The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Madison Cawein Volume 1, by Madison Cawein.

And now once more we stood within the walls

Of that old manor near the riverside;

Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls,

And here and there the ivy could not hide

The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls,

Around the doorway, where so many died

In that last effort to defend the stair,

When Rupert, like a demon, entered there.

The basest Cavalier who e'er wore spurs

Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave

Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs

Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave;

And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse

For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and—brave!—

Brave?—who would question it! yea! tho' 'tis true

He warred with one weak woman and her few.

III

Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse,

Whom here, that very noon, it happened me

To meet near her old home. A single glance

Showed me 'twas she. I marveled much to see

How lovely still she was! as fair, perchance,

As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally,—

Her long hair loosened,—down the shattered stair,

And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there.

"She is for you! Take her! I promised it!

Take her, my bullies!"—shouting so, he flung

Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split,

And beaten by his dagger when she clung

Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit

Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue

Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed,

Then bade his men draw lots for which were first.

I saw it all from that low parapet,

Where, bullet-wounded in the hip and head,

I lay face-upward in the whispering wet,

Exhausted 'mid the dead and left for dead.

We had held out two days without a let

Against these bandits. You could trace with red

From room to room how we resisted hard

Since the great door crashed in to their petard.

The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain

And saw her lying there, pale, soiled and splashed

And miserable; on her cheek a stain,

A dull red bruise, made when his mad hand dashed

And struck her to the stones; the wretched rain

Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.—

Oh, for a musket or a petronel

With which to send his devil's soul to hell!

VII

But helpless there I lay, no weapon near,

Only the useless sword I could not reach

His traitor's heart with, while I chafed to hear

The laugh, the insult and the villain speech

Of him to her.—Oh, God! could I but clear

The height between and, hanging like a leech,

My fingers at his throat, tear out his base

Vile tongue! yea, tear, and lash it in his face!

VIII

But, badly wounded, what could I but weep

With rage and pity of my helplessness

And her misfortune! Could I only creep

A little nearer so that she might guess

I was not dead; that I my life would keep,

Dedicate to revenge!—Oh, the distress

Of that last moment when, half-dead, I saw

Them mount and bear her swooning through the shaw.

Long time I lay unconscious. It befell

Some woodsmen found me, having heard the sound

Of fighting cease that, for two days, made hell

Of that wild region; ventured on the ground

For plunder: and it had not then gone well

With me, I fear, had not their leader found

That in some way I would repay his care;

So bore me to his hut and nursed me there.

How roughly kind he was! For weeks I hung

'Twixt life and death; health, like a varying, sick

And fluttering pendulum, now this way swung,

Now that, until at last its querulous tick

Beat out life's usual time, and slowly rung

The long, loud hours, that exclaimed, "Be quick!—

Arise!—Go forth!—Hear how her black wrongs call!—

Make them the salve to cure thy wounds withal!"—

They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came,

Weak still, but over eager to be gone,

I took my leave of him. A little lame

From that hip wound, and somewhat thin and wan,

I sought the village. Here I heard her name

And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn;

How she among his troopers rode—astride

Like any man—pale-faced and feverish-eyed.

XII

Which way these took they pointed, and I went

Like fire after. Oh, the thought was good

That they were on before! And much it meant

To know she lived still; she, whose image stood

Like flame before me, making turbulent

Each heart-beat with her wrongs, that were fierce food

Unto my hate that, "Courage!" cried, "Rest not!

Think of her there, and let thy haste be hot!"

XIII

But months went by and still I had not found:

Yet, here and there, as wearily I sought,

I caught some news: how he had held his ground

Against the Roundhead troops; or how he'd fought

Then fled—returned and conquered. Like a hound

Questing a boar, I followed; but was brought

No nearer to my quarry. Day by day

It seemed that Satan kept him from my way.

XIV

A woman rode beside him, so they said,

A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man—

Isolda!—my Isolda!—Better dead,

Yea, dead and damned! than thus—the courtezan

Bold, unreluctant, to such men! A dread,

That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began

To whisper at my heart.—But I was mad,

To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had.

At last one day I rested in a glade

Near that same woodland which I lay in when

Sore wounded: and, while sitting in the shade

Of an old beech—what! did I dream? or men

Like Rupert's own ride near me? and a maid—

Isolda or her double!—Wildly then

I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse;

Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course.

XVI

Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name

Challenged him forth:—"Dog! dost thou hide behind?—

Insulter of women! Coward! save where shame

And rapine call thee! God at last is kind,

And my sword waits!"—Like an upbeating flame,

My voice rose to a windy shout; and blind

I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand,

Isolda rode before me from that band.

XVII

"Gerald!" she cried; not as a soul surprised

With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives;

But like the soul that long hath realized

Only misfortune and to fortune gives

No confidence, though it be recognized

As good. She spoke: "Lo, we are fugitives.

Rupert is slain. And I am going home."

Then like a child asked simply, "Wilt thou come?...

XVIII

"Oh, I have suffered, Gerald! Oh, my God!

What shame! What torture! Once my soul was clean—

Stained and defiled behold it!—I have trod

Sad ways of hell and horror. I have seen

And lived all depths of lust. Yet, oh, my God!

Blameless I hold myself of what hath been,

Though through it all, yea,—this thou too must know,—

I loved him, my betrayer and thy foe!"

XIX

Sobbing she spoke as if but half awake,

Her eyes far-fixed beyond me, far beyond

All hope of mine.—So! it was for his sake,

His love, that she had suffered!... Blind and fond,

For what return!... And I—to nurse a snake,

And never dream its nature would respond

With some such fang of venom! 'Twas for this

That I had ventured all—to find her his!

At first half-stunned I stood; then blood and brain,

Like two stern judges, who had slept, awoke,

Rose up and thundered, "Slay her!" Every vein

And nerve responded, "Slay her at a stroke!"—

And I had done it, but my heart again,

Like a strong captain in a tumult, spoke,

And the fierce discord fell. And quietly

I sheathed my sword and said, "I'll go with thee."

XXI

But this was my reward for all I'd borne,

My loyalty and love! To see her eyes

Hollow from tears for him; her thin cheeks worn

With grief for him; to know them all for lies,

Her vows of faith to me; to come forlorn,

Where I had hoped to come on Paradise,

On Hell's black gulf; and, as if not enough,

Soiled as she was and outcast, still to love!

XXII

Then rode one ruffian from the rest, clay-flecked

From spur to plume with hurry; seized my rein,

And—"What art thou," demanded, "who hast checked

Our way and challenged?"—Then, with some disdain,

Isolda, "Sir, my kinsman did expect

Your captain here. What honor may remain

To me I pledge for him. Hold off thy hands!

He but attends me to the Moated Manse."

XXIII

We rode in silence. And at evening came

Unto the Moated Manse.—Great clouds had grown

Up in the west, on which the sunset's flame

Lay like the hand of slaughter.—Very lone

Its rooms and halls: a splintered door that, lame,

Swung on one hinge; a cabinet o'erthrown;

Or arras torn; or blood-stain turning wan,

Showed us the way the battle once had gone.

XXIV

We reached the tower-chamber towards the west,

In which on that dark day she thought to hide

From Rupert when, at last, 'twas manifest

We could not hold the Manse. There was no pride

In her deep eyes now; nor did scorn invest

Her with such dignity as once defied

Him bursting in to find her standing here

Prepared to die like some dog-hunted deer.

XXV

She took my hand, and, as if naught of love

Had ever been between us, said,—"All know

The madness of that hour when with his glove

He struck, then slew my brother, and brought woe

On all our house: and thou, incensed above

The rest, came here, and made my foe thy foe.

But he had left. 'Twas then I promised thee

My hand, but, ah! my heart was gone from me.

XXVI

"Yea, he had won me, this same Rupert, when

He was our guest.—Thou know'st how gallantry

And recklessness make heroes of most men

To us weak women!—And so secretly

I vowed to be his wife. It happened then

My brother found him in some villainy;

The insult followed: Guy was killed ... and thou

Dost still remember how I made a vow.—

XXVII

"But still this man pursued me, and I held

Firm to my vow, albeit I loved him still,

Unknown to all, with all the love unquelled

Of first impressions, and against my will.

At last despair of winning me compelled

Him to the oath he swore: He would not kill,

But take me living and would make my life

A living death. No man should make me wife.

XXVIII

"The war, that now consumes us, did, indeed,

Give him occasion.—I had not been warned,

When down he came against me in the lead

Of his marauders. With thy help I scorned

His mad attacks two days. I would not plead

Nor parley with him, who came hoofed and horned,

Like Satan's self in soul, and, with Hell's aid,

Took this strong house and kept the oath he made.

XXIX

"Months passed. Alas! it needs not here to tell

What often thou hast heard: Of how he led

His ruffians here now there; or what befell

Me of dishonor. Oft I wished me dead,

Loathing my life,—than which the nether Hell

Hath less of horror!—So we fought or fled

From place to place until a year had passed,

And Parliament forces hemmed us in at last.

XXX

"Yea, I had only lived for this—to right

With death my wrongs sometime. And love and hate

Contended in my bosom when, that night

Before the fight that should decide our fate,

I entered where he slept. There was no light

Save of the stars to see by. Long and late

I leaned above him there, yet could not kill—

Hate raised the dagger but love held it still.

XXXI

"The woman in me conquered. What a slave

To our emotions are we! To relent

At this long-waited moment!—Wave on wave

Of pitying weakness swept me, and I bent—

And kissed his face. Then prayed to God; and gave

My trust to God; and left to God th' event.—

I never looked on Rupert's face again,

For in the morning's combat—he was slain.

XXXII

"Out of defeat escaped some scant three score

Of all his followers. And night and day

We fled; and while the Roundheads pressed us sore,

And in our road, good as a fortress, lay

The Moated Manse,—where our three-score or more

Might well hold out,—I pointed them the way.

And we are come, amid its wrecks to end

The crime begun here.—Thou must go, my friend!

XXXIII

"Go quickly! For the time approaches when

Destruction must arrive.—Oh, well I know

All thou wouldst say to me.—What boots it then?—

I tell thee thou must go! that thou must go!—

Yea, dost thou think I'd have thee die 'mid men

Like these, for such an one as I?—No! no!—

Thy life is clean. Thou shalt not cast away

Thy clean life for my soiled one!" ... "I will stay!"

XXXIV

I said.—Then spoke ... I know not what it was.

And seized her hand and kissed it and then said,—

"Thou art my promised wife. Thou hast no cause

That is not mine. I love thee. We will wed.

Isolda, come!"—A moment did she pause,

Then shook her head and sighed, "My heart is dead.

This can not be. Behold, that way is thine.

I will not let thee share the way that's mine."

XXXV

Then turning from me ere I could prevent

Passed like a shadow from the shadowy room,

Leaving my soul in shadow.... Naught was meant

By my sweet flower of love then! bloom by bloom

I'd watched it wither; then its fragrance went,

And dust it was now.... It was dark as doom,

And bells seemed ringing far off in the rain,

When from that house I turned my face again.

XXXVI

Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull

Close thud of horse and clash of spurs and arms;

And glimmering helms swept by me.—Sorrowful

I stood and waited till against the storm's

Black breast, the Manse,—a burning carbuncle,—

Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms

Of onslaught clanged around it.—Then, like one,

Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on.

AN OLD TALE RETOLD

From the terrace here, where the hills indent,

You can see the uttermost battlement

Of the castle there: the Clifford's home

Where the seasons go and the seasons come

And never a footstep else doth fall

Save the prowling fox's; the ancient hall

Echoes no voice save the owlet's call:

Its turret chambers are homes for the bat;

And its courts are tangled and wild to see;

And where in the cellar was once the rat,

The viper and toad move stealthily.

Long years have passed since the place was burned,

And he sailed to the wars in France and earned

The name that he bears of the bold and true

On his tomb.—Long years, since my lord, Sir Hugh,

Lived, and I was his favorite page,

And the thing then happened; and he of an age

When a man will love and be loved again,

Or off to the wars or a monastery;

Or toil till he deaden his heart's hard pain;

Or drink and forget it and finally bury.

I was his page. And often we fared

Through the Clare demesne, in autumn, hawking—

If the Baron had known, how they would have glared,

'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!—

That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean—

And growling some six of his henchmen lean

To mount and after this Clifford and hang

With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak,

How he would have cursed us while he spoke!

For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang

In the other's side.... And I hear the clang

Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told—

If he told!—how we met on the autumn wold

His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day

Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst,

And trailing its jesses, came flying our way—

An untrained haggard the falconer cursed

While he tried to secure:—as the eyas flew

Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh,—

Who saw it coming, and had just then cast

His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry,—

In his saddle rising thus, as it passed

By the jesses caught, and to her did carry,

Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose

With the glad of the meeting.—No two foes

Her eyes and my lord's, I swear, who saw

'Twas love from the start.—And I heard him speak;

Dismount, then kneel—and the sombre shaw,

With the sad of the autumn waste and bleak,

Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took

On her slender wrist, where it pruned and shook

Its callowness. Then I saw him seize

The hand that she reached to him, long and white,

As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees—

When he kissed her fingers her eyes grew bright.

But her cheeks were pallid when, lashing through

The thicket there, his face a-flare

With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair

Flying, the falconer came, and two

Or three of the people of Castle Clare.

And the leaves of the autumn made a frame

For the picture there in the morning's flame.

What was said in that moment I do not know,

That moment of meeting between those lovers:

Whatever it was, 'twas whispered low,

Soft as a leaf that swings and hovers,

A twinkling gold, when the woods are yellow.

And her face with the joy was still aglow

When out of the wood that burly fellow

Came with his frown, and made a pause

In the pulse of their words.—My lord, Sir Hugh,

Stood with the soil on his knee. No cause

Had he, but his hanger he partly drew,

Then clapped it sharp in its sheath again,

And bowed to my lady, and strode away;

And vaulting his horse, with a loosened rein

Rode with a song in his heart all day.

He loved and was loved, I knew; for, look!

All other sports for the chase he forsook.

And strange that he never went to hawk,

Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there

In the Strongbow forest!—I know the rock,

With its ferns and its moss, by the bramble lair,

Where oft and often he met—by chance,

Shall I say?—the daughter of Clare; as fair

Of face as a queen in an old romance,

Who waits expectant and pale; her hair

Night-deep; and eyes dove-gray with dreams;—

By the fountain-side where the statue gleams

And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white,—

For her knightly lover who comes at night.

Heigh-ho! they ceased, those meetings. I wot,

Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew

Of menials who followed and saw and knew.

For she loved too well to have once forgot

The time and the place of their trysting true.

"Why and when?" would ask Sir Hugh

In the labored letters he used to lock

—The lovers' post—in a coigne of that rock.

She used to answer, but now did not.

But, nearing Yule, love gat them again

A twilight tryst—through frowardness sure!—

They met. And the day was gray with rain,

And snow: and the wind did ever endure

A long bleak moaning through the wood,

That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood;

And a burne in the forest went throb and throb,

And over it all was the wild-beast sob

Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued.

And then it was that he learned how she,

(God's blood! how it makes my old limbs quiver

To think what a miserable tyrant he—

The Baron Richard—aye and ever

To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed

With an eastern earl—a Lovell: to whom

(Would God o' His mercy had struck him dead!)

Clara of Clare when merely a child,—

With a face like a flower, that blows in the wild

Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume,—

Was given—say, sealed—to strengthen some ties

Of power and wealth—say bartered, then,

Like the veriest chattel. With tearful eyes

And lips a-tremble she spoke. And when

My lord, her lover, had learned and heard,—

He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath!

In spite of them all! Let her say the word,

They would fly together: the baron's men

Might follow; and if ... and he touched his sword—

It should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay,

With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath,

Replied to his heat: "They would take and slay

Thee who art life of my life!—Not thus

Will we fly!—There's another way for us;

A way that is sure; an only way;

I have thought on it this many a day."—

The words that she spake how well I remember!

As well as the mood o' that day of December,

That bullied and blustered and seemed in league,

Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and the snow,

To drown the words of their sweet intrigue,

With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro,

That the storm swept through with its wild-beast low.

Her last words these, "By curfew sure,

On Christmas eve, at the postern door."

And we were there; with a led horse too;

Armed for a journey—I hardly knew

Whither, but why, you well may guess.

For often he whispered a certain name,

The talisman dear of his happiness,

That warmed his blood like a Yule-log's flame.

While we waited there, till its owner came,

We saw how the castle's baronial girth,

Like a giant's, loosed for revelling more,

Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth

Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar,

And the holly brightened the weaponed wall

Of carven oak in the banqueting hall.

And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned

O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned,

Where the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted,

And the half of an ox and the roe-buck's haunches;

While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,

And casks of sack, were broached for paunches

Of vassals who revelled in stable and hall.

The song of the minstrel; the yeomen's quarrel

O'er the dice and the drink; and the huntsman's bawl

In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl

O'er the bones of the feast; now loud, now low,

We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow.

Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we

Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh,

Spoke, pointing a tower: "That casement, see?

When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue

And signals thrice slowly, thus—'tis she."

And close to his breast his gaberdine drew,

For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through.

Did she come?—We had waited an hour or twain,

When the taper flashed in the central pane,

And flourished three times and vanished so.

And under the arch of the postern's portal,

Crouched down by the horses we stood in the snow,

Stiff with the cold.—Ah, me! immortal

Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened

Shivering there in the hurl of the gale:

The parapets whistled, the angles glistened,

And the night around seemed one black wail

Of death, whose ominous presence over

The snow-swept battlements seemed to hover.

Said my lord, Sir Hugh,—to himself he spoke,—

"She feels for the spring in the sliding panel

'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak.

It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel,

Yawns, and the draught makes her taper slope.

Wrapped deep in her mantle of fur, she puts

One foot on the stair: now a listening pause

As nearer and nearer the mad search draws

Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope

That they find her now that the panel shuts!

If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing,

Would throttle itself with its cries, then I

Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring

Down the secret ... there! 'tis her fingers try

The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."—

But 'twas only some whim of the wind that shook

A clanging ring on a creaking hook

In the buttress or wall. And we waited, numb

With the cold, till dawn—but she did not come.

I must tell you why and have done: 'Tis said,

On the eve of the marriage she fled the side

Of the guests and the bridegroom there: she fled

With a mischievous laugh,—"I'll hide! I'll hide!

A kiss for the one who shall find!"—and led

A long search after her; but defied

All search for—a score and ten long years.

Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears

For them as for us. We saw the glare

Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair;

And we heard the castle reëcho her name,

But she laughed no answer and never came,

And that was the last of Clara of Clare.

That winter it was, a month thereafter,

That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter,

Burned.—I could swear 'twas the Strongbow's doing,

Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing

His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross!

Made a torch of Hugh's home to avenge his loss.—

So over the Channel to France with his King,

The Black Prince, sailed to the wars—to deaden

The ache of the mystery—Hugh that spring

And fell at Poitiers; for his loss lay leaden

O' his heart; and his life was a weary sadness,

So he flung it away in a moment's madness.

And the baron died. And the bridegroom?—well,

Unlucky was he in truth!—to tell

Of him there is nothing.—The baron died,

The last of the Strongbows he—gramercy!

And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride

Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy.

And years went by. And it happened that they

Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day,

In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest,

From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved

All over with masks: a sinister crest

'Mid gargoyle faces distorted and starved:

Fast-fixed with a spring, which they forced and, lo!

When they opened it—Death, like a lady dressed,

Grinned up at their terror!—but no, not so!

Fantastic a skeleton, jeweled and wreathed

With flowers of dust; and a miniver

Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed

Of a once rich raiment of silk and of fur.

I'd have given my life to hear him tell,

The courtly Clifford, how this befell!

He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping

For the secret spring of that panel, hoping

And fearing as nearer and nearer drew

The search of retainers, why, out she blew

The tell-tale taper; and seeing this chest,

Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap,

Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed

By the lid's great weight, shut down with a snap,

And her life went out in the hellish trap.

AN OLD TALE RETOLD

MY LADY OF VERNE

GERALDINE