Volume 3 — THE SECOND SONG.

I. They passed into an ancient hall With oaken arches spanned. Full many a shield hung on the wall, Full many a broken brand. And barbèd spear and scimetar From Holy Land. And scarfs of dames of high degree With gold and jewels rich, And many a mouldered effigy In many a mouldering niche, Like grey sea shells whose crumbling cells Bestrew the beach. {40} The sacred dead possessed the place, The silent cobweb wreathed The tombs where slept that warrior race, With swords for ever sheathed: You seemed to share the very air Which they had breathed. Oh, darksome was that funeral room, Those oaken arches dim, The torchlight, struggling through the gloom, Fell faint on effige grim, On dragon dread and carvèd head Of Cherubim. Of Cherubim fast by a shrine Whereon the last sad rite Was wont for all that ancient line, For dame and belted knight-- A shrine of Moan which death alone Did ever light. But light not now that altar stone While hope of life remain, Though darksome be that altar lone, Unlit that funeral fane, Save by the rays cast by the blaze Of torches twain. Of torches twain at head and heel Of him who seemeth dead, Who sleepeth so well in his coat of steel. His cloak around him spread-- The young Knight fair, who lieth there On oaken bed. One hand still fastened to his heart. The other on his lance, While through his eyelids, half apart. Life seemeth half to glance. "Sweet youth awake, for Jesu's sake, From this strange trance!" But heed or answer there is none. Then knelt that Hermit old; To Mother Mary and her Son Full many a prayer he told, Whose wondrous words the Church records In lettered gold: {41} And many a precious litany And many a pious vow, Then rising said, "If fiend it be, That fiend shall leave thee now!" And traced the sign of the Cross divine On lips and brow. As well expect yon cherub's wings To wave at matin bell! Not all the relics of the kings Could break that iron spell. "Pray for the dead, let mass be said, Toll forth the knell!" "Not yet!" the Baron gasped and sank As if beneath a blow, With lips all writhing as they drank The dregs of deepest woe; With eyes aglare, and scattered hair Tossed to and fro. So swings the leaf that lingers last When wintry tempests sweep, So reels when storms have stripped the mast The galley on the deep, So nods the snow on Eigher's brow Before the leap. Uncertain 'mid his tangled hair His palsied fingers stray, He smileth in his dumb despair Like a sick child at play. Though wet, I trow, with tears eno' That beard so grey. Oh, Hermit, lift him to your breast, There best his heart may bleed; Since none but heaven can give him rest, Heaven's priest must meet his need: Dry that white beard, now wet and weird As pale sea-weed. Uprising slowly from the ground, With short and frequent breath. In aimless circles, round and round, The Baron tottereth With trailing feet, a mourner meet For house of death. {42} Till, pausing by the shrine of Moan, He said, the while he wept, "Here, Hermit, here mine only one, When all the castle slept, As maiden knight, o'er armor bright, His first watch kept. "This is the casque that first he wore, And this his virgin shield. This lance to his first tilt he bore, With this first took the field-- How light, how lâche to that huge ash He now doth wield! "This blade hath levelled at a blow The she-wolf in her den. With this red falchion he laid low The slippery Saracen. God! will that hand, so near his brand, Ne'er strike again? "Frown not on him, ye men of old. Whose glorious race is run; Frown not on him, my fathers bold. Though many the field ye won: His name and los may mate with yours Though but begun! "Receive him, ye departed brave, Unlock the gates of light. And range yourselves about his grave To hail a brother knight. Who never erred in deed or word Against the right! "But is he dead and is he sped Withouten scathe or scar? Why, Hermit, he hath often bled From sword and scimetar-- I've seen him ride, wounds gaping wide, From war to war. "And hath a silent, viewless thing Laid danger's darling low, When youth and hope were on the wing And life in morning glow? Not yonder worm in winter's storm Perisheth so! {43} "Oh, Hermit, thou hast heard, I ween, Of trances long and deep, But, Hermit, hast thou ever seen That grim and stony sleep. And canst thou tell how long a spell Such slumbers keep? "Oh, be there naught to break the charm, To thaw this icy chain; Has Mother Church no word to warm These freezing lips again; Be holy prayer and balsams rare Alike in vain? . . . . "A curse on thy ill-omened head; Man, bid me not despair; Churl, say not that a Knight is dead When he can couch his spear; When he can ride--Monk, thou hast lied. He lives, I swear! "Up from that bier! Boy, to thy feet! Know'st not thy father's voice? Thou ne'er hast disobeyed . . . is't meet A sire should summon thrice? By these grey hairs, by these salt tears, Awake, arise! "Ho, lover, to thy ladye flee, Dig deep the crimson spur; Sleep not 'twixt this lean monk and me When thou shouldst kneel to her! Oh 'tis a sin, Christine to win And thou not stir! "Ho, laggard, hear yon trumpet's note Go sounding to the skies, The lists are set, the banners float. Yon loud-mouthed herald cries, 'Ride, gallant knights, Christine invites. Herself the prize!' "Ho, craven, shun'st thou the melée, When she expects thy brand To prove to-day in fair tourney A title to her hand? Up, dullard base, or by the mass I'll make thee stand!" . . . . {44} Thrice strove he then to wrench apart Those fingers from the spear. Thrice strove to sever from the heart The hand that rested there. Thrice strove in vain with frantic strain That shook the bier. Thrice with the dead the living strove, Their armor rang a peal, The sleeping knight he would not move Although the sire did reel: That stately corse defied all force, Stubborn as steel. "Ay, dead, dead, dead!" the Baron cried; "Dear Hermit, I did rave. O were we sleeping side by side! . . Good monk, I penance crave For all I said .... Ay, he is dead, Pray heaven to save! "Betake thee to thy crucifix, And let me while I may Rain kisses on these frozen cheeks Before they know decay. Leave me to weep and watch and keep The worm at bay. "Thou wilt not spare thy prayers, I trust; But name not now the grave-- I'll watch him to the very dust! .... So, Hermit, to thy cave. Whilst here I cling lest creeping thing Insult the brave!" ------ Why starts the Hermit to his feet, why springs he to the bier, Why calleth he on Jesu sweet, Staying the starting tear. What whispereth he half trustfully And half in fear? {45} "Sir Knight, thy ring hath razed his flesh-- 'Twas in thy frenzy done; Lo, from his wrist how fast and fresh The blood-drops trickling run; Heaven yet may wake, for Mary's sake, Thy warrior son. "Heap ashes on thy head, Sir Knight, In sackcloth gird thee well, The shrine of Moan must blaze in light, The morning mass must swell; Arouse from sleep the castle keep, Sound every bell!" They come, pale maid and mailèd man They throng into the hall, The watcher from the barbican, The warder from the wall. And she apart, with breaking heart, The last of all. "Introibo! Introibo!" The morning mass begins; "Mea culpa! mea culpa!" Forgive us all our sins; And the rapt Hermit chaunts with streaming eyes, That seem to enter Paradise, "Gloria! Gloria!" The shrine of Moan had never known That gladdest of all hymns. ------ II. The fair-haired maiden standeth apart In the chapel gloom, with breaking heart. But a smile broke over her face as she said, "The draught was well measured, I ween; He liveth, thank Allah, but not to wed His beautiful Christine. No lance hath Miolan couched to-day: Let the bride for the bridegroom watch, and pray. Till the lists shall hear the shriek Of the Dauphin's daughter borne away By the Knight of Pilate's Peak."