[ORIGINAL]
CHRISTINE:
A TROUBADOUR'S SONG,
IN FIVE CANTOS.
BY GEORGE H. MILES. [Footnote 34]
[Footnote 34: Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886, by Lawrence Kehoe, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.]
(Continued)
THE THIRD SONG.
I.
Fronting the vine-clad Hermitage,--
Its hoary turrets mossed with age,
Its walls with flowers and grass o'ergrown,--
A ruined Castle, throned so high
Its battlements invade the sky,
Looks down upon the rushing Rhone.
From its tall summits you may see
The sunward slopes of Côte Rotie
With its red harvest's revelry;
While eastward, midway to the Alpine snows,
Soar the sad cloisters of the Grande Chartreuse.
And here, 'tis said, to hide his shame,
The thrice accursed Pilate came;
And here the very rock is shown.
Where, racked and riven with remorse,
Mad with the memory of the Cross,
He sprang and perished in the Rhone.
'Tis said that certain of his race
Made this tall peak their dwelling place.
And built them there this castle keep
To mark the spot of Pilate's leap.
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Full many the tale of terror told
At eve, with changing cheek,
By maiden fair and stripling bold,
Of these dark keepers of the height
And, most of all, of the Wizard Knight,
The Knight of Pilate's Peak.
His was a name of terror known
And feared through all Provence;
Men breathed it in an undertone.
With quailing eye askance,
Till the good Dauphin of Vienne,
And Miolan's ancient Lord,
One midnight stormed the robber den
And gave them to the sword;
All save the Wizard Knight, who rose
In a flame-wreath from his dazzled foes;
All save a child, with golden hair.
Whom the Lord of Miolan deigned to spare
In ruth to womanhood,
And she, alas, is the maiden fair
Who wept in the walnut wood.
But who is he, with step of fate,
Goes gloomily through the castle gate
In me morning's virgin prime?
Why scattereth he with frenzied hand
The fierce flame of that burning brand,
Chaunting an ancient rhyme?
The eagle, scared from her blazing nest,
Whirls with a scream round his sable crest.
What muttereth he with demon smile.
Shaking his mailed hand the while
Toward the Chateau of La Sône,
Where champing steed and bannered tent
Gave token of goodly tournament,
And the Golden Dolphin shone?
"Woe to the last of the Dauphin's line,
When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine
Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak!
Burn, beacon, burn!"--and as he spoke
From the ruined towers curled the pillared smoke,
As the light flame leapt from the ancient oak
And answered the eagle's shriek.
Man and horse down the hillside sprang
And a voice through the startled forest rang--
"I ride, I ride to win my bride.
Ho, Eblis! to thy servants side;
Thou hast sworn no foe
Shall lay me low
Till the dead in arms against me ride."
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II.
Deliciously, deliciously
Cometh the dancing dawn,
Christine, Christine comes with it,
Leading in the morn.
Beautiful pair!
So cometh the fawn
Before the deer.
Christine is in her bower
Beside the swift Isère
Weaving a white flower
With her dark brown hair.
Never, O never,
Wandering river.
Though flowing for ever,
E'er shalt thou mirror
Maiden so fair!
Hail to thee, hail to thee,
Beautiful one;
Maiden to match thee,
On earth there is none.
And there is none to tell
How beautiful thou art:
Though oft the first Rudel
Has made the Princes start,
When he has strung his harp and sung
The Lily of Provence,
Till the high halls have rung
With clash of lifted lance
Vowed to the young
Christine of France.
Ah, true that he might paint
The blooming of thy cheek.
The blue vein's tender streak
On marble temple faint;
Lips in whose repose
Ruby weddeth rose.
Lips that parted show
Ambushed pearl below:
Or he may catch the subtle glow
Of smiles as rare as sweet,
May whisper of the drifted snow
Where throat and bosom meet.
And of the dark brown braids that flow
So grandly to thy feet.
Ah, true that he may sing
Thy wondrous mien.
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Stately as befits a queen,
Yet light and lithe and all awing
As becometh Queen of air
Who glideth unstepping everywhere.
And he might number e'en
The charms that haunt the drapery--
Charms that, ever changing, cluster
Round thy milk-white mantle's lustre,--
Maiden mantle that is part of thee.
Maiden mantle that doth circle thee
With the snows of virgin grace;
Halo-like around thee wreathing,
Spirit-like about thee breathing
The glory of thy face.
But these dark eyes, Christine?
Peace, poet, peace,
Cease, minstrel, cease!
But these dear eyes, Christine?
Mute, O mute
Be voice and lute!
O dear dark eyes that seem to dwell
With holiest things invisible,
Who may read your oracle?
Earnest eyes that seem to rove
Empyrean heights above,
Yet aglow with human love.
Who may speak your spell?
Dear dark eyes that beam and bless,
In whose luminous caress
Nature weareth bridal dress,--
Eyes of voiceless Prophetess,
Your meanings who may tell!
O there is none!
Peace, poet, peace.
Cease, minstrel, cease,
For there is none!
O eyes of fire without desire,
O stars that lead the sun!
But minstrel cease,
Peace, poet, peace.
Tame Troubadour be still;
Voice and lute
Alike be mute,
It passeth all your skill!
Sooth thou art fair,
O ladye dear.
Yet one may see
The shadow of the east in thee;
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Tinting to a riper flush
The faint vermilion of thy blush;
Deepening in thy dark brown hair
Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there.
For she had scarce seen summers ten,
When erst the Hermit's call
Sent all true Knights from bower and hall
Against the Saracen.
Young, motherless, and passing fair,
The Dauphin durst not leave her there,
Within his castle lone,
To kinsman's cold or casual care,
Not such as were his own:
And so the sweet Provençal maid
Shared with her sire the first Crusade.
And you may hear her oft,
In accents strangely soft.
Still singing of the rose's bloom
In Sharon,--of the long sunset
That gilds lamenting Olivet,
Of eglantines that grace the gloom
Of sad Gethsemane;
And of a young Knight ever seen
In evening walks along the green
That fringes feeble Siloë.
Young, beautiful, and passing fair--
The ancient Dauphin's only heir,
The fairest flower of France,--
Knights by sea and Knights by land
Came to claim the fair white hand,
With sigh and suppliant lance;
And many a shield
Displayed afield
The Lily of Provence.
Ladye love of prince and bard
Yet to one young Savoyard
Swerveless faith she gave--
To the young knight ever seen
When moonlight wandered o'er the green
That gleams o'er Siloë's wave.
And he, blest boy, where lingers he?
For the Dauphin hath given slow consent
That, after a joyous tournament,
The stately spousals shall be.
Christine is in her bower
That blooms by the swift Isère,
Twining a white flower
With her dark brown hair.
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The skies of Provence
Are bright with her glance,
And nature's matin organ floods
The world with music from the myriad throats
Of the winged Troubadours, whose joyous notes
Brighten the rolling requiem of the woods.
With melody, flowers, and light
Hath the maiden come to play,
As fragile, fair, and bright
And lovelier than they?
O no, she has come to her bower
That blooms by the dark Isère
For the bridegroom who named the first hour
Of day-dawn to meet her there:
But the bridal morn on the hills is born
And the bridegroom is not here.
Hie thee hither, Savoyard,
On such an errand youth rides hard.
Never knight so dutiful
Maiden failed so beautiful:
And she in such sweet need,
And he so bold and true!--
She will watch by the long green avenue
Till it quakes to the tramp of his steed;
Till it echoes the neigh of the gallant Grey
Spurred to the top of his speed.
In the dark, green, lonely avenue
The Ladye her love-watch keepeth,
Listening so close that she can hear
The very dripping of the dew
Stirred by the worm as it creepeth;
Straining her ear
For her lover's coming
Till his steed seems near
In the bee's far humming.
She stands in the silent avenue,
Her back to a cypress tree;
O Savoyard once bold and true,
Late bridegroom, where canst thou be?
Hark! o'er the bridge that spans the river
There cometh a clattering tread,
Never was shaft from mortal quiver
Ever so swiftly sped.
Onward the sound,
Bound after, bound,
Leapeth along the tremulous ground.
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From the nodding forest darting.
Leaves, like water, round them parting.
Up the long green avenue,
Horse and horseman buret in view.
Marry, what ails the bridegroom gay
That he strideth a coal black steed,
Why cometh he not on the gallant Grey
That never yet failed him at need?
Gone is the white plume, that clouded his crest,
And the love-scarf that lightly lay over his breast;
Dark is his shield as the raven's wing
To the funeral banquet hurrying.
Came ever knight in such sad array
On the merry morn of his bridal day?
The Ladye trembles, and well she may;
Saints, you would think him a fiend astray.
A plunge, a pause, and, fast beside her.
Stand the sable horse and rider.
Alas, Christine, this shape of wrath
In Palestine once crossed thy path;
His arm around thy waist, I trow,
To bear thee to his saddle-bow.
But thy Savoyard was there.
In time to save, tho' not to smite,
For the demon fled into the night
From Miolan's matchless heir.
Alas, Christine, that lance lies low--
Lies low on oaken bier!
Low bent the Wizard, till his plume
O'ershadowed her like falling doom:
She feels the cold casque touch her ear,
She hears the whisper, hollow, clear,--
"From Acre's strand, from Holy Land,
O'er mountain crag, through desert sand,
By land, by sea, I come for thee.
And mine ere sunset shalt thou be!
Dost know me, girl?"
The visor raises--
God, 'tis the Knight of Pilate's Peak!
As if in wildered dream she gazes,
Gazing as one who strives to shriek.
She cannot fly, or speak, or stir,
For that face of horror glares, at her
Like a phantom fresh from hell.
She gave no answer, she made no moan;
Mute as a statue overthrown.
Her fair face cold as carved stone,
Swooning the maiden fell.
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The sun has climbed the golden hills
And danceth down with the mountain rills.
Over the meadow the swift beams run
Lifting the flowers, one by one,
Sipping their chalices dry as they pass,
And kissing the beads from the bending grass.
The Dauphin's chateau, grand and grey,
Glows merrily in the risen day;
His castle that seemeth ancient as earth,
Lights up like an old man in his mirth.
Through the forest old, the sunbeams bold
Their glittering revel keep,
Till, in arrowy gold, on the chequered wold
In glancing lines they sleep.
And one sweet beam hath found its way
To the violet bank where the Ladye lay.
O radiant touch! perchance so shone
The hand that woke the widow's son.
She sighs, she stirs; the death-swoon breaks;
Life slowly fires those pallid lips;
And feebly, painfully, she wakes,
Struggling through that dark eclipse.
Breathing fresh of Alpine snows,
Breathing sweets of summer rose.
Murmuring songs of soft repose,
The south wind on her bosom blows:
But she heeds it not, she hears it not;
Fast she sits with steady stare.
The dew-drops heavy on her hair,
Her fingers clasped in dumb despair,
Frozen to the spot:
While o'er her fierce and fixed as fate,
The fiend on his spectral war-horse sate.
A horrible smile through the visor broke,
And, quoth he,
"I but watched till my Ladye woke.
Get thee a flagon of Shiraz wine,
For the lips must be red that answer mine!"
Cleaving the woods, like the wind he went.
His face o'er his shoulder backward bent,
Crying thrice--"We shall meet at the Tournament!"
Clasping the cypress overhead,
Christine rose from her fragrant bed.
And a prayer to Mother Mary sped.
Hold not those gleaming skies for her
The same unfailing Comforter?
And those two white winged cherubim,
She once had seen, when Christmas hymn
Chimed with the midnight mass,
Scattering light through the chapel dim,
Alive in me stained glass--
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What fiend could harm a hair of her.
While those arching-wings took care of her?
And our Ladye, Maid divine,
Mother round whose marble shrine
She wreathed the rose of Palestine
So many sinless years,
Will not heaven's maiden-mother Queen
Regard her daughter's tears!
Yes!--through the forest stepping slow,
Tranquil mistress of her woe,
Goeth the calm Christine;
And but for yonder spot of snow
Upon each temple, none may know
How stem a storm hath been.
For never dawned a brighter day,
And the Ladye smileth on her way,
Greeting the blue-eyed morn at play
With earth in her spangled green.
A single cloud
Stole like a shroud
Forth from the fading mists that hid
The crest of each Alpine pyramid;
Unmovingly it lingers over
The mountain castle of her lover;
While over Pilate's Peak
Hangs the grey pall of the sullen smoke,
Leaps the lithe flame of the ancient oak
And the eagle soars with a shriek.
Full well she knew the curse was near.
But that heart of hers had done with fear.
By St. Antoine, not steadier stands
Mont Blanc's white head in winter's whirl
Than that calm, fearless, smiling girl
With her bare brow upturned and firmly folded hands.
Back to her bower so fair
Christine her way, is wending;
Over the dark Isère
Silently she's bending,
Thus communing with the stream.
As one who whispers in a dream:
"Waters that at sunset ran
Round the Mount of Miolan;
Stream, that binds my love to me,
Whisper where that lover be;
Wavelets mine, what evil things
Mingle with your murmurings;
Tell me, ere ye glide away.
Wherefore doth the bridegroom stay?
Hath the fiend of Pilate's Peak
Met him, stayed him, slain him--speak!
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Speak the worst a Bride may know,
God hath armed my soul for woe;
Touching heaven, the virgin snow
Is firmer than the rock below.
Lies my love upon his bier,
Answer, answer, dark Isère!
Hark, to the low voice of the river
Singing 'Thy love is lost for ever!'
Weep with all thy icy fountains,
"Weep, ye cold, uncaring mountains,
I have not a tea!
Stream, that parts my love from me,
Bear this bridal rose with thee;
Bear it to the happy hearted,
Christine and all the flowers have parted!"
They are coming from the castle,
A bevy of bright-eyed girls,
Some with their long locks braided,
Some with loose golden curls.
Merrily 'mid the meadows
They win their wilful way;
Winding through sun and shadow,
Rivulets at play.
Brows with white rosebuds blowing,
Necks with white pearl entwined.
Gowns whose white folds imprison
Wafts of the wandering wind.
The boughs of the charmèd woodland
Sing to the vision sweet.
The daisies that crouch in the clover
Nod to their twinkling feet.
They see Christine by the river,
And, deeming the bridegroom near,
They wave her a dewy rose-wreath
Fresh plucked for her dark brown hair.
Hand in hand tripping to meet her,
Birdlike they carol their joy.
Wedding soft Provençal numbers
To a dulcet old strain of Savoy.
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THE GREETING.
Sister, standing at Love's golden gate.
Life's second door--
Fleet the maidentime is flying.
Friendship fast in love is dying,
Bridal fate doth separate
Friends evermore.
Pilgrim seeking with thy sandalled feet
The land of bliss;
Sire and sister tearless leaving,
To thy beckoning palmer cleaving--
Truant sweet, once more repeat
Our parting kiss.
Wanderer filling for enchanted isle
Thy dimpling sail;
Whither drifted, all uncaring.
So with faithful helmsman faring,
Stay and smile with us, awhile,
Before the gale.
Playmate, hark! for all that once was ours
Soon rings the knell:
Glade and thicket, glen and heather,
Whisper sacredly together;
Queen of ours, the very flowers
Sigh forth farewell.
Christine looked up, and smiling stood
Among the choral sisterhood:
But some who sprang to greet her, stayed
Tiptoe, with the speech unsaid;
And, each the other, none knew why.
Questioned with quick, wondering eye.
One by one, their smiles have flown.
No lip is laughing but her own;
And hers, the frozen smile that wears
The glittering of unshed tears.
"Ye nave sung for me, I will sing for ye,
My sisters fond and fair."
And she bent her head till the chaplet fell
Adown in the deep Isère.
THE REPLY.
Bring me no rose-wreath now:
But come when sunset's first tears fall.
When night-birds from the mountain call--
Then bind my brow,
Roses and lilies white--
But tarry till the glow-worms trail
Their gold-work o'er the spangled veil
Of falling night
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Twine not your garland fair
Till I have fallen fast asleep;
Then to my silent pillow creep
And leave it there--
There in the chapel yard!--
Come with twilight's earliest hush,
Just as day's last purple flush
Forsakes the sward.
Stop where the white cross stands.
You'll find me in my wedding suit,
Lying motionless and mute,
With folded hands.
Tenderly to my side:
The bridegroom's form you may not see
In the dim eve, but he will be
Fast by his bride.
Soft with your chaplet move.
And lightly lay it on my head:
Be sure you wake not with rude tread
My jealous love.
Kiss me, then quick away;
And leave us, in unwatched repose,
With the lily and the rose
Waiting for day!
But hark! the cry of the clamorous horn
Breaks the bright stillness of the morn.
From moated wall, from festal hall
The banners beckon, the bugles call,
Already flames, in the lists unrolled
O'er the Dauphin's tent, the Dolphin gold.
A hundred knights in armor glancing.
Hurry afield with pennons dancing,
Each with a vow to splinter a lance
For Christine, the Lily of Provence.
"Haste!" cried Christine;
"Sisters, we tarry late.
Let not the tourney wait
For its Queen!"
And, toward the castle gate,
They take their silent way along the green.
TO BE CONTINUED