Front matter (continued 2)

So for the remnant of his days he served The Lord of Goodness; a strong staff of right Yet humble. Till the Pagan Governor Bade him deny the Prince who succoured him, And he refusing, gained a martyr's crown In cruel death, and is Saint Christopher!

The sad slow dawn of winter; frozen trees And trampled snow within a lonely wood; One shrouded form, which to the city flees; And one, a masquer, lying in his blood.

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A full sun blazing with unclouded day, Till the bright waters mingle with the sky; And on the dazzling verge, uplifted high, White sails mysterious slowly pass away.

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Hidden in a trackless and primæval wood, Long-buried temples of an unknown race, And one colossal idol; on its face A changeless sneer, blighting the solitude.

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A fair girl half undraped, who blithely sings; Her white robe poised upon one budding breast; While at her side, invisible, unconfessed, Love folds her with the shelter of his wings.

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Black clouds embattled on a lurid sky, And one keen flash, like an awakened soul, Piercing the hidden depths, till momently One seems to hear enormous thunders roll.

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Two helpless girls upon a blazing wall, The keen flames leaping always high and higher; But faster, faster than the hungry fire, Brave hearts which climb to save them ere they fall.

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A youthful martyr, looking to the skies From rack and stake, from torment and disgrace; And suddenly heaven opened to his eyes, A beckoning hand, a tender heavenly face.

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A home on a fair English hill; away Stretch undulating plains, of gold and green, With park and lake and glade, and homestead grey; And crowning all, the blue sea dimly seen.

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A lifeless, voiceless, world of age-long snow, Where the long winter creeps through endless night, And safe within a low hut's speck of light, Strong souls alert and hopeful, by the glow.

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A great ship forging slowly from the shore, And on the broad deck weeping figures bent; And on the gliding pierhead, sorrow-spent, Those whom the voyagers shall see no more.

Who is there but at times has seen, While his past days before him stand, In all the chances which have been, The guidance of a hidden Hand,

Which still has ruled his growing life, Through weal and woe, through joy and pain, Through fancied good, through useless strife, And empty pleasure sought in vain;

Which often has withheld the meed He longed for once, with yearnings blind, And given the truest prize indeed, The harvest of a blessed mind;

And so has taken the common lot Content, whate'er the Ruler would, Since all that has been, or is not, Springs from a hidden root of good?

****

Yet some there are maybe to-day, Whose childhood at the mother's knee Was taught to bow itself and pray, Nor ever thirsted to be free,

Who now, 'mid warring voices loud, Have lost the faith they held before, Nor through the jangling of the crowd Can hear the earlier message more.

A brute Fate vexes them, the reign Of dumb laws, speeding onward still, Regardless of the waste and pain, Which all the labouring earth do fill.

They look to see the rule of Right; They find it not, and in its stead But slow survivals, born of Might, And all the early Godhead dead;

They see it not, and droop and faint And are unhappy, doubting God; Yet every step their feet have trod Was trodden before them by a saint.

****

Oh, doubting soul, look up, behold The eternal heavens above thy head, The solid earth beneath, its mould Compacted of the unnumbered dead.

Here the eternal problems grow, And with each day are solved and done, When some spent life, like melting snow, Breathes forth its essence to the sun.

As death is, life is—without end; Wrong with right mingles, joy with pain; Forbid two meeting streams to blend, 'Twere not more hopeless, nor more vain.

Though Death with Life, though Wrong with Right, Are bound within the scheme of things, Yet can our souls, on soaring wings, Gain to a loftier purer height,

Where death is not, nor any life, Nor right nor wrong, nor joy nor pain; But changeless Being, lacking strife, Doth through all change, unchanged remain.

Should wrong prevail o'er all the earth, 'Twere nought if only we discern The one great truth, which if we learn, All else beside is little worth.

That Right, is that which must prevail, If not here, there, if not now, then, Is the one Truth which shall not fail, For all the doubt and fears of men.

What if a myriad ages still Of wrong and pain, of waste and blood, Confuse our thought, triumphant Good At length, at last, our souls can fill

With such assurance as the Voice Which from the blazing mountain pealed, And bade the kneeling hosts rejoice That God was in His laws revealed.

Nay even might our thought conceive The final victory of Ill, Not so, were it folly to believe That Right is higher, purer still.

Who knows the Eternal "Ought" knows well That whoso loves and seeks the Right, For him God shines with changeless light, Ay, to the lowest deeps of Hell.

And whoso knoweth God indeed, The fixed foundations of his creed Know neither changing nor decay, Though all creation pass away.

My love, my love, if I were old, My body bent, my blood grown cold, With thin white hairs upon my brow, Say wouldst thou think of me as now? Wouldst thou cling to me still, As down life's sloping hill We came at last through the unresting years? Art thou prepared for tears, For time's sure-coming losses, For life's despites and crosses, My love, my love?

Ah! brief our little, little day; Ah! years that fleet so fast away; Before our summer scarce begun, Look, spring and blossom-tide are done! When all things hasten past, How should love only last? How should our souls alone unchanged remain?— Come pleasure or come pain, In days of joy and gladness, In years of grief and sadness, Love shall be love!

I seemed to pace the dreadful corridors Of a still foreign prison, blank and white, And in a bare and solitary cell To find a lonely woman, soft of voice And mild of eye, who never till life's end Should pass those frowning gates. Methought I asked her The story of her crime, and what hard fate Left her, so gentle seeming, fettered there, Hopeless, a murderess at whose very name Men shuddered still. And to my questioning Methought that dreadful soul made answer thus:

"Yes, I suppose I liked him, though I know not; I hardly know what love may be; how should I?— I a young girl wedded without my will, As is our custom here, to a man old, Not perhaps in years, but dark experiences. What had we two in common, that worn man, And I, an untrained girl? It was not strange If when that shallow boy, with his bold tongue, And his gay eyes, and curls, and budding beard, Flattered me, I was weak. I think all women Are weak sometimes, and overprone to love When the man is young, and straight, and 'twas a triumph To see the disappointed envious jades Wince as he passed them carelessly, nor heeded Their shallow wiles to trap him,—ay, a triumph! And that was all; I hardly know, indeed, If it was love that drove, or only pride To hold what others grudged me. Vain he was, And selfish, and a coward, as you shall hear, Handsome enough, I grant you, to betray A stronger soul than mine. Indeed, I think, He never cared for me nor I for him (For there were others after him): I knew it, Then chiefest, when our comedy of life Was turning at the last to tragedy.

"Now that I was unfaithful, a false wife, I value not men's sneers at a pin's point, We have a right to love and to be loved; Not the mere careless tolerance of the spouse Who has none to give. True, if I were a nun, Vowed to a white and cloistered life, no doubt 'Twere otherwise. They tell me there are women Who are so rapt by thoughts of the poor, of churches, Of public ends, of charity, of schools, Of Heaven knows what, they live their lives untouched By passion; but for us, who are but women, Not bred on moonlight, perhaps of common clay, Untrained for aught but common bourgeois life, Life is no mystical pale procession winding Its way from the cradle to the grave, but rather A thing of hot swift flushes, fierce delights, Good eating, dances, wines, and all the rest, When the occasion comes. I never loved him, I tell you; therefore, perhaps, I did no sin.

"But when this fellow must presume to boast, Grow cold, have scruples for his soul and mine, And turn to other younger lives, and pass My door to-day with this one, then with that, And all the gossips of the quarter sneered, And knew I was deserted, do you think it A wonder that my eyes, opened at last, Saw all the folly and the wickedness (If sweet it were, where were the wickedness?) Which bore such bitter fruit? Think you it strange That I should turn for aid, ay, and revenge, To my wronged spouse—if wronged he be, indeed, Who doth consent as he did? When I told him, Amid my tears, he made but small pretence Of jealousy at all; only his pride Was perhaps a little wounded. And indeed It took such long confessions, such grave pain Of soul, such agony of remorse of mine To move him but a little, that I grew So weary of it all, it almost checked My penitence, and left me free to choose Another for my love; but at the last, Long labour, feigned reports, the neighbours' sneers, These drove him at the last, good easy man, To such a depth of hatred, that my task Grew lighter, and my heart.

He bade me write Loving appeals, recalling our past days Together; and I wrote them, using all The armoury of loving cozening words With which craft arms us women: but in vain, For whether some new love engrossed, or whether He wearied of me and my love, I know not, Only, in spite of all, no answer came.

"At length, since I could get no word from him, My husband bade me write—or was it I Who thought of the device? Pray you believe me, I would speak nothing else than the whole truth, But these sad dreadful deeds confuse the brain. Well, perhaps 'twas I, who knew his weakness well I do not know, but somehow it came to pass I wrote a crafty letter, begging of him, By all our former kindness, former wrong, If for the last time, recognizing well That all was done between us evermore, We might, for one last evening, meet and part And, knowing he was needy, and his greed,— 'If only he would come,' I wrote to him, 'I had some secret savings, and desired— For what need comes there closer than a friend's?— To help him in his trouble.' Swift there came— The viper!—hypocritical words of love: Yes, he would come, for the old love still lived, He knew it, ah, too well; not all the glamour Of other eyes and lips could ever quench The fire of that mad passion. He would come, Loving as ever, longing for the day.

"Now when we had the answer, straight we three— My husband and myself, and his weak brother, Whose daughter to her first communion went That very day,—and I, too, took the Host As earnest of changed life,—we three, I say, At a little feast we made to celebrate The brothers reconciled (in families There come dissensions, as you know), devised His punishment. We hired, in a still suburb, A cottage standing backward from the street, Beyond an avenue of sycamores; A lonely place, unnoticed. Day by day We went, we three together—for I feared Lest, if there were no third, the strength of youth Might bear my husband down—we went to make All needful preparations. First we spread Over all the floor a colour like to blood, For deep's the stain of blood, and what shall cleanse it? Also, my husband, from a neighbouring wood, Had brought a boar-trap, sharp with cruel knives And jaggèd teeth, to close with a snap and tear The wild beast caught within it. But I deemed The risk too great, the prey might slip away; Therefore, that he might meet his punishment, And to prevent the sound of cries and groans, My husband fashioned for his lips a gag, And on the mantel left it, and the means To strike a light. And being thus prepared, We three returned to Paris; there long time We sate eating and drinking of the best, As those do who have taken a resolve Whence no escape is, save to do and die.

"Then the two men went back and left me there, With all my part to do. It was an hour Or more before the time when my poor dupe Had fixed to meet me. Wandering thus alone Through the old streets, seeing the common sights Of every day, the innocent child-faces Homing from school, so like my little ones, I seemed to lose all count of time. At length, Because it was the Ascension Feast, there came A waft of music from the open doors Of a near church, and, entering in, I found The incensed air, all I remembered well— The lights, the soaring chants, the kneeling crowds, When I believed and knelt. They seemed to soothe My half bewildered fancy, and I thought— What if a woman, who mayhap had sinned But lightly, wishing to repair her wrong, And bound thereby to some dark daring deed Of peril, should come here, and kneel awhile, And ask a blessing for the deed, of her Who is Heaven's Queen and knows our weaknesses Being herself a woman! So I knelt In worship, and the soaring voices clear And the dim heights and worship-laden air Filled me with comfort for my soul, and nerved My failing heart, and winged time's lagging flight, Till lo the hour was come when I should go To meet him for the last time.

"When we left The city far behind, the sweet May night Was falling on the quiet village street; There was a scent of hawthorn on the air As we passed on with feint of loving words,— Passed slow like lovers to the appointed place, Passed to the place of punishment and doom.

"But when we reached the darkling avenue Of sycamores, which to the silent house Led through a palpable gloom, I felt him shudder With some blind vague presentiment of ill, And he would go no further; but I clung Around him close, laughed all his fear to scorn, Whispered words in his ear, and step by step, My soul on reparation being set, Drew him reluctant to the fated door Where lay my spouse in ambush, and swift death.

"I think I hear the dreadful noise of the key, Turning within the disused lock, the hall Breathing a false desertion, the loud sound Of both our footsteps echoing through the house. I could not choose but tremble. Yet I knew 'Twas but a foolish weakness. Then I struck A match, and in the burst of sudden light I saw the ruddy cheek grown ashy pale, And as he doffed his hat, I marked the curls On his white forehead, and the boyish grace Which hung around him still, and almost felt Compassion. Then the darkness came again, And hid him, and I groped to find his hand, Clutched it with mine, and led him to the door.

"But when within the darkling room we were Where swift death waited him, not dalliance, Three times my trembling fingers failed to wake The twinkling light which scarce could pierce the gloom Which hid my husband. Oh, to see his face When the dark aspect and the furious eyes Glared out on him! 'I am lost!' he cried, 'I am lost!' And then the sound of swift and desperate fight And a death struggle. Listening, as I stood Without, with that mean craven hound, our brother, I heard low cries of rage, and knew despair And youth had nerved the unarmed in such sort As made the conflict doubtful. Then I rushed Between them, threw my arms around him, clogged His force and held him fast, crying the while, 'Wretch, would you kill my husband!'—held him fast, As coils a serpent round the escaping deer, Until my husband, hissing forth his hate, 'Villain, I pierce thy heart as thou hast mine,' Stabbed through and through his heart.

"But oh, but oh The lonely road, beneath the dreadful stars! To the swift stream, we three—nay, nay, we four— One on the child's poor carriage covered o'er, And three who drew him onward, on the road, That dead thing, having neither eye nor ear, Which late was full of life, and strife, and hate. On that dumb silence, came no wayfarer, And once the covering which concealed our load Slipped down, and left the ghastly blood-stained thing Open to prying eyes, but none were there; And then the darkling river, and the sound When, with lead coiled around it, the dead corpse Sank with a sullen plunge within the deep, And took with it the tokens of our crime.

"Then with a something of relief, as those Who have passed through some great peril all unharmed, We went and burned the blood-stained signs of death, And left the dreadful place, and once more sped To Paris and to sleep, till the new day, Now risen to high noon, touched our sad dreams.

"And that day, since we could not work as yet, We to the Picture Gallery went, and there We took our fill of nude voluptuous limbs, Mingled with scenes of horror bathed in blood, Such as our painters love. So week by week, Careless and unafraid, we spent our days, Till when that sad night faded; swift there rose, Bursting the weights that kept it, the pale corpse, A damning witness from the deep, and brought The dreadful past again, and with it doom.

"You know how we were tried, and how things went, The cozening speeches, the brow-beating judge, The petty crafts which make the pleader's art, The dolts who sit in judgment, when the one Who knows all must be silent; but you know not The intolerable burden of suspense, The hard and hateful gaze of hungry eyes Which gloat upon your suffering. When doom came It was well to know the worst, and hear no more The half-forgotten horrors. But I think The sense of common peril, common wrong, Knits us in indissoluble unity, Closer than years of converse. When my husband, Braving his doom, embraced me as he went; 'Wife, so thou live I care not,' all my heart Went out to him for a moment, and I cried, 'Let me die too, my guilt is more than his.'

"Some quibble marred the sentence, and once more The miserable tale was told afresh: Once more I stood before those hungry eyes, And when 'twas done we went forth slaves for life, Both with an equal doom, and ever since We suffer the same pains in solitude, Slaves fettered fast, whom only death sets free.

"That is my tale told truly. Now you know, Sir, of what fashion I am made: a woman Gentle, you see, and mild eyed. If I sinned Surely there was temptation, and I sought Such reparation as I could. There are here Tigresses, and not women, black of brow And strong of arm, who have struck down or stabbed Husband, or child, or lover, not as I, But driven by rage and jealousy, and drink! These creatures of the devil, as I pass I see them shrink and shudder. The young priest Of the prison, a well-favoured lad he is, When I confessed to him bore on his brow Cold drops of agony; the Sister grew So pale at what I told her, that I thought She was like to swoon away, until I soothed her. Poor wretch, she has much to learn; and here I am, And shall be till my hair turns grey, my eyes Grow dim, and I have clean forgotten all That brought me here, and all my former life Fades like a once-heard tale. In the long nights, As I lie alone in my cell like any nun, I wake sometimes with a start, and seem to hear That rusty lock turn, and those echoing feet Down that dark passage, and I seem to see The dreadful stare of those despairing eyes, And then there sounds, a plunge in the deep, and I Lie shivering till the dawn. I have no comfort Except the holy Mass; for see you, sir, I was devout until they scoffed at me. And now I know there is a hell indeed, Since this place is on earth. I do not think I have much cause to fear death, should it come; For whoso strives for Duty, all the Saints And the Madonna needs must love, and I, I have done what penitence could do; and here What have I of reward?—my children taken As clean from me as if they were dead indeed, Trained to forget their mother. Sir, I see, Beyond these shallow phantasms of life; And this I hold, that one whose conscience shows As clear as mine must needs be justified.

I love the holy Mass, and take the Host As often as I may, being of good heart. For what was it she did in Holy Writ, The Kenite's wife of old? I do not read That women shrunk from her because she drave The nail through her guest's brain; nay, rather, praise Was hers: yet was she not betrayed as I, Nor yet repentant of her wrong and seeking To do what good was left. But look you, sir, If I was once repentant, that is past: I hate those black-browed women, who turn from me, That smooth priest and that poor fool with her cross, And that strange pink-and-whiteness of the nun. And sometimes when they come I let them hear Such things as make the pious hypocrites turn And cross themselves. And for this tigress crew, If I might only steal to their cells at night With a knife, I would teach them, what it is to stab; Or even without one, that these little hands Can strangle with the best. Ah, you draw back, You too are shocked forsooth. Listen, you wretch, Who are walking free while I am prisoned here: How many thoughts of murder have you nursed Within your miserable heart! how many Low, foul desires which would degrade the brute! Do you think I do not know you men? What was it That kept your hands unstained, but accident?— Accident, did I say? or was it rather Cowardice, that you feared the stripes of the law, And did not dare to do your will or die?— Accident! then, I pray you, where the merit To have abstained? Or if you claim, indeed, Such precious self-restraint as keeps your feet From straying, where the credit? since it came A gift as much unearned as other's ill, Which lurked for them a little tiny speck Hidden in the convolutions of the brain, To grow with their growth, and wax with their years, and leave The wretch at last in Hell. Do you deem it just, The Potter with our clay upon His wheel Should shape it in such form? I love not God, Being such; I hate Him rather: I, His creature, I do impugn His justice or His power, I will not feign obedience—I, a woman, Of a soft nature, who would love my love, And my child, and nothing more; who am, instead, A murderess, as they tell me, pining here In hell before my time."

Even as she spake I seemed to be again as when I saw The murderess of old time; and once again Within this modern prison, blank and white, There came the viewless trouble in the air Which took her, and the sweep of wings unseen, And terrible sounds which swooped on her and hushed Her voice and seemed to occupy her soul With horror and despair; and as I passed The crucifix within the corridor, "How long?" I cried, "How long?"

When the five gateways of the soul Are closing one by one, When our being's currents slowly roll And life nigh done, What shall our chiefest comfort be Amid this misery?

Not to have stores heaped up on high Of gold and precious things, Not to have flown from sky to sky On Fame's wide wings,— All these things for a space do last, And then are overpast.

Nor to have worked with patient brain In senate or in mart, To have gained the meed which those attain Who have played their part,— Effort is fair, success is sweet, But leave life incomplete.

Nor to have said, as the fool said, "Be merry, soul, rejoice; "Thou hast laid up store for many days." Oh, foolish voice! Already at thy gate the feet Of the corpse-bearers meet.

Nor to have heaped up precious store Of all the gains of time, Of long-dead sages' treasured lore, Or deathless rhyme,— Learning's a sweet and comely maid, But Death makes her afraid.

Nor to have drained the cup of youth, To the sweet maddening lees; Nor, rapt by dreams of Hidden Truth, To have spurned all these;— Pleasure, Denial, touch not him Whose body and mind are dim.

Not one of all these things shall I For comfort, use, or strength, When the sure hour, when I shall die, Takes me at length; One thought alone shall bring redress For that great heaviness:—

That I have held each struggling soul As of one kin and blood, That one sure link doth all control To one close brotherhood; For who the race of men doth love, Loves also Him above.

In seventeen hundred and eighty-three, To Lannion came dole and misery.

Mignon an orphan, as good as fair, Served in the little hostelry there.

One darkling night, when the hour was late, Two travellers rang at the outer gate.

"Quick, hostess! supper, red wine, and food We have money to pay, so that all be good."

When they had drunken enough, and more, "Here is white money to pay the score.

"And now shall your little serving-maid come, With her lantern lighted, to guide us home."

"Gentles, in all our wide Brittany There is no man would harm her, so let it be."

Forth went the maid, full of innocent pride, Fearless and free, with her light by her side.

*****

When they were far on their lonely way, They began to whisper, and mutter, and say,

"Little maid, your face is as fair and bright As the foam on the wave in the morning light."

"Gentles, I pray you, flatter me not: It is as God made it—no other, God wot;

"And were it fairer, I tell you true— Ay, a hundred times fairer—'twere nought to you."

"To judge, little maid, by your sober speech, You know all the good priests at the school can teach;

"To judge from your accents, discreet and mild, You were bred in the convent cloister, my child."

"No teacher had I, neither priest nor nun; There was no one to teach me on earth, not one.

"But while by my father's poor hearth I wrought, God filled me with many a holy thought."

"Set down your lantern and put out the light Here is gold: none can help you, 'tis dead of night."

"Good sirs! for my brother the young priest's sake; If he heard such sayings his heart would break."

*****

"Oh, plunge me down fathoms deep in the sea, Of your mercy, rather than this thing be!

"Rather than this—'twere a lighter doom— Oh bury me quick in a living tomb!"

*****

The motherly hostess, sore afraid, Waited in vain for her little maid.

She watched by the chill hearth's flickering light Till the bell tolled twice through the black dead night.

Then cried, "Up, serving-men, sleep no more! Help!—little maid Mignon lies drowned in gore."

*****

By the cross she lay dead, in the dead cold night, But beside her her lantern was still alight!

Of all the noble damsels, in all our Brittany, Gwennola was the sweetest far, a maiden fair to see.

Scarce eighteen summers shed their gold upon her shapely head, Yet all who loved the fair girl best were numbered with the dead—

Her father and her mother, and eke her sisters dear. Ah! Mary, pity 'twas to see her shed the bitter tear

At her casement in the castle, where a step-dame now bare sway, Her dim eyes fixed upon the sea, which glimmered far away.

******

For three long years she watched in vain, in dole and misery, To see her foster brother's sail spring up from over sea;

For three long years she watched in vain, hoping each day would send The only heart which beat to hers, her lover and her friend.

"Go, get you gone and tend the kine," the cruel step-dame said; "Leave brooding over long-past years: go, earn your daily bread."

She woke her, ere the darkling dawns, while yet 'twas dead of night, To sweep the floors and cleanse the house, and set the fires alight;

To fetch the water from the brook, again and yet again, With heavy toil and panting breath, and young form bent in twain.

******

One darkling winter morning, before the dawning light, With ringing hoofs, across the brook there rode a noble knight:

"Good morrow, gracious maiden, and art thou free to wed?" And she, so young she was and meek, "I know not, sir," she said.

"I prithee tell me, maiden, if thou art fancy-free?" "To none, sir, have I plighted yet my maiden troth," said she.

"Then take, fair maid, this ring of gold, and to your step-dame say, That to-day your troth is plighted to a knight from far away;

"That at Nantes a battle fierce was fought, wherein his squire was slain, And he himself lies stricken sore upon his bed of pain;

"But when three weeks are overpast, whatever fate betide, He will come himself full gaily, and claim thee for his bride."

All breathless ran she homeward, when, lo, a wondrous thing! For on her slender finger blazed her foster brother's ring.

The weeks crept onward slowly, crept slowly—one, two, three; But never came the young knight, no never more came he.

"Come, it is time that you were wed, for I have sought for you A bridegroom fitted to your rank, an honest man and true."

"Nay, nay, I prithee, step-dame, there is none that I can wed, Only my foster brother dear I love, alive or dead.

"With this ring his troth he plighted, and whatever fate betide, He will come himself full gaily, and claim me for his bride."

"Peace, with thy golden wedding-ring! peace, fool, or I will teach With blows thy senseless chattering tongue to hold discreeter speech;

"To-morrow thou shalt be the bride, whether thou wilt or not, Of Giles the neat-herd, honest man: ay, this shall be thy lot."

"Of Giles the neat-herd, saidst thou? oh, I shall die of pain! Oh mother, dear dead mother, that thou wert in life again!"

"Go, cry and wail without the house; go, feed on misery; Go, take thy fill of moans and tears, for wedded thou shalt be."

Just then the ancient sexton, with the bell that tolls the dead, Went up and down the country side, and these the words he said:—

"Pray for the soul of one who was a brave and loyal knight, Who bare at Nantes a grievous hurt, what time they fought the fight:

"To-morrow eve, at set of sun, amid the gathering gloom, From the white church they bear him forth, to rest within the tomb."

"Thou art early from the wedding feast!" "Good truth, I could not stay; I dared not see the piteous sight, and therefore turned away;

"I could not bear the pity and the horror in her eyne, As she stood so fair, in blank despair, within the sacred shrine.

"Around the hapless maiden, all were weeping bitterly, And the good old rector at the church, a heavy heart had he;

"Not a dry eye was around her, save the step-dame stern alone, Who looked on with an evil smile, as from a heart of stone;

"And when the ringers rang a peal, as now they came again, And the women whispered comfort, yet her heart seemed rent in twain.

"High in the place of honour at the marriage feast she sate, Yet no drop of water drank she, and no crumb of bread she ate;

"And when at last, the feast being done, they would light the bride to bed, The ring from off her hand she flung, the wreath from off her head,

"And with wild eyes that spoke despair, and locks that streamed behind, Into the darkling night she fled, as swiftly as the wind."

The lights within the castle were out, and all asleep; Only, with fever in her brain, the maid would watch and weep.

The chamber door swung open. "Who goes there?" "Do not fear, Gwen; 'tis I, your foster brother." "Oh! at last, my love, my dear!"

He raised her to the saddle, and his strong arm clasped her round, As, through the night, his charger white flew on without a sound.

"How fast we go, my brother!" "'Tis a hundred leagues and more." "How happy am I, happier than in all my life before!

"And have we far to go, brother? I would that we were come." "Have patience, sister; hold me fast; 'tis a long way to our home."

The white owl shrieked around them, the wild things shrank in fear As through the night a cloud of light that ghostly steed drew near.

"How swift your charger is, brother! and your armour, oh, how bright! Ah, no more you are a boy, brother, but in troth a noble knight!

"How beautiful you are, brother! but I would that we were come." "Have patience, sister; hold me fast; we are not far from home."

"Your breath is icy-cold, brother, your locks are dank and wet; Your heart, your hands are icy-cold; oh! is it further yet?"

"Have patience, sister; hold me fast; for we are nearly there. Hist! hear you not our marriage bells ring through the midnight air?"

Even with the word, that ghostly steed neighed suddenly and shrill, Then trembled once through every limb, and like a stone stood still.

********

And lo, within a land they were, a land of mirth and pleasure, Where youths and maidens hand in hand danced to a joyous measure;

A verdant orchard closed them round with golden fruit bedight, And above them, from the heaven-kissed hills, came shafts of golden light;

Hard by, a cool spring bubbled clear, a fountain without stain, Whereof the dead lips tasting, grew warm with life again.

There was Gwennola's mother mild, and eke her sisters dear: Oh, land of joy and bliss and love!—oh, land without a tear!

But when the next sun on the earth, brake from the gathered gloom, From the white church, the young maids bore, the virgin to her tomb.

"Seamen, seamen, tell me true, Is there any of your crew Who in Armor town has seen Azenor the kneeling queen?"

"We have seen her oft indeed, Kneeling in the self-same place; Brave her heart, though pale her face, White her soul, though dark her weed."

Of a long-past summer's day Envoys came from far away, Mailed in silver, clothed with gold, On their snorting chargers bold.

When the warder spied them near, To the King he went, and cried, "Twelve bold knights come pricking here: Shall I open to them wide?"

"Let the great gates opened be; See the knights are welcomed all; Spread the board and deck the hall We will feast them royally."

"By our Prince's high command, Who one day shall be our King, We come to ask a precious thing— Azenor your daughter's hand."

"Gladly will we grant your prayer: Brave the youth, as we have heard Tall is she, milkwhite and fair, Gentle as a singing bird."

Fourteen days high feast they made, Fourteen days of dance and song; Till the dawn the harpers played; Mirth and joyance all day long.

"Now, my fair spouse, it is meet That we turn us toward our home." "As you will, my love, my sweet; Where you are, there I would come."

When his step-dame saw the bride, Well-nigh choked with spleen was she: "This pale-faced girl, this lump of pride— And shall she be preferred to me?

"New things please men best, 'tis true, And the old are cast aside. Natheless, what is old and tried Serves far better than the new."

Scarce eight months had passed away When she to the Prince would come, And with subtlety would say, "Would you lose both wife and home?

"Have a care, lest what I tell Should befall you; so 'twere best Have a care and guard you well, 'Ware the cuckoo in your nest."

"Madam, if the truth you tell, Meet reward her crime shall earn, First the round tower's straitest cell, Then in nine days she shall burn."

When the old King was aware, Bitter tears the greybeard shed. Tore in grief his white, white hair, Crying, "Would God that I were dead!"

And to all the seamen said, "Good seamen, pray you tell me true, Is there, then, any one of you Can tell me if my child be dead?"

"My liege, as yet alive is she, Though burned to-morrow shall she be: But from her prison tower, O King! Morning and eve we hear her sing.

"Morning and eve, from her fair throat Issues the same sweet plaintive note, 'They are deceived; I kiss Thy rod: Have pity on them, O my God!'"

Even as a lamb who gives its life All meekly to the cruel knife, White-robed she went, her soft feet bare, Self-shrouded in her golden hair.

And as she to her dreadful fate Fared on, poor innocent, meek and mild, "Grave crime it were," cried small and great, "To slay the mother and the child."

All wept sore, both small and great; Only the step-dame smiling sate: "Sure 'twere no evil deed, but good, To kill the viper with her brood."

"Quick, good firemen, fan the fire Till it leap forth fierce and red; Fan it fierce as my desire: She shall burn till she is dead."

Vain their efforts, all in vain, Though they fanned and fanned again; The more they blew, the embers gray Faded and sank and died away.

When the judge the portent saw, Dazed and sick with fear was he: "She is a witch, she flouts the law; Come, let us drown her in the sea."

What saw you on the sea? A boat Neither by sail nor oarsman sped; And at the helm, to watch it float, An angel white with wings outspread;

A little boat, far out to sea, And with her child a fair ladye, Whom at her breast she sheltered well, Like a white dove upon a shell.

She kissed, and clasped, and kissed again His little back, his little feet, Crooning a soft and tender strain, "Da-da, my dear; da-da, my sweet.

"Ah, could your father see you, sweet, A proud man should he be to-day; But we on earth may never meet, But he is lost and far away."

In Armor town is such affright As never castle knew before, For at the midmost hour of night The wicked step-dame is no more.

"I see hell open at my side: Oh, save me, in God's name, my son! Your spouse was chaste; 'twas I who lied Oh, save me, for I am undone!"

Scarce had she checked her lying tongue, When from her lips a snake did glide, With threatening jaws, which hissed and stung, And pierced her marrow till she died

Eftsoons, to foreign realms the knight Went forth, by land and over sea; Seeking in vain his lost delight, O'er all the round, round world went he.

He sought her East, he sought her West, Next to the hot South sped he forth, Then, after many a fruitless quest, He sought her in the gusty North.

There by some nameless island vast, His anchor o'er the side he cast; When by a brooklet's fairy spray, He spies a little lad at play.

Fair are his locks, and blue his eyes, As his lost love's or as the sea; The good knight looking on them, sighs, "Fair child, who may thy father be?"

"Sir, I have none save Him in heaven: Long years ago he went away, Ere I was born, and I am seven; My mother mourns him night and day."

"Who is thy mother, child, and where?" "She cleanses linen white and fair, In yon clear stream." "Come, child, and we Together will thy mother see."

He took the youngling by the hand, And, as they passed the yellow strand, The child's swift blood in pulse and arm Leapt to his father's and grew warm.

"Rise up and look, oh mother dear; It is my father who is here: My father who was lost is come— Oh, bless God for it!—to his home."

They knelt and blessed His holy name, Who is so good, and just, and mild, Who joins the sire and wife and child: And so to Brittany they came.

And may the blessed Trinity, Protect all toilers on the sea!