AT THE END.
When the five gateways of the soul
Are closing one by one,
When our being's currents slowly roll
And life nigh done,
What shall our chiefest comfort be
Amid this misery?
Not to have stores heaped up on high
Of gold and precious things,
Not to have flown from sky to sky
On Fame's wide wings,—
All these things for a space do last,
And then are overpast.
Nor to have worked with patient brain
In senate or in mart,
To have gained the meed which those attain
Who have played their part,—
Effort is fair, success is sweet,
But leave life incomplete.
Nor to have said, as the fool said,
"Be merry, soul, rejoice;
"Thou hast laid up store for many days."
Oh, foolish voice!
Already at thy gate the feet
Of the corpse-bearers meet.
Nor to have heaped up precious store
Of all the gains of time,
Of long-dead sages' treasured lore,
Or deathless rhyme,—
Learning's a sweet and comely maid,
But Death makes her afraid.
Nor to have drained the cup of youth,
To the sweet maddening lees;
Nor, rapt by dreams of Hidden Truth,
To have spurned all these;—
Pleasure, Denial, touch not him
Whose body and mind are dim.
Not one of all these things shall I
For comfort, use, or strength,
When the sure hour, when I shall die,
Takes me at length;
One thought alone shall bring redress
For that great heaviness:—
That I have held each struggling soul
As of one kin and blood,
That one sure link doth all control
To one close brotherhood;
For who the race of men doth love,
Loves also Him above.
THREE BRETON POEMS.
I.
THE ORPHAN GIRL OF LANNION.
In seventeen hundred and eighty-three,
To Lannion came dole and misery.
Mignon an orphan, as good as fair,
Served in the little hostelry there.
One darkling night, when the hour was late,
Two travellers rang at the outer gate.
"Quick, hostess! supper, red wine, and food
We have money to pay, so that all be good."
When they had drunken enough, and more,
"Here is white money to pay the score.
"And now shall your little serving-maid come,
With her lantern lighted, to guide us home."
"Gentles, in all our wide Brittany
There is no man would harm her, so let it be."
Forth went the maid, full of innocent pride,
Fearless and free, with her light by her side.
*****
When they were far on their lonely way,
They began to whisper, and mutter, and say,
"Little maid, your face is as fair and bright
As the foam on the wave in the morning light."
"Gentles, I pray you, flatter me not:
It is as God made it—no other, God wot;
"And were it fairer, I tell you true—
Ay, a hundred times fairer—'twere nought to you."
"To judge, little maid, by your sober speech,
You know all the good priests at the school can teach;
"To judge from your accents, discreet and mild,
You were bred in the convent cloister, my child."
"No teacher had I, neither priest nor nun;
There was no one to teach me on earth, not one.
"But while by my father's poor hearth I wrought,
God filled me with many a holy thought."
"Set down your lantern and put out the light
Here is gold: none can help you, 'tis dead of night."
"Good sirs! for my brother the young priest's sake;
If he heard such sayings his heart would break."
*****
"Oh, plunge me down fathoms deep in the sea,
Of your mercy, rather than this thing be!
"Rather than this—'twere a lighter doom—
Oh bury me quick in a living tomb!"
*****
The motherly hostess, sore afraid,
Waited in vain for her little maid.
She watched by the chill hearth's flickering light
Till the bell tolled twice through the black dead night.
Then cried, "Up, serving-men, sleep no more!
Help!—little maid Mignon lies drowned in gore."
*****
By the cross she lay dead, in the dead cold night,
But beside her her lantern was still alight!
II.
THE FOSTER BROTHER.
Of all the noble damsels, in all our Brittany,
Gwennola was the sweetest far, a maiden fair to see.
Scarce eighteen summers shed their gold upon her shapely head,
Yet all who loved the fair girl best were numbered with the dead—
Her father and her mother, and eke her sisters dear.
Ah! Mary, pity 'twas to see her shed the bitter tear
At her casement in the castle, where a step-dame now bare sway,
Her dim eyes fixed upon the sea, which glimmered far away.
******
For three long years she watched in vain, in dole and misery,
To see her foster brother's sail spring up from over sea;
For three long years she watched in vain, hoping each day would send
The only heart which beat to hers, her lover and her friend.
"Go, get you gone and tend the kine," the cruel step-dame said;
"Leave brooding over long-past years: go, earn your daily bread."
She woke her, ere the darkling dawns, while yet 'twas dead of night,
To sweep the floors and cleanse the house, and set the fires alight;
To fetch the water from the brook, again and yet again,
With heavy toil and panting breath, and young form bent in twain.
******
One darkling winter morning, before the dawning light,
With ringing hoofs, across the brook there rode a noble knight:
"Good morrow, gracious maiden, and art thou free to wed?"
And she, so young she was and meek, "I know not, sir," she said.
"I prithee tell me, maiden, if thou art fancy-free?"
"To none, sir, have I plighted yet my maiden troth," said she.
"Then take, fair maid, this ring of gold, and to your step-dame say,
That to-day your troth is plighted to a knight from far away;
"That at Nantes a battle fierce was fought, wherein his squire was slain,
And he himself lies stricken sore upon his bed of pain;
"But when three weeks are overpast, whatever fate betide,
He will come himself full gaily, and claim thee for his bride."
All breathless ran she homeward, when, lo, a wondrous thing!
For on her slender finger blazed her foster brother's ring.
II.
The weeks crept onward slowly, crept slowly—one, two, three;
But never came the young knight, no never more came he.
"Come, it is time that you were wed, for I have sought for you
A bridegroom fitted to your rank, an honest man and true."
"Nay, nay, I prithee, step-dame, there is none that I can wed,
Only my foster brother dear I love, alive or dead.
"With this ring his troth he plighted, and whatever fate betide,
He will come himself full gaily, and claim me for his bride."
"Peace, with thy golden wedding-ring! peace, fool, or I will teach
With blows thy senseless chattering tongue to hold discreeter speech;
"To-morrow thou shalt be the bride, whether thou wilt or not,
Of Giles the neat-herd, honest man: ay, this shall be thy lot."
"Of Giles the neat-herd, saidst thou? oh, I shall die of pain!
Oh mother, dear dead mother, that thou wert in life again!"
"Go, cry and wail without the house; go, feed on misery;
Go, take thy fill of moans and tears, for wedded thou shalt be."
III.
Just then the ancient sexton, with the bell that tolls the dead,
Went up and down the country side, and these the words he said:—
"Pray for the soul of one who was a brave and loyal knight,
Who bare at Nantes a grievous hurt, what time they fought the fight:
"To-morrow eve, at set of sun, amid the gathering gloom,
From the white church they bear him forth, to rest within the tomb."
IV.
"Thou art early from the wedding feast!" "Good truth, I could not stay;
I dared not see the piteous sight, and therefore turned away;
"I could not bear the pity and the horror in her eyne,
As she stood so fair, in blank despair, within the sacred shrine.
"Around the hapless maiden, all were weeping bitterly,
And the good old rector at the church, a heavy heart had he;
"Not a dry eye was around her, save the step-dame stern alone,
Who looked on with an evil smile, as from a heart of stone;
"And when the ringers rang a peal, as now they came again,
And the women whispered comfort, yet her heart seemed rent in twain.
"High in the place of honour at the marriage feast she sate,
Yet no drop of water drank she, and no crumb of bread she ate;
"And when at last, the feast being done, they would light
the bride to bed,
The ring from off her hand she flung, the wreath from off her head,
"And with wild eyes that spoke despair, and locks that streamed behind,
Into the darkling night she fled, as swiftly as the wind."
V.
The lights within the castle were out, and all asleep;
Only, with fever in her brain, the maid would watch and weep.
The chamber door swung open. "Who goes there?" "Do not fear,
Gwen; 'tis I, your foster brother." "Oh! at last, my love, my dear!"
He raised her to the saddle, and his strong arm clasped her round,
As, through the night, his charger white flew on without a sound.
"How fast we go, my brother!" "'Tis a hundred leagues and more."
"How happy am I, happier than in all my life before!
"And have we far to go, brother? I would that we were come."
"Have patience, sister; hold me fast; 'tis a long way to our home."
The white owl shrieked around them, the wild things shrank in fear
As through the night a cloud of light that ghostly steed drew near.
"How swift your charger is, brother! and your armour, oh, how bright!
Ah, no more you are a boy, brother, but in troth a noble knight!
"How beautiful you are, brother! but I would that we were come."
"Have patience, sister; hold me fast; we are not far from home."
"Your breath is icy-cold, brother, your locks are dank and wet;
Your heart, your hands are icy-cold; oh! is it further yet?"
"Have patience, sister; hold me fast; for we are nearly there.
Hist! hear you not our marriage bells ring through the midnight air?"
Even with the word, that ghostly steed neighed suddenly and shrill,
Then trembled once through every limb, and like a stone stood still.
********
And lo, within a land they were, a land of mirth and pleasure,
Where youths and maidens hand in hand danced to a joyous measure;
A verdant orchard closed them round with golden fruit bedight,
And above them, from the heaven-kissed hills, came shafts
of golden light;
Hard by, a cool spring bubbled clear, a fountain without stain,
Whereof the dead lips tasting, grew warm with life again.
There was Gwennola's mother mild, and eke her sisters dear:
Oh, land of joy and bliss and love!—oh, land without a tear!
VI.
But when the next sun on the earth, brake from the gathered gloom,
From the white church, the young maids bore, the virgin to her tomb.
III.
AZENOR.
"Seamen, seamen, tell me true,
Is there any of your crew
Who in Armor town has seen
Azenor the kneeling queen?"
"We have seen her oft indeed,
Kneeling in the self-same place;
Brave her heart, though pale her face,
White her soul, though dark her weed."
I.
Of a long-past summer's day
Envoys came from far away,
Mailed in silver, clothed with gold,
On their snorting chargers bold.
When the warder spied them near,
To the King he went, and cried,
"Twelve bold knights come pricking here:
Shall I open to them wide?"
"Let the great gates opened be;
See the knights are welcomed all;
Spread the board and deck the hall
We will feast them royally."
"By our Prince's high command,
Who one day shall be our King,
We come to ask a precious thing—
Azenor your daughter's hand."
"Gladly will we grant your prayer:
Brave the youth, as we have heard
Tall is she, milkwhite and fair,
Gentle as a singing bird."
Fourteen days high feast they made,
Fourteen days of dance and song;
Till the dawn the harpers played;
Mirth and joyance all day long.
"Now, my fair spouse, it is meet
That we turn us toward our home."
"As you will, my love, my sweet;
Where you are, there I would come."
II.
When his step-dame saw the bride,
Well-nigh choked with spleen was she:
"This pale-faced girl, this lump of pride—
And shall she be preferred to me?
"New things please men best, 'tis true,
And the old are cast aside.
Natheless, what is old and tried
Serves far better than the new."
Scarce eight months had passed away
When she to the Prince would come,
And with subtlety would say,
"Would you lose both wife and home?
"Have a care, lest what I tell
Should befall you; so 'twere best
Have a care and guard you well,
'Ware the cuckoo in your nest."
"Madam, if the truth you tell,
Meet reward her crime shall earn,
First the round tower's straitest cell,
Then in nine days she shall burn."
III.
When the old King was aware,
Bitter tears the greybeard shed.
Tore in grief his white, white hair,
Crying, "Would God that I were dead!"
And to all the seamen said,
"Good seamen, pray you tell me true,
Is there, then, any one of you
Can tell me if my child be dead?"
"My liege, as yet alive is she,
Though burned to-morrow shall she be:
But from her prison tower, O King!
Morning and eve we hear her sing.
"Morning and eve, from her fair throat
Issues the same sweet plaintive note,
'They are deceived; I kiss Thy rod:
Have pity on them, O my God!'"
IV.
Even as a lamb who gives its life
All meekly to the cruel knife,
White-robed she went, her soft feet bare,
Self-shrouded in her golden hair.
And as she to her dreadful fate
Fared on, poor innocent, meek and mild,
"Grave crime it were," cried small and great,
"To slay the mother and the child."
All wept sore, both small and great;
Only the step-dame smiling sate:
"Sure 'twere no evil deed, but good,
To kill the viper with her brood."
"Quick, good firemen, fan the fire
Till it leap forth fierce and red;
Fan it fierce as my desire:
She shall burn till she is dead."
Vain their efforts, all in vain,
Though they fanned and fanned again;
The more they blew, the embers gray
Faded and sank and died away.
When the judge the portent saw,
Dazed and sick with fear was he:
"She is a witch, she flouts the law;
Come, let us drown her in the sea."
V.
What saw you on the sea? A boat
Neither by sail nor oarsman sped;
And at the helm, to watch it float,
An angel white with wings outspread;
A little boat, far out to sea,
And with her child a fair ladye,
Whom at her breast she sheltered well,
Like a white dove upon a shell.
She kissed, and clasped, and kissed again
His little back, his little feet,
Crooning a soft and tender strain,
"Da-da, my dear; da-da, my sweet.
"Ah, could your father see you, sweet,
A proud man should he be to-day;
But we on earth may never meet,
But he is lost and far away."
VI.
In Armor town is such affright
As never castle knew before,
For at the midmost hour of night
The wicked step-dame is no more.
"I see hell open at my side:
Oh, save me, in God's name, my son!
Your spouse was chaste; 'twas I who lied
Oh, save me, for I am undone!"
Scarce had she checked her lying tongue,
When from her lips a snake did glide,
With threatening jaws, which hissed and stung,
And pierced her marrow till she died
Eftsoons, to foreign realms the knight
Went forth, by land and over sea;
Seeking in vain his lost delight,
O'er all the round, round world went he.
He sought her East, he sought her West,
Next to the hot South sped he forth,
Then, after many a fruitless quest,
He sought her in the gusty North.
There by some nameless island vast,
His anchor o'er the side he cast;
When by a brooklet's fairy spray,
He spies a little lad at play.
Fair are his locks, and blue his eyes,
As his lost love's or as the sea;
The good knight looking on them, sighs,
"Fair child, who may thy father be?"
"Sir, I have none save Him in heaven:
Long years ago he went away,
Ere I was born, and I am seven;
My mother mourns him night and day."
"Who is thy mother, child, and where?"
"She cleanses linen white and fair,
In yon clear stream." "Come, child, and we
Together will thy mother see."
He took the youngling by the hand,
And, as they passed the yellow strand,
The child's swift blood in pulse and arm
Leapt to his father's and grew warm.
"Rise up and look, oh mother dear;
It is my father who is here:
My father who was lost is come—
Oh, bless God for it!—to his home."
They knelt and blessed His holy name,
Who is so good, and just, and mild,
Who joins the sire and wife and child:
And so to Brittany they came.
And may the blessed Trinity,
Protect all toilers on the sea!
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
********
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
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