[Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who, having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without ever having seen her. In 1162 he quitted the court of England and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her on board a vessel, visited him on shipboard, took him by the hand, and attempted to cheer him. Rudel recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry which the countess raised to his memory. His verses "On Distant Love" were well known. They began thus:
Angry and sad shall be my way
If I behold not her afar,
And yet I know not when that day
Shall rise, for still she dwells afar.
God, who has formed this fair array
Of worlds, and placed my love afar,
Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray,
Of seeing her I love afar.
]
VII.
THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR.
I.
The baron has gone to the hunting green,
All by the ancient Castle of Weir,
With his guest, Sir Hubert, of Norman kin,
And a maiden, his only daughter dear—
The Ladye Tomasine, famed around
For beauty as well as for courtesie,
Wherever might sensible heads be found,
Or ears to listen, or eyes to see.
Nor merely skin-deep was she fair:
She had a spirit both true and leal,
As all about the Castle of Weir
Were many to know, and many to tell.
Right well she knew what it was to feel
Grim poverty in declining day,
With a purse to ope, and a hand to deal,
And tears to bless what she gave away;
Yet she was blithe and she was gay.
And now she has gone to the hunting green,
All on this bright and sunshiny day,
To fly her favourite peregrine,
With her hunting coat of the baudykin,
Down which there flowed her raven hair,
And her kirtle of the red sendal fine,
With an eagle's plume in her heading gear.
II.
If the knight had not a hawk on his wrist,
He had kestrel eyes both cunning and keen,
And the quarry of which he was in quest
Was the heart of the lovely Tomasine;
But the ladye thought him a kestrel kite,
With a grovelling eye to the farmer's coop,
And wanted the bold and daring flight
That mounts to the sun to make a swoop.
The Baron of Weir points to the sky,
"Ho! ho! a proud heron upon the wing!
Unhood, my Tomasine dear, untie!
Off with the jesses—away him fling!"
"Up! up! my Guy," cried the laughing maid,
As with nimble fingers she him unjessed,
"Up! up! and away! and earn thy bread,
Then back to thy mistress to be caressed."
Up sprang the bird with a joyful cry,
And eyed his quarry, yet far away,
Still up and up in the dark blue sky,
That he might aim a swoop on his prey;
Then down as the lightning bolt of Jove
On the heron, who, giving a scream of fear,
Shoots away from his enemy over above,
And makes for the rushing Water of Weir.