"'Haste on! and here thy duteous train
In rapt expectance shall remain;
Till, with thee, brilliant as a gem
Set in a kingdom's diadem,
Thy lovely mistress shall appear!
O! hasten! we await thee here!'
"Again did that upbraiding eye
Check my false strain in passing by;
And its concentred meaning fell
Into my soul:—It was not well
To triumph thus, though but in show;
To chant the lay that joyance spoke,
To wear the gay and careless look.—
The ardent and the tender know
What pain those self-reproaches brought,
When conscience took the reins of thought
Into her hand, avenging more
All that she seem'd to prompt before.
O tyrant! from whose stern command
No act of mine was ever free,
How oft wouldst thou a censor stand
For what I did to pleasure thee!
The well-propp'd courage of my look,
The sportive language, airy tone,
To wounded love and pride bespoke
A selfish hardness not my own!
And only lulling secret pain,
I seem'd to fling around disdain.
"To him, with warm affections crost,
Who, owning happiness was lost,
Had said, 'Dear maiden, were I free,
They would not let me think of thee;
The only one who on my sight
Breaks lovely as the morning light;
Whom my heart bounding springs to greet,
Seeks not, but always hopes to meet;
With eager joy unlocks its store,
Yet ever pines to tell thee more!'
To him, should feign'd indifference bring
A killing scorn, a taunting sting?
To Osvalde, drooping and forlorn,
A flower fast fading on the stem,
All exultation seem'd like scorn,
For what was hope and joy to them?
As with awakening judgment came
These feelings of remorse and shame,
With the throng'd crowd, the bustling scene,
Did deep abstractions intervene,
O'er yielding effort holding sway,
As, humbled, I pursued my way.
"The festive flowers, the incens'd air,
The altar taper's reddening glare;
The pausing, slow-advancing pair,
Her fainter, his most watchful air;
The vaulted pile, the solemn rite,
Impress'd, then languish'd on my sight;
And all my being was resign'd
To that strong ordeal, where the mind,
Summon'd before a heavenly throne,
Howe'er surrounded, feels alone.
When, bow'd in dust all earthly pride,
All earthly power and threats defied,
Mortal opinion stands as nought
In the clear'd atmosphere of thought;
And selfish care, and worldly thrall,
And mean repining, vanish all.
When prayers are pour'd to God above,
His eyes send forth their beams of love;
Darkness forsakes our mental sky,
And, demon-like, our passions fly.
The holy presence, by its stay
Drives failings, fears, and woes away;
Refines, exalts, our nature draws
To share its own eternal laws
Of pure benevolence and rest,
The future portion of the blest—
Their constant portion! Soon this flow
Of life I lost—recall'd below:
From prayers for them recall'd. Around,
A sudden rush, of fearful sound,
Smote on my ear; of voices crying,
'The bride, the Lady Osvalde dying!
Give place! make room!' the hurrying press
Eustace alarm'd; and, in distress,
Calling for air, and through the crowd
Which an impeded way allow'd,
Forcing slow progress; bearing on
Her pallid form; when, wholly gone
You might have deem'd her mortal breath,
Cold, languid, motionless as death,
I saw before my eyes advance,
And 'woke, astounded, from my trance.
"The air reviv'd her—but again
She left not, for the social train,
The stillness of her chamber;—ne'er
Its threshold pass'd, but on her bier:
Spoke but to one who seem'd to stand
Anear, and took his viewless hand,
To promise, let whate'er betide,
She would not be another's bride.
Then, pleading as for past offence,
Cried out aloud, 'They bore me hence!
My feet, my lips, refus'd to move,
To violate the vows of love!
My sense recoil'd, my vision flew,
Almost before I met thy view!
Almost before I heard thee cry
Perfidious Osvalde! look and die!
"'Oppose them? No! I did not dare!
I am not as a many are,
Ruling themselves: my spirits fly,
My force expires before reply.
Instinctively a coward, free
In speech, in act, I could not be
With any in my life, but thee!
Nor strength, nor power do I possess,
Except, indeed, to bear distress!
Except to pour the aching sigh,
Which only can my pain relieve;
Inhuman ye who ask me why,
And pause, to wonder that I grieve:
Mine are the wounds which never close,
Mine is a deep, untiring care;
A horror flying from repose,
A weight the sickening soul must bear.
The tears that from these eyelids flow,
The sad confusion of my brain,
All waking phantoms of its woe,
Your anger, and the world's disdain,—
Seek not to sooth me!—they are sent
This feeble frame and heart to try!
It is establish'd, be content!
They never leave me till I die!'
"So little here is understood,
So little known the great and good,
The deep regret that Eustace prov'd,
Brought home conviction that he lov'd
To many: others thought, her dower,
The loss of lordships, wealth, and power,
Full cause for sorrow; and the king
Hop'd he might consolation bring,
And bind a wavering servant o'er,
(Not found too loyal heretofore,)
By linking his sole daughter's fate
In wedlock with an English mate—
His favourite too! whose own domain
Spread over valley, hill, and plain;
Whose far-trac'd lineage did evince
A birth-right worthy of a prince;
Whose feats of arms, whose honour, worth,
Were even nobler than his birth;
Who, in his own bright self, did bring
A presence worthy of a king—
A form to catch and charm the eye,
Make proud men gracious, ladies sigh;
The boldest, wisest, and the best,
Greater than each presuming guest;—
I speak from judgment, not from love,—
In all endowments far above
Who tastes this day of festal cheer,
And whom his death assembles here!
"That he is known those look avow,
The mantling cheek, the knitting brow:
I could not hope it did he live,
But now, O! now, ye must forgive!
Most recreant they who dare offend
One who has lost her only friend!
De Stafford's widow here appears—
For him, my Eustace, flow these tears!
Ye may not blame me! ye have wives,
Who yet may sorrow for your lives!
Who, in the outset of their grief,
Upon a father's neck may spring;
Or find in innocence relief,
And to a cherish'd infant cling;
Or thus, like me, forlornly shed
Their lonely wailing o'er the dead!
"Can eyes that briny torrents steep,
Others in strong subjection keep?
Yes! here are some that mine obey,
And, self-indignant at the sway
I hold upon them, turn away!
Some, too, who have no cause for shame,
Whom even the injur'd cannot blame,
Now here, now there, above, below,
Their looks of wild avoidance throw!
Nay, gentle cousin, blush not so!
And do not, pray thee, rise to go!
I am bewilder'd with my woe;
But hear me fairly to the end,
I will not pain thee, nor offend.
O no! I would thy favour win;
For, when I die, as next of kin,
So 'reft am I of human ties,
It is thy place to close my eyes!
"With state and wealth to thee I part,
But could not with De Stafford's heart!
Nor could I mute and prudent be
When all at once I found 'twas thee,
Doom'd ever, in thy own despite,
To take my rank, usurp my right!
I told, alas! my father's name,
The noble stock from which I came:—
'Marie de Brehan, sounds as well,
Perhaps,' I cried, 'as Isabel!
And were the elder branch restor'd,
(My grandsire was the rightful lord,)
I, in my injur'd father's place,
Those large domains, that name would grace.'
"I never saw a joy so bright,
So full, so fledg'd with sparkling light,
As that which on the instant flew
To his quick eye, when Eustace knew
He had not yielded to a yoke
Which prudence blam'd, or reason broke.
'O! trebly blest this hour,' he cried;
'I take not now another bride!
I bow'd to duty and to pride;
But, here I pledge my solemn vow,
To wealth alone I will not bow!
The only offspring of a race
No misalliance did disgrace;
Nurtur'd, school'd, fashion'd by their laws,
Not wishing an exceptive clause,
Till thee, my only choice, I met;
And then, with useless, deep regret,
I found in birth, and that alone,
Thou wert unworthy of a throne!
My ancestors appear'd too nice;
Their grandeur bore too high a price,
If, with it, on the altar laid,
Freedom and happiness were paid!
Yet, could I give my father pain,
Or treat those lessons with disdain,
I heard a child upon his knee;
And, at the present, knew to be
Entwin'd with every vital part?
To scorn them were to break his heart!
My mother too, though meek and kind,
Possessing such a stately mind,
That once perceiving what was fit,
If 'twere to die, must still submit;
Knowing no question in the right,
Would not have borne me in her sight;
Though quick her sands of life would run,
Deserting, angry with her son!
Yet noble both, by honour bound,
To take no other vantage ground,
They will not use a meaner plea,
Nor sordid reasons urge to me!
Good and high-minded, they will yield:
I shall be victor in that field;
And for my sovereign, we shall find
Some inlet to his eager mind;
At once not rashly all disclose,
His plans or bidding to oppose,—
That his quick temper would not brook;
But I will watch a gracious look,
And foster an auspicious hour,
To try both love and reason's power.
Zealous I cannot fail to be,
Thou canst not guess to what degree,
Dear Marie, when I plead for thee!'
"That the result was plain, I knew,
For I had often heard him sue,
And never known a boon denied.
In secret I became his bride:
But heaven the union disapprov'd—
The father he so truly lov'd,
Before this first offence was told,
Though neither sick, infirm, or old,
Without a moment's warning, died!
"This seal'd his silence for awhile;
For, till he saw his mother smile,
Till time the cloud of woe should chace
From her pale, venerable face,
He felt the tale he dar'd not break,—
He could not on the subject speak!
And oh! the gentle mourn so long,
The faint lament outlasts the strong!
"Her waning health was fair pretence
To keep his voyage in suspence;
But still the king, averse or mute,
Heard coldly his dejected suit,
To give the lingering treaty o'er;
And once exclaim'd, 'Persuade no more!
This measure 'tis resolv'd to try!
We must that veering subject buy;
Else, let the enemy advance,
De Brehan surely sides with France!'"
The harp again was silent; still
No fiat of the general will
Bade her to cease or to proceed:
Oft an inquiring eye, indeed,
The strangers rais'd; but instant check'd,
Lest the new vassals should suspect
They thought the monarch's reasons just,
And faith so varying brought mistrust.
De Brehan, with a bitter smile,
Eyes closing, lips compress'd the while,
Although Remorse, with keenest dart,
And disappointment wrung his heart;
Although he long'd to thunder—"Cease!"
Restrain'd his fury, kept his peace.
The Lay of Marie.
CANTO FOURTH.
Marie, as if upon the brink
Of some abyss, had paus'd to think;
And seem'd from her sad task to shrink.
One hand was on her forehead prest,
The other clasping tight her vest;
As if she fear'd the throbbing heart
Would let its very life depart.
Yet, in that sad, bewilder'd mien,
Traces of glory still were seen;
Traces of greatness from above,
Of noble scorn, devoted love;
Of pity such as angels feel,
Of clinging faith and martyr'd zeal!
Can one, who by experience knows
So much of trial and of woes,
Late prone to kindle and to melt,
To feel whatever could be felt,
To suffer, and without complaint,
All anxious hopes, depressing fears;
Her heart with untold sorrows faint,
Eyes heavy with unshedden tears,
Through every keen affliction past,
Can that high spirit sink at last?
Or shall it yet victorious rise,
Beneath the most inclement skies,
See all it loves to ruin hurl'd,
Smile on the gay, the careless world;
And, finely temper'd, turn aside
Its sorrow and despair to hide?
Or burst at once the useless chain,
To seem and be itself again?
Will Memory evermore controul,
And Thought still lord it o'er her soul?
Queen of all wonders and delight,
Say, canst not thou possess her quite,
Sweet Poesy! and balm distil
For every ache, and every ill?
Like as in infancy, thy art
Could lull to rest that throbbing heart!
Could say to each emotion, Cease!
And render it a realm of peace,
Where beckoning Hope led on Surprize
To see thy magic forms arise!
Oh! come! all awful and sublime,
Arm'd close in stately, nervous rhyme,
With wheeling chariot, towering crest
And Amazonian splendors drest!
Or a fair nymph, with airy grace,
And playful dimples in thy face,
Light let the spiral ringlets flow,
And chaplet wreath along thy brow—
Thou art her sovereign! Hear her now
Again renew her early vow!
The fondest votary in thy train,
If all past service be not vain,
Might surely be receiv'd again!
Behold those hands in anguish wrung
One instant!—and but that alone!
When, waving grief, again she sang,
Though in a low, imploring tone.
"Awake, my lyre! thy echoes bring!
Now, while yon phoenix spreads her wing!
From her ashes, when she dies,
Another brighter self shall rise!
'Tis Hope! the charmer! fickle, wild;
But I lov'd her from a child;
And, could we catch the distant strain,
Sure to be sweet, though false and vain,
Most dear and welcome would it be!—
Thy silence says 'tis not for me!
"With Pity's softer-flowing strain,
Awake thy sleeping wires again!
For she must somewhere wander near,
In following danger, death, and fear!
From her regard no shade conceals;
Her ear e'en sorrow's whisper steals:
She leads us on all griefs to find;
To raise the fall'n, their wounds to bind—
Oh! not in that reproachful tone,
Advise me first to heal my own!
"Alas! I cannot blame the lyre!
What strain, what theme can she inspire,
Whose tongue a hopeless mandate brings!
Whose tears are frozen on the strings!
And whose recoiling, languid prayer,
Denies itself, in mere despair?
So tamely, faintly, forth it springs;
Just felt upon the pliant strings,
It flits in sickly languor by,
Nerv'd only with a feeble sigh!
"I yield submissive, and again
Resume my half-abandon'd strain!
Leading enchain'd sad thoughts along,
Remembrance prompting all the song!
But, in the journey, drawing near
To what I mourn, and what I fear,
The sad realities impress
Too deeply; hues of happiness,
And gleams of splendors past, decay;
The storm despoiling such a day,
Gives to the eye no clear, full scope,
But scatters wide the wrecks of Hope!
Yet the dire task I may not quit—
'Twas self impos'd; and I submit,
To paint, ah me! the heavy close,
The full completion of my woes!
And, as a man that once was free,
Whose fate impels him o'er the sea,
Now spreads the sail, now plies the oar,
Yet looks and leans towards the shore,
I feel I may not longer stay,
Yet even in launching court delay.
"Before De Stafford should unfold
That secret which must soon be told;
My terrors urg'd him to comply;
For oh! I dar'd not then be nigh;
And let the wide, tumultuous sea,
Arise between the king and me!
'O! tell him, my belov'd, I pine away,
So long an exile from my native home;
Tell him I feel my vital powers decay,
And seem to tread the confines of the tomb;
But tell him not, it is extremest dread
Of royal vengeance falling on my head!
"'Say, if that favour'd land but bless my eyes,
That land of sun and smiles which gave me birth,
Like the renew'd Antaeus I shall rise,
On touching once again the parent earth!
Say this, but whisper not that all delight,
All health, is only absence from his sight!'
"My Eustace smil'd—' It shall be so;
From me and love shall Marie go!
But on the land, and o'er the sea,
Attended still by love and me!
The eagle's eye, to brave the light,
The swallow's quick, adventurous flight,
That faithfulness shall place in view,
That service, daring, prompt, and true,
Yet insufficient emblems be
Of zeal for her who flies from me!
"'Deserter? hope not thus to scape!
Thy guardian still, in every shape,
Shall covertly those steps pursue,
And keep thy welfare still in view!
More fondly hovering than the dove
Shall be my ever watchful love!
Than the harp's tones more highly wrought,
Shall linger each tenacious thought!
Apt, active shall my spirit be
In care for her who flies from me!'
"And, it had been indeed a crime
To leave him, had I known the time,
The fearful length of such delay,
Protracting but from day to day,
Which reach'd at length two tedious years
Of dark surmises and of fears!
"How often, on a rocky steep,
Would I upon his summons keep
An anxious watch: there patient stay
Till light's thin lines have died away
In the smooth circle of the main,
And render'd all expectance vain.
"At the blue, earliest glimpse of morn,
Pleas'd with the lapse of time, return;
For now, perchance, I might not fail,
To see the long expected sail!
Then, as it blankly wore away,
Courted the fleeting eye to stay!
As they regardless mov'd along,
Wooed the slow moments in a song.
The time approaches! but the Hours
With languid steps advance,
And loiter o'er the summer flowers,
Or in the sun-beams dance!
Oh! haste along! for, lingering, ye
Detain my Eustace on the sea!
"Hope, all on tiptoe, does not fail
To catch a cheering ray!
And Fancy lifts her airy veil,
In wild and frolic play!
Kind are they both, but cruel ye,
Detaining Eustace on the sea!
"Sometimes within my cot I staid,
And with my precious infant play'd.
'Those eyes,' I cried, 'whose gaze endears,
And makes thy mother's flow in tears!
Those tender lips, whose dimpled stray
Can even chase suspense away!
Those artless movements, full of charms,
Those graceful, rounded, rosy arms,
Shall soon another neck entwine,
And waken transports fond as mine!
That magic laugh bespeaks thee prest
As surely to another breast!
That name a father's voice shall melt,
Those looks within his heart be felt!
Drinking thy smiles, thy carols, he
Shall weep, for very love, like me!
"Those who in children see their heirs,
Have numberless, diverging cares!
Less pure for them affection glows,—
Less of intrinsic joy bestows,
Less mellowing, less enlivening, flows!
Oh! such not even could divine
A moment's tenderness like mine!
Had he been destin'd to a throne,
His little darling self alone,
Bereft of station, grandeur, aught
But life and virtue, love and thought,
Could wake one anxious thrill, or share
One hallow'd pause's silent prayer!
"Ye scenes, that flit my memory o'er,
Deck'd in the smiles which then ye wore,
In the same gay and varied dress,
I cannot but admire and bless!
What though some anxious throbs would beat,
Some fears within my breast retreat,
Yet then I found sincere delight,
Whenever beauty met my sight,
Whether of nature, chance, or art;
Each sight, each sound, impress'd my heart,
Gladness undrooping to revive,
All warm, and grateful, and alive!
But ere my spirit sinks, so strong
Remembrance weighs upon the song,
Pass we to other themes along!
"Say, is there any present here,
Whom I can have a cause to fear?—
Whom it were wrongful to perplex,
Or faulty policy to vex?
In what affrights the quiet mind
My bitter thoughts employment find!
In what torments a common grief
Do I alone expect relief!
Our aching sorrows to disclose,
Our discontents, our wrongs repeat,
To hurl defiance at our foes,
And let the soul respire, is sweet!
All that my conscience wills I speak
At once, and then my heart may break!
"Too sure King Henry's presage rose;—
De Brehan link'd him with our foes:
Yes! ours! the Brehans us'd to be
Patterns of faith and loyalty:
And many a knightly badge they wore,
And many a trace their 'scutcheons bore,
Of noble deeds in days of yore,—
Of royal bounty, and such trust
As suits the generous and the just.
"From every record it appears,
That Normandy three hundred years
Has seen in swift succession run
With English kings, from sire to son:
But which of all those records saith,
That we may change and barter faith:
That if our favour is not sure,
Or our inheritance secure;
If envy of a rival's fame,
Or hatred at a foeman's name,
Or other reason unconfest,
Now feigning sleep in every breast;
Upon our minds, our interest weigh,
While any fiercer passion sway;
We may invite a foreign yoke,
All truth disown'd, allegiance broke?
Plot, and lay guileful snares to bring,
At cost of blood, a stranger king?
And of what blood, if it succeed,
Do ye atchieve the glorious deed?
Not of the base! when ye surprize
A lurking mischief in the eyes,
Dark hatred, cunning prompt to rise,
And leap and catch at any prey,
Such are your choice! your comrades they!
But if a character should stand
Not merely built by human hand;
Common observances; the ill
Surrounding all; a wayward will;
Envy; resentment; falsehood's ease
To win its way, evade, and please:
If, turning from this worldly lore,
As soul-debasing, servile, poor,
The growing mind becomes, at length,
Healthy and firm in moral strength;
Allows no parley and no plea,
The sources of its actions free,
They spring strait forward, to a goal
Which bounds, surmounts, and crowns the whole!
Ye seek not to allay such force,
To interrupt so bold a course!
What were the use of minds like these,
That will not on occasion seize,
Nor stoop to aid the dark design,
Nor follow in the devious line?
As soon, in the close twisted brake,
Could lions track the smooth, still snake,
As they the sinuous path pursue
Which policy may point to you!
Nay, menace not with eyes, my lords!
Ye could not fright me with your swords.
"E'en threats to punish, and to kill
With tortures difficult to bear,
Seem as they would not higher fill
The measure of my own despair!
"Such terrors could not veil the hand
Now pointing to my husband's bier;
Nor could such pangs a groan command
The childless mother should not hear!
"All now is chang'd! all contest o'er,
Here sea-girt England reigns no more;
And if your oaths are bound as fast,
And kept more strictly than the last,
Ye may, perchance, behold the time
Service to her becomes a crime!
"The troubles calling Eustace o'er,
Refresh'd my eyes, my heart, once more;
And when I gave, with pleasure wild,
Into his circling arms our child,
I seem'd to hold, all evil past,
My happiness secure at last;
But found, too soon, in every look,
In every pondering word he spoke,
Receding thought, mysterious aim:
As I did all his pity claim.
A watchfulness almost to fear
Did in each cautious glance appear.
And still I sought to fix his eye,
"And read the fate impending there,—
In vain; for it refus'd reply.
"'Canst thou not for a moment bear
Even thy Marie's look,' I cried,
'More dear than all the world beside?'
He answer'd,' Do not thou upbraid!
And blame me not, if thus afraid
A needful, dear request to make.
One painful only for thy sake,
I hesitate, and dread to speak,
Seeing that flush upon thy cheek,
That shrinking, apprehensive air.—
Oh! born with me some ills to share,
But many years of future bliss,
Of real, tranquil happiness;
I may not think that thou wouldst choose
This prospect pettishly to lose
For self-indulgence! Understood,
Love is the seeking others' good.
If we can ne'er resign delight,
Nor lose its object from our sight;
And only present dangers brave,
That which we dearest hold to save;—
If, when remov'd beyond our eye,
All faith in heaven's protection die,
Can all our tenderness atone
For ills which spring from that alone?'
My fancy rush'd the pause between—
'What can this fearful prelude mean?
Art thou but seeking some pretence,
So lately met! to send me hence?
Believ'st thou terrors will not shake,
Nor doubts distract, nor fears awake,
In absence? when no power, no charm,
Can grant a respite from alarm!
Unreal evils manifold,
Often and differently told,
Scaring repose, each instant rise,
False, but the cause of tears and sighs.
How often I should see thee bleed!
New terrors would the past succeed,
With not a smile to intervene
Of fair security between!'
"'No, Marie, no! my wife shall share
With me the trials soldiers bear:
No longer and no more we part.—-
Thy presence needful to my heart
I now more evidently know;
Making the careful moments flow
To happy music! on my brow
The iron casque shall lighter prove,—
The corslet softer on my breast,
The shield upon my arm shall rest
More easy, when the hand of love
There places them. Our succours soon
Arrive; and then, whatever boon
I shall think fitting to demand,
My gracious monarch's bounteous hand
Awards as guerdon for my charge,
And bids my wishes roam at large.
Then if we from these rebels tear
The traitor honours which they wear,
Thy father's tides and domain
Shall flourish in his line again!
And Marie's child, in time to come,
Shall call his grandsire's castle, home!
Alas! poor babe! the scenes of war
For him too harsh and frightful are!
Would that he might in safety rest
Upon my gentle mother's breast!
That in the vessel now at bay,
In Hugh de Lacy's care he lay!
My heart and reason would be free,
If he were safe beyond the sea.
"'Nay, let me not my love displease!
But is it fit, that walls like these
The blooming cherub should inclose!
And when our close approaching foes
Are skirmishing the country o'er,
We must adventure forth no more.'
"At length I gave a half consent,
Resign'd, submissive, not content:
For, only in intensest prayer,
For, only kneeling did I dare,
Sustaining thus my sinking heart,
Suffer my infant to depart.
Oh! yet I see his sparkling tears;
His parting cries are in my ears,
As, strongly bending back the head,
The little hands imploring spread,
Him from my blinding sight they bore,
Down from the fort along the shore.
"From the watch-tower I saw them sail,
And pour'd forth prayers—of no avail!
Yet, when a tempest howl'd around,
Hurling huge branches on the ground
From stately trees; when torrents swept
The fields of air, I tranquil kept.—
"Hope near a fading blossom
Will often take her stand;
Revive it on her bosom,
Or screen it with her wand:
But to the leaves no sunbeams press,
Her fair, thick locks pervading;
Through that bright wand no dew-drops bless,
Still cherish'd, and still fading:—
Beneath her eye's bright beam it pines,
Fed by her angel smile, declines.
"Eustace, meanwhile, with feverish care,
Seem'd worse the dire suspense to bear.
Bewilder'd, starting at the name
Of messenger, when any came,
With body shrinking back, he sought,
While his eye seem'd on fire with thought,
Defying, yet subdued by fear,
To ask that truth he dar'd not hear.
"He went his rounds.—The duty done,
His mind still tending toward his son;
With spirit and with heart deprest,
A judgment unsustain'd by rest;—
Fainting in effort, and at strife
With feelings woven into life;
And with the chains of being twin'd
By links so strong, though undefin'd,
They curb or enervate the brain,
Weigh down by languor, rack by pain,
And spread a thousand subtil ties
Across the tongue, and through the eyes;
Till the whole frame is fancy vext,
And all the powers of mind perplext.
"What wonder, then, it sunk and fail'd!
What wonder that your plans prevail'd!
In vain by stratagem you toil'd;—
His skill and prudence all had foil'd;
For one day's vigilance surpast
Seeming perfection in the last.
Each hour more active, more intent,
Unarm'd and unassail'd he went;
While every weapon glanc'd aside,
His armour every lance defied.
The blow that could that soul subdue
At length was struck—but not by you!
It fell upon a mortal part—
A poison'd arrow smote his heart;
The winds impelling, when they bore
Wrecks of the vessel to our shore!
"Oh! ever dear! and ever kind!
What madness could possess thy mind,
From me, in our distress, to fly?
True, much delight had left my eye;
And, in the circle of my bliss,
One holy, rapturous joy to miss
Was mine!—Yet I had more than this,
Before my wounds were clos'd, to bear!
See thee, an image of despair,
Just rush upon my woe, then shun
Her who alike deplor'd a son;
And, ere alarm had taken breath,
Be told, my husband, of thy death!
And feel upon this blighted sphere
No tie remain to bind me here!
Still in my life's young summer see
A far and weary path to thee!
Along whose wild and desert way
No sportive tribes of fancy play;
No smiles that to the lips arise,
No joys to sparkle in the eyes;—
No thrills of tenderness to feel,
No spring of hope, no touch of zeal.
All sources of heart-feeling stopt,
All impulse, all sustainment dropt.
With aching memory, sinking mind,
Through this drear wilderness to find
The path to death;—and pining, roam
Myriads of steps to reach the tomb!
Of which to catch a distant view,
The softest line, the faintest hue,
As symbol when I should be free,
Were happiness too great for me!"
Here clos'd at once, abrupt, the lay!
The Minstrel's fingers ceas'd to play!
And, all her soul to anguish given,
Doubted the pitying care of Heaven.
But evil, in its worst extreme,
In its most dire, impending hour,
Shall vanish, like a hideous dream,
And leave no traces of its power!
The vessel plunging on a rock,
Wreck threatening in its fellest shape,
No moment's respite from the shock,
No human means or power to 'scape,
Some higher-swelling surge shall free,
And lift and launch into the sea!
So, Marie, yet shall aid divine
Restore that failing heart of thine!
Though to its centre wounded, griev'd,
Though deeply, utterly bereav'd.
There genial warmth shall yet reside,
There swiftly flow the healthful tide;
And every languid, closing vein,
Drink healing and delight again!
At present all around her fades,
Her listless ear no sound pervades.
Her senses, wearied and distraught,
Perceive not how the stream of thought,
Rising from her distressful song,
In hurrying tide has swept along,
With startling and resistless swell,
The panic-stricken Isabel!
Who—falling at her father's feet,
Like the most lowly suppliant, kneels;
And, with imploring voice, unmeet
For one so fondly lov'd, appeals.—
"Those looks have been to me a law,
And solely by indulgence bought,
With zeal intense, with deepest awe,
A self-devoted slave, I caught
My highest transport from thy smile;
And studied hourly to beguile
The lightest cloud of grief or care
I saw those gracious features wear!
If aught induced me to divine
A hope was opposite to thine,
My fancy paus'd, however gay;
My silent wishes sunk away!
Displeasure I have never seen,
But sickness has subdued thy mien;
When, lingering near, I still have tried
To cheer thee, and thou didst approve;
But something still each act belied,
My manner chill'd, restrain'd my love!
E'en at the time my spirit died
With aching tenderness, my eye,
Encountering thine, was cold and dry!
To maim intention, fondness,—came
The sudden impotence of shame.
Thy happiness was thriftless wealth,
For I could only hoard by stealth!
Affection's brightly-glowing ray
Shone with such strong, o'erpowering sway,
That service fainted by the way!
"But now an impulse, like despair,
Makes me these inner foldings tear!
With desperate effort bids me wrest
The yearning secret from my breast!
Far be the thought that any blame
Can fix on thy beloved name!
The hapless Minstrel may not feign;
But thou, I know, canst all explain—
Yet let me from this place depart,
To nurse my fainting, sicken'd heart!
Yet let me in a cloister dwell,
The veiled inmate of a cell;
To raise this cowering soul by prayer!—
Reproach can never enter there!
"Turn quickly hence that look severe!
And, oh! in mercy, not a tear!
The most profuse of parents, thou
Didst every wish fulfil—allow;
Till that which us'd to please—invite,
Had ceas'd to dazzle and delight;
And all thy gifts almost despis'd,
The love that gave alone I priz'd.
"My yielding spirit bows the knee;
My will profoundly bends to thee:
But paltry vanities resign'd,
Wealth, gauds, and honours left behind,
I only wanted, thought to quit
This strange, wild world, and make me fit
For one of better promise—given
To such as think not this their heaven!
Nay, almost in my breast arose
A hope I scarcely dare disclose;
A hope that life, from tumult free,—
A life so harmless and so pure,
A calm so shelter'd, so secure,
At length might have a charm for thee!
That supplications, patient, strong,
Might not remain unanswer'd long!
And all temptations from thee cast,
The altar prove thy home at last!"
The artless Isabel prevails—
That hard, unbending spirit fails!
Not many words her lips had past,
Ere round her his fond arms were cast;
But, while his vengeful conscience prais'd,
He chid; and, frowning, would have rais'd
Till her resistance and her tears,
The vehemence of youthful grief,
Her paleness, his paternal fears,
Compell'd him to afford relief;
And forc'd the agonizing cry—
That he could never her deny!
Of what ambition sought, beguil'd,
His crimes thus fruitless! and his child,
The beautiful, the rich and young—
Now, in his most triumphant hours!
The darling he had nurs'd in flowers!
His pride, the prais'd of every tongue!
So gentle as she was!—the rein
Of influence holding, to restrain
His harsher power, without pretence,
In graceful, gay beneficence—
An angel deem'd, her only care
To comfort and to please!
Whose smiling, whose unconscious air,
Bespoke a heart at ease—
By her—on whom sweet hopes were built,
His cup when fill'd thus rashly spilt!
The treasures he had heap'd in vain,
Thrown thankless on his hands again!
While—father to this being blest,
He saw a dagger pierce her breast,
In knowledge of his former guilt!
And of his projects thus bereft,
What had the wretched parent left?
Oh! from the wreck of all, he bore
A richer, nobler freight ashore!
And filial love could well dispense
On earth a dearer recompense,
If he its real worth had known,
Than full success had made his own.
So ardent and so kind of late,
Is Marie careless of their fate,
That, wrapt in this demeanour cold,
Her spirits some enchantments hold?
That thus her countenance is clos'd,
Where high and lovely thoughts repos'd!
Quench'd the pure light that us'd to fly
To the smooth cheek and lucid eye!
And fled the harmonizing cloud
Which could that light benignly shroud,
Soothing its radiance to our view,
And melting each opposing hue,
Till deepening tints and blendings meet
Made contrast' self serene and sweet.
Vainly do voices tidings bring,
That succours from the former king,
Too late for that intent,—are come
To take the dead and wounded home;
Waiting, impatient, in the bay,
Till they can safely bear away,—
Not men that temporize and yield,
But heroes stricken in the field;
True sons of England, who, unmov'd,
Could hear their fears, their interest plead;
Led by no lure they disapprov'd,
Stooping to no unsanction'd deed!
Spirits so finely tun'd, so high,
That grovelling influences die
Assailing them! The venal mind
Can neither fit inducement find
To lead their purpose or their fate—
To sway, to probe, or stimulate!
What knowledge can they gain of such
Whom worldly motives may not touch?
Those who, the instant they are known,
Each generous mind springs forth to own!
Joyful, as if in distant land,
Amid mistrust, and hate, and guile,
Insidious speech, and lurking wile,
They grasp'd a brother's cordial hand!
Hearts so embued with fire from heaven,
That all their failings are forgiven!
Nay, o'er, perchance, whose laurel wreath
When tears of pity shine,
We softer, fonder sighs bequeath;
More dear, though less divine.
Can kind and loyal bosoms bleed,
And Marie not bewail the deed?
Can England's valiant sons be slain,
In whose fair isle so long she dwelt—
To whom she sang, with whom she felt!
Can kindred Normans die in vain!
Or, banish'd from their native shore,
Enjoy their sire's domains no more!
Brothers, with whom her mind was nurs'd,
Who shar'd her young ideas first!—
And not her tears their doom arraign?
Alas! no stimulus avails!
Each former potent influence fails:
No longer e'en a sigh can part
From that oppress'd and wearied heart.
What broke, at length, the spell? There came
The sound of Hugh de Lacy's name!
It struck like lightning on her ear—
But did she truly, rightly hear?
For terror through her senses ran,
E'en as the song of hope began.—
His charge arriv'd on England's coast,
Consign'd where they had wish'd it most,
Had brave De Lacy join'd the train
Which sought the Norman shores again?—
Then liv'd her darling and her pride!
What anguish was awaken'd there!
A joy close mating with despair—
He liv'd for whom her Eustace died!
Yes! yes! he lives! the sea could spare
That Island warrior's infant heir!
For whom, when thick-surrounding foes,
Nigh spent with toil, had sought repose,
Slow stealing forth, with wary feet,
From covert of secure retreat,—
A soldier leading on the way
To where his dear commander lay,—
Over the field, at dead midnight,
By a pale torch's flickering light,
Did Friendship wander to behold,
Breathing, but senseless, pallid, cold,
With many a gash, and many a stain,
Him,—whom the morrow sought in vain!
Love had not dar'd that form to find,
Ungifted with excelling grace!
Nor, thus without a glimpse of mind,
Acknowledg'd that familiar face!
Disfigur'd now with many a trace
Of recent agony!—Its power
Had not withstood this fatal hour!
Friendship firm-nerv'd, resolv'd, mature,
With hand more steady, strong, and sore,
Can torpid Horror's veil remove,
Which palsies all the force of Love!
What is Love's office, then? To tend
The hero rescued by a friend!
All unperceiv'd, with balmy wing
To wave away each restless thing
That wakes to breathe disturbance round!
To temper all in peace profound.
With whisper soft and lightsome touch,
To aid, assuage,—relieving much
Of trouble neither seen nor told—
Of pain, which it alone divines,
Which scarcely he who feels defines,
Which lynx-like eyes alone behold!
And heavy were De Stafford's sighs,
And oft impatient would they rise;
Though Friendship, Honour's self was there,
Until he found a nurse more fair!
A nicer tact, a finer skill,
To know and to perform his will—
Until he felt the healing look,
The tones that only Marie spoke!
How patient, then, awaiting ease,
And suffering pain, he cross'd the seas!
How patient, when they reach'd the shore,
A long, long tract he journey'd o'er!
Though days and months flow'd past, at length,
Ere he regain'd his former strength,
He yet had courage to sustain,
Without a murmur, every pain!
"At home once more—with friends so true—
My boy recover'd thus"—he cried,
"His mother smiling by my side—
Resigned each lesser ill I view!
As bubbles on the Ocean's breast,
When gloriously calm, will rise;
As shadows from o'er-clouded skies,
Or some few angry waves may dance
Nor ruffle that serene expanse;
So lightly o'er my comfort glides
Each adverse feeling—so subsides
Each discontent—and leaves me blest!"
NOTES.
NOTE I.
The Lay of Marie.—Title.
The words roman, fabliau, and lai, are so often used indifferently by the old French writers, that it is difficult to lay down any positive rule for discriminating between them. But I believe the word roman particularly applies to such works as were to be supposed strictly historical: such are the romances of Arthur, Charlemagne, the Trojan War, &c. The fabliaux were generally, stories supposed to have been invented for the purpose of illustrating some moral; or real anecdotes, capable of being so applied. The lai, according to Le Grand, chiefly differed from the fabliau, in being interspersed with musical interludes; but I suspect they were generally translations from the British. The word is said to be derived from leudus; but laoi seems to be the general name of a class of Irish metrical compositions, as "Laoi na Seilge" and others, quoted by Mr. Walker (Hist. Mem. of Irish Bards), and it may be doubted whether the word was not formerly common to the Welsh and American dialects.—Ellis's Specimens.
The conclusion of Orfeo and Herodiis, in the Auchinlech MS, seems to prove that the lay was set to music:
That lay Orfeo is yhote,
Gode is the lay, swete is the note.
In Sir Tristrem also, the Irish harper is expressly said to sing to the harp a merry lay.
It is not to be supposed, what we now call metrical romances were always read. On the contrary, several of them bear internal evidence that they were occasionally chaunted to the harp. The Creseide of Chaucer, a long performance, is written expressly to be read, or else sung. It is evident that the minstrels could derive no advantage from these compositions, unless by reciting or singing them; and later poems have been said to be composed to their tunes.—Notes to Sir Tristrem.
NOTE II.
Baron De Brehan seem'd to stand.—p. 6. l. 10.
Brehan—Maison reconnue pour une des plus anciennes. Vraie race d'ancienne Noblesse de Chevalerie, qui dans les onxieme et douzieme siecles, tenoit rang parmi les anciens Barons, avant la reduction faite en 1451.
NOTE III.
Where does this idle Minstrel stay?—p. 5. l. 13.
It appears that female minstrels were not uncommon, as one is mentioned in the Romance of Richard Coeur de Lion, without any remark on the strangeness of the circumstance.
A goose they dight to their dinner
In a tavern where they were.
King Richard the fire bet;
Thomas to the spit him set;
Fouk Doyley tempered the wood:
Dear abought they that good!
When they had drunken well, a fin,
A minstralle com theirin,
And said, "Gentlemen, wittily,
Will ye have any minstrelsy?"
Richard bade that she should go;
That turned him to mickle woe!
The minstralle took in mind,[1]
And said, "Ye are men unkind;
And, if I may, ye shall for-think[2]
Ye gave me neither meat ne drink.
For gentlemen should bede
To minstrels that abouten yede,
Of their meat, wine, and ale;
For los[3] rises of minstrale."
She was English, and well true,
By speech, and sight, and hide, and hue.
Ellis's Specimens of early English Metrical Romances.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Was offended.
[2] Repent.
[3] Reputation, glory.
NOTE IV.
On which the slightest touch alone would kill.—p. 24. l. 6.
An unfortunate mistake in printing the word trill instead of kill, has made this appear ridiculous: it alludes to the old proverb—
You should neither tell friend nor foe
Where life-blood go.
Any wound in a place while this pulsation passed through being esteemed fatal.
NOTE V.
Abrupt his native accents broke.—p. 50. l. 7.
The Anglo-Norman dynasty, with their martial nobility, down to the reign of Edward III. continued to use, almost exclusively, the Romance or ancient French language; while the Saxon, although spoken chiefly by the vulgar, was gradually adopting, from the rival tongue, those improvements and changes, which fitted it for the use of Chaucer and Gower. In the introduction to the Metrical Romance of Arthur and Merlin, written during the minority of Edward V. it appears that the English language was then gaining ground. The author says, he has even seen many gentlemen who could speak no French (though generally used by persons of that rank), while persons of every quality understood English.—Sir Tristrem.
NOTE VI.
The broider'd scarf might wave in vain.—p. 57. l. 1.
To such as were victorious, prizes were awarded by the judges, and presented by the hands of the ladies; who also honoured the combatants with the wreath or chaplet, silken drapery, and other appropriate ornaments; and by presenting them with ribbands, or scarfs, of chosen colours, called liveries, spoken of in romance, appear to have been the origin of the ribbands which still distinguish knighthood.
NOTE VII.
Laden with presents and with praise.—p. 57. l. 9.
In the ancient metrical romance of Sir Tristrem, an Irish earl arrives at the court of Cornwall, in the disguise of a minstrel, and bearing a harp of curious workmanship. He excites the curiosity of King Mark, by refusing to play upon it till he shall grant him a boon. The king having pledged his knighthood to satisfy his request, he sings to the harp a lay, in which he demands the queen as his promised gift—
"Y prove the for fals man,
Or Y shall have thi quen."
He accordingly carries her off; but her lover Tristrem, who had been absent at the time,
"chidde with the king, Gifstow glewemen thy quen, Hastow no other thing?"
The usual gifts to minstrels when they sung were often profuse; rich clothes, &c. They were, by rank, classed with knights and heralds, and permitted to wear silk robes, a dress limited to persons who could spend a hundred pounds of land rent.—Sir Tristrem, edited by Walter Scott, Esq.
Generosity to minstrels is perpetually recommended in the lays, of fabliaux and romances.
NOTE VIII.
The peacock crown with all its eyes.—p. 57. l.17.
According to Menestria and St. Palaye, the troubadours, or poets of Provence, were adorned by the ladies with crowns, interwoven with peacock's feathers; (the eyes of which expressed the universal attention they attracted)—a plumage in great request, and equivalent to the laurel of the academic bards. Differing, perhaps, little in intrinsic value, but superior in beauty and permanence, and more consonant with the decorations of chivalry. They were not restricted to the troubadours; for such a diadem, ornamented with gold, was sent by Pope Urban III. to Henry II. wherewith one of his sons was crowned King of Ireland; as mentioned by Selden, under the title Lord, and by Lord Lyttleton, under the year MCLXXXVI. A Summary Review of Heraldry, by Thomas Brydson, F.A.S. Edinburgh.
APPENDIX I
Extracts from a Dissertation on the Life and Writings of Marie, an Anglo-Norman Poetess of the thirteenth century. By Monsieur La Rue. Archaelogia, vol. 13.
Mary must be regarded as the Sappho of her age; she made so considerable a figure amongst the Anglo Norman Trouveurs, that she may very fairly lay claim to the minutest investigation of whatever concerns her memory. She informs us that she was born in France, but has neither mentioned the province that gave her birth, her family name, nor the reasons of her going to England. As she appears, however, to have resided in that country at the commencement of the 13th century, we may reasonably conclude that she was a native of Normandy. Philip Augustus having made himself master of that province in 1204, many Norman families, whether from regard to affinity, from motive of adventure, or from attachment to the English government, went over to Great Britain, and there established themselves. If this opinion be not adopted, it will be impossible to fix upon any other province of France under the dominion of the English, as her birth-place, because her language is neither that of Gascony, nor of Poitou, &c. She appears, however, to have been acquainted with the Bas-Breton, or Armoric tongue; whence it may be inferred that she was born in Bretayne. The Duke of that province was then Earl of Richmond in England; many of his subjects were in possession of knight's fees in that honour, and Mary might have belonged to one of these families. She was, besides, extremely well versed in the literature of this province; and we shall have occasion to remark, that she frequently borrowed much from the works of its writers in the composition of her own. If, however, a preference should be given to the first opinion, we must suppose that Mary got her knowledge, both of the Armoric and English languages, in Great Britain. She was, at the same time, equally mistress of the Latin; and from her application to three several languages, we must take it for granted that she possessed a readiness, a capacity, and even a certain rank in life, that afforded time and means to attain them. It should seem that she was solicitous to be personally known only at the time she lived in. Hence we find in her works those general denominations, those vague expressions, which discourage the curious antiquary, or compel him to enter into dry and laborious discussions, the result of which, often turns out to be little more than conjecture. In short, the silence or the modesty of this lady, has contributed, in a great degree, to conceal from us the names of those illustrious persons whose patronage her talents obtained.
The first poems of Mary are a collection of Lays, in French verse; forming various histories and gallant adventures of our valiant knights: and, according to the usage of those times, they are generally remarkable for some singular, and often marvellous catastrophe. These Lays are in the British Museum, among the Harleian MSS. No. 978. They constitute the largest, and, at the same time, most ancient specimen of Anglo-Norman poetry, of this kind, that has been handed down to us. The romances of chivalry, amongst the old Welsh and Armoric Britons, appear to have furnished the subjects of these various Lays; not that the manuscripts of those people were continually before her when she composed them; but, as she herself has told us, depending upon an excellent memory, she sometimes committed them to verse, after hearing them recited only: and, at others, composed her poems from what she had read in the Welsh and Armoric MSS.
Plusurs en ai oi conter,
Nes voil laisser ne oublies, &c.[4]
Plusurs le me ant conte et dit
Et jeo l'ai trove en escrit, &c[5]
She confined herself to these subjects, and the event justifies her choice. To the singularity of such a measure was owing its celebrity. By treating of love and chivalry, she was certain of attuning her lyre to the feelings of the age; and consequently of ensuring success. Upon this account her Lays were extremely well received by the people. Denis Pyramus, an Anglo-Norman poet, and the contemporary of Mary, informs us that they were heard with pleasure in all the castles of the English barons, but that they were particularly relished by the women of her time. He even praises them himself; and this from the mouth of a rival, could not but have been sincere and well deserved, since our equals are always the best judges of our merit.[6] Insomuch as Mary was a foreigner, she expected to be criticised with severity, and therefore applied herself with great care to the due polishing of her works. Besides, she thought, as she says herself, that the chief reward of a poet, consists in perceiving the superiority of his own performance, and its claims to public esteem. Hence the repeated efforts to attain so honourable a distinction, and the constant apprehensions of that chagrin which results from disappointment, and which she has expressed with so much natural simplicity.
Ki de bone mateire traite,
Mult li peise si bien n'est faite, &c.[7]
She has dedicated her lays to some king,[8] whom she thus addresses in her Prologue:
En le honur de vos nobles reis,
Ki tant estes preux et curteis,
M'entremis de Lais assembler.
Par rime faire et reconter;
En mon quoer pensoe et diseie,
Sire, le vos presentereie.
Si vos les plaist a receveir.
Mult me ferez grant joie aveir,
A tuz juirs mais en serai lie, &c.[9]
But who is this monarch? 1. We may perceive in it her apprehension of the envy which her success might excite in a strange country: for this reason she could not have written in France. 2. When at a loss for some single syllable, she sometimes intermixes in her verses words that are pure English, when the French word would not have suited the measure.—"Fire et chaundelez alumez." It should seem, therefore, that she wrote for the English, since her lines contain words that essentially belong to their language, and not at all to the Romance. 3. She dedicates her lays to a king who understood English, because she takes care to translate into that tongue all the Welsh and Armoric proper names that she was obliged to introduce. Thus in the Lay of Bisclaveret, she says, the English translate this name by that of Garwaf, (Were-wolf); in that of Laustic, that they call it Nihtgale (Nightingale); and in that of Chevrefeuille, Gotelef, (Goatleaf) &c. It is certain, then, she composed for a king who understood English. 4. She tells us that she had declined translating Latin histories into Romance; because so many others having been thus occupied, her name would have been confounded with the multitude, and her labours unattended with honour. Now this circumstance perfectly corresponds with the reign of Henry III. when such a number of Normans and Anglo-Normans had, for more than half a century, translated from the Latin so many romances of chivalry; and especially those of the Round Table, which we owe to the Kings of England. 5. Fauchet and Pasquier inform us, that Mary lived about the middle of the 13th century, and this would exactly coincide with the reign of that prince.[10] 6. Denis Pyramu[11], an Anglo-Norman poet, speaks of Mary as an author, whose person was as much beloved as her writings, and who therefore must have lived in his own time. Now it is known that this poet wrote under Henry III. and this opinion could only be confuted by maintaining that it was rather a King of France of whom she speaks, which king must have been Louis VIII. or St. Louis his son. But this alteration will not bear the slightest examination; for how could it be necessary to explain Welsh and Armoric words to a French king in the English language? How could the writer permit herself to make use of English words, in many parts of her work, which would most probably be unintelligible to that prince, and most certainly so to the greatest part of his subjects? It is true that she sometimes explains them in Romance, but not always; and when, upon the other hand, she makes a constant practice of translating them into English, she proves to what sort of readers she was principally addressing herself. The list of the lays of Mary is omitted here, as a translation follows.
The smaller poems of Mary are, in general, of much importance, as to the knowledge of ancient chivalry. Their author has described manners with a pencil at once faithful and pleasing. She arrests the attention of her readers by the subjects of her stories, by the interest which she skilfully blends in them, and by the simple and natural language in which she relates them. In spite of her rapid and flowing style, nothing is forgotten in her details—nothing escapes her in her descriptions. With what grace has she depicted the charming deliverer of the unhappy Lanval! Her beauty is equally impressive, engaging, and seductive; an immense crowd follows but to admire her; the while palfrey on which she rides seems proud of his fair burden; the greyhound which follows her, and the falcon which she carries, announce her nobility. How splendid and commanding her appearance; and with what accuracy is the costume of the age she lived in observed! But Mary did not only possess a most refined taste, she had also to boast of a mind of sensibility. The English muse seems to have inspired her; all her subjects are sad and melancholy; she appears to have designed to melt the hearts of her readers, either by the unfortunate situation of her hero, or by some truly afflicting catastrophe. Thus she always speaks to the soul, calls forth all its feelings, and very frequently throws it into the utmost consternation.
Fauchet was unacquainted with the Lays of Mary, for he only mentions her fables[12]. But, what is more astonishing, Monsieur le Grand, who published many of her lays, has not ascribed them all to her. He had probably never met with a complete collection like that in the British Museum; but only some of those that had been separately transcribed; and, in that case, he could not have seen the preface, in which Mary has named herself.
The second work of our poetess consists of a collection of fables, generally called Aesopian, which she translated into French verse. In the prologue she informs her readers that she would not have engaged in it, but for the solicitation of a man who was "the flower of chivalry and courtesy," and whom, at the conclusion of her work, she styles Earl William.
Por amor le counte Guillaume,
Le plus vaillant de cest royaume,
Mentremis de cest livre faire,
Et de l'Anglois en Romans traire, &c.[13]
M. le Grand, in his preface to some of Mary's fables, which he has published in French prose, informs us that this person was Earl William de Dampierre. But William, Lord of Dampierre, in Champagne, had in himself no right whatever to the title of Earl. During the 13th century, this dignity was by no means assumed indiscriminately, and at pleasure, by French gentlemen; it was generally borne by whoever was the owner of a province, and sometimes of a great city, constituting an earldom: such were the earldoms of Flanders, of Artois, of Anjou, of Paris, &c. It was then, that these great vassals of the crown had a claim to the title of earl, and accordingly assumed it.[14] Now, the territory of Dampierre was not in this predicament during the 13th century; it was only a simple lordship belonging to the lords of that name.[15]
Convinced, as I am, that Mary did not compose her fables in France, but in England, it is rather in England that the Earl William, alluded to by Mary, is to be sought for; and luckily, the encomium she has left upon him is of such a nature, as to excite an opinion that he was William Longsword, natural son of Henry II. and created Earl of Salisbury and Romare by Richard Coeur de Lion. She calls him "the flower of chivalry, the most valiant man in the kingdom," etc.; and these features perfectly characterize William Longsword, so renowned for his prowess.[16] The praise she bestows on him expresses, with great fidelity, the sentiments that were entertained by his contemporaries; and which were become so general, that for the purpose of making his epitaph, it should seem that the simple eulogy of Mary would have sufficed.