[ORIGINAL.]
CHRISTINE:
A TROUBADOUR'S SONG,
IN FIVE CANTOS.
BY GEORGE H. MILES. [Footnote 53]
[Footnote 53: Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by Lawrence Kehoe, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.]
(CONCLUDED.)
THE FOURTH SONG.
I.
Amid the gleam of princely war
Christine sat like the evening star,
Pale in the sunset's pageant bright,
A separate and sadder light.
O bitter task
To rear aloft that shining head,
While round thee, cruel whisperers ask--
"Marry, what aileth the Bridegroom gay?
The heralds have waited as long as they may.
Yet never a sign of the gallant Grey.
Is Miolan false or dead?"
II.
The Dauphin eyed Christine askance:
"We have tarried too long," quoth he;
"Doth the Savoyard fear the thrust of France?
By the Bride of Heaven, no laggard lance
Shall ever have guard of thee!"
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You could see the depths of the dark eyes shine
And a glow on the marble cheek,
As she whispered, "Woe to the Dauphin's line
When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine
Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak."
She levelled her white hand toward the west,
Where the omen beacon shone;
And he saw the flame on the castle crest.
And a livid glare light the mountain's breast
Even down to the rushing Rhone.
Never braver lord in all the land
Than that Dauphin true and tried;
But the rein half fell from his palsied hand
And his fingers worked at the jewelled brand
That shook in its sheath at his side.
For it came with a curse from earliest time,
It was carved on his father's halls,
It had haunted him ever from clime to clime,
And at last the red light of the ancient rhyme
Is burning on Pilate s walls!
Yet warrior-like beneath his feet
Trampling the sudden fear,
He cried, "Let thy lover's foot be fleet--
If thy Savoyard would wed thee, sweet.
By Saint Mask, he were better here!
"For I know by yon light there is danger near,
And I swear by the Holy Shrine,
Be it virgin spear or Miolan's heir.
The victor to-day shall win and wear
This menaced daughter of mine!"
The lists are aflame with the gold and steel
Of knights in their proud array,
And gong and tymbalon chiming peal
As forward the glittering squadrons wheel
To the jubilant courser's neigh.
The Dauphin springs to the maiden's side,
And thrice aloud cries he,
"Ride, gallants all, for beauty ride,
Christine herself is the victor's bride.
Whoever the victor be!"
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And thrice the heralds cried it aloud,
While a wondering whisper ran
From the central lists to the circling crowd,
For all knew the virgin hand was vowed
To the heir of Miolan.
Quick at the Dauphin's plighted word
Full many an eve flashed fire,
Full many a knight took a truer sword,
Tried buckle and girth, and many a lord
Chose a stouter lance from his squire.
Back to the barrier's measured bound
Each gallant speedeth away;
Then, forward fast to the trumpet's sound,
A hundred horsemen shake the ground
And meet in the mad melée.
Crimson the spur and crimson the spear,
The blood of the brave flows fast;
But Christine is deaf to the dying prayer,
Blind to the dying eyes that glare
On her as they look their last.
She sees but a Black Knight striking so well
That the bravest shun his path;
His name or his nation none may tell,
But wherever he struck a victim fell
At the feet of that shape of wrath.
"'Fore God," quoth the Dauphin, "that unknown sword
Is making a merry day!"
But where, oh where is the Savoyard,
For low in the slime of that trampled sward
Lie the flower of the Dauphinée!
And the victor stranger rideth alone,
Wiping his bloody blade;
And now that to meet him there is none.
Now that the warrior work is done,
He moveth toward the maid.
Sternly, as if he came to kill,
Toward the damsel he turneth his rein;
His trumpet sounding a challenge shrill,
While the fatal lists of La Sône are still
As he paces the purple plain.
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A hollow voice through the visor cried,
"Mount to the crupper with me.
Mount, Ladye, mount to thy master's side.
For 'tis said and 'tis sworn thou shalt be the Bride
Of the victor, whoever he be."
At sound of that voice a sudden flame
Shot out from the Dauphin's eyes,
And he said, "Sir Knight, ere we grant thy claim,
Let us see the face, let us hear the name,
Of the gallant who winneth the prize."
"'Tis a name you know and a face you fear,"
The Wizard Knight began;
"Or hast thou forgotten that midnight drear,
When my sleeping fathers felt the spear
Of Vienne and Miolan?
"Ay, quiver and quail in thy coat of mail,
For hark to the eagle's shriek;
See the red light burns for the coming bale!"
And all knew as he lifted his aventayle
The Knight of Pilate's Peak.
From the heart of the mass rose a cry of wrath
As they sprang at the shape abhorred,
But he swept the foremost from his path,
And the rest fell back from the fatal swath
Of that darkly dripping sword.
But uprose the Dauphin brave and bold,
And strode out upon the green,
And quoth he, "Foul fiend, if my purpose hold,
By my halidome, tho' I be passing old,
We'll splinter a lance for Christine.
"Since her lovers are low or recreant.
Her champion shall be her sire;
So get a fresh lance from yonder tent.
For though my vigor be something spent
I fear neither thee nor thy fire!"
Swift to the stirrup the Dauphin he sprang,
The bravest and best of his race:
No bugle blast for the combat rang;
Save the clattering hoof and the armor clang,
All was still as each rode to his place.
[{339}]
With the crash of an April avalanche
They meet in that merciless tilt;
Back went each steed with shivering haunch.
Back to the croup bent each rider staunch.
Shivered each spear to the hilt.
Thrice flies the Baron's battle-axe round
The Wizard's sable crest;
But the coal-black steed, with a sudden bound,
Hurled the old Crusader to the ground,
And stamped on his mailed breast.
Thrice by the vengeful war-horse spurned,
Lowly the Dauphin lies;
While the Black Knight laughed as again he turned
Toward the lost Christine, and his visor burned
As he gazed at his beautiful prize.
Her doom you might read in that gloating stare,
But no fear in the maid can you see;
Nor is it the calm of a dumb despair,
For hope sits aglow on her forehead fair.
And she murmurs, "At last--it is he!"
Proudly the maiden hath sprung from her seat,
Proudly she glanceth around,
One hand on her bosom to stay its beat,
For hark! there's a sound like the flying feet
Of a courser, bound after bound.
Clearing the lists with a leopard-like spring,
Plunging at top of his speed.
Swift o'er the ground as a bird on the wing.
There bursts, all afoam, through the wondering ring,
A gallant but riderless steed.
Arrow-like straight to the maiden he sped.
With a long, loud, tremulous neigh,
The rein flying loose round his glorious head.
While all whisper again, "Is the Savoyard dead?"
As they gaze at the riderless Grey.
One sharp, swift pang thro' the virgin heart,
One wildering cry of woe.
Then fleeter than dove to her calling nest,
Lighter than chamois to Malaval's crest
She leaps to the saddle bow.
[{340}]
"Away!" He knew the sweet voice; away,
With never a look behind;
Away, away, with echoing neigh
And streaming mane, goes the gallant Grey,
Like an eagle before the wind.
They have cleared the lists, they have passed her bower,
And still they are thundering on;
They are over the bridge--another hour,
A league behind them the Leaning Tower
And the spires of Saint Antoine.
Away, away in their wild career
Past the slopes of Mont Surjeu;
Thrice have they swum the swift Isère,
And firm and clear in the purple air
Soars the Grand Som full in view.
Rough is their path and sternly steep,
Yet halting never a whit,
Onward the terrible pace they keep,
While the good Grey, breathing free and deep,
Steadily strains at the bit.
They have left the lands where the tall hemp springs,
Where the clover bends to the bee;
They have left the hills where the red vine flings
Her clustered curls of a thousand rings
Round the arms of the mulberry tree.
They have left the lands where the walnut lines
The roads, and the chestnuts blow;
Beneath them the thread of the cataract shines,
Around them the plumes of the warrior pines.
Above them the rock and the snow.
Thick on his shoulders the foam flakes lay.
Fast the big drops roll from his chest,
Yet on, ever on, goes the gallant Grey,
Bearing the maiden as smoothly as spray
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
Onward and upward, bound after bound,
By Bruno's Bridge he goes;
And now they are treading holy ground,
For the feet of her flying Caliph sound
By the cells of the Grand Chartreuse.
[{341}]
Around them the darkling cloisters frown,
The sun in the valley hath sunk;
When right in her path, lo! the long white gown,
The withered face and the shaven crown
And the shrivelled hand of a monk.
A light like a glittering halo played
Round the brow of the holy man;
With lifted finger her course he stayed,
"All is not well," the pale lips said,
"With the heir of Miolan.
"But in Chambery hangs a relic rare
Over the altar stone:
Take it, and speed to thy Bridegroom's bier;
If the Sacristan question who sent thee there,
Say, 'Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.'"
She bent to the mane while the cross he signed
Thrice o'er the suppliant head:
"Away with thee, child!" and away like the wind
She went, with a startled glance behind,
For she heard an ominous tread.
The moon is up, 'tis a glorious night,
They are leaving the rock and the snow,
Mont Blanc is before her, phantom white,
While the swift Isère, with its line of light,
Cleaves the heart of the valley below.
But hark to the challenge, "Who rideth alone?"--
"O warder, bid me not wait!--
My lover lies dead and the Dauphin o'erthrown--
A message I bear from the Monk of Cologne"--
And she swept thro' Chambery's gate.
The Sacristan kneeleth in midnight prayer
By Chamber's altar stone.
"What meaneth this haste, my daughter fair?"
She stooped and murmured in his ear
The name of the Monk of Cologne.
Slowly he took from its jewelled case
A kerchief that sparkled like snow.
And the Minster shone like a lighted vase
As the deacon unveiled the gleaming face
Of the Santo Sudario.
[{342}]
A prayer, a tear, and to saddle she springs,
Clasping the relic bright;
Away, away, for the fell hoof rings
Down the hillside behind her--God give her wings!
The fiend and his horse are in sight.
On, on, the gorge of the Doriat's won,
She is nearing her Savoyard's home,
By the grand old road where the warrior son
Of Hanno swept with his legions dun,
On his mission of hatred to Rome.
The ancient oaks seem to rock and reel
As the forest rushes by her,
But nearer cometh the clash of steel,
And nearer falleth the fatal heel,
With its flickering trail of fire.
Then first the brave young heart grew sick
'Neath its load of love and fear,
For the Grey is breathing faint and quick,
And his nostrils burn and the drops fall thick
From the point of each drooping ear.
His glorious neck hath lost its pride,
His back fails beneath her weight.
While steadily gaining, stride by stride,
The Black Knight thunders to her side--
Heaven, must she meet her fate?
She shook the loose rein o'er the trembling head,
She laid her soft hand on his mane,
She called him her Caliph, her desert-bred,
She named the sweet springs where the palm trees spread
Their arms o'er the burning plain.
But the Grey looked back and sadly scanned
The maid with his earnest eyes--
A moment more and her cheek is fanned
By the black steed's breath, and the demon hand
Stretches out for the virgin prize.
But she calls on Christ, and the kerchief white
Waves full in the face of her foe:
Back with an oath reeled the Wizard Knight
As his steed crouched low in the wondrous light
Of the Santo Sudario.
[{343}]
Blinded they halt while the maiden hies,
The murmuring Arc she can hear,
And, lo! like a cloud on the shining skies,
Atop of yon perilous precipice,
The castle of Miolan's Heir.
"Fail not, my steed!"--Round her Caliph's head
The relic shines like the sun:
Leap after leap up the spiral steep,
He speeds to his master's castle keep,
And his glorious race is won.
"Ho, warder!"--At sight of the gallant Grey
The drawbridge thundering falls:
Wide goes the gate at that jubilant neigh,
And, glory to God for his mercy to-day,
She is safe within Miolan's walls.
THE FIFTH SONG.