Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson's sake.
When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon,
Within a while he lifted up his head
And spoke for his own life; not crouching, though,
As abjectly afraid to die, nor yet
Sullenly brave as many a thief will die,
Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God:
Few words he spoke; not so much what he said
Moved us, I think, as, saying it, there played
Strange tenderness from that big soldier there
About his pleading; eagerness to live
Because folk loved him, and he loved them back,
And many gallant plans unfinish'd now
For ever. Clisson's heart, which may God bless!
Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain;
Wherefore I bring this message:
That he waits,
Still loving you, within the little church
Whose windows, with the one eye of the light
Over the altar, every night behold
The great dim broken walls he strove to keep!
There my Lord Clisson did his burial well.
Now, lady, I will go: God give you rest!
ALICE.
Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell!
And now to keep myself from going mad.
Christ! I have been a many times to church,
And, ever since my mother taught me prayers,
Have used them daily, but to-day I wish
To pray another way; come face to face,
O Christ, that I may clasp your knees and pray
I know not what; at any rate come now
From one of many places where you are,
Either in Heaven amid thick angel wings,
Or sitting on the altar strange with gems,
Or high up in the duskness of the apse;
Let us go, You and I, a long way off,
To the little damp, dark, Poitevin church.
While you sit on the coffin in the dark,
Will I lie down, my face on the bare stone
Between your feet, and chatter anything
I have heard long ago. What matters it
So I may keep you there, your solemn face
And long hair even-flowing on each side,
Until you love me well enough to speak,
And give me comfort? yea, till o'er your chin,
And cloven red beard the great tears roll down
In pity for my misery, and I die,
Kissed over by you.
Eh Guesclin! if I were
Like Countess Mountfort now, that kiss'd the knight,
Across the salt sea come to fight for her:
Ah! just to go about with many knights,
Wherever you went, and somehow on one day,
In a thick wood to catch you off your guard,
Let you find, you and your some fifty friends,
Nothing but arrows wheresoe'er you turn'd,
Yea, and red crosses, great spears over them;
And so, between a lane of my true men,
To walk up pale and stern and tall, and with
My arms on my surcoat, and his therewith,
And then to make you kneel, O knight Guesclin;
And then: alas! alas! when all is said,
What could I do but let you go again,
Being pitiful woman? I get no revenge,
Whatever happens; and I get no comfort:
I am but weak, and cannot move my feet,
But as men bid me.
Strange I do not die.
Suppose this has not happen'd after all?
I will lean out again and watch for news.
I wonder how long I can still feel thus,
As though I watch'd for news, feel as I did
Just half-an-hour ago, before this news.
How all the street is humming, some men sing,
And some men talk; some look up at the house,
Then lay their heads together and look grave:
Their laughter pains me sorely in the heart;
Their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round:
Yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing?
Eh? Launcelot, and love and fate and death:
They ought to sing of him who was as wight
As Launcelot or Wade, and yet avail'd
Just nothing, but to fail and fail and fail,
And so at last to die and leave me here,
Alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will,
When many years are past, make songs of us:
God help me, though, truly I never thought
That I should make a story in this way,
A story that his eyes can never see.
[_One sings from outside._]
_Therefore be it believed
Whatsoever he grieved,
When his horse was relieved,
This Launcelot,_
_Beat down on his knee,
Right valiant was he
God's body to see,
Though he saw it not._
_Right valiant to move,
But for his sad love
The high God above
Stinted his praise._
_Yet so he was glad
That his son, Lord Galahad,
That high joyaunce had
All his life-days._
_Sing we therefore then
Launcelot's praise again,
For he wan crownes ten,
If he wan not twelve._
_To his death from his birth
He was mickle of worth,
Lay him in the cold earth,
A long grave ye may delve._
_Omnes homines benedicite!
This last fitte ye may see,
All men pray for me
Who made this history
Cunning and fairly._
RAPUNZEL
RAPUNZEL
THE PRINCE, _being in the wood near the tower, in the
evening_.
I could not even think
What made me weep that day,
When out of the council-hall
The courtiers pass'd away,--
THE WITCH.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair!
RAPUNZEL.
Is it not true that every day
She climbeth up the same strange way,
Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay,
Over my golden hair?
THE PRINCE.
And left me there alone,
To think on what they said:
'Thou art a king's own son,
'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.'
THE WITCH.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair!
RAPUNZEL.
When I undo the knotted mass,
Fathoms below the shadows pass
Over my hair along the grass.
O my golden hair!
THE PRINCE.
I put my armour on,
Thinking on what they said:
'Thou art a king's own son,
'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.'
THE WITCH.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair!
RAPUNZEL.
See on the marble parapet,
I lean my brow, strive to forget
That fathoms below my hair grows wet
With the dew, my golden hair.
THE PRINCE.
I rode throughout the town,
Men did not bow the head,
Though I was the king's own son:
He rides to dream, they said.
THE WITCH.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Wind up your hair!
RAPUNZEL.
See on the marble parapet,
The faint red stains with tears are wet;
The long years pass, no help comes yet
To free my golden hair.
THE PRINCE.
For leagues and leagues I rode,
Till hot my armour grew,
Till underneath the leaves
I felt the evening dew.
THE WITCH.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Weep through your hair!
RAPUNZEL.
And yet: but I am growing old,
For want of love my heart is cold;
Years pass, the while I loose and fold
The fathoms of my hair.
THE PRINCE, _in the morning_.
I have heard tales of men, who in the night
Saw paths of stars let down to earth from heaven,
Who followed them until they reach'd the light
Wherein they dwell, whose sins are all forgiven;
But who went backward when they saw the gate
Of diamond, nor dared to enter in;
All their life long they were content to wait,
Purging them patiently of every sin.
I must have had a dream of some such thing,
And now am just awaking from that dream;
For even in grey dawn those strange words ring
Through heart and brain, and still I see that gleam.
For in my dream at sunset-time I lay
Beneath these beeches, mail and helmet off,
Right full of joy that I had come away
From court; for I was patient of the scoff
That met me always there from day to day,
From any knave or coward of them all:
I was content to live that wretched way;
For truly till I left the council-hall,
And rode forth arm'd beneath the burning sun,
My gleams of happiness were faint and few,
But then I saw my real life had begun,
And that I should be strong quite well I knew.
For I was riding out to look for love,
Therefore the birds within the thickets sung,
Even in hot noontide; as I pass'd, above
The elms o'ersway'd with longing towards me hung.
Now some few fathoms from the place where I
Lay in the beech-wood, was a tower fair,
The marble corners faint against the sky;
And dreamily I wonder'd what lived there:
Because it seem'd a dwelling for a queen,
No belfry for the swinging of great bells.
No bolt or stone had ever crush'd the green
Shafts, amber and rose walls, no soot that tells
Of the Norse torches burning up the roofs,
On the flower-carven marble could I see;
But rather on all sides I saw the proofs
Of a great loneliness that sicken'd me;
Making me feel a doubt that was not fear,
Whether my whole life long had been a dream,
And I should wake up soon in some place, where
The piled-up arms of the fighting angels gleam;
Not born as yet, but going to be born,
No naked baby as I was at first,
But an armed knight, whom fire, hate and scorn
Could turn from nothing: my heart almost burst
Beneath the beeches, as I lay a-dreaming,
I tried so hard to read this riddle through,
To catch some golden cord that I saw gleaming
Like gossamer against the autumn blue.
But while I ponder'd these things, from the wood
There came a black-hair'd woman, tall and bold,
Who strode straight up to where the tower stood,
And cried out shrilly words, whereon behold--
THE WITCH, _from the tower_.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair!
THE PRINCE.
Ah Christ! it was no dream then, but there stood
(She comes again) a maiden passing fair,
Against the roof, with face turn'd to the wood,
Bearing within her arms waves of her yellow hair.
I read my riddle when I saw her stand,
Poor love! her face quite pale against her hair,
Praying to all the leagues of empty land
To save her from the woe she suffer'd there.
To think! they trod upon her golden hair
In the witches' sabbaths; it was a delight
For these foul things, while she, with thin feet bare,
Stood on the roof upon the winter night,
To plait her dear hair into many plaits,
And then, while God's eye look'd upon the thing,
In the very likenesses of Devil's bats,
Upon the ends of her long hair to swing.
And now she stood above the parapet,
And, spreading out her arms, let her hair flow,
Beneath that veil her smooth white forehead set
Upon the marble, more I do not know;
Because before my eyes a film of gold
Floated, as now it floats. O unknown love,
Would that I could thy yellow stair behold,
If still thou standest the lead roof above!
THE WITCH, _as she passes_.
Is there any who will dare
To climb up the yellow stair,
Glorious Rapunzel's golden hair?
THE PRINCE.
If it would please God make you sing again,
I think that I might very sweetly die,
My soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain,
My heavy body on the beech-nuts lie.
Now I remember what a most strange year,
Most strange and awful, in the beechen wood
I have pass'd now; I still have a faint fear
It is a kind of dream not understood.
I have seen no one in this wood except
The witch and her; have heard no human tones,
But when the witches' revelry has crept
Between the very jointing of my bones.
Ah! I know now; I could not go away,
But needs must stop to hear her sing that song
She always sings at dawning of the day.
I am not happy here, for I am strong,
And every morning do I whet my sword,
Yet Rapunzel still weeps within the tower,
And still God ties me down to the green sward,
Because I cannot see the gold stair floating lower.
RAPUNZEL _sings from the tower_.
My mother taught me prayers
To say when I had need;
I have so many cares,
That I can take no heed
Of many words in them;
But I remember this:
_Christ, bring me to thy bliss.
Mary, maid withouten wem,
Keep me!_ I am lone, I wis,
Yet besides I have made this
By myself: _Give me a kiss,
Dear God dwelling up in heaven!_
Also: _Send me a true knight,
Lord Christ, with a steel sword, bright,
Broad, and trenchant; yea, and seven
Spans from hilt to point, O Lord!
And let the handle of his sword
Be gold on silver, Lord in heaven!
Such a sword as I see gleam
Sometimes, when they let me dream._
Yea, besides, I have made this:
_Lord, give Mary a dear kiss,
And let gold Michael, who looked down,
When I was there, on Rouen town
From the spire, bring me that kiss
On a lily! Lord do this!_
These prayers on the dreadful nights,
When the witches plait my hair,
And the fearfullest of sights
On the earth and in the air,
Will not let me close my eyes,
I murmur often, mix'd with sighs,
That my weak heart will not hold
At some things that I behold.
Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans,
That swell out the little bones
Of my bosom; till a trance
God sends in middle of that dance,
And I behold the countenance
Of Michael, and can feel no more
The bitter east wind biting sore
My naked feet; can see no more
The crayfish on the leaden floor,
That mock with feeler and grim claw.
Yea, often in that happy trance,
Beside the blessed countenance
Of golden Michael, on the spire
Glowing all crimson in the fire
Of sunset, I behold a face,
Which sometime, if God give me grace,
May kiss me in this very place.
_Evening in the tower._
RAPUNZEL.
It grows half way between the dark and light;
Love, we have been six hours here alone:
I fear that she will come before the night,
And if she finds us thus we are undone.
THE PRINCE.
Nay, draw a little nearer, that your breath
May touch my lips, let my cheek feel your arm;
Now tell me, did you ever see a death,
Or ever see a man take mortal harm?
RAPUNZEL.
Once came two knights and fought with swords below,
And while they fought I scarce could look at all,
My head swam so; after, a moaning low
Drew my eyes down; I saw against the wall
One knight lean dead, bleeding from head and breast,
Yet seem'd it like a line of poppies red
In the golden twilight, as he took his rest,
In the dusky time he scarcely seemed dead.
But the other, on his face, six paces off,
Lay moaning, and the old familiar name
He mutter'd through the grass, seem'd like a scoff
Of some lost soul remembering his past fame.
His helm all dinted lay beside him there,
The visor-bars were twisted towards the face,
The crest, which was a lady very fair,
Wrought wonderfully, was shifted from its place.
The shower'd mail-rings on the speedwell lay,
Perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the light
That blazed in the west, yet surely on that day
Some crimson thing had changed the grass from bright
Pure green I love so. But the knight who died
Lay there for days after the other went;
Until one day I heard a voice that cried:
Fair knight, I see Sir Robert we were sent
To carry dead or living to the king.
So the knights came and bore him straight away
On their lance truncheons, such a batter'd thing,
His mother had not known him on that day,
But for his helm-crest, a gold lady fair
Wrought wonderfully.
THE PRINCE.
Ah, they were brothers then,
And often rode together, doubtless where
The swords were thickest, and were loyal men,
Until they fell in these same evil dreams.
RAPUNZEL.
Yea, love; but shall we not depart from hence?
The white moon groweth golden fast, and gleams
Between the aspens stems; I fear, and yet a sense
Of fluttering victory comes over me,
That will not let me fear aright; my heart,
Feel how it beats, love, strives to get to thee;
I breathe so fast that my lips needs must part;
Your breath swims round my mouth, but let us go.
THE PRINCE.
I, Sebald, also, pluck from off the staff
The crimson banner; let it lie below,
Above it in the wind let grasses laugh.
Now let us go, love, down the winding stair,
With fingers intertwined: ay, feel my sword!
I wrought it long ago, with golden hair
Flowing about the hilts, because a word,
Sung by a minstrel old, had set me dreaming
Of a sweet bow'd down face with yellow hair;
Betwixt green leaves I used to see it gleaming,
A half smile on the lips, though lines of care
Had sunk the cheeks, and made the great eyes hollow;
What other work in all the world had I,
But through all turns of fate that face to follow?
But wars and business kept me there to die.
O child, I should have slain my brother, too,
My brother, Love, lain moaning in the grass,
Had I not ridden out to look for you,
When I had watch'd the gilded courtiers pass
From the golden hall. But it is strange your name
Is not the same the minstrel sung of yore;
You call'd it Rapunzel, 'tis not the name.
See, love, the stems shine through the open door.
_Morning in the woods._
RAPUNZEL.
O love! me and my unknown name you have well won;
The witch's name was Rapunzel: eh! not so sweet?
No! but is this real grass, love, that I tread upon?
What call they these blue flowers that lean across my feet?
THE PRINCE.
Dip down your dear face in the dewy grass, O love!
And ever let the sweet slim harebells, tenderly hung,
Kiss both your parted lips; and I will hang above,
And try to sing that song the dreamy harper sung.
_He sings._
'Twixt the sunlight and the shade
Float up memories of my maid:
God, remember Guendolen!
Gold or gems she did not wear,
But her yellow rippled hair,
Like a veil, hid Guendolen!
'Twixt the sunlight and the shade,
My rough hands so strangely made,
Folded Golden Guendolen.
Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard,
Framed her face, while on the sward
Tears fell down from Guendolen.
Guendolen now speaks no word,
Hands fold round about the sword:
Now no more of Guendolen.
Only 'twixt the light and shade
Floating memories of my maid
Make me pray for Guendolen.
GUENDOLEN.
I kiss thee, new-found name! but I will never go:
Your hands need never grip the hammer'd sword again,
But all my golden hair shall ever round you flow,
Between the light and shade from Golden Guendolen.
_Afterwards, in the Palace._
KING SEBALD.
I took my armour off,
Put on king's robes of gold;
Over the kirtle green
The gold fell fold on fold.
THE WITCH, _out of hell_.
_Guendolen! Guendolen!
One lock of hair!_
GUENDOLEN.
I am so glad, for every day
He kisses me much the same way
As in the tower: under the sway
Of all my golden hair.
KING SEBALD.
We rode throughout the town,
A gold crown on my head;
Through all the gold-hung streets,
Praise God! the people said.
THE WITCH.
_Gwendolen! Guendolen!
Lend me your hair!_
GUENDOLEN.
Verily, I seem like one
Who, when day is almost done,
Through a thick wood meets the sun
That blazes in her hair.
KING SEBALD.
Yea, at the palace gates,
Praise God! the great knights said,
For Sebald the high king,
And the lady's golden head.
THE WITCH.
_Woe is me! Guendolen
Sweeps back her hair._
GUENDOLEN.
Nothing wretched now, no screams;
I was unhappy once in dreams,
And even now a harsh voice seems
To hang about my hair.
THE WITCH.
WOE! THAT ANY MAN COULD DARE
TO CLIMB UP THE YELLOW STAIR,
GLORIOUS GUENDOLEN'S GOLDEN HAIR.
CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE
CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE
And if you meet the Canon of Chimay,
As going to Ortaise you well may do,
Greet him from John of Castel Neuf, and say
All that I tell you, for all this is true.
This Geffray Teste Noire was a Gascon thief,
Who, under shadow of the English name,
Pilled all such towns and countries as were lief
To King Charles and St. Denis; thought it blame
If anything escaped him; so my lord,
The Duke of Berry, sent Sir John Bonne Lance,
And other knights, good players with the sword,
To check this thief, and give the land a chance.
Therefore we set our bastides round the tower
That Geffray held, the strong thief! like a king,
High perch'd upon the rock of Ventadour,
Hopelessly strong by Christ! It was mid spring,
When first I joined the little army there
With ten good spears; Auvergne is hot, each day
We sweated armed before the barrier;
Good feats of arms were done there often. Eh?
Your brother was slain there? I mind me now,
A right good man-at-arms, God pardon him!
I think 'twas Geffray smote him on the brow
With some spiked axe, and while he totter'd, dim
About the eyes, the spear of Alleyne Roux
Slipped through his camaille and his throat; well, well!
Alleyne is paid now; your name Alleyne too?
Mary! how strange! but this tale I would tell:
For spite of all our bastides, damned Blackhead
Would ride abroad whene'er he chose to ride,
We could not stop him; many a burgher bled
Dear gold all round his girdle; far and wide
The villaynes dwelt in utter misery
'Twixt us and thief Sir Geffray; hauled this way
By Sir Bonne Lance at one time; he gone by,
Down comes this Teste Noire on another day.
And therefore they dig up the stone, grind corn,
Hew wood, draw water, yea, they lived, in short,
As I said just now, utterly forlorn,
Till this our knave and blackhead was out-fought.
So Bonne Lance fretted, thinking of some trap
Day after day, till on a time he said:
John of Newcastle, if we have good hap,
We catch our thief in two days. How? I said.
Why, Sir, to-day he rideth out again,
Hoping to take well certain sumpter mules
From Carcassonne, going with little train,
Because, forsooth, he thinketh us mere fools;
But if we set an ambush in some wood,
He is but dead: so, Sir, take thirty spears
To Verville forest, if it seem you good.
Then felt I like the horse in Job, who hears
The dancing trumpet sound, and we went forth;
And my red lion on the spear-head flapped,
As faster than the cool wind we rode north,
Towards the wood of Verville; thus it happed.
We rode a soft pace on that day, while spies
Got news about Sir Geffray: the red wine
Under the road-side bush was clear; the flies,
The dragon-flies I mind me most, did shine
In brighter arms than ever I put on;
So: Geffray, said our spies, would pass that way
Next day at sundown: then he must be won;
And so we enter'd Verville wood next day,
In the afternoon; through it the highway runs,
'Twixt copses of green hazel, very thick,
And underneath, with glimmering of suns,
The primroses are happy; the dews lick
The soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms,
Lest they should glitter; surely they will go
In a long thin line, watchful for alarms,
With all their carriages of booty; so,
Lay down my pennon in the grass: Lord God.
What have we lying here? will they be cold,
I wonder, being so bare, above the sod,
Instead of under? This was a knight too, fold
Lying on fold of ancient rusted mail;
No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs,
And see the quiet gleam of turquoise pale
Along the ceinture; but the long time blurs
Even the tinder of his coat to nought,
Except these scraps of leather; see how white
The skull is, loose within the coif! He fought
A good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite.
No armour on the legs too; strange in faith!
A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah!
This one is bigger, truly without scathe
His enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far;
That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now,
What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?'
Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow,
Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie,
Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small,
This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord,
These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall.
Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord?
Often, God help me! I remember when
I was a simple boy, fifteen years old,
The Jacquerie froze up the blood of men
With their fell deeds, not fit now to be told.
God help again! we enter'd Beauvais town,
Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boy
As I was then; we gentles cut them down,
These burners and defilers, with great joy.
Reason for that, too, in the great church there
These fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out,
The church at Beauvais being so great and fair:
My father, who was by me, gave a shout
Between a beast's howl and a woman's scream,
Then, panting, chuckled to me: 'John, look! look!
Count the dames' skeletons!' From some bad dream
Like a man just awaked, my father shook;
And I, being faint with smelling the burnt bones,
And very hot with fighting down the street,
And sick of such a life, fell down, with groans
My head went weakly nodding to my feet.
--An arrow had gone through her tender throat,
And her right wrist was broken; then I saw
The reason why she had on that war-coat,
Their story came out clear without a flaw;
For when he knew that they were being waylaid,
He threw it over her, yea, hood and all;
Whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'd
By those their murderers; many an one did fall
Beneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'd
Their circle, bore his death-wound out of it;
But as they rode, some archer least afear'd
Drew a strong bow, and thereby she was hit.
Still as he rode he knew not she was dead,
Thought her but fainted from her broken wrist,
He bound with his great leathern belt: she bled?
Who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'd
The beating of her heart, his heart beat well
For both of them, till here, within this wood,
He died scarce sorry; easy this to tell;
After these years the flowers forget their blood.
How could it be? never before that day,
However much a soldier I might be,
Could I look on a skeleton and say
I care not for it, shudder not: now see,
Over those bones I sat and pored for hours,
And thought, and dream'd, and still I scarce could see
The small white bones that lay upon the flowers,
But evermore I saw the lady; she
With her dear gentle walking leading in,
By a chain of silver twined about her wrists,
Her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to win
Great honour for her, fighting in the lists.
O most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrow
Into men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharp
That joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrow
For ever, like an overwinded harp).
Your face must hurt me always: pray you now,
Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some pain
To hold you always, pain to hold your brow
So smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again,
Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop,
Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feel
Far merrier? there so high they will not stop,
They are most sly to glide forth and to steal
Into my heart; I kiss their soft lids there,
And in green gardens scarce can stop my lips
From wandering on your face, but that your hair
Falls down and tangles me, back my face slips.