The martial Musgraves sheathed the sword,
And held in peace sweet Edenhall.
For never that house or that house's lord
May evil luck or mischance befal,
While their crystal chalice can soundly ring,
Or sparkle brim-full at St. Cuthbert's spring.
Rude warlike men were the race of old:
And seldom with priest of holy rood
Or penance discoursed their knights so bold,
Who won them the Forest of Inglewood.
For better lov'd they to grasp the spear,
Than beads to count or masses to hear.
There came a bright Lady from over the sea,
Once to look on their youthful heir.
Saintly and like a spirit was she;
And sweetest words did her tongue declare;
When filling a beautiful glass to the brim
At St. Cuthbert's Well, she gave it to him.
Radiant and rare--from her garment's hem
To her shining forehead, all dazzling o'er,
As of crystal and gold and enamel the gem
Of sparkling light from the fount she bore--
Her snow-white fingers unringed she spread
On the gallant young Musgrave's lordly head.
With his ruby lips he touch'd the glass,
And quaff'd off the crystal draught within.
"From thee and from thine if ever shall pass
The pledge of this hour, shall their doom begin.
Whenever that cup shall break or fall,
Farewell the luck of Edenhall!"
While marvelling much at so fair a sight,
And wooing a vision so sweet to stay,
Like a vanishing dream of the closing night
Within the dark Forest she pass'd away;
And left him musing, with senses dim,
On the gifts the bright chalice had brought to him.
He clasped it close, and he turn'd it o'er;
Within and without its form survey'd;
Till the deeds and thoughts of his sires of yore
Seem'd to him like rust on a goodly blade.
And the more the glass in his hands he turned,
The more for a nobler life he yearned.
And there on the verge of the Forest, where stood
The Hall for ages, he vow'd to be
The servant of Him who died on the Rood,
And lay in the Tomb of Arimathee;
And to drink of that cup at the Holy Well.
So wrought within him the Lady's spell.
And down the twilight came on his thought;
And sleep fell on him beneath the trees;
When an errand for water the butler brought
To the spot, where around the slumberer's knees
The envious fairies, a glittering band,
Were loosing the cup from his slackening hand.
He scared them forth: and in fierce despite
They mocked, and mowed, and sang in his ear,--
"See you yon horsemen along the height?
They had harried the Hall had'st thou not come near.
Whenever that cup shall break or fall,
Farewell the luck of Edenhall."
And the martial lords of Edenhall
They kept their cup with enamel and gold
Where never the goblet could break or fall,
Or fail its measure of luck to hold;
That birth or bridal, beneath its sway,
Might never befal on an evil day;
And land and lordship stretching wide,
And honour and worship might still be theirs;
As long as that cup, preserved with pride,
Should be honoured and prized by Musgrave's heirs:
The goblet the Lady from over the wave
To their sire in the Forest of Inglewood gave.
It has sparkled high o'er the cradled babe:
It has pledged the bride on her nuptial day:
It has bless'd their lips at life's last ebb,
With its sacred juice to cleanse the clay.
For the touch the bright Lady left on its brim
Can give light to the soul when all else is dim.
Long prosper the luck of that noble line.
May never the Musgrave's name decay.
And to crown their board, when the goblets shine,
May the crystal chalice be found alway!
For Whenever that cup shall break or fall,
Farewell the luck of Edenhall!