VI.

THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE

I.

Thou little god of meikle sway, Who rul'st from pole to pole, And up beyond yon milky way, Where wondrous planets roll: Oh! tell me how a power divine, That tames the creatures wild, Whose touch benign makes all men kin, Could slay sweet Emergilde?

It's up the street, and down the street, And up the street again, And all the day, and all the way, She looks at noble men; But him she seeks she cannot find In all that moving train; No one can please that anxious gaze, And own to "Ballenden."

From the high castle on the knowe, Adown the Canongate, And from the palace in the howe, Up to the castle yett, A hizzy here, a cadie there, She stops with modest mien; All she can say four words convey: "I seek for Ballenden."

Nor more of our Scotch tongue she knew, For she's of foreign kin, And all her speech can only reach "I seek for Ballenden." No Ballenden she yet could find, No one aught of him knew; She sought at night dark Toddrick's Wynd, Next morn to search anew.

II.

And who is she, this fair ladye, To whom our land is strange? Why all alone, to all unknown, Within this city's range? Her face was of the bonnie nut-brown Our Scotch folk love to view, When 'neath it shows the red, red rose, Like sunlight shining through.

Her tunic was of the mazerine, Of scarlet her roquelaire, And o'er her back, in ringlets black, Fell down her raven hair. Her eyes, so like the falling sterns, Seen on an August night, Had surely won from eastern sun Some rayons of his light.

And still she tried, and still she plied, Her task so sad and vain, The words still four—they were no more— "I seek for Ballenden." No Ballenden could she yet find, No one aught of him knew, And still at night down Toddrick's Wynd, Next morn to search anew.

III.

In Euphan Barnet's lowly room, Adown that darksome wynd, A ladye fair is lying there, In illness sair declined; Her cheeks now like the lily pale, The roses waned away, Her eyes so bright have lost their light, Her lips are like the clay.

On her fair breast a missal rests, Illumed with various dyes, In which were given far views of heaven In old transparencies. There hangs the everlasting cross Of emerald and of gold, That cross of Christ so often kissed When she her beads had told.

Those things are all forgotten now, Far other thoughts remain; And as she dreams she ever renes, "I seek for Ballenden." Oh Ballenden! oh Ballenden! Whatever, where'er thou be, That ladye fair is dying there, And all for love of thee.

IV.

In the old howf of the Canongate There is a little lair, And on it grows a pure white rose, By love implanted there; And o'er it hangs a youthful man, With a cloud upon his brow, And sair he moans, and sair he groans, For her who sleeps below.

No noble lord nor banneret, Nor courtly knight is he, No more than a simple advocate, Who pleadeth for his fee. He holds a letter in his hand, On which bleared eyes are bent, It came afar from Almanzar, The Duke of Bonavent—

A noble duke whom he had seen In his castle by the sea, When for one night he claimed the right Of his high courtesie; And that letter said, "Kind sir, I write In sorrow, sooth to say, That my dear child, fair Emergilde, Hath from us flown away;

"And all the trace that I can find Is this, and nothing more, She took to sea at Tripoli For Scotland's distant shore. It is a feat of strange conceit That fills us with alarms: Oh seek about, and find her out, And send her to our arms."

V.

And who is he this letter reads With tears the words atween? Yea! even he she had sought to see, The sair-sought Ballenden. Yet little little had he thought, When away in that far countrie, That a look she had got of a humble Scot Would ever remembered be.

But tho' he had deemed himself forgot By one so far away, Her image had still, against his will, Him haunted night and day. And when he laid him on his bed, And sair inclined to sleep, That face would still, against his will, Its holy vigil keep.

Oh gentle youth, thou little thought, When away in our north countrie, That up and down, thro' all the town, That ladye sought for thee. And little little did thou wot What in Euphan's room was seen, Where, as she died, she whispering sighed, "I die for Ballenden."[A]

[Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who, having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without ever having seen her. In 1162 he quitted the court of England and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her on board a vessel, visited him on shipboard, took him by the hand, and attempted to cheer him. Rudel recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry which the countess raised to his memory. His verses "On Distant Love" were well known. They began thus:

Angry and sad shall be my way If I behold not her afar, And yet I know not when that day Shall rise, for still she dwells afar. God, who has formed this fair array Of worlds, and placed my love afar, Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray, Of seeing her I love afar. ]

VII.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR.

I.

The baron has gone to the hunting green, All by the ancient Castle of Weir, With his guest, Sir Hubert, of Norman kin, And a maiden, his only daughter dear— The Ladye Tomasine, famed around For beauty as well as for courtesie, Wherever might sensible heads be found, Or ears to listen, or eyes to see. Nor merely skin-deep was she fair: She had a spirit both true and leal, As all about the Castle of Weir Were many to know, and many to tell. Right well she knew what it was to feel Grim poverty in declining day, With a purse to ope, and a hand to deal, And tears to bless what she gave away; Yet she was blithe and she was gay. And now she has gone to the hunting green, All on this bright and sunshiny day, To fly her favourite peregrine, With her hunting coat of the baudykin, Down which there flowed her raven hair, And her kirtle of the red sendal fine, With an eagle's plume in her heading gear.

II.

If the knight had not a hawk on his wrist, He had kestrel eyes both cunning and keen, And the quarry of which he was in quest Was the heart of the lovely Tomasine; But the ladye thought him a kestrel kite, With a grovelling eye to the farmer's coop, And wanted the bold and daring flight That mounts to the sun to make a swoop.

The Baron of Weir points to the sky, "Ho! ho! a proud heron upon the wing! Unhood, my Tomasine dear, untie! Off with the jesses—away him fling!" "Up! up! my Guy," cried the laughing maid, As with nimble fingers she him unjessed, "Up! up! and away! and earn thy bread, Then back to thy mistress to be caressed." Up sprang the bird with a joyful cry, And eyed his quarry, yet far away, Still up and up in the dark blue sky, That he might aim a swoop on his prey; Then down as the lightning bolt of Jove On the heron, who, giving a scream of fear, Shoots away from his enemy over above, And makes for the rushing Water of Weir.

III.

The Water of Weir is rushing down, Foaming and furious, muddy and brown, From the heights where the laughing Näiads dwell, And cascades leap from the craggy fell, Where the mountain streamlets brattle and brawl, 'Midst the mountain maidens' echoing call, Through pools where the water-kelpies wait For the rider who dares the roaring spate. Rain-fed, proud, turgid, and swollen, Now foaming wild, now sombre and sullen; Dragging the rushes from banks and braes, Tearing the drooping branches of trees, Rolling them down by scallop and scaur, Involving all in a watery war— Turned, and whirled, and swept along, Down to the sea to be buried and gone.

The peregrine, fixed on the wader's back, Is carried along in her devious track, As with a weak and a wailing scream The victim crosses the raging stream. "I will lose, I will lose my gay peregrine!" Cried shrilly the Ladye Tomasine: She will hurry across the bridge of wood, With its rail of wattle which long hath stood; Her nimble feet are upon the plank That will bear her over from bank to bank; She has crossed it times a thousandfold: Time brings youth and Time makes old; The wattles have rotted while she was growing, The wind is up and the waters rowing, And to keep her feet she must use her hand. "Come back! come back!" was the baron's command, Too late!—go wattles—a piercing scream! And the maid falls into the roaring stream! Round and round, in eddying whirl, Who shall save the perishing girl? Round and round, and down and away, Nothing to grasp, and nothing to stay. The baron stands fixed and wrings his hands, And looks to Sir Hubert, who trembling stands. Sir Hubert! one moment now is thine— The next! and a power no less than divine Can save this maid of so many charms From the grasp of Death's enfolding arms. Spring! spring! Sir Hubert, the moment is thine To save a life, and a love to win. No! no! the dastard kestrel kite Aye hugs the earth in his stealthy flight. Hope gone! the pool at the otter's cave Will prove the Ladye Tomasine's grave. Ho! ho! see yonder comes rushing down A lithe young hind, though a simple clown— Off bonnet and shoes, and coat and vest, A plunge! and he holds her round the waist! Three strokes of his arm, with his beautiful prize All safe, although faint, on the bank she lies! A cottager's wife came running down, "Take care of the ladye," said the clown. He has donned his clothes, and away he has gone, His name unuttered, his home unknown.

IV.

Up in the ancient Castle of Weir Sat the baron, the knight, and the fair Tomasine; And the baron he looked at his daughter dear, While the salt tears bleared his aged eyne; And then to the steward, with hat in hand: "Make known unto all, from Tweed to Tyne, A hundred rose nobles I'll give to the man Who saved the life of my Tomasine." Sir Hubert cried out, in an envious vein, "Who is he that will vouch for the lurdan loon? There's no one to say he would know him again, And another may claim the golden boon." Then said the ladye, "My eyes were closed, And I never did see this wondrous man; And the cottar woman she hath deposed He was gone ere his features she could scan." "Ho!" cried the baron, "I watched him then, As I stood on the opposite bank afeared; Of a hundred men I would ken him again, Though he were to doff his dun-brown beard."

A year has passed at the Castle of Weir, Yet no one has claimed the golden don; Most wonderful thing to tell or to hear! Was he of flesh and blood and bone? Though golden nobles might not him wile, Was there not something more benign? Was not for him a maiden's smile? Was not that maiden Tomasine?

V.

The ladye sat within her summer bower Alone, deep musing, in the still greenwood; Sadly and slowly passed the evening hour, Sad and sorrowful was her weary mood, For she had seen, beneath a shadowing tree, All fast asleep a beauteous rural swain, Whom she had often sighed again to see, But never yet had chanced to see again;— So beautiful that, if the time had been In a long mythic age now past and gone, She might have deemed that she had haply seen The all-divine Latona's fair-haired son Come down upon our earth to pass a day Among the daughters fair of earth-born men, And had put on a suit of sober grey, To appear unto them as a rural swain. With features all so sweet in harmony, You might have feigned they breathed a music mild, With lire so peachy, fit to charm the eye, And lips right sure to conquer when they smiled, All seen through locks of lustrous auburn hair, Which wanton fairies had so gaily thrown To cover o'er a face so wondrous fair, Lest Dian might reclaim him as her own.

In the still moonlit hour there steals along, And falls upon her roused and listening ear The notes of some night-wandering minstrel's song, And oh! so sweet and sad it was to hear. You might have deemed it came from teylin sweet, Touched by some gentle fairy's cunning hand, To tell us of those joys that we shall meet In some far distant and far happier land; And oft at night, as time still passed away, That hopeless song throughout the greenwood came, And oft she heard repeated in the lay The well-known sound of her own maiden name; And often did she wish, and often sighed, That bashful minstrel for once more to see, To know if he were him she had espied All fast asleep beneath the greenwood tree.

VI.

Alace! and alace! for that false pride In the hearts of those of high degree, And that gentle love should be decried By its noblest champion, Chivalrie. If the baron shall hear a whispered word Of that fond lover's sweet minstrelsie, That love-lorn heart and his angry sword May some night better acquainted be. Woe! woe! to the viper's envenomed tongue That obeys the hest of a coward's heart, Who tries to avenge his fancied wrong By getting another to act his part. Sir Hubert has lisped in the baron's ear, When drinking wine at the evening hour, That a minstrel clown met his daughter dear At night in her lonely greenwood bower. "Hush! hush! Sir Hubert, thy words are fires; Elves are about us that hear and see, Who may tell to the ghost of my noble sires Of a damned blot on our pedigree." And the baron frowned with darkened brow, And by the bones of his fathers swore That from that night this minstrel theou, To his daughter would warble his love no more.

VII.

That night the minstrel sang in softer flow, Waxing and waning soft and softer still, Like autumn's night winds breathing loun and low, Or evening murmur of the wimpling rill; But there was heard that night no farewell strain, As in foretime there ever used to be— A stop! and then no more was heard again That bashful lover's hapless minstrelsie. Next morn the maid, with purpose to enjoy The forest flowers and wild birds' early song, Unto the greenwood went; and to employ Her weary musing as she went along, Love's magic memory from its depths upbrought The notes that ever still so sweetly hung About her heart; and as she gaily thought, She sung them o'er as she had heard them sung. Onward she moved: her dreamy, listless eye Had leant upon a fragrant wild-rose bed, And, glancing farther, what does she descry? Stretched stiff and bloody, his sad spirit fled, Yea, him whom when asleep she once had seen, And had so often wished again to see, Now dead and cold 'mong the leaves so green, And all beneath the well-known greenwood tree.

"Good day, my ladye," then some one said— It was Sir Hubert there close behind; "He will sing no more, or I am belied, For the reason, I wot, that he wanteth wind." Up came the baron in angry vein; He casts his eye on the body there; He scans the features again and again With a look of doubt and shudder of fear; His hands he wrings with a groan of pain, He rolls his eyeballs with gesture wild— "Great God! by a villain's counsel I've slain The youth who saved my darling child!"

Among yon hoary elms that o'er him grow A harp is hung to catch the evening gale, That sings to him in accents soft and low, And soothes the maiden with its sorrowful wail, Who, as she sits within her greenwood bower, And listens to the teylin's solemn strain, Bethinks her, in her tears, of every hour That gentle youth had sung to her in vain.