I.
Ye have heard of the Castle of Miolan
And how it hath stood since time began,
Midway to yon mountain's brow,
Guarding the beautiful valley below:
Its crest the clouds, its ancient feet
Where the Arc and the Isère murmuring meet
Earth hath few lovelier scenes to show
Than Miolan with its hundred halls,
Its massive towers and bannered walls,
Looming out through the vines and walnut woods
That gladden its stately solitudes.
And there might ye hear but yestermorn
The loud halloo and the hunter's horn,
The laugh of mailèd men at play.
The drinking bout and the roundelay.
But now all is sternest silence there.
Save the bell that calls to vesper prayer;
Save the ceaseless surge of a father's wail,
And, hark! ye may hear the Baron's Tale.
II.
"Come hither. Hermit!--Yestermorn
I had an only son,
A gallant fair as e'er was born,
A knight whose spurs were won
In the red tide by Godfrey's side
At Ascalon.
[{34}]
"But yestermorn he came to me
For blessing on his lance,
And death and danger seemed to flee
The joyaunce of his glance,
For he would ride to win his Bride,
Christine of France.
"All sparkling in the sun he stood
In mail of Milan dressed,
A scarf, the gift of her he wooed,
Lay lightly o'er his breast.
As, with a clang, to horse he sprang
With nodding crest
"Gaily he grasped the stirrup cup
Afoam with spicy ale,
But as he took the goblet up
Methought his cheek grew pale.
And a shudder ran through the iron man
And through his mail.
"Oft had I seen him breast the shock
Of squire or crownèd king,
His front was firm as rooted rock
When spears were shivering:
I knew no blow could shake him so
From living thing.
"'Twas something near akin to death
That blanched and froze his cheek,
Yet 'twas not death, for he had breath,
And when I bade him speak,
Unto his breast his hand he pressed
With one wild shriek.
"The hand thus clasped upon his heart
So sharply curbed the rein,
Grey Caliph, rearing with a start,
Went bounding o'er the plain
Away, away with echoing neigh
And streaming mane.
"After him sped the menial throng;
I stirred not in my fear;
Perchance I swooned, for it seemed not long
Ere the race did reappear,
And my son still led on his desert-bred.
Grasping his spear.
[{35}]
"Unchanged in look or limb, he came.
He and his barb so fleet,
His hand still on his heart, the same
Stem bearing in his seat,
And wheeling round with sudden bound
Stopped at my feet.
"And soon as ceased that wildering tramp
'What ails thee, boy?' I cried--
Taking his hand all chill and damp--
'What means this fearful ride?
Alight, alight, for lips so white
Would scare a Bride!'
"But sternly to his steed clove he,
And answer made he none,
I clasped him by his barbèd knee
And there I made my moan;
While icily he stared at me,
At me alone.
"A strange, unmeaning stare was that,
And a page beside me said,
'If ever corse in saddle sat,
Our lord is certes sped!'
But I smote the lad, for it drove me mad
To think him dead.
"What! dead so young, what! lost so soon,
My beautiful, my brave!
Sooner the sun should find at noon
In central heaven a grave!
Sweet Jesu, no, it is not so
When Thou canst save!
"For was he dead and was he sped,
When he could ride so well,
So bravely bear his plumèd head?
Or, was't some spirit fell
In causeless wrath had crossed his path
With fiendish spell?
"Oh. Hermit, 'twas a cruel sight.
And He, who loves to bless,
Ne'er sent on son such bitter blight.
On sire such sore distress,
Such piteous pass, and I, alas,
So powerless!
[{36}]
"They would have ta'en him from his horse
The while I wept and prayed,
They would have lain him like a corse
Upon a litter made
Of traversed spear and martial gear.
But I forbade.
"I gazed into his face again,
I chafed his hand once more,
I summoned him to speak, in vain--
He sat there as before,
While the gallant Grey in dumb dismay
His rider bore.
"Full well, full well Grey Caliph then
The horror seemed to know.
E'en deeper than my mailèd men
Methought he felt our woe;
For the barbed head of the desert-bred
Was drooping low.
"Amazed, aghast, he gazed at me,
That mourner true and good.
Then backward at my boy looted he.
As if a word he sued.
And like sculptured pile in abbey aisle
The train there stood.
"I took the rein: the frozen one
Still fast in saddle sate.
As tremblingly I led him on
Toward the great castle gate.
O walls mine own, why have ye grown
So desolate?--
"I led them to the castle gate
And paused before the shrine
Where throned in state from earliest date,
Protectress of our line.
Madonna pressed close to her breast
The Babe Divine.
"And kneeling lowly at her feet,
I begged the Mother mild
That she would sue her Jesu sweet
To aid my stricken child;
And the meek stone face flashed full of grace
As if she smiled.
[{37}]
"And methought the eyes of the Full of Grace
Upon my darling shone,
Till living seemed that marble face
And the living man seemed stone,
While a halo played round the Mother Maid
And round her Son.
"And there was radiance everywhere
Surpassing light of day,
On man and horse, on shield and spear
Burned the bright, blinding ray;
But most it shone on my only one
And his gallant Grey.
"A sudden clang of armor rang,
My boy lay on the sward.
Up high in air Grey Caliph sprang,
An instant fiercely pawed.
Then trembling stood aghast and viewed
His fallen lord.
"Then with the flash of fire away
Like sunbeam o'er the plain,
Away, away with echoing neigh
And wildly waving mane.
Away he sped, loose from his head
The flying rein.
"I watched the steed from pass to pass
Unto the welkin's rim,
I feared to turn my eyes, alas,
To trust a look at him;
And when I turned, my temples burned
And all grew dim.
"Sweet if such swoon could endless be,
Yet speedily I woke
And missed my boy: they showed him me
Full length on bed of oak.
Clad as 'twas meet in mail complete
And sable cloak.
"All of our race upon that bier
Had rested one by one,
I had seen my father lying there,
And now there lay my son!
Ah! my sick soul bled the while it said--
'Thy will be done!'
[{38}]
"Bright glanced the crest, bright gleamed the spur,
That well had played their part,
His lance still clasped, nor could they stir
His left hand from his heart;
There fast it clove, nor would it move
With all their art
"I found no voice, I shed no tear.
They thought me well resigned.
All else who stood around the bier
With weeping much were blind;
And a mourning voice went through the house
Like a low wind.
"And there was sob of aged man
And woman's wailing cry,
All cheeks were wan, all eyes o'erran,
Yon fair-haired maidens sigh.
And one apart with breaking heart
Weeps bitterly.
"But sharper than spear-thrust, I trow,
Their wailing through me went;
Stem silence suited best my woe,
And, howe'er well the intent.
Their menial din seemed half akin
To merriment
"For oh, such grief was mock to mine
Whose days were all undone.
The last of all this ancient line
To share whose grief was none!
Straight from the hall I barred them all
And stood alone.
"'Receive me now, thou bed of oak!'
I fell upon the bier.
And, Hermit, when this morning broke
It found me clinging there.
O maddening morn! That day dare dawn
On such a pair!
"I sent for thee, thou man of God,
To watch with me to-night;
My boy still liveth, by the rood,
Nor shall be funeral rite!--
But, Hermit, come: this is the room:
There lies the Knight!"
[{39}]
III.
But she apart
With breaking heart?--
That very yestermorn she stood
In the deepest shade of the walnut wood,
As a Knight rode by on his raven steed,
Crying, "Daughter mine, hast thou done the deed?
I gave thee the venom, I gave thee the spell,
A jealous heart might use them well."
But she waved her white arms and only said,
"On oaken bier is Miolan laid!"
"Dead!" laughed the Knight. "Then round Pilate's Peak
Let the red light burn and the eagle shriek.
When Miolan? heir lies on the bier,
Low is the only lance I fear:
I ride, I ride to win my Bride,
Ho, Eblis, to thy servant's side.
Thou hast sworn no foe
Shall lay me low
Till the dead in arms against me ride!"
THE SECOND SONG.
I.
They passed into an ancient hall
With oaken arches spanned.
Full many a shield hung on the wall,
Full many a broken brand.
And barbèd spear and scimetar
From Holy Land.
And scarfs of dames of high degree
With gold and jewels rich,
And many a mouldered effigy
In many a mouldering niche,
Like grey sea shells whose crumbling cells
Bestrew the beach.
[{40}]
The sacred dead possessed the place,
The silent cobweb wreathed
The tombs where slept that warrior race,
With swords for ever sheathed:
You seemed to share the very air
Which they had breathed.
Oh, darksome was that funeral room,
Those oaken arches dim,
The torchlight, struggling through the gloom,
Fell faint on effige grim,
On dragon dread and carvèd head
Of Cherubim.
Of Cherubim fast by a shrine
Whereon the last sad rite
Was wont for all that ancient line,
For dame and belted knight--
A shrine of Moan which death alone
Did ever light.
But light not now that altar stone
While hope of life remain,
Though darksome be that altar lone,
Unlit that funeral fane,
Save by the rays cast by the blaze
Of torches twain.
Of torches twain at head and heel
Of him who seemeth dead,
Who sleepeth so well in his coat of steel.
His cloak around him spread--
The young Knight fair, who lieth there
On oaken bed.
One hand still fastened to his heart.
The other on his lance,
While through his eyelids, half apart.
Life seemeth half to glance.
"Sweet youth awake, for Jesu's sake,
From this strange trance!"
But heed or answer there is none.
Then knelt that Hermit old;
To Mother Mary and her Son
Full many a prayer he told,
Whose wondrous words the Church records
In lettered gold:
[{41}]
And many a precious litany
And many a pious vow,
Then rising said, "If fiend it be,
That fiend shall leave thee now!"
And traced the sign of the Cross divine
On lips and brow.
As well expect yon cherub's wings
To wave at matin bell!
Not all the relics of the kings
Could break that iron spell.
"Pray for the dead, let mass be said,
Toll forth the knell!"
"Not yet!" the Baron gasped and sank
As if beneath a blow,
With lips all writhing as they drank
The dregs of deepest woe;
With eyes aglare, and scattered hair
Tossed to and fro.
So swings the leaf that lingers last
When wintry tempests sweep,
So reels when storms have stripped the mast
The galley on the deep,
So nods the snow on Eigher's brow
Before the leap.
Uncertain 'mid his tangled hair
His palsied fingers stray,
He smileth in his dumb despair
Like a sick child at play.
Though wet, I trow, with tears eno'
That beard so grey.
Oh, Hermit, lift him to your breast,
There best his heart may bleed;
Since none but heaven can give him rest,
Heaven's priest must meet his need:
Dry that white beard, now wet and weird
As pale sea-weed.
Uprising slowly from the ground,
With short and frequent breath.
In aimless circles, round and round,
The Baron tottereth
With trailing feet, a mourner meet
For house of death.
[{42}]
Till, pausing by the shrine of Moan,
He said, the while he wept,
"Here, Hermit, here mine only one,
When all the castle slept,
As maiden knight, o'er armor bright,
His first watch kept.
"This is the casque that first he wore,
And this his virgin shield.
This lance to his first tilt he bore,
With this first took the field--
How light, how lâche to that huge ash
He now doth wield!
"This blade hath levelled at a blow
The she-wolf in her den.
With this red falchion he laid low
The slippery Saracen.
God! will that hand, so near his brand,
Ne'er strike again?
"Frown not on him, ye men of old.
Whose glorious race is run;
Frown not on him, my fathers bold.
Though many the field ye won:
His name and los may mate with yours
Though but begun!
"Receive him, ye departed brave,
Unlock the gates of light.
And range yourselves about his grave
To hail a brother knight.
Who never erred in deed or word
Against the right!
"But is he dead and is he sped
Withouten scathe or scar?
Why, Hermit, he hath often bled
From sword and scimetar--
I've seen him ride, wounds gaping wide,
From war to war.
"And hath a silent, viewless thing
Laid danger's darling low,
When youth and hope were on the wing
And life in morning glow?
Not yonder worm in winter's storm
Perisheth so!
[{43}]
"Oh, Hermit, thou hast heard, I ween,
Of trances long and deep,
But, Hermit, hast thou ever seen
That grim and stony sleep.
And canst thou tell how long a spell
Such slumbers keep?
"Oh, be there naught to break the charm,
To thaw this icy chain;
Has Mother Church no word to warm
These freezing lips again;
Be holy prayer and balsams rare
Alike in vain? . . . .
"A curse on thy ill-omened head;
Man, bid me not despair;
Churl, say not that a Knight is dead
When he can couch his spear;
When he can ride--Monk, thou hast lied.
He lives, I swear!
"Up from that bier! Boy, to thy feet!
Know'st not thy father's voice?
Thou ne'er hast disobeyed . . . is't meet
A sire should summon thrice?
By these grey hairs, by these salt tears,
Awake, arise!
"Ho, lover, to thy ladye flee,
Dig deep the crimson spur;
Sleep not 'twixt this lean monk and me
When thou shouldst kneel to her!
Oh 'tis a sin, Christine to win
And thou not stir!
"Ho, laggard, hear yon trumpet's note
Go sounding to the skies,
The lists are set, the banners float.
Yon loud-mouthed herald cries,
'Ride, gallant knights, Christine invites.
Herself the prize!'
"Ho, craven, shun'st thou the melée,
When she expects thy brand
To prove to-day in fair tourney
A title to her hand?
Up, dullard base, or by the mass
I'll make thee stand!" . . . .
[{44}]
Thrice strove he then to wrench apart
Those fingers from the spear.
Thrice strove to sever from the heart
The hand that rested there.
Thrice strove in vain with frantic strain
That shook the bier.
Thrice with the dead the living strove,
Their armor rang a peal,
The sleeping knight he would not move
Although the sire did reel:
That stately corse defied all force,
Stubborn as steel.
"Ay, dead, dead, dead!" the Baron cried;
"Dear Hermit, I did rave.
O were we sleeping side by side! . .
Good monk, I penance crave
For all I said .... Ay, he is dead,
Pray heaven to save!
"Betake thee to thy crucifix,
And let me while I may
Rain kisses on these frozen cheeks
Before they know decay.
Leave me to weep and watch and keep
The worm at bay.
"Thou wilt not spare thy prayers, I trust;
But name not now the grave--
I'll watch him to the very dust! ....
So, Hermit, to thy cave.
Whilst here I cling lest creeping thing
Insult the brave!"
------
Why starts the Hermit to his feet,
why springs he to the bier,
Why calleth he on Jesu sweet,
Staying the starting tear.
What whispereth he half trustfully
And half in fear?
[{45}]
"Sir Knight, thy ring hath razed his flesh--
'Twas in thy frenzy done;
Lo, from his wrist how fast and fresh
The blood-drops trickling run;
Heaven yet may wake, for Mary's sake,
Thy warrior son.
"Heap ashes on thy head, Sir Knight,
In sackcloth gird thee well,
The shrine of Moan must blaze in light,
The morning mass must swell;
Arouse from sleep the castle keep,
Sound every bell!"
They come, pale maid and mailèd man
They throng into the hall,
The watcher from the barbican,
The warder from the wall.
And she apart, with breaking heart,
The last of all.
"Introibo! Introibo!"
The morning mass begins;
"Mea culpa! mea culpa!"
Forgive us all our sins;
And the rapt Hermit chaunts with streaming eyes,
That seem to enter Paradise,
"Gloria! Gloria!"
The shrine of Moan had never known
That gladdest of all hymns.
------
II.
The fair-haired maiden standeth apart
In the chapel gloom, with breaking heart.
But a smile broke over her face as she said,
"The draught was well measured, I ween;
He liveth, thank Allah, but not to wed
His beautiful Christine.
No lance hath Miolan couched to-day:
Let the bride for the bridegroom watch, and pray.
Till the lists shall hear the shriek
Of the Dauphin's daughter borne away
By the Knight of Pilate's Peak."
TO BE CONTINUED.
A LETTER TO THE REV. E. B. PUSEY, D.D., ON HIS RECENT EIRENICON.
BY JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, D.D., OF THE ORATORY.
Veni, Domine, et noli tardare,
relaxa facinora plebi tuae;
et rovoca dispersos in terram suam.
No one who desires the union of Christendom, after its many and long-standing divisions, can have any other feeling than joy, my dear Pusey, at finding from your recent volume that you see your way to make definite proposals to us for effecting that great object, and are able to lay down the basis and conditions on which you could co-operate in advancing it. It is not necessary that we should concur in the details of your scheme, or in the principles which it involves, in order to welcome the important fact that, with your personal knowledge of the Anglican body, and your experience of its composition and tendencies, you consider the time to be come when you and your friends may, without imprudence, turn your minds to the contemplation of such an enterprise. Even were you an individual member of that church, a watchman upon a high tower in a metropolis of religious opinion, we should naturally listen with interest to what you had to report of the state of the sky and the progress of the night, what stars were mounting up or what clouds gathering; what were the prospects of the three great parties which Anglicanism contains within it, and what was just now the action upon them respectively of the politics and science of the time. You do not go into these matters; but the step you have taken is evidently the measure and the issue of the view which you have formed of them all.