Volume 3 — CHRISTINE: A TROUBADOUR'S SONG, IN FIVE CANTOS. BY GEORGE H. MILES. [Footnote 34]

THE THIRD SONG. I. Fronting the vine-clad Hermitage,-- Its hoary turrets mossed with age, Its walls with flowers and grass o'ergrown,-- A ruined Castle, throned so high Its battlements invade the sky, Looks down upon the rushing Rhone. From its tall summits you may see The sunward slopes of Côte Rotie With its red harvest's revelry; While eastward, midway to the Alpine snows, Soar the sad cloisters of the Grande Chartreuse. And here, 'tis said, to hide his shame, The thrice accursed Pilate came; And here the very rock is shown. Where, racked and riven with remorse, Mad with the memory of the Cross, He sprang and perished in the Rhone. 'Tis said that certain of his race Made this tall peak their dwelling place. And built them there this castle keep To mark the spot of Pilate's leap. {172} Full many the tale of terror told At eve, with changing cheek, By maiden fair and stripling bold, Of these dark keepers of the height And, most of all, of the Wizard Knight, The Knight of Pilate's Peak. His was a name of terror known And feared through all Provence; Men breathed it in an undertone. With quailing eye askance, Till the good Dauphin of Vienne, And Miolan's ancient Lord, One midnight stormed the robber den And gave them to the sword; All save the Wizard Knight, who rose In a flame-wreath from his dazzled foes; All save a child, with golden hair. Whom the Lord of Miolan deigned to spare In ruth to womanhood, And she, alas, is the maiden fair Who wept in the walnut wood. But who is he, with step of fate, Goes gloomily through the castle gate In me morning's virgin prime? Why scattereth he with frenzied hand The fierce flame of that burning brand, Chaunting an ancient rhyme? The eagle, scared from her blazing nest, Whirls with a scream round his sable crest. What muttereth he with demon smile. Shaking his mailed hand the while Toward the Chateau of La Sône, Where champing steed and bannered tent Gave token of goodly tournament, And the Golden Dolphin shone? "Woe to the last of the Dauphin's line, When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak! Burn, beacon, burn!"--and as he spoke From the ruined towers curled the pillared smoke, As the light flame leapt from the ancient oak And answered the eagle's shriek. Man and horse down the hillside sprang And a voice through the startled forest rang-- "I ride, I ride to win my bride. Ho, Eblis! to thy servants side; Thou hast sworn no foe Shall lay me low Till the dead in arms against me ride." {173} II. Deliciously, deliciously Cometh the dancing dawn, Christine, Christine comes with it, Leading in the morn. Beautiful pair! So cometh the fawn Before the deer. Christine is in her bower Beside the swift Isère Weaving a white flower With her dark brown hair. Never, O never, Wandering river. Though flowing for ever, E'er shalt thou mirror Maiden so fair! Hail to thee, hail to thee, Beautiful one; Maiden to match thee, On earth there is none. And there is none to tell How beautiful thou art: Though oft the first Rudel Has made the Princes start, When he has strung his harp and sung The Lily of Provence, Till the high halls have rung With clash of lifted lance Vowed to the young Christine of France. Ah, true that he might paint The blooming of thy cheek. The blue vein's tender streak On marble temple faint; Lips in whose repose Ruby weddeth rose. Lips that parted show Ambushed pearl below: Or he may catch the subtle glow Of smiles as rare as sweet, May whisper of the drifted snow Where throat and bosom meet. And of the dark brown braids that flow So grandly to thy feet. Ah, true that he may sing Thy wondrous mien. {174} Stately as befits a queen, Yet light and lithe and all awing As becometh Queen of air Who glideth unstepping everywhere. And he might number e'en The charms that haunt the drapery-- Charms that, ever changing, cluster Round thy milk-white mantle's lustre,-- Maiden mantle that is part of thee. Maiden mantle that doth circle thee With the snows of virgin grace; Halo-like around thee wreathing, Spirit-like about thee breathing The glory of thy face. But these dark eyes, Christine? Peace, poet, peace, Cease, minstrel, cease! But these dear eyes, Christine? Mute, O mute Be voice and lute! O dear dark eyes that seem to dwell With holiest things invisible, Who may read your oracle? Earnest eyes that seem to rove Empyrean heights above, Yet aglow with human love. Who may speak your spell? Dear dark eyes that beam and bless, In whose luminous caress Nature weareth bridal dress,-- Eyes of voiceless Prophetess, Your meanings who may tell! O there is none! Peace, poet, peace. Cease, minstrel, cease, For there is none! O eyes of fire without desire, O stars that lead the sun! But minstrel cease, Peace, poet, peace. Tame Troubadour be still; Voice and lute Alike be mute, It passeth all your skill! Sooth thou art fair, O ladye dear. Yet one may see The shadow of the east in thee; {175} Tinting to a riper flush The faint vermilion of thy blush; Deepening in thy dark brown hair Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there. For she had scarce seen summers ten, When erst the Hermit's call Sent all true Knights from bower and hall Against the Saracen. Young, motherless, and passing fair, The Dauphin durst not leave her there, Within his castle lone, To kinsman's cold or casual care, Not such as were his own: And so the sweet Provençal maid Shared with her sire the first Crusade. And you may hear her oft, In accents strangely soft. Still singing of the rose's bloom In Sharon,--of the long sunset That gilds lamenting Olivet, Of eglantines that grace the gloom Of sad Gethsemane; And of a young Knight ever seen In evening walks along the green That fringes feeble Siloë. Young, beautiful, and passing fair-- The ancient Dauphin's only heir, The fairest flower of France,-- Knights by sea and Knights by land Came to claim the fair white hand, With sigh and suppliant lance; And many a shield Displayed afield The Lily of Provence. Ladye love of prince and bard Yet to one young Savoyard Swerveless faith she gave-- To the young knight ever seen When moonlight wandered o'er the green That gleams o'er Siloë's wave. And he, blest boy, where lingers he? For the Dauphin hath given slow consent That, after a joyous tournament, The stately spousals shall be. Christine is in her bower That blooms by the swift Isère, Twining a white flower With her dark brown hair. {176} The skies of Provence Are bright with her glance, And nature's matin organ floods The world with music from the myriad throats Of the winged Troubadours, whose joyous notes Brighten the rolling requiem of the woods. With melody, flowers, and light Hath the maiden come to play, As fragile, fair, and bright And lovelier than they? O no, she has come to her bower That blooms by the dark Isère For the bridegroom who named the first hour Of day-dawn to meet her there: But the bridal morn on the hills is born And the bridegroom is not here. Hie thee hither, Savoyard, On such an errand youth rides hard. Never knight so dutiful Maiden failed so beautiful: And she in such sweet need, And he so bold and true!-- She will watch by the long green avenue Till it quakes to the tramp of his steed; Till it echoes the neigh of the gallant Grey Spurred to the top of his speed. In the dark, green, lonely avenue The Ladye her love-watch keepeth, Listening so close that she can hear The very dripping of the dew Stirred by the worm as it creepeth; Straining her ear For her lover's coming Till his steed seems near In the bee's far humming. She stands in the silent avenue, Her back to a cypress tree; O Savoyard once bold and true, Late bridegroom, where canst thou be? Hark! o'er the bridge that spans the river There cometh a clattering tread, Never was shaft from mortal quiver Ever so swiftly sped. Onward the sound, Bound after, bound, Leapeth along the tremulous ground. {177} From the nodding forest darting. Leaves, like water, round them parting. Up the long green avenue, Horse and horseman buret in view. Marry, what ails the bridegroom gay That he strideth a coal black steed, Why cometh he not on the gallant Grey That never yet failed him at need? Gone is the white plume, that clouded his crest, And the love-scarf that lightly lay over his breast; Dark is his shield as the raven's wing To the funeral banquet hurrying. Came ever knight in such sad array On the merry morn of his bridal day? The Ladye trembles, and well she may; Saints, you would think him a fiend astray. A plunge, a pause, and, fast beside her. Stand the sable horse and rider. Alas, Christine, this shape of wrath In Palestine once crossed thy path; His arm around thy waist, I trow, To bear thee to his saddle-bow. But thy Savoyard was there. In time to save, tho' not to smite, For the demon fled into the night From Miolan's matchless heir. Alas, Christine, that lance lies low-- Lies low on oaken bier! Low bent the Wizard, till his plume O'ershadowed her like falling doom: She feels the cold casque touch her ear, She hears the whisper, hollow, clear,-- "From Acre's strand, from Holy Land, O'er mountain crag, through desert sand, By land, by sea, I come for thee. And mine ere sunset shalt thou be! Dost know me, girl?" The visor raises-- God, 'tis the Knight of Pilate's Peak! As if in wildered dream she gazes, Gazing as one who strives to shriek. She cannot fly, or speak, or stir, For that face of horror glares, at her Like a phantom fresh from hell. She gave no answer, she made no moan; Mute as a statue overthrown. Her fair face cold as carved stone, Swooning the maiden fell. {178} The sun has climbed the golden hills And danceth down with the mountain rills. Over the meadow the swift beams run Lifting the flowers, one by one, Sipping their chalices dry as they pass, And kissing the beads from the bending grass. The Dauphin's chateau, grand and grey, Glows merrily in the risen day; His castle that seemeth ancient as earth, Lights up like an old man in his mirth. Through the forest old, the sunbeams bold Their glittering revel keep, Till, in arrowy gold, on the chequered wold In glancing lines they sleep. And one sweet beam hath found its way To the violet bank where the Ladye lay. O radiant touch! perchance so shone The hand that woke the widow's son. She sighs, she stirs; the death-swoon breaks; Life slowly fires those pallid lips; And feebly, painfully, she wakes, Struggling through that dark eclipse. Breathing fresh of Alpine snows, Breathing sweets of summer rose. Murmuring songs of soft repose, The south wind on her bosom blows: But she heeds it not, she hears it not; Fast she sits with steady stare. The dew-drops heavy on her hair, Her fingers clasped in dumb despair, Frozen to the spot: While o'er her fierce and fixed as fate, The fiend on his spectral war-horse sate. A horrible smile through the visor broke, And, quoth he, "I but watched till my Ladye woke. Get thee a flagon of Shiraz wine, For the lips must be red that answer mine!" Cleaving the woods, like the wind he went. His face o'er his shoulder backward bent, Crying thrice--"We shall meet at the Tournament!" Clasping the cypress overhead, Christine rose from her fragrant bed. And a prayer to Mother Mary sped. Hold not those gleaming skies for her The same unfailing Comforter? And those two white winged cherubim, She once had seen, when Christmas hymn Chimed with the midnight mass, Scattering light through the chapel dim, Alive in me stained glass-- {179} What fiend could harm a hair of her. While those arching-wings took care of her? And our Ladye, Maid divine, Mother round whose marble shrine She wreathed the rose of Palestine So many sinless years, Will not heaven's maiden-mother Queen Regard her daughter's tears! Yes!--through the forest stepping slow, Tranquil mistress of her woe, Goeth the calm Christine; And but for yonder spot of snow Upon each temple, none may know How stem a storm hath been. For never dawned a brighter day, And the Ladye smileth on her way, Greeting the blue-eyed morn at play With earth in her spangled green. A single cloud Stole like a shroud Forth from the fading mists that hid The crest of each Alpine pyramid; Unmovingly it lingers over The mountain castle of her lover; While over Pilate's Peak Hangs the grey pall of the sullen smoke, Leaps the lithe flame of the ancient oak And the eagle soars with a shriek. Full well she knew the curse was near. But that heart of hers had done with fear. By St. Antoine, not steadier stands Mont Blanc's white head in winter's whirl Than that calm, fearless, smiling girl With her bare brow upturned and firmly folded hands. Back to her bower so fair Christine her way, is wending; Over the dark Isère Silently she's bending, Thus communing with the stream. As one who whispers in a dream: "Waters that at sunset ran Round the Mount of Miolan; Stream, that binds my love to me, Whisper where that lover be; Wavelets mine, what evil things Mingle with your murmurings; Tell me, ere ye glide away. Wherefore doth the bridegroom stay? Hath the fiend of Pilate's Peak Met him, stayed him, slain him--speak! {180} Speak the worst a Bride may know, God hath armed my soul for woe; Touching heaven, the virgin snow Is firmer than the rock below. Lies my love upon his bier, Answer, answer, dark Isère! Hark, to the low voice of the river Singing 'Thy love is lost for ever!' Weep with all thy icy fountains, "Weep, ye cold, uncaring mountains, I have not a tea! Stream, that parts my love from me, Bear this bridal rose with thee; Bear it to the happy hearted, Christine and all the flowers have parted!" They are coming from the castle, A bevy of bright-eyed girls, Some with their long locks braided, Some with loose golden curls. Merrily 'mid the meadows They win their wilful way; Winding through sun and shadow, Rivulets at play. Brows with white rosebuds blowing, Necks with white pearl entwined. Gowns whose white folds imprison Wafts of the wandering wind. The boughs of the charmèd woodland Sing to the vision sweet. The daisies that crouch in the clover Nod to their twinkling feet. They see Christine by the river, And, deeming the bridegroom near, They wave her a dewy rose-wreath Fresh plucked for her dark brown hair. Hand in hand tripping to meet her, Birdlike they carol their joy. Wedding soft Provençal numbers To a dulcet old strain of Savoy. {181} THE GREETING. Sister, standing at Love's golden gate. Life's second door-- Fleet the maidentime is flying. Friendship fast in love is dying, Bridal fate doth separate Friends evermore. Pilgrim seeking with thy sandalled feet The land of bliss; Sire and sister tearless leaving, To thy beckoning palmer cleaving-- Truant sweet, once more repeat Our parting kiss. Wanderer filling for enchanted isle Thy dimpling sail; Whither drifted, all uncaring. So with faithful helmsman faring, Stay and smile with us, awhile, Before the gale. Playmate, hark! for all that once was ours Soon rings the knell: Glade and thicket, glen and heather, Whisper sacredly together; Queen of ours, the very flowers Sigh forth farewell. Christine looked up, and smiling stood Among the choral sisterhood: But some who sprang to greet her, stayed Tiptoe, with the speech unsaid; And, each the other, none knew why. Questioned with quick, wondering eye. One by one, their smiles have flown. No lip is laughing but her own; And hers, the frozen smile that wears The glittering of unshed tears. "Ye nave sung for me, I will sing for ye, My sisters fond and fair." And she bent her head till the chaplet fell Adown in the deep Isère. THE REPLY. Bring me no rose-wreath now: But come when sunset's first tears fall. When night-birds from the mountain call-- Then bind my brow, Roses and lilies white-- But tarry till the glow-worms trail Their gold-work o'er the spangled veil Of falling night {182} Twine not your garland fair Till I have fallen fast asleep; Then to my silent pillow creep And leave it there-- There in the chapel yard!-- Come with twilight's earliest hush, Just as day's last purple flush Forsakes the sward. Stop where the white cross stands. You'll find me in my wedding suit, Lying motionless and mute, With folded hands. Tenderly to my side: The bridegroom's form you may not see In the dim eve, but he will be Fast by his bride. Soft with your chaplet move. And lightly lay it on my head: Be sure you wake not with rude tread My jealous love. Kiss me, then quick away; And leave us, in unwatched repose, With the lily and the rose Waiting for day! But hark! the cry of the clamorous horn Breaks the bright stillness of the morn. From moated wall, from festal hall The banners beckon, the bugles call, Already flames, in the lists unrolled O'er the Dauphin's tent, the Dolphin gold. A hundred knights in armor glancing. Hurry afield with pennons dancing, Each with a vow to splinter a lance For Christine, the Lily of Provence. "Haste!" cried Christine; "Sisters, we tarry late. Let not the tourney wait For its Queen!" And, toward the castle gate, They take their silent way along the green.