which it is my purpose to adhere in 
 some future poems. 
 
 In this connexion I may as well inform the reader that the bal 
 lads now published, which he may find already too numerous con 
 sidering their quality, are only a few of my projected, and, in 
 some cases, roughly-executed Froissart Ballads. The Bridge of 
 Lusac, Mont d Or, The Death of Young Gaston of Foix, Belle- 
 perche, and several others, are still behind. If my book lives at 
 all beyond the present day, I may hereafter add these stories to 
 the present list, and make the collection answer, in bulk, at least, 
 to the somewhat over-loud note of preparation sounded in the 
 Proem. 
 
 P. P. C. 
 
 Millwood, Clarke Co., Va. 
 Nov. 10, 1846. 
 
EMILY: 
 
 A PROEM TO THE FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 " Uprose the sun, and uprose Emily." 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 YOUNG EMILY has temples fair, 
 
 Caressed by locks of dark brown hair. 
 
 A thousand sweet humanities 
 
 Speak wisely from her hazel eyes. 
 
 Her speech is ignorant of command, 
 
 But it can lead you like a hand. 
 
 Her white teeth sparkle when the eclipse, 
 
 Is laughter-moved, of her red lips. 
 
 She moves all grace with gliding limbs, 
 
 As a white-breasted cygnet swims. 
 
 In her sweet childhood, Emily, 
 Was wild with natural gayety, 
 2 
 
14 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 A little creature, full of laughter, 
 Who cast no thought before or after, 
 And knew not custom or its chains. 
 The dappled fawns upon the plains, 
 The birds that filled the morning skies 
 Above her, with their ecstacies 
 Of love and music prodigal 
 Were not more gladly natural. 
 
 But with this childish merriment, 
 Mind, and the ripening years, have blent 
 A thoughtfulness not melancholy 
 Which wins her life away from folly ; 
 Checking somewhat the natural gladness, 
 But saved, by that it checks, from sadness 
 Like clouds, across a May-morn sailing, 
 Which take the golden light they are veiling. 
 She loves her kind, and shuns no duty, 
 Her virtues sanctify her beauty, 
 And all who know her say that she 
 Was born for man s felicity. 
 
PROEM. 1 5 
 
 I know that she was born for mine ; 
 Dearer than any joy of wine, 
 Of pomp, or gold, or man s loud praise, 
 Or purple power, art thou to me 
 Kind cheerer of my clouded ways 
 Young vine upon a rugged tree ! 
 
 Maidens who love are full of hope, 
 And crowds hedge in its golden scope ; 
 Therefore they love green solitudes 
 And silence for their better moods. 
 I know some wilds where tulip trees, 
 Full of the singing toil of bees, 
 Depend their loving branches over 
 Great rocks, which honeysuckles cover 
 In rich and liberal overflow. 
 In the dear time of long ago, 
 When I had wooed young Emily, 
 And she had told her love to me, 
 I often found her in these bowers 
 Quite rapt away in meditation, 
 Or giving earnest contemplation 
 To leaf, or bird, or wild- wood flowers ; 
 
16 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And once I heard the maiden singing, 
 
 Until the very woods were ringing 
 
 Singing an old song to the hours ! 
 
 I well remember that rare song, 
 
 It charged the hours with cruel wrong 
 
 Wrong to the verdure of the boughs 
 
 Wrong to the lustre of fair brows. 
 
 Its music had a wondrous sound, 
 
 And made the greenwood haunted ground. 
 
 But I delay : one jocund morn 
 
 A morn of that blithe time of spring, 
 
 When milky blossoms load the thorn, 
 
 And birds so prate, and soar, and sing, 
 
 That melody is every where, 
 
 On the glad earth and in the air 
 
 On such a morn I went to seek, 
 
 Through our wild haunts, for Emily. 
 
 I found her where a flowering tree 
 
 Gave odours and cool shade. Her cheek 
 
 A little rested on her hand ; 
 
 Her rustic skill had made a band, 
 
 Of fair device, which garlanded 
 
 The beauty of her bending head ; 
 
PROEM. 17 
 
 Some maiden thoughts, most kind and wise, 
 Were dimly burning in her eyes. 
 When I beheld her form and face 
 So lithe, so fair the spirit race, 
 Of whom the better poets dreamed, 
 Came to my thought, and I half deemed 
 My earth-born mistress, pure and good, 
 Was some such lady of the wood 
 As she who worked at spell and snare, 
 With Huon of the dusky hair, ^ - 
 
 And fled, in likeness of a doe, 
 Before the fleet youth Angelo. 
 But these infirm imaginings 
 Flew quite away on instant wings. 
 I called her name. A swift surprise 
 Came whitely to her face, but soon . 
 It fled before some daintier dyes, 
 And, laughing like a brook in June, 
 With sweet accost she welcomed me ; 
 And I sate there with Emily. 
 The gods were very good to bless 
 My life with so much happiness 
 2* 
 
18 FROISSART BALLAD!?. 
 
 The maiden on that lowly seat 
 
 I sitting at her little feet ! 
 
 Two happier lovers never met 
 
 In dear and talk-charmed privacy. 
 
 It was a golden day to me, 
 
 And its great bliss is with me yet, 
 
 Warming, like wine, my inmost heart 
 
 For memories of happy hours 
 
 Are like the cordials pressed from flowers, 
 
 And madden sweetly. 
 
 I impart 
 
 Naught of the love-talk I remember, 
 For May s young pleasures are best hid 
 From the cold prudence of December, 
 Which clips, and chills, all vernal wings ; 
 And love s own sanctities forbid, 
 Now, as of old, such gossippings 
 In hall, of what befalls in bower. 
 But other matters of the hour, 
 Of which it breaks no faith to tell, 
 My homely rhyme shall chronicle. 
 
PROEM. 19 
 
 As silently we sate alone 
 
 Our love-talk spent two mated birds 
 
 Began to prate in loving tone ; 
 
 Quoth Emily, " They sure have words ! 
 
 Didst hear them say My sweet? l My dear ?" 
 
 And as they chirped, we laughed to hear. 
 
 Soon after this a southern wind 
 
 Came sobbing, like a hunted hind, 
 
 Into the quiet of the glen. 
 
 The maiden mused awhile, and then 
 
 Worded her thought right playfully. 
 
 " These winds," she said, " of land and sea, 
 
 My friend, are surely living things 
 
 That come and go on unseen wings. 
 
 The teeming air, and prodigal, 
 
 Which droops its azure over all, 
 
 Is full of immortalities 
 
 That look on us with unseen eyes. 
 
 This sudden wind that hath come here, 
 
 With its low sobs of pain or fear, 
 
20 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 It may be is a spirit kind 
 
 That loves the bruised flowers to bind, 
 
 Whose task it is to shake the dew 
 
 From the sad violet s eye of blue, 
 
 Or chase the honey-making thieves 
 
 From off the rose, and shut its leaves 
 
 Against the cold of April eves. 
 
 Perhaps its dainty, pink-tipt, hands 
 
 Have plied such tasks in far-off lands, 
 
 And now, perchance, some grim foe follows 
 
 The little wight to these green hollows." 
 
 Such gentle words had Emily 
 
 For the south wind in the tulip tree. 
 
 A runnel, hidden by the trees, 
 
 Gave out some natural melodies. 
 
 She said " The brook among the stones 
 
 Is solemn in its undertones : 
 
 How like a hymn ! the singing creature 
 
 Is worshipping the God of Nature." 
 
 But I replied, " My dear not so ; 
 
 Thy solemn eyes, thy brow of snow, 
 
PROEM. 
 
 And, more than these, thy maiden merit, 
 
 Have won Undine, that gentle spirit, 
 
 To sing her songs of love to thee." 
 
 Swift answered merry Emily, 
 
 " Undine is but a girl, you know, 
 
 And would not pine for love of me ; 
 
 She has been peering from the brook 
 
 And glimpsed at you." She said, and shook 
 
 With a rare fit of silvery laughter. 
 
 I was more circumspect thereafter, 
 
 And dealt in homelier talk. A man 
 
 May call a white-browed girl Dian y 
 
 But likes not to be turned upon, 
 
 And nick-named Young Endymion. 
 
 My Emily loved very well, 
 
 At times, those ancient lays which tell 
 
 Rude natural tales ; she had no lore 
 
 Of trouvere or of troubadour, 
 
 Nor knew what difference there might be 
 
 Between the tongues of oc and oui ; 
 
 21 
 
22 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 But hearing old tales, loved them all, 
 If truth but made them natural, 
 In our good talks, we oft went o er 
 The little hoard of my quaint lore, 
 Culled out of old melodious fable. 
 She little cared for Arthur s Table, 
 For tales of doughty Launcelot, 
 Or Tristram, or of him who smote 
 The giant, Angoulafre hight, 
 And moaned for love by day and night ; 
 She little cared for such as these. 
 But if I crossed the Pyrenees, 
 With the great peers of Charlemagne 
 Descending toward the Spanish plain, 
 Her eye would lighten at the strain. 
 And it would moisten with a tear. 
 The sad end of that tale to hear ; 
 How, all aweary, worn, and white, 
 Urging his foaming horse amain, 
 A courier from the south, one night, 
 Reached the great city of the Seine ; 
 
PROEM. 23 
 
 * % 
 
 And how, at that same time and hour, 
 The bride of Roland lay in bower, 
 Wakeful, and quick of ear to win 
 Some rumour of her Paladin 
 And how it came, in sudden cries 
 That shook the earth, and rent the skies ; 
 And how the messenger of fate 
 The courier who rode so late 
 Was dragged on to her palace gate ; 
 And how the lady sate in hall, 
 Moaning, among her damsels all, 
 At the wild tale of Ronceval. 
 That story sounds like solemn truth, 
 And she would hear it with such ruth 
 As sympathetic hearts will pay 
 To moving griefs of yesterday. 
 
 Pity looked lovely in the maiden ; 
 Her eyes were softer when so laden 
 With the bright dew of tears unshed. 
 But I was somewhat envious 
 That other bards should move her thus, 
 And oft within myself had said, 
 
FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 " Yea I will strive to touch her heart 
 With some fair songs of mine own art." 
 And, many days before the day 
 Whereof I speak, I made assay 
 At this bold labour. In the wells 
 Of Froissart s life-like chronicles, 
 I dipped for moving truths of old. 
 A thousand stories, soft and bold, 
 Of stately dames, and gentlemen, 
 Which good Lord Berners, with a pen 
 Pompous in its simplicity, 
 Yet tipt with charming courtesy, 
 Had put in English words, I learned ; 
 And some of these I deftly turned 
 Into the forms of minstrel verse. 
 I know the good tales are the worse 
 But, sooth to say, it seems to me 
 My verse has sense and melody 
 Even that its measure sometimes flows 
 With the brave pomp of that old prose. 
 
 Beneath our trysting tree, that day, 
 With dubious face, I read one lay. 
 
PROEM. 25 
 
 Young Emily quite understood 
 
 My fears, and gave me guerdon good 
 
 In well-timed praise, and cheered me on 
 
 Into full flow of heart and tone. 
 
 And when, in days of pleasant weather, 
 
 Thereafter, we were met together 
 
 As our strong love oft made us meet 
 
 I always took my cosy seat 
 
 Just at the damsel s little feet, 
 
 And read my tales. It was no friend 
 
 To me, that day that heard their end. 
 
 It had become a play of love 
 
 To watch the swift expression rove 
 
 Over the bright sky of her face, 
 
 To steal those upward looks, and trace 
 
 In every change of cheek and eye 
 
 The influence of my poesy. 
 
 I made my verse for Emily : 
 I give it, reader, now to thee. 
 The tales, which I have toiled to tell, 
 Of dame in hall, and knight in selle, 
 3 
 
26 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Of faithful love, and courage high 
 
 Bright flower, strong staff of chivalry 
 
 These tales, indeed, are old of date, 
 
 But why should Time their force abate ? 
 
 Must we look back with vision dull 
 
 On the old brave and beautiful 
 
 All careless of their joy or wo, 
 
 Because they lived so long ago ? 
 
 If sympathy knows but to-day, 
 
 If time quite wears its nerve away 
 
 If deeds majestically bold, 
 
 In words of ancient music told, 
 
 Are only food for studious minds, 
 
 And touch no hearts if man but finds 
 
 An abstract virtue in the faith 
 
 Which clung to truth, and courted death 
 
 If he can lift the dusky pall 
 
 With dainty hand artistical, 
 
 And smile at woes, because some years 
 
 Have swept between them and his tears 
 
 I say, my friend, if this may be, 
 
 Then burn old books ; antiquity 
 
PROEM. 27 
 
 Is no more than a skeleton 
 
 Of painted vein, and polished bone. 
 
 Reader ! the minstrel brotherhood, 
 Earnest to soothe thy listening mood, 
 Were wont to style thee gentle, good, 
 Noble or gracious : they could bow 
 With loyal knee, yet open brow 
 They knew to temper thy decision 
 With graces of a proud submission. 
 That wont is changed. Yet I, a man 
 Of this new land republican, 
 Where insolence wins upward better 
 Than courtesy that old dead letter 
 And toil claims pay, with utterance sharp, 
 Follow the good lords of the harp, 
 And dub thee with each courtly phrase 
 And ask indulgence for my lays. 
 
FROISSAKT BALLADS. 
 
 THE MASTER OF BOLTON 
 
 PART I. 
 
 YOUNG GAWEN, from his castle wall, 
 Has heard the merry mavis call ; 
 But Gawen better loves to hark 
 The warble of the morning lark. 
 That better bird is up to meet 
 The sun, with music proud and sweet. 
 A wonder is the song he sings 
 And like the notes of charmed strings. 
 Just now his lay was all of earth, 
 Of sorrow intertoned with mirth, 
 But now, triumphant in his steven, 
 He mounts him to the ruddy heaven- 
 Making all humbler singers dumb 
 With his divine delirium. 
 3* 
 
30 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Young Gawen views the fallow deer 
 Peopling the wide park far and near. 
 Some browse beneath the dewy shades, 
 Which edge the sunlight of the glades ; 
 And some stare forth with earnest eyes 
 To greet a wandering hart whose cries 
 Break on the wild bird s melodies. 
 
 Kind nature, with a lavish hand, 
 Had poured her beauties on that land ; 
 But Gawen, from his castle wall, 
 Looked moodily upon them all. 
 For he was born of gentle sires, 
 And in his bosom burned their fires, 
 And much it chafed his pride, to be 
 Shut from the pale of his degree, 
 By the base wants of poverty. 
 His sires, the knights of Bolton, were 
 Masters of spreading lands and fair. 
 Their lordly hold is stately still 
 On the green beauty of its hill ; 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 31 
 
 But servitors, with busy din, 
 Break not the desert gloom within. 
 And over walls and portal towers 
 The ivy tod is weaving bowers. 
 
 A hundred steeds once fed in stall : 
 One freckled gray is left of all 
 And he is stiff of joint and lean. 
 Once he was swift, and strong, and keen 
 As ever bore knight in harnasine. 
 White Raoull is his stately name, 
 And from a foreign land he came. 
 The master s sire, by dint of sword, 
 Won the brave steed at Castle Nord 
 From Raoull de Coucy, a Prankish lord. 
 
 Whilst Gawen mused in sombre cheer, 
 A noise of hoofs came on his ear ; 
 And soon a goodly company 
 Over the lea came ambling by 
 A horseman and two ladies gay. 
 Flaunting and brave was their array, 
 And they rode talking by the way. 
 
32 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The master, as the three drew on 
 Soon knew his neighbour stout Sir John, 
 And, in the flaunting ladies twain 
 His daughters Mistress Meg, and Jean. 
 A London knight was sleek Sir John 
 Who, lending gold,"took lands in pawn. 
 The masters of Bolton had sometime made 
 Acquaintance with this knight of trade 
 The dismal end need scarce be said. 
 The Boltons of Bolton have had their day ; 
 Their wide fair lands have passed away. 
 Park, and meadow, and wood and lea 
 As far as the circling hawk can see 
 Sir John hath gotten them in fee. 
 Ah ! Master Gawen brooks it ill, 
 That brave new mansion on the hill ! 
 
 Ruddy Sir John, with jingling rein, 
 Ambled between his daughters twain ; 
 Three spotted spaniels ran before ; 
 Each damsel on her round wrist bore 
 A jessed and hooded sparrowhawk. 
 I say they cheered their way with talk, 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 
 
 And it rose clearly, from the bent, 
 Up to the master, where he leant 
 Over the frowning battlement. 
 
 Quoth Meg, " As proud as he may be, 
 
 The master s hall looks beggarly." 
 
 Quoth stout Sir John, " I prithee, dear, 
 
 Bridle thy tongue the youth may hear." 
 
 But upspake Jean, the gentler maid, 
 
 And, scanning the grim pile, boldly said, 
 
 " Now, by my troth, were I as he, 
 
 A brave man lost in poverty, 
 
 The world a better tale should tell ; 
 
 For I would vault into my selle 
 
 And shake my reins in proud farewell, 
 
 And bear my fortune on my lance 
 
 Over the narrow sea to France. 
 
 And where brave deeds were to be done 
 
 And lordly honours to be won, 
 
 Thither would I all odds to brave. 
 
 Better to win a gallant grave 
 
 Than cower to fortune like a slave." 
 
34 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The master turned him from the wall, 
 
 Nor hearkened farther word. 
 He mused, and said, " I live in thrall, 
 
 But I have freedom heard." 
 And more he said, with kindling eyes, 
 " The burgher s little maid is wise ! 
 Yea, I will take my sword and lance, 
 And ride into the realm of France, 
 And find in arms what meed I can, 
 For I am but a landless man. 
 In France my father won high fame, 
 And honour, to the Bolton name ; 
 And even for his gallant sake, 
 As well as my good way to make, 
 Will I this journey undertake." 
 
 And when the news went up and down 
 
 That Gawen for the field was boune, 
 
 Ten varlets, and a little page, 
 
 Out of good love, and not for wage, 
 
 Gathered to Bolton speedily, 
 
 To ride with him beyond the sea. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 35 
 
 The varlets were stalwart Kentishmen, 
 The page was Philip Hazelden 
 A merry boy, with boyish skill 
 To rob hard fortune of its ill. 
 The boy had been a lady s page, 
 But that chain galled his riper age 
 Such life seemed passing dull and tame, 
 And so the truant fled his dame, 
 And valiantly to Bolton came, 
 In velvet hose, and jerkin trim, 
 And gallant on a palfrey slim 
 Craving, for simple boon, that he 
 The valiant master s page might be. 
 
 Thirty leagues below Calais, 
 
 The Master of Bolton held his way, 
 
 Mounted upon his grim old gray. 
 
 White Raoull snuffed the wind that fanned 
 
 His stately crest he knew that land. 
 
 The pleasant touch of his native ground 
 
 Quickened his hoofs to bold rebound. 
 
 Too proud for capricole or neigh, 
 
 He yet went snorting by the way. 
 
36 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And, comrade from the Kentish shore, 
 A tercel* hawk the master bore : 
 A gallant bird, but now of mood 
 Chafed by the darkness of his hood. 
 
 The master looked with thoughtful eye 
 
 Out on the fields of Picardy. 
 
 It was the time when autumn yields 
 
 Her riches from the browning fields 
 
 What time the vineyard on the hill 
 
 Blushes the purple press to fill ; 
 
 But bare were the lands of Picardy, 
 
 For there had been the Jacquerie, 
 
 With the wild curse of sword and fire. 
 
 The corn lay trampled in the mire, 
 
 The vineyards pale and vine were down, 
 
 And ruin lay on tower and town. 
 
 How sad to see those lovely lands 
 
 Made desolate by native hands ! 
 
 * Tercel or Tercelet, the male falcon. The female was gene 
 rally used in hawking, being larger and of brighter plumage. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 37 
 
 As Gawen rode in stately wise, 
 The sunlight faded in the skies ; 
 But wilder lights began to spread 
 Up to the blue vault overhead 
 The baleful lights of dread Bon Home. 
 So rode he downward from the Somme, 
 With none to check his valiant will. 
 But five leagues south of Abbeville, 
 Climbing a sudden ridge, he heard 
 Sounds terrible, and wild, and weird, 
 Upswelling from the farther plain. 
 He checked his course with instant rein ; 
 And then he said, "Their howls begin : 
 These dread sounds are the mighty din 
 Of Laonois and Beauvosin. 
 The devils are loose ; but let us ride 
 A little up this good hill side." 
 
 They reached the top and thence looked down. 
 Beneath them lay a burning town ; 
 Spreading suburbs, and girdling wall i 
 The raging flames were over all. 
 4 
 
38 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Only by fits the wind broke through 
 
 And bared the town s red heart to view 
 
 Showing the glare of roof and spire, 
 
 Through shifting lanes walled high with fire. 
 
 And strangely muffled by the flame, 
 
 Wailing upon the south wind came, 
 
 With alternating fall and swell, 
 
 The wild alarum of a bell. 
 
 The shades of night were darkling down, 
 
 But that red day still lit the town, 
 
 And shed its lustres, luridly, 
 
 Outward upon the heaving sea 
 
 Of the far crowding Jacquerie. 
 
 The master turned him from the sight, 
 And saw a castle on his right ; 
 Westward, a league away, it stood 
 Rising above an autumn wood. 
 The forest shades lay dark, and deep, 
 At base of grisly tower, and keep, 
 But, Blistering in the upper air, 
 Some turrets caught the ghastly glare. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 39 
 
 The master looked forth earnestly, 
 
 And, " Comrades, we must make, " quoth he, 
 
 " Yon castle strong our hostelrie." 
 
 He stayed no farther word to say, 
 
 But rode upon the westward way. 
 
 Downward he passed at gentle speed, 
 
 And came upon a little mead 
 
 A meadow of the freshest green, 
 
 Its verdure bright with a dewy sheen, 
 
 For there no curse of strife had been 
 
 And crossed the waters of a rill : 
 
 But ere he climbed the opposing hill, 
 
 His way again found check, for he 
 
 Heard in the gloaming suddenly 
 
 The sounding strokes of a courser s feet, 
 
 And then was ware of a horseman fleet 
 
 Coming his slower course to meet. 
 
 He checked his steed, and poised his lance 
 
 Awaiting the horseman s swift advance. 
 
 The coming, so heard, could not be seen, 
 
 For the broad hill that rose between ; 
 
40 FRO1SSART BALLADS. 
 
 But soon the rider drew in sight, 
 And Gawen saw, in the waning light, 
 A lithe young page on a palfrey white. 
 He rode on the way with turning head, 
 And body advanced, as one who fled 
 Ghastly, and white, and all adread ; 
 Nor did he seem the band to see 
 As he came on so desperately. 
 And when as Gawen bade him stand, 
 The rein had well-nigh left his hand. 
 But when he marked the cavalier 
 And the mailed men-at-arms, his fear 
 Gave sudden way to bolder cheer. 
 
 Question abrupt brought quick reply ; 
 The page recounted speedily 
 The story of his eager race. 
 He told the tale with reddening face ; 
 How a right noble company, 
 Lords and ladies of high degree, 
 Riding in strength for Brennesville, 
 Were hard beset beyond the hill 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 41 
 
 The lords of Roos, and Monthelesme, 
 
 And other lords of knightly fame, 
 
 And many a damosell, and dame, 
 
 Lovely ladies of noble name, 
 
 Beset in desperate case, pardie, 
 
 By a wild band of Jacquerie. 
 
 Quoth the young page, " I held aloof, 
 
 Then saved myself by speed of hoof." 
 
 " Craven !" said little Hazelden, 
 
 " The cause of dames should make us men" 
 
 But the bold master checked his say, 
 
 And turned the strange page on his way : 
 
 Saying to all, " Good comrades, ride ! 
 
 For, let all evil chance betide, 
 
 Foul breach it were of honour s laws 
 
 To strike no blow in such a cause." 
 
 With these bold words he took the lead, 
 
 And urged White Raoull to his speed. 
 
 So Gawen, with his following, 
 Drew on to where, in stubborn ring, 
 
 4* 
 
. 
 
 42 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Fencing their dames as best they might, 
 
 The knights of France waged desperate fight. 
 
 He saw not, by the doubtful light, 
 
 How the ring held, but he might mark 
 
 The foe in masses dense and dark 
 
 Beating its iron fence amain. 
 
 Short space the daring youth drew rein ; 
 
 Swiftly he ordered his merry men, 
 
 And placed in the midst young Hazelden, 
 
 (The stranger page had flown agen) ; 
 
 Then signing the cross upon his brow, 
 
 And saying, " St. George ride with me now !" 
 
 He struck the sharp spurs rowel-deep, 
 
 And, with a cry, charged down the steep. 
 
 The dark crowd swayed disorderly 
 Even from the master s battle cry, 
 And ere a lance bore stain of blood, 
 The nearer edge gave back a rood, 
 Confusedly pressing man on man ; 
 But when the deadly work began 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 43 
 
 When full in their midst the swift charge burst, 
 
 When lances ravened with fiery thirst, 
 
 When stroke of sword, and plunge of horse, 
 
 Bore their hardiest down perforce, 
 
 The whole dense mass gave way outright, 
 
 And covered the wold in howling flight. 
 
 Stout Gawen rode on their rear apace 
 
 The Prankish knights joined in the chace ; 
 
 The moon, so ghastly in the air, 
 
 The wide sky s universal glare 
 
 Lighted the rout, and clown on clown 
 
 Beneath the avenging hands went down : 
 
 To say the truth, for many a rood, 
 
 A steam went up from the shedden blood. 
 
 And so that noble Prankish band 
 
 Lords and ladies of the land 
 
 Were won from death and outrage dire, 
 
 By prowess of the wandering squire, 
 
 Young Gawen, and his merry-men bold. 
 
 As I have said, so is it told ; 
 
 In the true chronicle, we read 
 
 That Gawen Bolton did that deed. 
 
44 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And when the bloody chace was done, 
 
 The master praise and honour won 
 
 From knightly tongues and radiant eyes ; 
 
 He answered that his poor emprise 
 
 Had found most bountiful reward 
 
 It was a man s best task to guard 
 
 Dames so gentle from dire mischance. 
 
 But then he said, " My Lords of France, 
 
 In God s name bide not longer here." 
 
 This counsel found right ready ear, 
 
 And the worn troop, without delay, 
 
 Resumed its interrupted way. 
 
 Ten men-at-arms were reft of life : 
 
 A score came wounded from the strife 
 
 With bruise of club, and stab of knife 
 
 But these found life and strength enow, 
 
 To sit their steeds, and ride, I trow ; 
 
 Only the Lord of Reyneval 
 
 Was lorn of strength, among them all, 
 
 To ride beyond those perilous bounds, 
 
 And his worst hurt was not of wounds. 
 
 Time had stricken the ancient lord 
 
 With stroke more sure than stroke of sword. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 45 
 
 But cloaked, from hoary head to spur, 
 
 In fur of stoat, and miniver, 
 
 And propped by grooms upon his horse, 
 
 The old man dared the darksome course. 
 
 Some space beyond the field of blood, 
 
 Rose the fair castle of the wood, 
 
 Whose towers had caught the master s eye ; 
 
 But now the urgent train swept by, 
 
 And, crossing the line of Normandy, 
 
 Reached Brennesville, in weary plight,, 
 
 After the middle watch of night. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 It boots not here, at length to tell, 
 In full terms of the chronicle, 
 How lords and dames, of high degree, 
 Used all fair arts of courtesy, 
 To win the master to their will, 
 And stay his course in Brennesville : 
 How he gainsaid them, and would fain 
 Have journeyed into Aquitaine : 
 
46 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 But how high revels bred delay, 
 
 And held him from his southward way. 
 
 In the true chronicle we learn 
 
 That the great lords made fair return 
 
 For the brave stranger s timely aid 
 
 Such fair return as might be made 
 
 By puissant lords, of fame and worth, 
 
 To a poor squire of gentle birth. 
 
 The bounteous lord of Monthelesme 
 
 Himself of high chivalric fame 
 
 Gave from his stalls a sable steed, 
 
 Renowned for courage, strength, and speed. 
 
 Strong was Inguerrant of body and limb, 
 
 The toils of war were a joy to him ; 
 
 The valleys of Auvergne bred his sire, 
 
 But Besarabia gave him fire, 
 
 For he was born of a Servian dam. 
 
 A thousand florins of the Lamb 
 
 The good Lord Roos gave graciously 
 
 A gift of love and not a fee 
 
 And five full purses, of the ten, 
 
 The master lavished to his men. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 47 
 
 But the old Lord of Reyneval, 
 
 The sooth to say, surpassed them all. 
 
 He gave a suit of knightly mail, 
 
 Tempered to hue of silver pale, 
 
 Inlaid with arabesques of gold, 
 
 And cunning traceries manifold 
 
 All made by a famous artisan 
 
 Edme Paol of fair Milan : 
 
 Adding, with courteous intent, 
 
 Some wealth of peaceful ornament, 
 
 A loop of pearls and turquoise band. 
 
 These gave he by his ward s white hand ; 
 
 His ward, the Countess Jocelind, 
 
 Heiress of stately Rousillon, 
 
 Deigned in her courtesy to bind 
 
 The pearl-loop to his morion, 
 
 And clasped the band upon his throat. 
 
 Her fine fair fingers thrilled, I wot, 
 
 And the bold master said, " It were 
 
 A thing of less than naught to dare 
 
 Perils of earth, and sea, and air, 
 
 For a love touch from hands so white, 
 
 For a love look from eyes so bright." 
 
48 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The gifts, I know, were rare and proud, 
 But the good lords and knights avowed 
 To all who heard their words, that he, 
 By prowess of unbought chivalry, 
 Had rescued them from certain death 
 In harness on that bloody heath, 
 And high-born damosell and dame 
 From tortures of a hellish shame. 
 
 And then it chanced that, day by day, 
 The valiant master made delay, 
 From trial of his southward way ; 
 Shunning all thought of fair Guienne 
 Of his great Prince and countrymen 
 Or, if he might not shun the thought, 
 Saying, " My master needs me not, 
 For there is present truce with France ; 
 If the truce fail, as scarce may chance, 
 Then will I mount my steed agen, 
 And join his banner in Guienne." 
 But, I am bound to say the truth, 
 A lady s eyes enthralled the youth 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 49 
 
 The dark blue eyes of Jocelind. 
 
 The days, like barques before the wind, 
 
 Flew swiftly by ; and as they passed 
 
 The spell grew complicate and fast. 
 
 Sweet skill of undesigned art 
 
 Fettered the strong man, limb and heart. 
 
 Sore wrestled he, and stoutly strove 
 
 For freedom from a desperate love : 
 
 But feeble eld is stronger far 
 
 To wage such shrewd and subtil war 
 
 Than youth, whose very fire and force 
 
 Plunge into toils beyond recourse. 
 
 And so the master tarried still, 
 
 A thrall of love, in Brennesville. 
 
 Meanwhile the Duke of Normandy* 
 
 Upheld his banner, by the sea, 
 
 In leaguer of St. Valery. 
 
 For troubles of intestine war 
 
 Hot feuds of Bourbon and Navarre 
 
 * Dauphin, and Regent of France his father, King John, 
 being prisoner of Edward III. of England. 
 5 
 
50 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Were rife in France, since good King John, 
 
 His ransom merks unpaid, had gone 
 
 Back to captivity, to bear 
 
 Worse than captivity despair 
 
 Uncrowned, but kingly in his truth ! 
 
 His son, of Normandy, a youth 
 
 Of gallant promise, ruled his realm, 
 
 Wearing for crown a soldier s helm, 
 
 And lay, I said, beside the sea, 
 
 In leaguer of St. Valery. 
 
 Proud Monthelesme and Roos rode forth 
 
 To join his standard in the North ; 
 
 But the sick Lord of Reyneval 
 
 Tarried behind in peaceful hall. 
 
 The dames, deserted of their knights, 
 Grew weary of the tame delights 
 Of courtly life, and did decree 
 Divertisements of falconry. 
 And so one autumn morn it chanced 
 That, in fair train, these ladies pranced, 
 On gallant palfreys, from a port, 
 To spend the day abroad in sport. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 51 
 
 Gawen beside the countess went, 
 
 And all sweet cares and service lent. 
 
 The lady heard him, and caressed 
 
 A falcon tercel on her wrist. 
 
 His speech, I say, the lady heard, 
 
 And so, I trow, did the stately bird, 
 
 And shook his hooded head, and screamed 
 
 In recognition glad, it seemed. 
 
 " Sieur Gawen, the bird," said Jocelind, 
 
 "So darkened by the hood, is blind, 
 
 But he is full of joy to hear, 
 
 And know, his former lord so near." 
 
 It was the bird the master bore 
 
 Over sea, from the Kentish shore. 
 
 The bird he had flown in calm and wind 
 
 On Kent s broad wealds in earlier days, 
 
 But now hath given to Jocelind : 
 
 And she the courtesy repays, 
 
 And calls him by the master s name, 
 
 Which, sounded forth in mandate shrill, 
 
 Will ever the falcon s flight reclaim, 
 
 And bend his wild heart to her will. 
 
52 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The haughty bird is willing thrall, 
 And loves the lady s silver call. 
 
 Riding at amble, on a down, 
 
 A league beyond the trodden town, 
 
 Some object came to Gawen s ken, 
 
 And forth he called young Hazelden. 
 
 " Come hither, boy," the master said. 
 
 The page rode up unbonneted 
 
 " Now ride to yonder knoll ; I deem 
 
 I saw, just now, a banner gleam ; 
 
 Use well thine eyes." The page turned rein, 
 
 And rode the distant knoll to gain. 
 
 " A comely page" said Jocelind 
 
 " And like mine own, whose fate unkind 
 
 I grieve. Poor Huon ! since the night, 
 
 When thou didst find this wandering wight" 
 
 " Forget," the modest master said, 
 
 " That peril, and my feeble aid. 
 
 But, noble lady, since the boy 
 
 I trust he met with no annoy 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 53 
 
 Hath scorned the lure, nor comes agen, 
 Take thou fair Philip Hazelden. 
 For his poor master s sake, and thine, 
 The boy, I think, will well incline 
 To serve thee ; at his tender age, 
 The child should be a lady s page 
 Not share the fortunes of my band." 
 The countess placed her gloved hand 
 Softly on Gawen s arm, and smiled ; 
 Then said, " Sieur Gawen, I will take 
 Thy rare and noble gift the child, 
 And guard him for his master s sake. 
 But the boy loves such peril wild 
 Of camps and battle-fields, and he 
 May scorn my silken page to be." 
 
 Ere the good master made reply, 
 All heard a merry signal cry, 
 And a swift heron, from a marsh, 
 Mounted, with sudden scream, and harsh, 
 Beating the air in wild alarm. 
 Then hawks were cast from many an arm ; 
 5* 
 
54 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And it was a gallant sight to see 
 The fleet birds tower so valiantly, 
 Each for the vanguard challenging. 
 But none went forth so swift of wing 
 Mounted so boldly on the wind, 
 As the brave bird of Jocelind. 
 
 With winnow, and soar, he won the height, 
 
 At point above the quarry s flight, 
 
 And balanced in air, and made his stoop ; 
 
 But the swift heron shunned the swoop, 
 
 And, wheeling aside, a moment stayed 
 
 Just over the gazing cavalcade ; 
 
 A wild-eyed, terror-stricken bird, 
 
 The Kentish hawk had canceliered, 
 
 But now drove back upon his prey, 
 
 Ire-whetted for the fresh assay. 
 
 The lady s heart with pity filled 
 
 The quarry s mortal dread to see, 
 
 And, in her gentleness, she willed 
 
 To ward its dire extremity. 
 
 With uplift hands, and eager eyes, 
 
 And cheeks bereft of their rosy dyes 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 55 
 
 " GAWEN, MY GAWEN, COME BACK," she cried. 
 
 The hawk, true vassal, turned aside, 
 
 Doubtful upon his pinions wide, 
 
 Then, like the servant of a charm, 
 
 Sank to his perch on the lady s arm. 
 
 The damsel, in her loveliness, 
 
 Made lovelier by that kind distress, 
 
 Repaid the bold bird s loyalty, 
 
 With gentleness of hand, and eye, 
 
 That silver call, so sweet to hear, 
 
 When will it die on the master s ear ? 
 
 " My Gawen come back !" the truth to say, 
 
 He pondered the words for many a day. 
 
 But he must win from his dream amain, 
 
 His page rides fast to join the train. 
 
 The boy s bright visage augured well 
 Of stirring news, and blithe, to tell. 
 He stopped his course at Gawen s side ; 
 " What have your ousel eyes espied ?" 
 " A gallant host," the boy replied, 
 " A royal army, foot and horse." 
 And Gawen said, " The regent s force 
 
56 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Is drawing from the northern sea, 
 As the news went, for Picardy." 
 
 And soon they mark the vanguard come 
 With trumpet blast, and storm of drum ; 
 And proudly in the midst unrolled, 
 Blazoned with fleurs de Us of gold, 
 The royal standard woos the wind. 
 Pennon, and pennoncelle behind, 
 And crest of high-born cavalier, 
 And sheen of burnished helm, and spear, 
 Along the lengthened lines appear. 
 The son of France rode in the van, 
 With many a stately gentleman 
 Attendant on his presence high ; 
 And when the fair train met his eye, 
 Brief pause he made, but left his post 
 In vanguard of the moving host, 
 And joined the dames, with greeting fair, 
 And a glad port and debonair. 
 Certes a gallant youth was he, 
 And owned chivalric fealty, 
 To the sweet powers of feminie. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 57 
 
 Right pleasant were the words he spake, 
 And many a courtly jest he brake 
 With laughing damosell and dame. 
 And so, returning, slowly came 
 The host, and train, to reach the town. 
 The menzy saw them drawing down, 
 And with loud thunders rent the sky, 
 In welcome of their chivalry. 
 
 In the true chronicle of old, 
 We find the truth right fitly told, 
 That when the Dauphin heard aright 
 Of Gawen s deed, he dubbed him knight ; 
 And that the tale he heard so wrought 
 With his own valorous heart he sought 
 Sir Gawen s service to engage, 
 At cost of lands, and annual wage. 
 To this, Sir Gawen, courteously, 
 Urged back his English fealty, 
 And still affirmed his purpose good 
 With all fair show of gratitude 
 
58 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 To take horse with his Kentishmen, 
 And join the Black Prince in Guienne. 
 
 But whilst Sir Gawen held him still 
 In the proud court of Brennesville, 
 He found a limner great of skill, 
 And bought his art, with golden fee, 
 To paint a scene of falconry. 
 The limner painted Jocelind, 
 And that fleet falcon on the wind. 
 The lady s hands have lost the rein, 
 Which lies upon her jennet s mane, 
 And are uplifted whitherward 
 Her blue eyes fix their full regard ; 
 Some tresses of her flaxen hair 
 Stream forth a little on the air ; 
 There is no colour on her cheek, 
 Her quick lips seem to cry, not speak ; 
 And the bold hawk, with downward eye, 
 Pauses to question of her cry. 
 A shining legend on a scroll 
 Beneath, gave meaning to the whole. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 
 
 59 
 
 " GAWEN, MY GAWEN, COME BACK !" such were 
 The golden words of the legend fair. 
 
 Ere Gawen went on pilgrimage, 
 
 He gave the picture, and his page, 
 
 To the sweet lady of his love. 
 
 And, fair return, her broidered glove 
 
 He wore upon his basnet bright. 
 
 The proudest dame may choose her knight 
 
 Bold champion of her scarf or glove 
 
 Yet deign no tender thought of love. 
 
 So Gawen deemed, and dared not speak 
 
 The passion glowing on his cheek. 
 
 Like a Chaldean to his star, 
 
 He poured his worship from afar. 
 
 It boots not now, in terms, to say 
 How the boy page was loth to stay 
 Behind, from trial of that way. 
 Suffice it, when the knight took rein 
 For the fair realm of Aquitaine, 
 Young Philip rode not with his train. 
 
60 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Nor boots it now in terms to tell 
 What on that course the knight befell ; 
 Or how Black Edward far the while 
 From solace of the happy isle 
 Gave to his coming gladsome cheer, 
 And, of his fatherland to hear, 
 Much used the knight s society. 
 My story s progress may not be 
 Diverted from that single end, 
 Whither its steps, impatient, tend. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Attended by her happy hours, 
 
 The maiden May walks garlanded ; 
 The earth is beautiful with flowers, 
 
 And birds are jocund overhead. 
 Wide valleys, verdant from the showers, 
 
 By fertile cares of April shed, 
 Give promise, to the hungry towers, 
 
 Of summer fruits, and autumn bread. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 61 
 
 Look forth upon the hills, and see 
 
 The dark-green umbrage of the vine ! 
 This year she promises to be 
 
 A liberal mother with her wine. 
 And mark the peasants on the lea, 
 
 Dancing, in joyous intertwine 
 Of swift limbs, to the melody 
 
 Of dull tambour, and viol fine. 
 
 Black Edward, and his isle-born men, 
 Have crowned the brows of peace agen, 
 And given her empery in Guienne ; 
 To such fair land, to such sweet time, 
 Pass with the swift need of my rhyme. 
 
 The lists were closed at Castellon, 
 
 And, in a palace high 
 Builded beside the broad Dordogne, 
 
 That flower of chivalry 
 Black Edward sate, in careless state, 
 
 At banquet with his knights, 
 Discoursing arms, and ladies charms, 
 
 Brave deeds, and soft delights. 
 6 
 
62 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Alone of all in banquet hall, 
 
 Sir Gawen s troubled eyne 
 Denied the power of that high hour, 
 
 Its flow of mirth and wine. 
 " Thou cloud upon our fellowship !" 
 
 Such words his master said, 
 " What care is this upon thy lip 
 
 To scorn the wine so red ?" 
 Then Gawen made this answer true, 
 
 " Ah ! sire, some words of thine 
 Have lent the bitterness of rue 
 
 Unto the ruddy wine. 
 Virgilius sings of one who shot 
 
 An arrow at the sky, 
 And I, with like audacious thought, 
 
 Have aimed my love too high." 
 Bold answer made the Prince, and laughed 
 
 " If she, who quells thy glance, 
 Sits perched too high for flight of shaft, 
 
 Essay her with thy lance. 
 Virgilius was a troubadour 
 
 Of excellent renown ; 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 63 
 
 But, nathless, brave deeds are a lure 
 
 To win a princess down. 
 Take instance from another bard ! 
 
 A squire of low degree, 
 By prowess, won young Ermingarde, 
 
 Princess of Hungary." 
 
 The Prince so answered and confessed 
 The swift wine s power : ungirded vest 
 Bold cheeks empurpled by the dyes 
 Of jocund Bacchus glittering eyes 
 And volant speech gave token free 
 Of the blithe god s supremacy. 
 
 Meantime a warder paced in state, 
 Clanking before the palace gate, 
 And humming, as he paced, a lay 
 Of the good island far away. 
 The notes were sad as sad could be, 
 For the brave warder Willoughby 
 Had looked upon the northern star 
 And thought him of his home afar, 
 
64 FROISSAIIT BALLADS. 
 
 His home by silver Wye s fair side ; 
 
 And softened from his warrior pride 
 
 Of one who might have been his bride, 
 
 But for the wildness of his youth. 
 
 He sang, and sighed and said, " Sweet Ruth ! 
 
 There was a time when thou and I 
 
 Were happy on the banks of Wye ; 
 
 But wayward was my youth and blind 
 
 I broke thy gentle heart and kind. 
 
 Idle the wish, and worse than vain, 
 
 But would that day were back again !" 
 
 And tears bedimmed the warder s sight, 
 
 As he looked far into the night, 
 
 To watch the loadstar s silver light. 
 
 Whilst the stout warder paced in state, 
 
 Wheeling before the palace gate, 
 
 And mused his exile lot aright, 
 
 A horseman shouted from the night. 
 
 The warder bade him errand show, 
 
 And stayed his own proud pace and slow, 
 
 Fitting an arrow to his bow. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 
 
 65 
 
 But the free rider blithely spake 
 
 " Yon red lights show a princely wake : 
 
 Say if the knight of Bolton be 
 
 At banquet with the chivalry." 
 
 " That knight is at the wassail now," 
 
 Said Willoughby, " but who art thou ?" 
 
 Lightly the stranger left his steed 
 
 A noble boy in way worn weed 
 
 And pressed his suit, that he, with speed, 
 
 Might pass the gates for that he bore 
 
 Hot errand to the knight : much more 
 
 His quick speech urged, and Willoughby 
 
 Gave to the stranger entrance free. 
 
 " Master" a voice of slender sound 
 Reached Gawen s ear : he turned him round. 
 The low sweet voice he heard agen. 
 It was fair Philip Hazelden. 
 And now he stands, with beaming eyes, 
 Silent before the knight s surprise. 
 Amidst the flow of wine, it seemed 
 To good Sir Gawen that he dreamed. 
 6* 
 
66 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 But this soon passed, and in his joy 
 
 The knight embraced the gentle boy. 
 
 " Dear child," he said, " show now to me 
 
 Why thou art come from Normandy." 
 
 And Philip gave into his hands, 
 
 A casket small with burnished bands. 
 
 A touch soon drew the bands asunder, 
 
 And then Sir Gawen saw, with wonder, 
 
 The picture, which the limner s skill 
 
 Had whilome made in Brennesville. 
 
 He marks the Lady Jocelind 
 
 Her pity-beaming eyes her hair 
 
 A little streaming on the air : 
 
 He marks the falcon on the wind 
 
 Then letters of that legend fair : 
 
 " GAWEN MY GAWEN COME BACK !" I trow 
 
 The words have flushed Sir Gawen s brow. 
 
 He marks them clearly by the gleam 
 
 Of the brave torches : doth he dream ? 
 
 Doth that proud lady of the land 
 
 Utter to him the sweet command 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 67 
 
 To come again 7 Her messenger 
 Perchance may prove interpreter. 
 He turned him swiftly to the youth. 
 " Dear boy," he said, " say out the truth." 
 And the page said with earnest tone, 
 Which reached Sir Gawen s ear alone, 
 " My lady lies in grievous wo, 
 And, in her sorrow, bids me show 
 To brave Sir Gawen that her fate 
 Will poorly brook his coming late. 
 The dying Lord of Reyneval 
 Is vowed to hold a tourney high, 
 
 Open to all 
 
 True chivalry 
 
 Of England, Alemaigne, and France ; 
 And, guerdon to the winning lance 
 In combat waged at utterance, 
 He firmly saith his ward shall be. 
 For he is in extremity 
 Of feeble age, and France is torn 
 
 By discord dire ; 
 
68 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 He will not leave the damsel lorn, 
 
 And meet her sire 
 
 Beyond the gates of death, which now 
 Ope for him, with a broken vow 
 
 Vile on his soul; 
 And so fair field he will allow 
 
 And free control 
 Of the good laws of chivalry ; 
 And he who doth most valiantly, 
 Shall win the maid, and wide fair lands, 
 And he will gild the nuptial bands 
 With added wealth for love, not hate, 
 Hath urged such course his ward to mate. 
 
 " And the sad lady bids me say, 
 In such fair phrases as I may, 
 That, if she errs not of thy love, 
 And thou wouldst win the hand whose glove 
 Is on thy basnet, thou must haste. 
 Something she said of maiden chaste 
 Constrained by fate such words to speak ; 
 And blushes deepened on her cheek ; 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 69 
 
 She knew not what thyself might deem, 
 
 And feared such course would ill beseem 
 
 A maiden in her purity : 
 
 But her true heart, and destiny, 
 
 Bade her forget observance fine 
 
 And rest her feeble hand in thine." 
 
 A red light streamed from Gawen s eyes, 
 
 His visage burned with sanguine dyes. 
 
 Himself, to hark, he did command, 
 
 But crushed a goblet in his hand. 
 
 And, when the tale was said, the boy 
 
 He seized, and wrought him sore annoy 
 
 With fury of his glad embrace. 
 
 " Now, by our blessed Lady s grace I" 
 
 He cried, " the tale thou tellest, child, 
 
 Hath reft my sense, and made me wild. 
 
 Thou art a herald brighter far 
 
 Than the blithe morning s vaward star, 
 
 And well hast driven my gloom away 
 
 With golden promise of the day." 
 
 " My Prince !" he bowed at Edward s knee 
 
 * My Prince, I crave a boon of thee. 
 
70 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 I read not with my glooming eye 
 The omen of thy counsel high, 
 But now may read ; it well may chance 
 That I, even I, with humble lance, 
 Wreathed by no splendours of renown, 
 Shall win my lofty lady down." 
 
 The board was hushed, and Gawen told 
 
 The truth, with joyous lip and bold, 
 
 To the brave Prince, and knights in hall 
 
 How the good Lord of Reyneval 
 
 Was vowed to hold a tourney high, 
 
 Free to the gentle chivalry 
 
 Of England, Alemaigne, and France ; 
 
 And guerdon to the winning lance, 
 
 In combat waged at utterance, 
 
 Would yield he paused ere more he said, 
 
 And his brow darkened from its red : 
 
 But he spake on " For guerdon good, 
 
 Prize to the stoutest man at arms 
 
 Perchance some soldier, stern and rude 
 
 That lord will yield the maid, whose charms 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 
 
 Are my soul s star. Grant, sire, that I 
 May ride to win that prize, or die." 
 
 The Prince unclasped his ruff s fine band, 
 Then leant his cheek upon his hand, 
 And read Sir Gawen with an eye 
 Wise with the wine s solemnity. 
 " 1 doubt," he said, " if knightly laws 
 Should gild success in such a cause. 
 A bugle horn may fitly be 
 Prize in a game of archerie; 
 A runlet, and a Lincoln gown 
 Guerdon the strife of clown with clown. 
 But, by St. George ! it seems not well 
 That a true-hearted damosell, 
 In modesty of maidenhood, 
 Should bide the fate of jousting rude. 
 When the first Romans won that course 
 In tourney with the Sabine horse, 
 Each knight, for guerdon of his game, 
 Seized to himself a Sabine dame. 
 
 71 
 
72 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 But this, sir knight, the clerks agree, 
 Covered the Roman chivalry 
 With the world s scorn and infamy. 
 I know it is the wont of France 
 To hang such issues on the lance, 
 Also of lands beyond the Rhine 
 That river of the sapient vine ; 
 But nathless, in our better land, 
 We win not so a lady s hand. 
 Seeking the hand, we wile the heart 
 With strategies of manly art. 
 Besides, such wooing of the sword 
 Binds shrewish mate to wretched lord." 
 
 He ceased: Sir Gawen spake more low, 
 And the full truth essayed to show. 
 Black Edward heard him, and replied 
 " If thou may st win a willing bride, 
 Get thee to horse, good knight and tried ; 
 And, certes, of these gentlemen, 
 
 A band will ride, 
 To prove the prowess of Guienne 
 
 By Seine s fair side. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 73 
 
 The friend of Edward should not be 
 
 A needy child of errantry, 
 
 And leave his court, to journey forth 
 
 Like a Scots horseman of the north. 
 
 Strife for the maid of Rousillon 
 
 Sir Gawen s mistress be his own. 
 
 The knights of France none worthier live 
 
 In any land will doubtless give 
 
 To all, such entertainment good 
 
 Of arms, and feats of hardihood, 
 
 As well may stay the sturdiest mood. 
 
 By my own knighthood ! I would fain 
 
 Myself join stout Sir Gawen s train, 
 
 And leave my cares of Aquitaine 
 
 To hark the bugles of the Seine." 
 
 And the brave knights, with blithe accord, 
 
 Welcomed the fair speech of their lord, 
 
 With thunders of the banquet board. 
 
 Felton, La Poule, and Percy bold 
 So is the old true story told 
 7 
 
74 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 With other knights of good renown, 
 By the next midday left the town. 
 Sir Gawen went upon the way, 
 Mounted upon his stately gray. 
 The sable steed, with haughty tread, 
 Came after, by a stout groom led : 
 A charger worthy to uphold 
 A monarch, when his crown of gold 
 Totters upon his royal brows, 
 And he arrays, with muttered vows, 
 The broken remnants of his host 
 From turmoil of a battle lost, 
 To dare, in storm of final strife, 
 Issues of empire, death, and life. 
 
 So journeying earnestly, the band 
 Drew freely to the northern land ; 
 And by the way, brave rumours heard 
 For the wide country side was stirred 
 Of open lists, and knightly sport, 
 In presence of the Regent s court, 
 At the good town of Bar-by-Seine. 
 The earnest horsemen rode amain 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 75 
 
 Their swift desire brooked small delay 
 And soon drew on to Fontenay. 
 There heard they certain news at last 
 That three days of the jousts were past ; 
 That Eustace, Lord of Saimpi, held 
 Possession of the listed field. 
 That lord had done his devoir well ; 
 Himself scarce shaken in his selle, 
 His lance nine knights had overthrown 
 To bide his mighty brunt was none. 
 And, with the news, came doubtful tale 
 Of sorrows of the maiden pale, 
 Young Jocelind of Rousillon, 
 For whose fair hand such course was run. 
 For five days were the jousts decreed, 
 Three days were past, and urgent need 
 Was now to press their way with speed. 
 
 Past Cravant, riding in the land 
 Of fair Champaign, the English band, 
 Worn by the route, made brief delay 
 At a good hostel by the way. 
 
76 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Biding to mend their travel s want, 
 The knights sent on a pursuivant, 
 To Charles, the Regent, to declare 
 Their near approach, and purpose fair. 
 
 The lists were ordered, on a plain, 
 A little north of Bar-by-Seine, 
 And now, what time the band delay 
 At the good hostel by the way, 
 The barriers of the lists are down, 
 And Charles comes riding from the town. 
 Hark to the trumpet s shrill fanfare, 
 And the glad shouts that rend the air ! 
 The sun is at his midday height, 
 But fleecy clouds half veil his light ; 
 And breathing freshly of the main, 
 A far-flown wind sighs up the Seine. 
 So the glad riders all will say 
 Some words in honour of the day, 
 As marshalled onward by the din 
 They pass, in state, the lists to win. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 77 
 
 The Regent on his hackney goes, 
 Crowned with a chaplet of the rose. 
 Such sportive wreath suits better far 
 Than crown of state, or helm of war 
 With the soft beauty of his brow. 
 And all who mark him will avow 
 That fate ne er bound the weightier care 
 Of a realm s rule on locks so fair. 
 And stern men note his girlish bloom, 
 Mating so well with rose and plume, > 
 And, softened from their sternness, say 
 " Now let him win, whenas he may, 
 Pastime in sportive holiday, 
 And his proud ringol put away. 
 Our royal boy is wise with youth, 
 And well eludes the colder truth 
 Cheating his cares, which are his foes, 
 With sweet deceptions of the rose." 
 
 So passing on his hackney stout, 
 Charles led the vanguard of the rout, 
 And reached the lists ; then left his steed, 
 With a right gallant grace, to lead 
 
 7* 
 
78 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The white-browed maid of Rousillon, 
 
 Queen of the tourney, to her throne. 
 
 Pale as a white flower is her cheek 
 
 Pale and without one ruddy streak ; 
 
 Her eyes are sad, but stern and proud 
 
 Sad with a sorrow unavowed 
 
 Stern with a strength of heart unbowed. 
 
 From her sweet lips, of late so bright, 
 
 Gone are the roses of delight. 
 
 The subtil tide which late distained 
 
 Their ripeness, wearying cares have drained, 
 
 And their wan lines are much compressed 
 
 With stern resolve and wild unrest. 
 
 Pray God the damsel s dark-blue eyes 
 
 May sparkle soon in happier wise, 
 
 And cheek and lip win back their dyes. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 Before his tent Lord Saimpi stood, 
 
 And scornfully did say 
 " Small hope is there, by holy rood ! 
 
 Of knightly sport to-day. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 79 
 
 Will none of all take heart of grace 
 
 To meet my swift career 1 
 This countess, sure, is dark of face, 
 
 Or I have bred a fear. 
 Go, page, and bid my bugler sound 
 
 A blast upon his horn." 
 He cast a jeering look around 
 
 He spake the words in scorn. 
 
 Of willing knights, who heard, I trow, 
 
 There was not any want, 
 And many a scowl, and bended brow 
 
 Answered Lord Saimpi s vaunt. 
 Much burned the lusty bachelours 
 
 The boastful knight to tame ; 
 But they were bound by their amours, 
 
 And might not dare the game. 
 Upspake the Regent " Is there none 
 
 The course will undertake, 
 
 k 
 
 And meet this doughty champion 
 For the sweet lady s sake?" 
 
80 FR01SSART BALLADS. 
 
 Even as he spoke, a winded horn 
 Rang out with sudden sound, 
 
 And a stout courier, travel-worn, 
 Entered the listed ground. 
 
 " Now, courier, say whence comest thou 
 
 What errand dost thou bear ?" 
 Answer he made with covered brow, 
 
 Nor deigned he preface fair. 
 Much lacked the wight of courtesy, 
 
 He cast no word away, 
 But, upright in his saddle tree, 
 
 Right stoutly said his say. 
 " Lord Arundel, Sir John Cathore, 
 
 Of England, Sieur Herchaunce 
 Of Rhineland, from the northern shore 
 
 Draw on to break a lance 
 If France so will it in the game 
 
 For a fair lady s hand, 
 Whereof advertisement of fame 
 
 Hath reached the northern land." 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 81 
 
 " Now, Lord of Clary ! speed thee well 
 
 Ride with a gallant train, 
 And greet the good Lord Arundel, 
 
 And greet his comrades twain. 
 Fail nothing of our state, pardie 
 
 Stint nothing of their due ; 
 In honours of a welcome free 
 
 Be thou our vicar true." 
 Even as he spoke, a winded horn 
 
 Rang out with sudden sound : 
 Again a horseman, travel-worn, 
 
 Entered the listed ground. 
 
 " Now, horseman, say whence comest thou 
 
 What errand dost thou bear ?" 
 Answered the wight with reverent brow, 
 
 And after preface fair 
 " My masters, gallant gentlemen 
 
 Of the Duke Edward s court, 
 Have journeyed hither from Guienne 
 
 For share of knightly sport. 
 
FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The knights of Felton, Parthenay, 
 
 La Poule, and Percy tried, 
 Sir Godfrey Hall, Sir Walter Grey, 
 
 Have deigned, for love, to ride 
 Hopeful of enterprise in train 
 
 Of a most worthy knight, 
 Young, but of note in Aquitaine, 
 
 Sir Gawen Bolton hight. 
 The gentle knights now make delay 
 At a near hamlet by the way, 
 And bade me ride thus much to say." 
 
 Quoth Charles, " This purse of ruddy gold 
 Take thou, for fair news fairly told. 
 Felton, La Poule, and Parthenay, 
 Percy, stout Hall, and Walter Grey, 
 Renown hath loudly bruited them ! 
 But Edward hath no goodlier gem, 
 In the bright ring of valour, which 
 Engirds his state with lustre rich, 
 Than Gawen Bolton, trusty knight. 
 We read the gentleman aright 
 
THE MASTER. OF BOLTON. 83 
 
 Some months agone ; good fortune made 
 
 His prowess instrument of aid 
 
 To many here, who now will show 
 
 Their love in grateful overflow. 
 
 Brave Lord of Clisson ! make array, 
 
 And go thou forth upon the way 
 
 With a proud train of gentlemen, 
 
 To meet the worthies of Guienne. 
 
 And bear in mind, right trusty lord 
 
 What Christian lands, with fair accord, 
 
 Avow unquestioned truth to be 
 
 That the sweet virtue courtesy 
 
 Hath chosen our Prankish hearts for bowers, 
 
 Wherein to rear her loveliest flowers." 
 
 I ween the maid of Rousillon 
 Bending, to listen, from her throne 
 Heard, with a flutter of the heart, 
 The messenger his tale impart, 
 Sir Gawen s name wrought like a spell 
 The maiden s dire despair to quell. 
 
84 FROISSAR.T BALLADS. 
 
 To God in heaven, with upward gaze, 
 And aspect beaming with the rays 
 Of a sweet trembling hope, she prays, 
 As one late rescued from despair, 
 And heart-assured of granted prayer. 
 If her fair thought had utterance won 
 Thus would its hopeful speech have run 
 " Sir Gawen s heart is true and bold, 
 And, cased in armour manifold, 
 Of a good cause, can take no harm ; 
 And stalwart is the knight of arm, 
 Sturdy in brunt of man and horse, 
 And skill d to run chivalric course. 
 Love, kind to all who love the right, 
 Dear to high heaven his own proud might, 
 These to my heart, so beating, bear 
 Assurance strong of issue fair." 
 
 And ere the lady s courage fell 
 From the high tone it held so well, 
 The gentlemen of Aquitaine 
 Appeared in distance on the plain. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 85 
 
 The knights had taken respite brief 
 For dalliance wrought Sir Gawen grief 
 And, mounting, came so close behind 
 Their messenger, that as the wind 
 Shifted to meet them, they might hear 
 
 The hoof-strokes of his swift career. 
 
 v 
 
 Under proud escort of a band, 
 The noblest of the Prankish land, 
 The knights of merry England came. 
 Welcome of lord and smile of dame, 
 And flying tongues subdued of tone, 
 As the proud men-at-arms drew on, 
 Greeted their presence graciously. 
 In van of all, great Normandy 
 Expended many a phrase of love, 
 The fulness of his joy to prove. 
 At stately height among the rest, 
 His mistress saw Sir Gawen s crest, 
 And caught the triumph of his eye, 
 And read the silent speech, whereby 
 
86 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 He spake his gallant hope and love. 
 She saw, and read the truth, and strove 
 Dominion of her mood to gain ; 
 But the sweet lady strove in vain. 
 Her utmost art might not repress 
 Tears of a hopeful happiness. 
 Love, in a gentle nature, rears 
 His home beside the fount of tears, 
 And scouts the art which fain would quell 
 The sweet flow of the crystal well. 
 
 The English cavaliers were spent 
 With the way s toil, and Charles, intent 
 To do them pleasure, did adjourn 
 All feats of arms until the morn. 
 But for my lengthened lay, I fain 
 Would say how sped in Bar-by-Seine 
 A night of revel ; how the day 
 Broke timeless in on banquet gay ; 
 How Arundel who reached the town 
 An hour before the sun went down, 
 With John Cathore, and stout Herchaunce,- 
 Surpassed the gayest wits of France, 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 87 
 
 And, solemnly installed high-priest 
 Of the blithe wine-god, ruled the feast 
 Until the lighting of the east. 
 Sir Gawen feasted not that night, 
 But husbanded his force aright. 
 At dawn, ere yet the festive mirth 
 Had found an end, he sallied forth, 
 Saw that his steeds were brave of trim, 
 Healthful of mettle and of limb ; 
 And then, returning, meekly made 
 His orisons for Mary s aid ; 
 And, after, with observance shrewd, 
 His knightly arms and armour viewed, 
 For more to him than death and life 
 Rested on issue of the strife. 
 
 I know not if the earnest knight 
 Passed greeting with his lady bright. 
 But, rumour said, the Kentish page, 
 With sober step, and aspect sage, 
 Did pass, and errand seem to bear 
 Betwixt the knight and lady fair. 
 
88 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Now to fair field ! with mandate loud 
 
 Heralds make order in the crowd, 
 
 And clear free space for man and steed. 
 
 The last day of the five decreed 
 
 Is climbing onward to its noon : 
 
 The knightly sports will ope full soon. 
 
 Where, orderly, the crowd divides, 
 
 Into the lists Sir Gawen rides 
 
 Manful upon his charger black ; 
 
 Percy and Hall ride at his back, 
 
 And the bold three pass slowly round 
 
 The circle of the tourney ground, 
 
 Beneath the eyes of ladies gay, 
 
 Greeting and greeted by the way. 
 
 This done, Sir Gawen did desire 
 
 Stout Thomelyn of Kent, his squire, 
 
 To strike Lord Saimpi s shield in sign 
 
 Of gage accepted. Thomelyn 
 
 Drew to the lord s pavilion, 
 
 Where, glistering bravely in the sun, 
 
 The broad shield hung : and, winning near, 
 
 Smote on its face, with point of spear. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 89 
 
 Lord Saimpi issued forth with speed, 
 And donned his helm, and took his steed. 
 
 Now Gavven Bolton ! fortune yield 
 
 To love, and to the right, 
 The shelter of her magic shield ; 
 
 There is no sturdier knight, 
 In the wide realm of lovely France, 
 
 Or any Christian land, 
 Than Saimpi s lord in war of lance, 
 
 Or battle-axe and brand. 
 But the stout islander, I trow, 
 
 Has not a heart to faint ; 
 In hope, not fear, he made his vow 
 
 To his kind patron saint. 
 Once looked he to the golden sun 
 
 Once to his lady dear 
 Then like a willing champion, 
 
 Took ground for his career. 
 
 At signal of a bugle blast, 
 Sharp and of sudden sound, 
 
90 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The knights set forward, fiery fast, 
 
 And met in middle ground : 
 Met with stern shock of man and horse, 
 
 And din of crashing spears ; 
 But neither champion won the course, 
 
 They parted there like peers. 
 Again again ! and respite none 
 
 Will hot Lord Saimpi yield : 
 Swift he demands with haughty tone 
 
 Renewal of the field. 
 Whereto, Sir Gawen, urged to speak, 
 
 Answers, as haughtily, 
 " By God ! proud knight I nothing seek 
 
 So much as strife with thee." 
 Thus spake he, and his visor closed, 
 
 As to his post he passed. 
 Again the armed men, opposed, 
 
 Await the signal blast. 
 Sudden it came ! with hearts of flame, 
 
 The champions, at the sound, 
 Drove each his steed to furious speed, 
 
 And met in middle ground. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 91 
 
 The Prankish champion struck amain 
 
 Struck with a force so dire 
 On Gawen s helmet, that his brain 
 
 Streamed with a flood of fire. 
 But Gawen smote the knight of France 
 
 Full on his sturdy breast, 
 And, driven perforce, the trusty lance 
 
 Through shield and corslet prest 
 Crashing through steel, the weapon good 
 
 Lord Saimpi s bosom found, 
 Nor broke until the sudden blood 
 
 Gushed darkly from the wound. 
 Manful against the lance s force 
 
 Lord Saimpi bore him well, 
 And passed Sir Gawen in the course, 
 
 All upright in his selle : 
 But, with the gallop of his horse, 
 
 He reeled and swayed and fell. 
 
 " Now yield thee, Lord of Saimpi, yield !" 
 
 No word Lord Saimpi said ; 
 The fount of haughty speech was sealed, 
 
 Lord Saimpi s life was sped 
 
FR01SSART BALLADS. 
 
 Sped gallantly : and on his shield, 
 
 Distained so bloody red, 
 His servants bore him from the field, 
 
 At slow and solemn tread. 
 
 With the lord s death, a hush of awe 
 
 Fell down on tongue and heart, 
 And you might mark the nobles draw 
 
 In sombre groups apart. 
 Few were who loved the haughty lord, 
 And vauntful port and jeering word 
 
 Prefaced the stroke of doom ; 
 But none reck now of these the proud 
 Beauty, and valour, of the crowd, 
 
 One aspect wear of gloom. 
 Said gentle Charles, " A woful end ! 
 May Jesu s potent love befriend 
 The brave Lord Saimpi in his want. 
 
 A rude audacity defaced 
 Audacity and sins of vaunt 
 
 His prowess, but the knight was graced 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 
 
 With gallant virtues. Better lance 
 Despite that taint of arrogance 
 Or stouter heart, was not in France. 
 Sir Gawen Bolton all will say 
 Hath borne him gallantly to-day, 
 And we, as right is, willingly, 
 Perforce of our fair powers, decree 
 That Saimpi dead this champion bold, 
 And proved of valiant worth, shall hold 
 Possession of the knightly ring, 
 All armed comers challenging. 
 All rights of field by Saimpi won, 
 Transferred by Saimpi, now undone, 
 Rest with his victor. Cheerfully, 
 So much of course we now decree. 
 And, gallants ! hearken what we say 
 Who holds this field at set of day 
 Will bear the game s fair prize away." 
 
 Into the lists Lord Arundel 
 A gay, glad knight, known passing well 
 In courts of kings, and famed for skill 
 To vanquish woman to his will, 
 
 93 
 
94 FROISfcART BALLADS. 
 
 And trained in all accomplishments 
 Of dance, and song, and martial fence, 
 And master too of dexterous art * 
 With the sweet harp to reach the heart 
 This worthy gentleman, I say, 
 Entered the lists with bearing gay, 
 And said : " For the fair lady s sake, 
 I humbly crave a spear to break, 
 When the good knight of Bolton s force 
 Is mended from his double course." 
 Whereto Sir Gawen answer made, 
 Gallant and fair, and nothing stayed, 
 But, with high heart of hopeful cheer, 
 And proud glance to his lady dear, 
 Took post again, and couched his spear. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 At signal of a bugle blast, 
 Sharp and of sudden sound, 
 
 The knights set forward, fiery fast, 
 And met in middle ground. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 95 
 
 Lord Arundel struck Gawen s shield, 
 
 And broke his spear in three 
 Struck with such force that Gawen reeled 
 
 Wild in his saddle-tree. 
 But Gawen smote Lord Arundel 
 
 Full on his helmet s front, 
 And bowed him to his horse s tail, 
 
 So mighty was the brunt. 
 And when the lord firm posture won, 
 
 And from the shock upreared 
 His comely brow his helm was gone, 
 
 And bloody was his beard. 
 " Small thanks, Sir Gawen, for thy stroke" 
 
 Right merrily said the Lord 
 " And, ere a second I provoke, 
 
 I crave one gentle word 
 Of the fair Lady Jocelind, 
 
 For whose white hand we ride. 
 I care not with a doubting mind 
 
 This battle to abide." 
 
 Then passing, frank of courtesy, 
 He came before the maid, 
 
96 
 
 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And, gallantly, from bended knee, 
 
 In pleasant accents said, 
 " Sweet majesty ! an humble knight, 
 
 Led on by brave report 
 Of splendours of thy beauty bright, 
 
 I sought this Prankish court. 
 The real beauty, whereof fame 
 
 So spake, outshines as far 
 Her best report, as Dian s flame 
 
 Outshines a twinkling star. 
 Now speak a frank fair truth, and say, 
 
 If playing well my part, 
 I win success, wilt thou repay 
 
 My toil with willing heart ?" 
 
 " Sir knight," said Jocelind, " thy words 
 
 Are gently toned, but ill. 
 The prouder strength of man accords 
 
 Naught to a maiden s will. 
 But, for frank answer, elsewhere seek ; 
 
 Thy skill of lance and lute 
 May surely win a brighter cheek, 
 
 To redden to thy suit." 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 97 
 
 Uprose the lord : " Then will I ride 
 
 No more to-day," quoth he, 
 " Lord Saimpi s fate unwilling bride, 
 
 Neither seems good to me." 
 And so the gentleman passed forth, 
 
 And put his helm away, 
 And better pastime found in mirth, 
 
 And converse light and gay. 
 Meantime, this controversy done, 
 
 Sir Gawen, nothing loth, 
 Passed to a fair pavilion 
 
 Of silk and samite cloth ; 
 And doffed his casque, and rested there, 
 
 Whereof was earnest need, 
 Whilst his swift grooms, with willing care, 
 
 Recruited well his steed. 
 
 Now who is he, so haught of head, 
 
 Who enters on the field 
 Curbs his white steed to stately tread, 
 
 And smites Sir Gawen s shield? 
 9 
 
98 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 All marked the giant, as he passed 
 
 At slow and stern advance, 
 All marked his charger strong and vast 
 
 All knew the knight Herchaunce. 
 The growing hope of Jocelind 
 
 Before his coming bends, 
 And, like a taper in the wind, 
 
 For feeble life contends. 
 How may her chosen knight endure 
 
 The more than human force 
 Of such a foe how hold before 
 
 Such giant man and horse ? 
 With beating heart, fixed eye, and cheek 
 
 As very marble pale 
 She sits, too wild of thought to seek 
 
 Concealment of her veil. 
 But from his tent, Sir Gawen steps 
 
 With gallant countenance, 
 And cheerfully to saddle leaps, 
 
 And grasps his trusty lance. 
 At signal of a bugle blast, 
 
 Sharp and of sudden sound, 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 99 
 
 The knights set forward, fiery fast, 
 
 And met in middle ground. 
 Herchaunce, who ran the course as he 
 
 His foe would overwhelm, 
 At meeting did unskilfully, 
 
 And missed Sir Gawen s helm. 
 Sir Gawen struck the Rhenish knight, 
 
 A stroke of truest force, 
 And bore him from his seat, outright, 
 
 And hurled him from his horse. 
 Sir Gawen sprang from saddle-tree, 
 
 And drew his dagger bright ; 
 " Now yield, Sir Knight, or die," quoth he. 
 
 " I yield me," said the knight. 
 
 What time this goodly end befell, 
 
 A wondrous scene and rare 
 So read we in the chronicle 
 
 Was clearly witnessed there. 
 From mastery of his rider freed, 
 
 Tnguerrant onset made 
 Against Herchaunce s Rhenish steed, 
 
 Who met him naught afraid. 
 
100 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 With clamping teeth, and nostrils wide, 
 
 And crests right proud to see, 
 Rearing, and striking, in their pride, 
 
 The steeds fought wrathfully. 
 Their yellow mail their glossy skins 
 
 Sable and snowy white, 
 Gleamed grandly, as the Paladins 
 
 So waged their wondrous fight. 
 Before the crowding grooms might staunch 
 
 The fury of their feud, 
 Both steeds, from quivering crest to haunch, 
 
 I ween, were crimson-hued. 
 The Black, sore wounded, may not bear 
 
 His master more to-day ; 
 And Gawen bids his grooms prepare, 
 
 And bard, his English gray. 
 
 The long day wanes short time remains 
 
 Ere falling of the night 
 Sir Gawen bold, if fortune hold, 
 
 Will win his lady bright. 
 One champion more Sir John Cathore 
 
 The combat will assay : 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 101 
 
 If evil chance weigh on his lance, 
 
 Sir Gawen wins the day. 
 Of gentle birth, this John Cathore 
 
 Was but a chevalier 
 Who sought his wage on every shore, 
 
 And won gold with his spear. 
 The knight had lost his dexter eye, 
 
 By flight of shaft, or dart, 
 In the King s train of Hungary, 
 
 At hunting of the hart. 
 Past middle life gray-haired of face 
 
 Swart from an orient sun 
 Was never wight so lacked of grace 
 
 As this stout champion. 
 Now signal of accepted gage 
 
 He strikes with ready lance 
 Sir Gawen s shield, intent to wage 
 
 Combat at utterance. 
 
 At signal of a bugle blast, 
 Sharp and of sudden sound, 
 9* 
 
102 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 The knights set forward, fiery fast. 
 
 And met in middle ground. 
 Sir Gawen struck Sir John Cathore 
 
 And bore his helm away 
 But stout Sir John so rudely bore, 
 
 That down went Gawen s gray : 
 Down went he wildly overthrown 
 
 Before the stroke of force 
 Down went he with a horrent groan, 
 
 That grim and ancient horse. 
 His lady s cry reached Gawen s ear, 
 
 Above the sounding strife : 
 That piercing cry, so wild to hear, 
 
 Has nerved him into life. 
 From saddle-tree leapt John Cathore, 
 
 But ere he touched the sand, 
 Sir Gawen stood the knight before, 
 
 His good sword in his hand. 
 Now foot to foot, and hand to hand, 
 
 The champions will contend : 
 By dint of honest blow of brand, 
 
 The best will win his end. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 
 
 But first Sir Gawen doffed, and threw 
 
 His knightly helm away 
 Still to his fame, and honour, true, 
 
 However fare the day. 
 At vantage it were base to fight, 
 
 And helmless is Sir John ; 
 But now the knights in equal plight 
 
 To battle dire press on. 
 
 Sir John smote first, but with a bound 
 
 Sir Gawen shunned the blow, 
 And giving ground, and taking ground, 
 
 About the lists they go. 
 On young Sir Gawen s flowing hair, 
 
 And bright and manly brow 
 On John Cathore s gray pow, half bare, 
 
 The level sun shines now. 
 Sir Gawen saw the flight so fast 
 
 All of the golden sun, 
 And lowly said, " This trial past, 
 
 And more than life is won." 
 
 103 
 
104 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 His heart of valour seized the thought, 
 
 Enflamed anew thereby, 
 And the bold youth his battle fought, 
 
 Intent to win or die. 
 
 With blows, and thrusts, that seek a door 
 
 At every rivet fine, 
 They fight until Sir John Cathore 
 
 Bleeds like a cask of Rhine. 
 Griesly and grim have waxed his looks, 
 
 Right hotly mounts his ire, 
 Rebuke of steel he badly brooks 
 
 His one eye glows like fire. 
 
 Be wary, Gawen mind thy life ! 
 
 Sir John comes stormily. 
 " Close stroke of sword shall end this strife"- 
 
 In stormy tone quoth he. 
 Down fell his blows like iron hail, 
 
 With clangour loud and dread ; 
 They struck the fire from Gawen s mail,. 
 
 They gleamed about his head. 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 
 
 With bound, and ward, and ready guard, 
 
 Sir Gawen held his own, 
 While to and fro all saw them go 
 
 Sir Gawen and Sir John. 
 But now, forsooth, the sturdy youth, 
 
 Sir Gawen, onset makes ; 
 With brand or spear, the truth is clear, 
 
 He gives as well as takes. 
 From first sweep of Sir Gawen s blade 
 
 Sir John his safety found 
 The next blow that Sir Gawen made, 
 
 Down went he to the ground : 
 Down went Sir John with cloven brow, 
 
 And nevermore to rise. 
 And Gawen Bolton, victor now, 
 
 Is winner of the prize ! 
 Peace to the soul of John Cathore : 
 
 A bolder cavalier, 
 Or better captain, never bore 
 
 His fortune on his spear. 
 
 With John Cathore cast down, and slain, 
 Ended the jousts of Bar-by-Seine. 
 
 105 
 
106 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And Charles, the regent, now will say 
 Who bears the lovely prize away. 
 Fronting the sunset s purple pride, 
 And hill tops with the glory dyed, 
 Charles watches, from his steed, to see 
 The burning disk sink utterly. 
 With the last flicker of its beams, 
 Dying amongst surrounding gleams, 
 He dropped his baton from his hand, 
 And forth bade good Sir Gawen stand. 
 " Brave knight," he said, " we do decree 
 All honours of this day to thee 
 A chaplet for thy gallant head, 
 A countess for thy marriage bed. 
 This say we now hereafter more. 
 Thy brows and manlier never wore 
 Love s garland, won in front of death 
 Will now receive the victor s wreath. 
 Haply and, by our faith, we guess 
 So much the lady s great distress, 
 Whereof the recent show made all 
 Condemn the good Lord Reyneval, 
 
THE MASTER OF BOLTON. 107 
 
 Will yield, in somewhat, when she finds 
 How frank and bold a brow she binds. 
 We know not of that shrewd surmise 
 Which speaks thy favour in her eyes ; 
 But sure the countess, soon or late, 
 Will find contentment in her fate, 
 Nor rue this wooing of the sword 
 If gallant heart makes loving lord." 
 
 Sir Gawen, at his lady s feet, 
 Bends, harking to her words so sweet 
 Some words of course, and which alone 
 Take meaning from their trembling tone. 
 But now her little hand, so fair, 
 Touches his brow, and lingers there. 
 Place, and that presence, speak him nay, 
 But Gawen wins the hand away, 
 And seals it to his lips, the while 
 The countess chides him with a smile. 
 
 The formal truth is clearly told 
 In the good chronicle of old, 
 
108 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 How nuptial rites, and feasts, attended 
 By pomp and ceremony splendid, 
 Followed the jousts ; how by decree 
 Watchful in points of fealty, 
 Sir Gawen, with his lady s hand, 
 Gained stately castles, gold and land ; 
 And, with the rest, in fair requital 
 Of worthy deeds, a lordly title. 
 Such was his meed ; and never one 
 Of the great counts of Rousillon 
 Such honour to his honours gave 
 As Gawen gentle, truthful, brave, 
 Since the proud founder of their line, 
 With bands Franconian, crossed the Rhine. 
 
GEOFFREY TETENOIRE. 
 
 THE Lady Jane, with urgent train, 
 
 Comes trooping into Paris : 
 Her milk-white mule seems very proud 
 
 Beneath the load he carries 
 And, reason good, for fairer dame, 
 
 Than lovely Lady Jane, 
 Is not between the Norman lands 
 
 And mountain line of Spain. 
 
 The Lady Jane of Ventadore 
 
 Is irritant of mood, 
 The dame is but a fugitive 
 
 Before a robber rude ; 
 Tetenoire, the Free Companion, 
 
 Is master of her lands, 
 10 
 
110 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And castle strong, by hardy wrong, 
 And holds them with his bands. 
 
 Thus is it that the Lady Jane 
 
 Comes trooping into Paris 
 Reining the little mule, so proud 
 
 Beneath the load he carries. 
 Here may she be at liberty, 
 
 And wisely meditate, 
 The wrong which she has undergone 
 
 In pride, and in estate. 
 
 The countess came at June s sweet end, 
 
 And, on an autumn day, 
 The County Gaston sought her side, 
 
 His suit of love to pay : 
 " For thy dear love, all price above, 
 
 And for thy hand so fair, 
 If win I may, sweet lady, say, 
 
 What service shall I dare ?" 
 
 The yielding dame made answer then : 
 "The whisper of a lute, 
 
GEOFFREY TETENOIRE. Ill 
 
 Were not so dear a sound to hear, 
 
 As this thy gentle suit. 
 But, like the dame who bade her lord 
 
 Leap down, and win her glove 
 From forth a lion s jaws, I bind 
 
 A service to thy love. 
 
 Five years I dwelt, a widow lorn, 
 
 In Castle Ventadore ; 
 Tetenoire the Breton drove me forth, 
 
 And wronged me much and sore ; 
 If thou wilt slay the robber vile, 
 
 And bring his head to me, 
 I freely vow, Sir Count, that thou, 
 
 Shalt have my hand for fee." 
 
 * * # # 
 
 It was the County Gaston 
 
 Drew on to Ventadore, 
 His men-at-arms behind him, 
 
 His trumpeters before ; 
 And by his side did proudly ride 
 
 Sir Anthony Bonlance, 
 
112 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 A sweet Parisian gentleman 
 
 Of dainty countenance. 
 Between St. Flour and Ventadore, 
 
 Fair in a forest glade, 
 The county rides, at stately pace, 
 
 Before his cavalcade. 
 The autumn leaves, the count perceives, 
 
 Have caught a beauty rare, 
 As if the rays of lovely days 
 
 Had been entangled there. 
 
 And the near hills are ringing 
 
 With merry songs and sweet 
 The birds are piping merrily 
 
 The early day to greet : 
 The early day, for on their way 
 
 As forth the riders pass, 
 The sparkling dews, which night renews, 
 
 Are bright on tree and grass. 
 
 Some gentle praise of nature 
 The gallant count was saying, 
 
GEOFFREY TETENOIRE. 113 
 
 When he was ware of horsemen near 
 
 He heard their chargers neighing. 
 And then he spurred his good steed up 
 
 A near acclivity, 
 From whose broad top a loving eye 
 
 A lovely land might see. 
 
 But not upon the beauty rare 
 
 Of that most lovely land, 
 The county gazed beyond the hill 
 
 He saw an armed band : 
 A band, I ween, fair to be seen, 
 
 Of mail-clad cavaliers, 
 Holding their way, in close array, 
 
 With sunlit helms and spears. 
 
 Lord Gaston s hand waved brief command, 
 
 And straight an Auvergne guide 
 Obeyed his signal, from the troop, 
 
 And galloped to his side. 
 " Now who be they on yonder way ] 
 
 Look freely and declare." 
 10* 
 
114 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Whereto the guide in haste replied, 
 " The man you seek is there. 
 
 " For mark you not the litter borne 
 
 Amidst the armed band ? 
 They call it Geoffrey s battle-horse 
 
 In all this southern land. 
 The robber bold is waxing old, 
 
 And therefore travels so." 
 Then said the lord, " By my good sword ! 
 
 I joy so much to know." 
 
 And now he wheels his champing steed, 
 
 And hurries from the height, 
 And joins his willing men-at-arms, 
 
 And orders them aright. 
 " The enemy rides here," quoth he, 
 
 " Beneath us on the plain, 
 In bold array, athwart our way, 
 
 His castle hold to gain." 
 
 Tetenoire was wending on his route, 
 So in his litter borne, 
 
GEOFFREY TETENOIRE. 115 
 
 When, from the wooded height above, 
 
 Rang out a bugle horn. 
 And with the sound, shaking the ground, 
 
 Rushed down the charging horse 
 With level spears, the cavaliers 
 
 Came thundering on their course. 
 
 Grim Geoffrey raised his head and gazed, 
 
 Expectant of the shock, 
 And laughed to see its fury break 
 
 Like sea-foam on a rock. 
 " These lords," quoth he, right scornfully, 
 
 " Misjudge me overmuch, 
 They pounce as if my eagle brood 
 
 Were quarries for their clutch." 
 
 And then his dark, keen eye did mark 
 
 Lord Gaston s haughty crest, 
 Where, chafed and baffled, to and fro 
 
 He rode amongst the rest. 
 Intent the gallant county seemed 
 
 To rally back his host, 
 
116 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Like one whose courage would regain 
 Some rose of honour lost. 
 
 " Give me a cross-bow in my hand, 
 
 And place a bolt therein" 
 Grim Geoffrey said " and bend the bow, 
 
 And let the bolt be keen." 
 And then he scanned the county s band, 
 
 And bade his own hold place 
 A perilous smile was fierce the while 
 
 Upon his ancient face. 
 
 As leant he on his litter s side, 
 
 An old and feeble man, 
 With raven locks so wonderful 
 
 Above his visage wan, 
 And peered with keen and ferret eyes 
 
 So subtil in their guile 
 You would have said a common wrath 
 
 Was kinder than his smile. 
 
 He raised the cross-bow to his aim, 
 And then with sudden twang, 
 
GEOFFREY TETENOIRE. 1 1 7 
 
 The bolt flew forth, and angrily 
 
 Upon its journey sang. 
 The sharp bolt flew so swift, and true, 
 
 That, ere a man might speak, 
 It smote the County Gaston 
 
 Betwixt the eye and cheek. 
 
 Ah, ill betide the bowyer s craft, 
 
 That shaped that bolt so true ! 
 And ill betide the heart of pride, 
 
 From whose fierce will it flew ! 
 The county tottered on his horse, 
 
 His brain span round and round, 
 And then he lost his rein, and fell 
 
 A dead man to the ground. 
 
 Sir Anthony scarce stayed to see 
 
 The County Gaston slain, 
 But turned to face the homeward hill, 
 
 And urged his horse amain. 
 Now, by my troth, Sir Anthony 
 
 Will surely win the race! 
 
118 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 His knighthood claims, and holds, the van 
 Behind him bursts the chace. 
 
 Old Geoffrey in his litter lies, 
 
 And marks his armed men 
 Come trooping back, in scattered groups, 
 
 To win his side agen. 
 " Now who be these our enemies 
 
 Who dare abroad to ride, 
 For foolish enterprise of arms, 
 
 In this our country-side ?" 
 
 In answer to his master s quest, 
 
 A griesly wight and strong 
 Came leading, through the merry crowd, 
 
 A captive, by a thong. 
 Lashed like a hound his fine arms bound 
 
 Came pale Sir Anthony. 
 The hapless plight of that fine knight 
 
 Was very sad to see. 
 
 " This gentleman" his captor said 
 " Was riding with the rest, 
 
GEOFFREY TETENOIRE. 119 
 
 And, yea indeed ! he led the race 
 
 His charger was the best. 
 But as he rode so terribly 
 
 Upon his dapple gray, 
 The good beast stumbled at a ditch, 
 
 And left him by the way." 
 
 Sir Anthony is tremulous, 
 
 For he is troubled sore : 
 Right awful are the icy looks, 
 
 Of him of Ventadore. 
 Quoth Geoffrey, " Speak the truth, and show 
 
 What errand brought you here." 
 And, quakingly, Sir Anthony 
 
 Made all the truth appear. 
 
 " Who seeks my head had well beware," 
 
 The Breton sternly said, 
 "Lest, groping in the lion s den, 
 
 He lose his own instead." 
 Then, lowering darkly on the knight, 
 
 He deigned to say no more, 
 
120 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 But bade his trumpets lead the way 
 
 En route for Ventadore. 
 * * * * 
 
 In a proud hall Parisian, 
 
 With jewels quite a-blaze, 
 The Countess Jane was leading down 
 
 The stately Polonaise, 
 When, like a discord, in the midst 
 
 Of music proud, and dance, 
 In way-worn plight, stalked in the knight 
 
 Sir Anthony Bonlance. 
 
 His beard defiled, his locks so wild, 
 
 His garb in disarray 
 Ah ! can it be Sir Anthony, 
 
 Who went so proud away 1 
 A servitor behind him glides, 
 
 And bears, as all may see, 
 A little casket, richly wrought 
 
 Of gold and ebony. 
 
 " I bought my freedom at a price," 
 So said the haggard knight> 
 
% 
 
 GEOFFREY TETENOIRE. 
 
 " Dearer than gold in red merks told 
 
 And I must pay aright 
 That ransom now, or break a vow 
 
 Wherewith my soul is bound." 
 His sad, dark mien, and words, I ween, 
 
 Have hushed the music s sound. 
 
 He came before the Countess Jane 
 
 Forlorn Sir Anthony ! 
 And muttered, " I am sworn to bear 
 
 This casket unto thee." 
 So said the haggard knight, and placed 
 
 The casket in her hands ; 
 And she, in marvel at his words, 
 
 Unclasped the golden bands. 
 
 Ah ! God and all good saints support 
 
 The stricken Lady Jane ! 
 Within is County Gaston s head 
 
 A bow-bolt in the brain ! 
 She lost the casket from her hands 
 
 Out rolled the gory head 
 11 
 
122 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And Lady Jane, with wandering arms, 
 Fell down as fall the dead. 
 
 A convent crowns a gentle hill 
 
 Above the bounding Rhone, 
 And to its shades, for health of soul, 
 
 The Countess Jane is gone : 
 A sister of that holy house, 
 
 Her griefs of earth are dead 
 But, in her dreams, the sister sees 
 
 A casket and a head. 
 
[!N the three following poems, Froissart, from whom I have faith- 
 fully taken them, is made to address the reader directly. They are 
 put into this shape to retain the pleasant pedantry about Acteon in 
 the conclusion of Sir Peter of Beam, and also the general naive cre 
 dulity of the good knight and his gossips, which makes a principal 
 part of the charm of the prose chapters. 
 
 The reader may censure these poems, dealing in a low and 
 homely order of the marvellous, as trivial in subject, and no fulfil 
 ment of the promise involved in the undertaking to versify portions 
 of a history abounding in narratives of heroic and chivalric action. 
 If he can find no good artistical reason for my grouping such ballads 
 as a relief to the Master of Bolton and Geoffrey Tetenoire poems 
 full of martial narrative he will please recollect (what my preface 
 declares) that Orthone, Sir Peter of Beam, and Our Lady s Dog, 
 are but three out of many ballads, upon various subjects, already 
 roughly written : and that they are by no means designed to be 
 considered, in themselves, a fulfilment of the promise of my title 
 page. 
 
 Gaston, Earl of Foix, at whose magnificent court Sir John 
 learned these stories, seems to have been a great favourite with him. 
 His account of the earl s appearance and mode of living is readable 
 enough for quotation. 
 
 " Sir Espange de Lion went to the castle to the earl, after sunset, 
 and found him in his gallery, for he had but recently dined ; for the 
 earl s custom was to rise at noon and sup at midnight : the knight 
 informed him of my arrival, and I was immediately sent for to my 
 
124 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 lodging at the Moon. When the earl saw me, he made me good 
 cheer. * * * The acquaintance between me and the earl was be 
 cause I had brought with me a book, which I had formed at the 
 suggestion of Winceslaus of Bohemia, Duke of Luxembourg and 
 Brabant, which book was called the Meliader, containing all the 
 songs, ballads, rondeaus, and virelays, which the worthy duke had 
 made in his time ; and this book the earl was glad to see, and often 
 I read therein to him, and while I read there was none durst speak 
 a word. * * * This Earl Gaston of Foix was then fifty-nine years of 
 age : and though I have seen many knights, kings, princes, and 
 others, I never saw any of so fine a figure ; his visage fair, sanguine, 
 and smiling, his eyes gray and amorous, where he chose to set 
 his regard : in every thing he was so perfect, that he cannot be 
 praised too much: he loved what ought to be beloved, and hated 
 what ought to be hated. He said many orisons daily ; a nocturn 
 of the psalter, matins of our Lady, of the Holy Ghost, and of the 
 cross, and dirge every day : he gave five florins in small sums at 
 his gate to poor folks for the love of God ; he was generous and 
 courteous in gifts ; he loved hounds of all beasts ; winter and 
 summer he loved hunting. * * * He kept coffers in his chamber 
 out of which he would often take money to give to lords, knights, 
 and squires, for none ever left him without some present. * * * He 
 would converse familiarly with all men ; he was short in counsel 
 and answers : he had four secretaries, ever ready at his rising 
 without being called. At midnight when he came out of his 
 chamber into the hall to supper, he had ever before him twelve 
 torches burning, borne by twelve varlets. * * * The hall was ever 
 full of knights and squires, and many other tables were prepared 
 for any to sup who pleased ; none spoke to him at his table unless 
 he were called: his meat was usually wild fowls, the legs and 
 wings only ; * * * he would have songs sung before him ; he was 
 

 FROISSART BALLADS. 125 
 
 pleased at seeing humorous tricks performed at his table, and 
 when he had seen them he would send them to the other tables. 
 Before I came to his court I had been at the courts of many kings, 
 princes, dukes, earls, and great ladies, but never in any that 
 pleased me so much : and there were none who took more delight 
 in deeds of arms than the earl did : there were seen in his hall, 
 chamber, and court, knights and squires of honour going up and 
 down, and talking of arms and amours: all honour was found 
 there, and tidings from every realm and country might be heard 
 there ; for out of every country there was resort on account of 
 the valour of the earl. In this manner the Earl of Foix lived." 
 
 At Ortaise, enjoying the favour of this great earl, Froissart 
 meets with the Bastot Maulion, and Ernalton of Pine, who are 
 very willing to gossip with so distinguished a clerk.] 
 
 11* 
 
OR T HONE. 
 
 IT was the Hastot Maul ion 
 
 Who told this tale to me, 
 At Ortaise, by an ingle side, 
 
 In gossip frank and free, 
 At the good hostel of the Moon, 
 
 Where I sometime attended 
 The will of Gaston Earl of Foix, 
 
 That potent lord, and splendid. 
 
 The Lord Corasse the Bastot said 
 
 Had taken on his hands 
 Feud with a Catalonia n clerk, 
 
 Who sought to tithe his lands ; 
 And dealt so rudely by the priest 
 
 That he was fain to fly 
 For the lord s wrath had put his life, 
 
 He deemed, in jeopardy. 
 
ORTHONE. 1 27 
 
 Hut ere the |)ricst went li.rlli, lie came 
 
 And yielded to the lord, 
 In formal wise, the cause of feud ; 
 
 And then, at parting word, 
 Quoth he, " Corasse, your greater strength 
 
 Has robbed me of my right : 
 I yield not to your argument, 
 
 Rut only to your might." 
 
 " Ah, Master Martin !" said the lord, 
 
 " I rare not for your rage ; 
 Free living shall you never have 
 
 From my fair heritage." 
 " So much I know ;" the clerk replied, 
 
 " You violate the laws ; 
 Rut, swift as may be, T will send 
 
 A champion of my cause. 
 
 " And he; shall den I so by your pence, 
 
 That you will sorely rue 
 That you have borne against the right, 
 
 And robl>ed me of my due." 
 
128 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And, with such words, the angry clerk 
 
 Departed on his way : 
 The baron never saw him more 
 
 From forth that summer day. 
 
 Three nights thereafter, Lord Corasse 
 
 Lay quietly abed, 
 When, suddenly, the castle rung 
 
 With wondrous sounds and dread ; 
 A clatter in the kitchens 
 
 A thunder on the stair 
 And shrillest voices screaming 
 
 Around it in the air. 
 
 The Lord Corasse sate up, and stared, 
 
 And seemed in trouble sore ; 
 Then heard unmannered knocking 
 
 All at his chamber door. 
 His lady drew the curtains 
 
 In fear about her head, 
 But to his sword, reached forth the lord, 
 
 And, full of courage, said 
 
ORTHONE. 129 
 
 " Now who be ye who thunder so? 
 
 Pray let your names be shown." 
 And at the word, reply he heard, 
 
 " They call my name Orthone." 
 " Orthone," replied the baron, 
 
 " Who sent you here to me?" 
 " Your enemy, the Spanish clerk, 
 
 Whose work I do" quoth he. 
 
 " Orthone," said on the baron stout, 
 
 " A beggar like the clerk 
 Will give you little thanks, or wage, 
 
 For moiling at his work : 
 I pray you be my servant !" 
 
 With this the clamour ceased, 
 And Orthone said, " So let it be 
 
 I weary of the priest." 
 
 Thereafter Orthone served the lord, 
 
 Invisible to him ; 
 Would seek his chamber nightly, 
 
 When lights were burning dim, 
 
130 FROISSAIIT BALLADS. 
 
 And bring him news of distant lands, 
 
 Of battle-field, and court ; 
 Did never post so little cost, 
 
 Or bear such swift report. 
 
 One day the baron came to join 
 
 A banquet at Ortaise, 
 And some loose speech of his did strike 
 
 Earl Gaston with amaze. 
 " Brother !" quoth he, " how may it be 
 
 This thing thou dost declare 
 Unless thou hast a messenger 
 
 To fly upon the air?" 
 
 And then the baron answer made, 
 
 For he was glad with wine, 
 And told the earl the story 
 
 Who thereof did opine 
 As of a marvel deep, and said, 
 
 " If ever thou hast seen 
 This messenger, in any shape, 
 
 Pray tell me of his mien." 
 
ORTHONE. 131 
 
 " I have not seen him," said Corasse, 
 
 " Small use it were to see ; 
 Sufficient that he comes, and goes, 
 
 And serves me faithfully." 
 Then said the earl, " When next he comes, 
 
 I pray thee bid him show 
 What look he wears what shape he bears 
 
 So much I fain would know." 
 
 The Lord Corasse is now abed, 
 
 And merry Orthone seeks 
 His side again, and plucks his ear, 
 
 And toys upon his cheeks. 
 " Orthone Orthone !" said Lord Corasse 
 
 " Good servant, prithee, show 
 What look you wear what shape you bear 
 
 So much I fain would know." 
 
 " Sir," said Orthone, " I plainly see 
 
 That you are bent to lose 
 A willing servant : but, for once, 
 
 I grant the thing you choose. 
 
FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Whatever, when you leave this bed, 
 Your eyes first rest upon 
 
 Observe it well, for certainly 
 That thing will be Orthone." 
 
 The sun is shining yellowly, 
 
 And dazzles on the bed ; 
 And Lord Corasse laughs loud to see 
 
 His lady hide her head. 
 He sits upright, and laughs, and peers 
 
 Around him everywhere, 
 But he may mark no living thing, 
 
 No matter how he stare. 
 
 Uprose he then, and placed his foot 
 
 Out on the rushes, strewn 
 So soft upon his chamber floor 
 
 Nor saw he yet Orthone. 
 But as he puts his foot abroad, 
 
 A quick keen tickle goes, 
 Athwart the sole, and tingles 
 
 Betwixt the wincing toes. 
 
ORTHONE. 
 
 And as his foot he lifted, 
 
 A single straw fell down, 
 And rested not, but skipped about, 
 
 Over the rushes brown, 
 With somersets, and other feats 
 
 The like, man never saw, 
 And Lord Corasse looked on, and said, 
 
 " The devil is in the straw." 
 
 But never deemed the Lord Corasse 
 
 That he had seen Orthone ; 
 That day went by, he sought his bed 
 
 When as its toils were done ; 
 And, at the middle watch of night, 
 
 Orthone drew nigh again, 
 And plucked the baron by the ear, 
 
 And plucked the counterpane. 
 
 " Orthone Orthone !" his master said, 
 
 " You err in coming here ; 
 You broke that promise made to me 
 
 So much is surely clear." 
 12 
 
 133 
 
134 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 " I made a promise," said Orthone, 
 
 " And truly held thereby : 
 The tumbling straw, whose feats you saw, 
 
 That little straw was I." 
 
 " Ah !" quoth the lord, " I deemed the straw 
 
 Was surely out of nature : 
 But prithee take some other form 
 
 Of greater bulk and stature." 
 And so, again, the voice has said, 
 
 " What first you look upon, 
 Observe it well, for certainly 
 
 That thing will be Orthone." 
 
 The baron rose up with the sun, 
 And looking up and down 
 Now here, now there and everywhere 
 
 Saw but the rushes brown, 
 
 
 And oaken stools, and cabinets 
 
 The room s appurtenances : 
 No semblance of his servant met 
 His shrewd and roving glances. 
 
ORTHONE. 135 
 
 Then to a lattice broad, he stept, 
 
 And cast it open wide ; 
 And, looking down upon the court, 
 
 He presently espied 
 A gaunt wild-sow, with ears, I trow, 
 
 As long as of a hound, 
 And bristled back, and loathly dugs 
 
 That trailed upon the ground. 
 
 The baron shouted to his men 
 
 It moved him so to see 
 That loathly beast and bade them loose 
 
 His bandogs speedily. 
 The mastiffs came out ramping, 
 
 But eager-eyed and mute, 
 They snuffed the air, and flew to tear, 
 
 And yell around the brute. 
 
 The wild-sow never tarried 
 
 For bay, or roaring chace, 
 But gave a cry unearthly, 
 
 And vanished from the place. 
 
136 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And then the baron knew the beast 
 
 Was certainly Orthone, 
 And turned within, lamenting 
 
 The thing that he had done. 
 
 Quoth he, " It would be merely just 
 
 If Orthone left me now 
 But certainly I deemed the beast 
 
 Was but a loathly sow." 
 That night Corasse lay long awake, 
 
 But lay awake in vain : 
 Orthone came not, and truly, 
 
 He never came again. 
 
 So said the Bastot Maulion, 
 
 And I have given his story 
 Fair place amongst my braver tales, 
 
 Of policy and glory. 
 If it be true, or haply false, 
 
 So much I cannot say : 
 But mysteries as great surround 
 
 Our life by night and day. 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 
 
 I MET the knight Sir Ernalton 
 
 In those right pleasant days, 
 When, in attendance on the earl, 
 
 I tarried at Ortaise. 
 A wise and worthy knight was he 
 
 Sir Ernalton of Pine* 
 And pleasant converse oft we held 
 
 Above our cups of wine. 
 
 Sir Ernalton had much to say 
 
 Whereof I loved to learn, 
 And once, it chanced, the converse turned 
 
 Upon the knight of Beam. 
 
 * I have given the English pronunciation to this name, as 
 lo most of the French names in these poerns. In this I follow 
 Lord Berners if any evidence of pronunciation may be drawn 
 from the various and capricious spelling of the old translator. 
 
 12* 
 
138 fROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 No man was near, our speech to hear, 
 And we were frank with wine, 
 
 And therefore freely spake my friend, 
 Sir Ernalton of Pine. 
 
 Quoth he, " The king, Don Pedro, slew, 
 
 Some twenty years ago, 
 The Count of Biscay, for a cause 
 
 Of which I nothing know. 
 His daughter, Lady Florens, fled 
 
 To seek Earl Gaston here, 
 And came in grief before the earl, 
 
 And made her story clear. 
 
 " Earl Gaston heard her grievous tale 
 
 With generous concern, 
 And matched her with his kinsman young, 
 
 The gallant knight of Beam. 
 Sir Peter found sufficient art 
 
 To quell his lady s tears, 
 And happily, as man and wife, 
 
 They lived for many years. 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 139 
 
 " Now comes my tale : ten months ago, 
 
 One pleasant winter morn, 
 The knight from Languedudon rode 
 
 To hunt, with hound and horn ; 
 And it befell that in a dell, 
 
 That most unlucky day, 
 The hounds of good Sir Peter Drought 
 
 A mighty boar to bay. 
 
 " Sir Peter heard their yells from far, 
 
 And rode the greenwood fast : 
 And, drawing on, espied the boar 
 
 A monster fell and vast. 
 His fiery eyes, and foaming tusks 
 
 Were fearful to be seen, 
 As in his wrath he ripped the dogs, 
 
 And slew them on the green. 
 
 " Now, by St. Hubert ! said the knight, 
 
 This thing must have an end : 
 It seems but pastime to the boar 
 
 My gallant dogs to rend. 
 
140 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And then he urged his horse amain, 
 And dashed, in full career, 
 
 To bring that battle to an end 
 With one true stroke of spear. 
 
 " But coming near, his charger swerved, 
 
 And would not front the beast, 
 Whereat, I trow, Sir Peter s wrath 
 
 Was mightily increased. 
 Ah, craven ! quoth he to his horse, 
 
 1 Dost thou so fail thy lord T 
 And, leaping from his seat, he drew 
 
 His trusty Bordeaux sword. 
 
 " An hour the knight waged battle hot, 
 
 Against his foaming foe, 
 And sought his life with utmost skill 
 
 Of cunning stab and blow. 
 An hour he fought, and verily 
 
 The mighty boar he slew : 
 And, standing by the carcass vast, 
 
 His merry bugle blew. 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 141 
 
 " His servants of the hunt came in, 
 
 And they were in amaze, 
 And scrutinized the monster fell 
 
 With wonder in their gaze. 
 1 This boar, said they, c is sure the same 
 
 That, twenty years ago, 
 Just here, in this same dell, alarmed 
 
 Our lady s father so. 
 
 " What say you ? said the knight of Beam, 
 
 And then an aged wight 
 Came forth before the rest, and made 
 
 Free answer to the knight ; 
 1 Just twenty years ago, quoth he, 
 
 4 In this same month, and day, 
 The count, our lady s father, brought 
 
 A boar like this to bay. 
 
 " * And pressing hard upon the beast, 
 
 In this green valley here, 
 Some devil s voice came suddenly, 
 
 And strangely, to his ear. 
 
142 FRO1SSART BALLADS. 
 
 Whether it came from ground, or air, 
 
 Our lord could never tell : 
 But certainly the voice he heard 
 
 And others heard as well. 
 
 " * Why woundest thou a creature weak, 
 
 Whose comfort harms thee not ? 
 The cruel shall die cruelly 
 
 Such were the words, I wot ; 
 And, with their sound, the churning boar 
 
 Passed free of spear and sword : 
 Within a year Don Pedro slew 
 
 Our well-beloved lord ! 
 
 " Gramercy, quoth Sir Peter then, 
 
 * My dame s unhappy sire 
 By the mere battle, proved the beast 
 
 No better than a liar. 
 A hind may be a creature weak 
 
 Not so this giant boar : 
 But, certes, if he ever spake, 
 
 The beast will speak no more !" 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 143 
 
 " Then back to Languedudon rode 
 
 The knight, his halls to win, 
 Leaving the strongest of his train 
 
 To bear the wild boar in ; 
 And when the men had cast their load 
 
 Upon the paved court, 
 Sir Peter called his dame to see 
 
 The trophy of his sport. 
 
 " Fair Lady Florens left her bower, 
 
 And came forth readily, 
 And with a smile upon her face, 
 
 The slaughtered boar to see : 
 But when she saw the gory beast, 
 
 Her face grew wondrous pale, 
 And, lifting up her lily hand, 
 
 She sought her eyes to veil. 
 
 " But presently she put away 
 Her white hand from her eyes, 
 
 And freely gazed, and mused as one 
 Who deals with mysteries. 
 
144 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 Sometimes she mused, then wended back 
 Her lonely bower to seek 
 
 Her right hand pressed upon her breast, 
 Her left upon her cheek. 
 
 " A lonely hour she passed in bower, 
 
 Then came, with honeyed word, 
 And face quite cunning in its smiles, 
 
 And thus addressed her lord : 
 1 1 owe a vow to good St. James, 
 
 And, husband, I would fain 
 Take our dear daughter Adrienne, 
 
 And journey into Spain. 
 
 " Sir Peter heard his dame s request, 
 
 And said, So let it be : 
 And Lady Florens, with the word, 
 
 Departed speedily. 
 From Castle Languedudon, forth 
 
 She journeyed with her train ; 
 And, by my troth, the wily dame, 
 
 Came never back again. 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 145 
 
 " That night, when all were sound asleep, 
 
 Sir Peter left his bed, 
 And seized his naked sword, and placed 
 
 His basnet on his head ; 
 Fierce smote he right and left, and cried 
 
 His sounding battle-cry : 
 I trow he deemed himself a-field, 
 
 And in sore jeopardy. 
 
 " A little page, who shared his room, 
 
 Fled from his blows aghast, 
 And reached the door, and flitted out, 
 
 And made the strong bolt fast. 
 Long, from without, boy Gracien heard 
 
 The knight that battle wage 
 Heard wild Sir Peter s slashing blows, 
 
 And cries of valiant rage. 
 
 " As sweet as summer did he seem 
 
 The gallant knight of Beam ! 
 When, on the morrow, from his page, 
 
 He came the truth to learn. 
 13 
 
146 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 1 Certes, dear boy, he smiled, and said- 
 
 I toiled to slay the boar, 
 And so my dreams were fever-wild : 
 
 The thing will chance no more. 
 
 " But, with the second night, once more 
 
 Sir Peter left his bed, 
 And seized his naked sword, and placed 
 
 His basnet on his head ; 
 And shouted forth his battle-cry, 
 
 And waged his fight amain ; 
 While little Gracien, quite aghast, 
 
 Escaped the room again. 
 
 " So passed his nights, until he pined ; 
 
 And now, as all may see, 
 By his wan looks, the gallant knight 
 
 Is stricken mortally. 
 Ten months agone he slew the boar, 
 
 And there are men who say 
 His wife, who augurs of his death, 
 
 Can name his dying day. 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 147 
 
 " He here at Ortaise, with the earl 
 
 She with her friends in Spain 
 Such thing, Sir John, should hardly be ; 
 
 The wife should come again. 
 But she is versed in mysteries, 
 
 Of necromantic art, 
 And such give cunning to the brain, 
 
 But poison to the heart." 
 
 So said my friend Sir Ernalton : 
 
 I mused his story s wonder 
 It was a complex web, which I 
 
 Might scarcely win asunder. 
 " Doubtless," I said at last, " the dame 
 
 Knew more than she would say 
 Of the great beast Sir Peter slew 
 
 On that unlucky day. 
 
 " Perchance, enlightened by her art, 
 
 She knew the mighty boar 
 Was some fair knight, who rode that land 
 
 In merry days of yore, 
 
148 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 And angered some old forest god, 
 
 Whose terrible decree 
 Thus brutalized the gentleman 
 
 From his humanity. . 
 
 " This seems quite strange nay, wonderful 
 
 But, nathless, we are told 
 Of many cases similar 
 
 In chronicles of old. 
 For instance and a score of such 
 
 My reading could impart 
 The cavalier, young Acteon,* 
 
 Was changed into a hart." 
 
 " Sir John" said good Sir Ernalton 
 
 " Pray make that story clear : 
 I have not heard of Acteon, 
 
 And much desire to hear." 
 
 *Shakspeare, and the old writers generally, Lord Berne 
 among- the rest, spell Actaeon as I have done above ; the deli 
 on the diphthong, in pronunciation, is discordant in verse 
 rapid measure, and for that reason I have retained the ancie 
 English spelling. 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 149 
 
 Then I replied, " This Acteon, 
 
 Of whom you seek to know, 
 Was a right valiant gentleman, 
 
 Who flourished long ago. 
 
 " The youth was fond of hound and horn, 
 
 And all fair forest sport : 
 And, one day, riding in the woods 
 
 As chronicles report 
 He roused a very noble hart, 
 
 And pressed so eagerly 
 Upon that chase, that soon he lost 
 
 His hounds and company. 
 
 " Holding his way for all that day, 
 
 With speed and courage keen, 
 At setting of the sun he reached 
 
 A meadow close and green 
 A meadow with a pleasant brook, 
 
 Shut in with beechen shades 
 And caught Diana bathing there 
 
 With all her snowy maids. 
 
 13* 
 
150 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 " The goddess was confused enough, 
 
 But, towering in her pride, 
 Refused her naked loveliness 
 
 By any art to hide, 
 And chid her blushing girls, who sought, 
 
 By crouching or by flying, 
 To shun the youth who sate his horse 
 
 Their naked charms espying. 
 
 " c Ah, hunter vile ! Diana said 
 
 * Whoever sent you here 
 Was not your friend, as presently 
 
 Shall very well appear. 
 I will not that your tongue shall speak 
 
 The secret of your eyes : 
 Your speech shall never put to shame 
 
 Our maiden modesties. 
 
 " * Take shape and likeness of the hart 
 Which you have chased to-day ! 
 
 It is my will : so let it be. 
 And, sir, old writers say, 
 
SIR PETER OF BEARN. 151 
 
 Young Acteon, with Diana s words, 
 
 Assumed the horned looks 
 Of the wood-hart, whose natural love 
 
 Is for the water-brooks. 
 
 " And finally, Sir Ernalton, 
 
 The same old writers show, 
 That as the human quadruped 
 
 Went plaining to and fro, 
 And gazing on his slender knees, 
 
 His hounds came up with him, 
 And, urged on by the cruel maids, 
 
 Soon tore him limb from limb. 
 
 " This is the tale of Acteon : 
 
 And sad Sir Peter s dame, 
 I nothing doubt, from all you say, 
 
 Knows more than she will name 
 Of that great boar her husband slew 
 
 And so, perhaps, should be 
 Excused, in somewhat, for her flight, 
 
 And seeming cruelty." 
 
152 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 " It may be," said Sir Ernalton, 
 
 " That what you say is true : 
 But, sure, the dame deals cruelly 
 
 Where tenderness is due. 
 The husband is a dying man, 
 
 And, sir I must maintain 
 If he had slain St. Hubert s self, 
 
 The wife should come again." 
 
OUR LADY S DOG. 
 
 THE Genoese had crossed the seas, 
 
 And, with a mighty host, 
 Besieged a stately city, 
 
 Upon the Moorish coast. 
 What time they lay at leaguer there, 
 
 A strange event befell, 
 Whereof in this fair book of mine, 
 
 I deem it good to tell. 
 
 It was at holy Easter 
 
 An hour before the day : 
 The Christian host, with watches set, 
 
 In heavy slumber lay, 
 When, pouring from the city s ports, 
 
 The Paynim army came, 
 Led by the Moslem Afringor, 
 
 A prince of valiant fame. 
 
154 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 With night, and cloud, their march to shroud, 
 
 And stealthy as the sea 
 When as its waters seek the shore, 
 
 And gird it silently, 
 The enemies of God drew on 
 
 To smite our slumbering host 
 Drew on unwitnessed by the watch 
 
 Asleep at every post. 
 
 But for a holy miracle, 
 
 In mercy deigned to us, 
 The Cross had sunk that night before 
 
 The Crescent orgillous. 
 But as the Paynim host drew on, 
 
 A train of damsels bright, 
 Led by a lady fair of brow, 
 
 Stood clearly in their sight. 
 
 And in her right hand, by a leash 
 
 Of twisted silk and gold, 
 A milk-white dog, of mighty thews, 
 
 The lady bright did hold. 
 
155 
 
 Brave sentinel ! with bay, and yell, 
 
 The beast alarum made, 
 Until the Christian host were roused 
 
 And gallantly arrayed. 
 
 The Christian knights see with amaze 
 
 The lady and her train, 
 As visible as if by day, 
 
 Before them on the plain : 
 And cross their brows in holy awe, 
 
 As steadily they go 
 To do the lady s battle 
 
 Against the Paynim foe. 
 
 The Moors, aghast, in terror passed 
 
 To win back to their town ; 
 But glaive and spear assailed their rear, 
 
 And bore their strongest down. 
 And, it is said, the milk-white hound 
 
 Was foremost in the fight, 
 And with his bristling jaws slew more 
 
 Than any armed knight. 
 
156 FROISSART BALLADS. 
 
 With rise of sun, and battle done, 
 
 No man saw longer there 
 The lady of the shining brow, 
 
 Or train of damsels fair. 
 But the white hound, without a wound, 
 
 Snuffing the slaughter strode, 
 And came back to the Christian tents, 
 
 And with the host abode. 
 
 And then the men-at-arms who saw 
 
 The wonders of that night, 
 Called the brave beast OUR LADY S DOG 
 
 For sure, the lady bright, 
 All said, was Mary Mother, 
 
 Who bare the blessed Lord, 
 And hates the race of Mahoun, 
 
 And loves the Holy Word. 
 
 And thenceforth did our Lady s dog 
 Keep constant watch and good, 
 
 And gentle nurture had he, 
 And sweet and dainty food; 
 
157 
 
 Our Christians saw, with pious awe, 
 The white crest of the hound, 
 
 As nightly, in his watchfulness, 
 He went upon his round. 
 
 14 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 " Lowland, your sports are low as is fc your seat ; 
 The Highland games and minds are high and great." 
 
 TAYLOR S BRAES OF MAR. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE axle of the Lowland wain 
 
 Goes groaning from the fields of grain : 
 
 The Lowlands suit with craft, and gain. 
 
 Good Ceres, with her plump brown hands, 
 And wheaten sheaves that burst their bands, 
 Is scornful of the mountain lands. 
 
 But mountain lands, so bare of corn, 
 Have that which puts, in turn, to scorn 
 The Goddess of the brimming horn. 
 14* 
 
162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Go mark them, when, with tramp and jar, 
 Of furious steeds, and flashing car, 
 The Thunderer sweeps them from afar. 
 
 Go mark them when their beauty lies 
 Drooping and veiled with violet dyes, 
 Beneath the light of breathless skies. 
 
 No lands of fat increase may vie 
 
 With their brave wealth for heart and ey( 
 
 Of loveliness and majesty. 
 
 II. 
 
 I stand upon an upland lawn ; 
 
 The river mists are quite withdrawn 
 
 It is three hours beyond the dawn. 
 
 Autumn works well ! but yesterday 
 The mountain hues were green and gray 
 The elves have surely passed this way. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS. 163 
 
 With crimping hand, and frosty lip, 
 That merry elfin fellowship, 
 Robin and Puck and Numbernip, 
 
 Through the clear night have swiftly plied 
 Their tricksy arts of change, and dyed 
 Of all bright hues, the mountain side. 
 
 In an old tale Arabian, 
 
 Sharp hammer-strokes, not dealt by man, 
 
 Startle a slumbering caravan. 
 
 At dawn, the wondering merchants see 
 
 A city, built up gloriously, 
 
 Of jasper, and gold, and porphyry. 
 
 That night-built city of the sands 
 Showed not as show our mountain lands, 
 Changed in a night by elfin hands. 
 
 We may not find, in all the scene, 
 An unchanged bough or leaf, I ween, 
 Save of the constant evergreen. 
 
164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The maple, on his slope so cool, 
 Wears his new motley, like the fool 
 Prankt out to lead the games of Yule. 
 
 Or rather say, that tree of pride 
 Stands, in his mantle many-dyed, 
 Bold monarch of the mountain side. 
 
 The ash a fiery chief is he, 
 High in the highland heraldry : 
 He wears his proud robes gallantly. 
 
 Torch-bearers are the grim black pines 
 Their torches are the flaming vines 
 Bright on the mountain s skyward lines. 
 
 The blushing dogwood, thicketed, 
 Marks everywhere the torrent s bed, 
 With winding lines of perfect red. 
 
 The oak, so haughty in his green, 
 Looks craven in an altered mien, 
 And whimples in the air so keen. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS. 165 
 
 The hickories, tough although they be, 
 The chestnut, and the tulip-tree, 
 These too have felt the witchery. 
 
 The tree of life, and dusky pine, 
 And hemlock, swart and saturnine 
 Staunch like a demon by his mine 
 
 These still retain a solemn dress,- 
 But, sombre as they be, no less 
 Make portion of the loveliness. 
 
 IIL 
 
 Just now no whisper of the air 
 Awoke, or wandered, any where 
 In all that scene so wild and fair. 
 
 But hark I upborne by swift degrees, 
 Come forth the mountain melodies 
 The music of the wind-tost trees. 
 
166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And, startled by these utterings, 
 The parted leaves, like living things, 
 Skirl up, and flock on shining wings. 
 
 And, rising from the rainbow rout, 
 A hawk goes swooping round about 
 And hark ! a rifle-shot, and shout. 
 
 The rifle of the mountaineer 
 
 I know its tongue, so quick and clear 
 
 Is out, to-day, against the deer. 
 
 Right hardy are the men, I trow, 
 Who build upon the mountain s brow, 
 And love the gun, and scorn the plough. 
 
 Not such soft pleasures pamper these 
 As lull the subtil Bengalese, 
 Or islanders of Indian seas. 
 
 A rugged hand to cast their seed 
 
 A rifle for the red deer s speed 
 
 With these their swarming huts they feed. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS. 167 
 
 Such men are freedom s body guard ; 
 On their high rocks, so cold and hard, 
 They keep her surest watch and ward. 
 
 Of such was William Tell, whose bow 
 Hurtled its shafts so long ago, 
 At red Morgarten s overthrow. 
 
 Of such was Arnold Winkelreid, 
 Who saved his fatherland at need, 
 And won in death heroic meed. 
 
 That deed will live a thousand years 1 
 
 Young Arnold, with his Switzer peers, 
 
 Stood hemmed and hedged with Austrian spears. 
 
 No mountain sword might pierce that hedge, 
 But Arnold formed the Bernese wedge 
 Himself, unarmed, its trusty edge. 
 
 His naked arms he opened wide, 
 
 " Make way for liberty," he cried, 
 
 And clasped the hungry spears and died. 
 
168 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 He made a gap for Liberty, 
 
 His comrades filled it desperately 
 
 And Switzerland again was free. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But mark ! on yonder summit clear, 
 Stands the bold hunter of the deer, 
 The rifle-bearing mountaineer. 
 
 From this far hill, we may not now 
 Mark the free courage of his brow, 
 Or the clear eyes, which well avow 
 
 The manly virtues of a heart, 
 Untrained to any baser art, 
 And bold to dare its lot and part. 
 
 But a strong vision may define, 
 His gaunt form s every giant line, 
 Motionless in the broad sunshine. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS. 169 
 
 And his long gun we note and know 
 That weapon dire of overthrow, 
 More terrible than Tell s true bow. 
 
 But mark again his step descends ; 
 And now his stately stature blends 
 With the vague path whereon he wends. 
 
 Bare is the gray peak where he stood 
 Again the blue sky seems to brood 
 Over a lovely solitude. 
 
 V. 
 
 Our life on earth is full of cares, 
 And the worn spirit oft despairs 
 Under the groaning load it bears. 
 
 When such dark moods will force their way, 
 When the soul cowers beneath their sway, 
 Go forth as I have done to-day. 
 15 
 
170 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Boon nature is a foe severe 
 
 To pallid brow, and shadowy fear, 
 
 And lifts the fallen to valiant cheer. 
 
 Heed her good promptings muse and learn- 
 
 And, haply, to thy toils return 
 
 With a clear heart, and courage stern. 
 
FLORENCE VANE.* 
 
 I LOVED thee long and dearly, 
 
 Florence Vane ; 
 My life s bright dream, and early, 
 
 Hath come again ; 
 I renew, in my fond vision, 
 
 My heart s dear pain, 
 My hope, and thy derision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The ruin lone and hoary, 
 
 The ruin old, 
 Where thou didst hark my story, 
 
 At even told, 
 
 * This little poem, and Young Rosalie Lee," were published 
 some years ago, and met with more favour than I could ever 
 perceive their just claim to. I am deterred by the success of 
 these trifles from venturing upon the correction of some faults 
 which I find in them but which others may not consider faults. 
 A reader s favourite verse might be weeded out in the process of 
 correction. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 That spot the hues Elysian 
 Of sky and plain 
 
 I treasure in my vision, 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime ; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main. 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 
 
 Thy glorious clay 
 Lieth the green sod under 
 
 Alas the day ! 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain 
 
 To quicken love s pale ember, 
 . Florence Vane. 
 
FLORENCE VANE. 173 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep, 
 The pansies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep ; 
 May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
 
 Never wane 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 15* 
 
THE POWER OF THE BARDS. 
 
 WISDOM, and pomp, and valour, 
 
 And love, and martial glory 
 These gleam up from the shadows 
 
 Of England s elder story. 
 
 If thou wouldst pierce those shadows 
 
 Dark on her life of old, 
 Follow where march her minstrels, 
 
 With music sweet and bold. 
 
 Right faithfully they guide us 
 
 The darksome way along, 
 Driving the ghosts of ruin 
 
 With joyous harp and song. 
 
 They raise up clearest visions, 
 To greet us every where 
 
THE POWER OF THE BARDS. 175 
 
 They bring the brave old voices 
 To stir the sunny air. 
 
 We see the ships of conquest 
 
 White on the narrow sea ; 
 We mark from Battle Abbey, 
 
 The plumes of Normandy. 
 
 We see the royal Rufus 
 
 Go out the chase to lead 
 Wat TyrePs flying arrow 
 
 The dead king s flying steed. 
 
 We go with gallant Henry, 
 
 Stealing to Woodstock bower, 
 To meet his gentle mistress, 
 
 In twilight s starry hour. 
 
 We see Blondel and Richard, 
 
 We hear the lays they sing ; 
 We mark the dames adjudging 
 
 Betwixt the bard and King. 
 
176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 We join the iron Barons, 
 Doing that famous deed 
 
 Wringing the great old charter 
 From John at Runnymeade. 
 
 We ride with Harry Monmouth 
 On Shrewsbury s bloody bounds ; 
 
 We hear the fat knight s moral, 
 On Percy Hotspur s wounds. 
 
 We mark the bannered Roses 
 The red rose, and the white, 
 
 And Crookback s barded charger 
 Foaming in Barnet fight. 
 
 We see bluff Harry Tudor, 
 To royal Windsor ride, 
 
 With fair-necked Bullen reining 
 A palfrey at his side. 
 
 We join Queen Bess, the virgin, 
 And prancingly go forth, 
 
THE POWER OF THE BARDS. 
 
 To hold that stately revel 
 At stately Kenilworth. 
 
 We join the ruder revels, 
 Under the greenwood tree, 
 
 Where outlaw songs are chaunted, 
 And cans clink merrily. 
 
 We join the curtal friar, 
 And doughty Robin Hood, 
 
 And Scathelock, and the miller, 
 At feast in green Sherwood. 
 
 We greet Maid Marian bringing 
 The collops of the deer, 
 
 And pitchers of metheglin 
 
 To crown the woodland cheer. 
 
 We lie down with the robbers 
 At coming of the dark, 
 
 We rise, with their uprising, 
 At singing of the lark. 
 
 177 
 
178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And, blending with his matins, 
 We hear the abbey chimes 
 The chimes of the stately abbeys 
 
 Of the proud priestly times. 
 # * * * 
 
 f 
 
 And owe we not these visions 
 
 Fresh to the natural eye 
 This presence in old story 
 To the good art and high? 
 
 The high art of the poet, 
 The maker of the lays? 
 
 Doth not his magic lead us 
 Back to the ancient days ? 
 
 For evermore be honoured 
 The voices sweet, and bold, 
 
 That thus can charm the shadows 
 From the true life of old. 
 
TO EDITH. 
 
 DEAR EDITH, I am pondering now, 
 With the sweet south wind on my brow, 
 And thoughtful eyes, which only see 
 The past, in sky, and grass, and tree. 
 
 Into the past I go to seek 
 The lustre of thy maiden cheek, 
 And all thy graces debonair 
 I go to seek, and find them there. 
 
 Canst thou revisit, as I do, 
 
 The time wherein I learned to woo 1 
 
 The time when, young in thought and years, 
 
 We learned love s lore of smiles and tears? 
 
 Our early love found early cure, 
 But, cousin mine, of this be sure 
 
180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 In that fair time we loved as well 
 As stateliest lord and damosell. 
 
 If thou didst not, pray tell me why 
 Thy soul stood beckoning in thine eye* 
 Playing the sweet mime with my own, 
 And evermore with mine alone 1 
 
 If I loved not, why should it be 
 That, quickened by a thought of thee, 
 My spirit goes forth fiery fast 
 To meet thee in the radiant past ? 
 
 Ah ! break not in thine ignorance 
 The golden rule of that romance, 
 But let it hold thy riper age, 
 As mine, in happy vassalage. 
 
 * I find that this line is almost identical with one in a poem 
 addressed by Lord Carbery (1672) to his wife. My verses are 
 too flimsy to be meddled with, or I would put another in its 
 place. 
 
TO EDITH. 181 
 
 As mine ! by Eros, to be free 
 From bondage of that memory, 
 Were but to wear a colder chain 
 Were but to give my bliss for pain. 
 
 16 
 
LIFE IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. 
 
 SUMMER has gone ! 
 
 And fruitful autumn has advanced so far, 
 That there is warmth not heat in the broad sun, 
 And you may look with steadfast gaze upon 
 
 The ardours of his car ; 
 The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden, 
 
 Are making the green leaves golden. 
 
 What a brave splendour 
 Is in the October air ! How rich and clear 
 How life-full, and all joyous ! We must render 
 Love to the Spring-time, with its sproutings tender, 
 
 As to a child quite dear 
 But autumn is a noon, prolonged, of glory 
 
 A manhood not yet hoary. 
 
 I love the woods 
 In this best season of the liberal year ; 
 
LIFE IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. 183 
 
 I love to haunt their whispering solitudes, 
 And give myself to melancholy moods, 
 
 With no intruder near ; 
 And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder, 
 
 In every natural wonder. 
 
 But not alone 
 
 As Shakspeare s melancholy courtier loved Ardennes, 
 Love I the autumn forest ; and I own 
 I would not oft have mused as he, but flown 
 
 To hunt with Amiens 
 And little recked, as up the bold deer bounded, 
 
 Of the sad creature wounded. 
 
 That gentle knight, 
 
 Sir William Wortley, weary of his part, 
 In painted pomps, which he could read aright, 
 Built WarnclhTe lodge for that he did delight 
 
 To hear the belling hart. 
 It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness 
 
 Yields to the hunter s madness. 
 
184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 What passionate 
 
 And wild delight is in the proud swift chase ! 
 Go out what time the lark, at heaven s red gate, 
 Soars joyously singing quite infuriate 
 With the high pride of his place ; 
 What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning 
 In its first bright adorning. 
 
 Hark the shrill horn 
 As sweet to hear as any clarion 
 Piercing with silver call the ear of morn ; 
 And mark the steeds, stout Curtal, and Topthorn, 
 
 And Greysteil, and the Don 
 Each one of them his fiery mood displaying 
 
 With pawing and with neighing. 
 
 Urge your swift horse 
 
 After the crying hounds in this fresh hour 
 Vanquish high hills stem perilous streams perforce 
 Where the glades ope give free wings to your course 
 
 And you will know the power 
 Of the brave chase and how of griefs, the sorest, 
 
 A cure is in the forest. 
 
LIFE IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. 185 
 
 Or stalk the deer : 
 
 The same red fires of dawn illume the hills, 
 The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear, 
 There is a life in all the atmosphere ; 
 
 Your very nature fills 
 With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring, 
 
 You climb with limbs untiring. 
 
 It is a fair 
 
 And pleasant sight, to see the mountain stag, 
 With the long sweep of his swift walk, repair 
 To join his brothers ; or the plethoric bear 
 
 Lying on some high crag, 
 With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking, 
 
 As gad-flies keep him waking. 
 
 And these you see, 
 
 And, seeing them, you travel to their death, 
 With a slow stealthy step from tree to tree 
 Noting the wind, however faint it be ; 
 The hunter draws a breath 
 In times like these, which he will say repays him 
 For all the care that waylays him. 
 16* 
 
186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A strong joy fills 
 
 A rapture far beyond the tongue s cold power 
 My heart in golden autumn : fills and thrills ! 
 And I would rather stalk the breezy hills 
 
 Descending to my bower 
 Nightly by the bold spirit of health attended 
 
 Than pine where life is splendid. 
 
TO MY DAUGHTER LILY. 
 
 Six changeful years are gone, Lily, 
 
 Since you were born, to be 
 A darling to your mother good, 
 
 A happiness to me ; 
 A little, shivering, feeble thing 
 
 You were to touch and view, 
 But we could see a promise in 
 
 Your baby eyes of blue. 
 
 * 
 
 You fastened on our hearts, Lily, 
 
 As day by day wore by, 
 And beauty grew upon your cheeks, 
 
 And deepened in your eye ; 
 A year made dimples in your hands, 
 
 And plumped your little feet, 
 And you had learned some merry ways 
 
 Which we thought very sweet. 
 
188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And when the first sweet word, Lily, 
 
 Your wee mouth learned to say, 
 Your mother kissed it fifty times, 
 
 And marked the famous day. 
 I know not even now, my dear, 
 
 If it were quite a word, 
 But your proud mother surely knew, 
 
 For she the sound had heard. 
 
 When you were four years old, Lily, 
 
 You were my little friend, 
 And we had walks, and nightly plays, 
 
 And talks without an end. 
 You little ones are sometimes wise, 
 
 For you are undefiled ; 
 A grave grown man will start to hear 
 
 The strange words of a child. 
 
 When care pressed on our house, Lily,- 
 Pressed with an iron hand 
 
 I hated mankind for the wrong 
 Which festered in the land ; 
 
TO MY DAUGHTER LILY. 189 
 
 But when I read your young frank face, 
 
 Its meanings, sweet and good, 
 My charities grew clear again, 
 
 I felt my brotherhood. 
 
 And sometimes it would be, Lily, 
 
 My faith in God grew cold, 
 For I saw virtue go in rags, 
 
 And vice in cloth of gold ; 
 But in your innocence, my child, 
 
 And in your mother s love, 
 I learned those lessons of the heart 
 
 Which fasten it above. 
 
 At last our cares are gone, Lily, 
 
 And peace is back again, 
 As you have seen the sun shine out 
 
 After the gloomy rain ; 
 In the good land where we were born, 
 
 We may be happy still, 
 A life of love will bless our home 
 
 The house upon the hill. 
 
190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Thanks to your gentle face, Lily ! 
 
 Its innocence was strong 
 To keep me constant to the right, 
 
 When tempted by the wrong. 
 The little ones were dear to Hirn 
 
 Who died upon the Rood 
 I ask his gentle care for you, 
 
 And for your mother good. 
 
THE MURDER OF CORNSTALK.* 
 
 THE miller sate at his cabin door 
 A man of seventy years and more ; 
 It was old Michael Beattison, 
 The gray-beard miller of Crooked Run. 
 
 The summer boughs of a chestnut spread 
 Over his white and reverend head, 
 
 * The Shawnee chief Cornstalk, head of the great northern 
 confederacy of tribes, was murdered by the whites at Point 
 Pleasant in 1777. The circumstances attending his death are 
 given faithfully in the poem. See Kerchival s Virginia Valley, 
 and Howe s Virginia Collections. Crooked Run is a small stream 
 near and running parallel with the Ohio ; it empties into the 
 Kanawha. On the strip between this little stream and the Ohio 
 was fought the battle of Point Pleasant between the Virginians 
 under Andrew Lewis and the warriors of the northern tribes led 
 by Cornstalk October, 1774. At the date of the murder three 
 years after the battle Arbuckle was captain of the fort at Point 
 Pleasant. Tradition and history represent the Cornstalk chief 
 as the greatest and wisest of the great Indian " kings." 
 
192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And, catching the west wind in their leaves, 
 Rustled against his cabin eaves. 
 The wind that stirred the lintel tree 
 Touched the old man tenderly. 
 
 Serene of look the miller sate 
 Erect in his wicker chair of state, 
 And now and then a smile would grace 
 The pleasant lines of his fresh hale face. 
 Was it because his earnest mill, 
 With merry clank, and clamour shrill, 
 Discoursed so well beneath the hill ? 
 Or is it because some thought swells high 
 Of happy scenes in the time gone by ? 
 
 The miller s hoary pow has store 
 Of frontier deeds, and Indian lore, 
 And he can show old times as well 
 As any written chronicle. 
 
 I, with another, crossed the green, 
 Saying, " Old gentleman, good e en," 
 
THE MURDER OF CORNSTALK. 193 
 
 And Michael, with fair courtesy, 
 Gave the good even back to me. 
 " Michael," I said, " my friend is taking 
 Notes for a good book he is making, 
 And much desires to hear you tell 
 The tale you bear in mind so well 
 How the great sachem long ago 
 Was killed with Ellinipsico." 
 
 A happy man seemed Michael then. 
 " Good sirs," quoth he, " I was but ten, 
 When Cornstalk died ; but older men 
 Have told me how the murder chanced. 
 My life is very far advanced, 
 But not enough that I should know, 
 Of things that chanced so long ago, 
 Like one who saw the very deed." 
 
 " Michael," I said, " there is no need 
 To parley so ; pray tell the story." 
 
 Freely upspake the old man hoary, 
 " Sirs, I will tell what I have heard. 
 17 
 
194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 In seventy-seven some scouts brought word 
 
 That the great chief was coming down, 
 
 From his Chilicothe town, 
 
 To meet Arbuckle at the fort. 
 
 And shortly after this report 
 
 He came ; myself was there that day, 
 
 For folk had come, from miles away, 
 
 In crowds to see the Shawnee king. 
 
 The Winnebago, Eagle-wing, 
 
 Came with him, for the two were friends, 
 
 And wrought together for their ends. 
 
 I saw them come, and can declare 
 
 What like of men the chieftains were. 
 
 The Shawnee was a man of care, 
 
 A grave, and quiet man, and old, 
 
 But upright in his gait, and bold, 
 
 And with a look about the eyes 
 
 Which said that he was good and wise. 
 
 He left his arms beyond the river, 
 
 And came up, like a sage lawgiver, 
 
 In flowing robes. The Eagle-wing 
 
 Was younger than the Shawnee king, 
 
THE MURDER OF CORNSTALK. 195 
 
 But a great chief and orator. 
 
 The two had fought in seventy-four 
 
 On that same spot, and Cornstalk s look 
 
 Calm survey of the country took. 
 
 He raised his robes, and touched a scar, 
 
 And said some words of Dunmore s war, 
 
 And smiled and then, with thoughtful port, 
 
 Entered the gateway of the fort. 
 
 " His words and voice were soft, and low, 
 
 But there were men at hand who said 
 
 That it was craft that they were so ; 
 
 For on the bloody day, and dread, 
 
 Of that great fight, when Lewis thinned 
 
 His lines, the old chief s cry rang out 
 
 As loud as any stormy wind ; 
 
 There was a tempest in his shout 
 
 That drowned the guns. Be strong be strong, 
 
 Was Cornstalk s battle-cry, and long 
 
 The frontier bore its sound in mind. 
 
 Our women heard it in the wind 
 
196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 That swept the forests, bare and brown, 
 
 When autumn nights had settled down, 
 
 And fear sat by the chimney side ; 
 
 And hushed their children when they cried, 
 
 In wantonness of baby grief, 
 
 With stories of the Cornstalk chief. 
 
 " What drew the Shawnee to the fort, 
 
 Indeed I cannot well report. 
 
 Some said he came down as a spy 
 
 If so he merited to die. 
 
 But others have it that he came 
 
 And this seems truer to proclaim 
 
 That the great northern tribes were won 
 
 By British arts, and he must run 
 
 With the strong stream, unless we brought 
 
 Sure aid to him and such he sought. 
 
 This sounds more like the Shawnee king. 
 
 However, after counselling, 
 
 Our men to make my story short 
 
 Refused to let him leave the fort. 
 
THE MURDER OF CORNSTALK. 197 
 
 A month passed by. The Eagle-wing, 
 Denied his freedom, seemed to pine ; 
 But the stout-hearted Shawnee king 
 They said who saw him gave no sign 
 Of moodiness, but seemed to be 
 Careless of his captivity. 
 He kept his head, and heart, erect, 
 And, with courageous counsel, checked 
 The misery of his pining friend ; 
 Saying, The oak should never bend 
 And to the white men * We are here, 
 And helpless, but we have no fear ; 
 I weary and old and worn am ready 
 To live or die. His looks were steady 
 Serene his voice erect his head 
 When valiant words like these he said. 
 
 " I said a long month passed away. 
 In the fifth week, one quiet day, 
 The Shawnee sachem, with a wand, 
 Was mapping, on a floor of sand, 
 17* 
 
198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The winding rivers of the west. 
 Arbuckle, Stuart, and the rest 
 Were looking on, when suddenly 
 
 The old chief paused with listening ear, 
 As one who catches some far cry, 
 
 Then raised his face with pleasant cheer, 
 And smiled, and said that he had heard 
 * The whistle of a Shawnee bird. 
 These words to Eagle-wing he said, 
 And left the hut with stately tread. 
 
 " He stept three steps beyond the door. 
 
 The river* passed with a solemn roar, 
 
 But over its sounds from the westward shore, 
 
 Where the dark-green boughs of the forest hung, 
 
 He heard a call in the Shawnee tongue. 
 
 He shouted in turn the voice replied 
 
 And an Indian came to the water-side. 
 
 He looked on the current swift and clear, 
 
 For a little time, as a man in fear, 
 
 Then took to the stream like a mountain deer. 
 
 * The Ohio. 
 
THE MURDER OF CORNSTALK. 199 
 
 Sometime he waded, sometime he swam : 
 The chief looked on with a visage calm 
 There was no light in his face to show 
 That he knew his son in the stream below, 
 His dear boy Ellinipsico. 
 
 " That night passed by ; the guard who kept 
 
 Watch on the hut where the Indians slept, 
 
 Heard the voices of father and son, 
 
 And their falling footsteps, one by one, 
 
 For an hour beyond the middle night 
 
 Himself then fell asleep outright. 
 
 He said the words in that strange sweet tongue 
 
 Of the ancient chief, and the boy so young, 
 
 Were like some music so soft they were. 
 
 The day came on serene and fair, 
 
 And, side by side, in the open air, 
 
 With moving lips, and steps most slow, 
 
 The white men saw them come and go 
 
 Cornstalk and Ellinipsico. 
 
 " That day, at rising of the sun, 
 Gilmer, and Robin Hamilton 
 
200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Had left the fort to stalk for deer 
 
 On the Kanawha s southern side. 
 
 It chanced some Delawares lurked near 
 
 These crouching Delawares espied 
 
 The hunters, from their screen of grass, 
 
 And lay in wait, to let them pass, 
 
 Then fired upon them ; Gilmer fell, 
 
 And the red devils, with a yell, 
 
 Leapt out, and rushed on Hamilton. 
 
 But Robin turned, and ran to win 
 
 The river-side which soon he won, 
 
 And in his fear plunged headlong in. 
 
 His friends came swiftly to his aid, 
 
 And plucked him from the stream half dead, 
 
 Half drowned and terribly dismayed. 
 
 " His comrades heard the hunter s story, 
 
 With vengeful threats, and curses loud ; 
 
 But at sight of the dead man, scalped and gory, 
 
 A very fiend possessed the crowd. 
 
 John Hall, a desperate man and bad, 
 
 Said with an oath, * The Shawnee lad 
 
THE MURDER OF CORNSTALK. 201 
 
 Brought down these Indians when he came. 
 The crowd was grass these words were flame. 
 Awful and stern outbrake the cry, 
 8 The Indians in the fort must die. 
 
 " Arbuckle strove, but strove in vain, 
 The fury of the crowd to rein 
 Its fierce intent of blood to check. 
 Right little did the miscreants reck 
 Of such entreaty or command. 
 John Hall, with rifle in his hand, 
 And a wild devil in his eye, 
 Menaced his captain for reply. 
 
 " Meanwhile the Indians sat alone, 
 
 Nor knew what fate came swiftly on ; 
 
 But Stuart broke in suddenly, 
 
 And warned them of the peril nigh. 
 
 The Winnebago glared around, 
 
 For refuge, but no refuge found, 
 
 And bent his dark brows to the ground. 
 
 The trembling Ellinipsico 
 
 His innocence essayed to show, 
 
202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Saying, with utterance like a moan, 
 
 Father, I came on my way alone. 
 
 My path was single in the wood. 
 
 Our people are white of the Long Knife s blood. 
 
 But the great chief, the pale boy s sire, 
 
 Calmly arranged his wild attire ; 
 
 Courage and pride were in his face, 
 
 And he stood in his robes with a stately grace, 
 
 And spoke with an air of majesty 
 
 My son, he said, fear not to die. 
 
 The Mighty Spirit who loves our race 
 
 Looked on my old age tenderly, 
 
 And sent my son to die with me. 
 
 " The mob surged onward with a roar. 
 The bristling guns are at the door ! 
 What Manitou wills is for the best, 
 The old chief said, and bared his breast. 
 A click of locks ! and the rifles tore 
 The sachem s very heart, and bore 
 His body, drenched with its spouting blood, 
 Far back from where in life it stood. 
 
THE MURDER OF CORNSTALK. 203 
 
 The poor boy Ellinipsico 
 
 His eyes saw not that scene of wo. 
 
 The courage of his race had come 
 
 To nerve him for the martyrdom, 
 
 But his weak vision could not brave 
 
 The face of murder, and he gave 
 
 His young life to the sacrifice 
 
 With bending head and cowering eyes. 
 
 The Winnebago stood at bay, 
 
 And, bloody from brow to knee, contended ; 
 
 But his fierce life soon ebbed away, 
 
 And then the tragedy was ended. 
 
 And with it ends my old-world story." 
 
 So said, and sighed, the miller hoary. 
 
 My bookish friend when he had done 
 
 Gave thanks to Michael Beattison ; 
 
 And said such tales were worth the printing, 
 
 And, with some fair art in the minting, 
 
 Would pass as well as many told 
 
 In the high chronicles of old. 
 
YOUNG ROSALIE LEE. 
 
 I LOVE to forget ambition, 
 
 And hope, in the mingled thought 
 Of valley, and wood, and meadow, 
 
 Where, whilome, my spirit caught 
 Affection s holiest breathings 
 
 Where under the skies, with me 
 Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking 
 
 From joy s bright Castaly. 
 
 I think of the valley, and river, 
 
 Of the old wood bright with blossoms; 
 Of the pure and chastened gladness 
 
 Upspringing in our bosoms. 
 I think of the lonely turtle 
 
 So tongued with melancholy ; 
 Of the hue of the drooping moonlight, 
 
 And the starlight pure and holy. 
 
YOUNG ROSALIE LEE. 205 
 
 Of the beat of a heart most tender, 
 
 The sigh of a shell-tinct lip 
 As soft as the land-tones wandering 
 
 Far leagues over ocean deep ; 
 Of a step as light in its falling 
 
 On the breast of the beaded lea 
 As the fall of the faery moonlight 
 
 On the leaf of yon tulip tree. 
 
 I think of these and the murmur 
 
 Of bird, and katydid, 
 Whose home is the graveyard cypress 
 
 Whose goblet the honey-reed. 
 And then I weep ! for Rosalie 
 
 Has gone to her early rest ; 
 And the green-lipped reed and the daisy 
 
 Suck sweets from her maiden breast. 
 
 18 
 
LOVE AND BE KIND. 
 
 How hotly men will wrangle 
 
 One furious with another ! 
 See how the strong hands mangle 
 
 Some poor down-trodden brother. 
 Is this the lofty nature ? 
 
 Is this the lordly mind ? 
 Can no poor human creature 
 
 Love and be kind ? 
 
 But if such strife be common, 
 
 There still are nobler spirits 
 To rescue and illumine, 
 
 The mould that man inherits. 
 Such, with the lamp of goodness, 
 
 A tranquil pathway find, 
 Such, in the raging rudeness, 
 
 Are gentle and kind. 
 
LOVE AND BE_KIND. 
 
 Strive boldly, human brother 
 
 Not with your fellow-creature 
 But in self- war to smother 
 
 All growth of evil nature. 
 Be of the nobler spirits ! 
 
 Forgive, forget, be blind 
 To others faults not merits ; 
 
 Love and be kind. 
 
 Then, if it chance such yielding 
 
 Invite the rude aggression 
 If patience gives no shielding 
 
 Against a base oppression ; 
 Stand up, and dare the danger 
 
 In armour manifold 
 Defender, not avenger : 
 
 Be strong and bold ! 
 
 207 
 
IMAGINARY ILLS. 
 
 I HAVE read of a man encompassed* 
 By phantoms dire and grim ; 
 In an ancient park, 
 As the day grew dark, 
 They came about his pathway dim, 
 And with weird eyes encompassed him. 
 
 It was the Roundhead captain, 
 The dreamer Harrison. 
 With carnal might 
 He strove to smite 
 
 The ghosts, that closed his blade upon 
 Like thin folds of a vapour dun. 
 
 * The reader will recollect the scene, in Woodstock, in which 
 the enthusiast Colonel Harrison does battle with his imaginary 
 enemies. 
 
IMAGINARY ILLS. 
 
 In such an armageddon 
 
 Do not all mortals strive ? 
 Our timorous wills 
 Create vague ills 
 
 Whereat we strike but they survive 
 The many-spending blows we give. 
 
 Good friend ! waste not your prowess 
 Against such phantom woes. 
 Be stout of heart, 
 Bring courage, and art, 
 Against your real sorrows : those 
 Are often vanquishable foes. 
 
 18* 
 

 
 
 Some sentences from Gary s Dante will afford a proper introduc 
 tion to my translation of the famous story of Ugolino. Dante, 
 conducted by Virgil, has reached the ninth round of the frozen 
 circle, and there 
 
 44 I beheld two spirits by the ice 
 Pent in one hollow, that the head of one 
 Was cowl unto the other ; and as bread 
 Is ravened up through hunger, the uppermost 
 Did so apply his fangs to the other s brain 
 Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously 
 On Menalippus temples Tydeus gnawed 
 Than on that skull and on its garbage he. 
 
 4 O thou ! who showest so beastly sign of hate 
 Gainst him thou preyest on, let me hear, said I, 
 4 The cause, on such condition, that if right 
 Warrant thy grievance, knowing who you are, 
 And what the colour of his sinning was, 
 I may repay thee in the world above, 
 If that, wherewith I speak, be moist so long. " 
 
 Cary. Canto XXXII. Inferno. 
 
 The "uppermost spirit" so entreated tells his story, which I 
 translate. 
 

 STORY OF UGOLINO. 
 
 His reeking jaws the sinner raised at last, 
 
 And wiped them grimly on the skull s vile hair, 
 Seeking to cleanse them of their fell repast, 
 
 Then said : " Thy will obeying, I declare 
 The story of my woes. If it may be 
 
 That what I utter shall prove seed to bear 
 Fruit of eternal shame and infamy, 
 
 To him, the traitor whom I mangle and tear, 
 Then will my earnestness speak weepingly. 
 
 " Who thou mayst be, or how art come beneath, 
 
 I know not, but thou seemest Florentine 
 By thy sweet utterance. I, or ere my death, 
 
 Was County Ugolino ; this malign 
 Damned spirit was Ruggieri. Thou shalt hear, 
 
 For reason strong my dire tale will assign, 
 Why in this place I neighbour him so near. 
 
 That trust in him wrought death to me and mine 
 Thou knowest and I need not make more clear. 
 
212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 4< But what thou canst not know that will I tell 
 
 The ghastly secret of the Famine Tower ! 
 Hear it, and judge thou if he loved me well. 
 
 Mewed with my sons in that most horrible bower, 
 Which takes its title from our martyrdom, 
 
 I watched the days creep onward, hour by hour, 
 Until my sense such watching did benumb ; 
 
 Then slept I that ill sleep which hath the power 
 To lift the curtain from the time to come. 
 
 " I saw mine enemy this one bedight 
 
 As master of the sport, go out to sweep 
 The Julian mountain that forbids the sight 
 
 Of Lucca to the Pisan. Up the steep, 
 His sons rode with him, ranging at his back ; 
 
 The boys shrill-voiced, their sire with halloo deep, 
 Urged on the fury of lean dog and brach 
 
 Keen brutes and questing. After that my sleep 
 Saw the fierce riders flagging on their track, 
 
 And then their sides tusk-rended gape and weep. 
 
 " When as my sleep and dream were banished, 
 Some voices in the darkness reached mine ear. 
 
STORY OF UGOLINO. 213 
 
 Sleeping, my children wept, and asked for bread. 
 
 Right cruel art thou if thou hast no tear 
 At thought of my poor heart s foreboding load ! 
 
 Now had they wakened, and the hour drew near 
 Wherein it was the wont to dole us food, 
 
 And each watched hungrily but did appear 
 Some ghastly news, within himself, to bode. 
 
 " Then heard I harsh keys lock the outward gate 
 
 O J the horrible tower : whence uttering not a word, 
 But staring on my murdered sons, I sate. 
 
 I wept not so all stone I was but heard 
 My boys weep : then my little Anselm cried, 
 
 1 Father, what ails thee V and his wan face reared, 
 To read my looks. I turned my face aside, 
 
 And shed no tear nor anywise appeared 
 A man of pangs, but dumb and leaden-eyed. 
 
 "And I sate so until a second sun 
 
 Made glad the freedom of the outer air. 
 But when a faint beam trembled in upon 
 
 Four faces, imaging my own dumb care, 
 
214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 On either hand, in agony, I bit. 
 
 My sons, who, in that motion of despair, 
 Saw but the craving of a hunger fit, 
 
 Cried, Father, thou didst give this flesh we wear, 
 Resume it in thy want, and eat of it. 
 
 " And, not to make them sadder, thence I sate 
 
 Holding my spirit in stillness. Silently 
 Two days went by. Ah, earth most obdurate ! 
 
 Why didst not ope on our great misery 1 
 The fourth day came, and Gaddo my meek-eyed 
 
 And best-loved Gaddo sank and cried to me, 
 Father, hast thou no help ! and there he died. 
 
 And plain as thou seest me, saw I the three, 
 Two days thereafter, fall down side by side. 
 
 " Thence I betook me, now grown blind, to grope 
 Above them, and for three dark days made moan, 
 
 Calling upon the dead in wo, not hope ; 
 
 Then hunger of my grief fell mastery won." 
 
STORY OF UGOLINO. 215 
 
 Here ending, Ugolino turned to hug 
 
 His skull, as a gaunt mastiff hugs a bone, 
 
 And, slavering fiercely as he fastened, dug 
 His teeth into its scalp, and fed thereon 
 
 With many a mangling grip, and sidelong tug. 
 
 Pisa ! thou burning shame of all who be 
 
 Dwellers within that region of delight, 
 Where sweetest is the voice of Italy ! 
 
 Since man is slow to punish thee aright 
 May firm Capraia and Gorgona rise 
 
 From their isled roots, and dam to drowning height 
 The waves of Arno, till thy perishing cries 
 
 Prove that thou payest, to the last bloody mite, 
 Even pang for pang, thy debt of cruelties. 
 
 Thou vile ! thou murder-fronted ! what if fame 
 Reported that thy castles were betrayed 
 
 By that fierce sire ? Doth it abate the shame 
 Leprous upon thee for his children dead ? 
 
216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Brigata, Hugo, and the sweet ones twin 
 In gentleness of whom my song hath said : 
 
 If sin there were, how might these join therein ? 
 Thou modern Thebes ! their very childhood made 
 
 These tender ones incapable of sin ! 
 
 
 THE END. 
 
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