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Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems

<hr style="width: 65%;" />[Pg 65] <h2><big>SIR PETER HARPDON'S END</big></h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" />[Pg 67] <h2>SIR PETER HARPDON'S END</h2> In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant. <div class="cpoem30"> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> OF those three prisoners, that before you came We took down at St. John's hard by the mill, Two are good masons; we have tools enough, And you have skill to set them working. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> So: What are their names? [Pg 68]</div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Why, Jacques Aquadent, And Peter Plombiere, but, </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> What colour'd hair Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs? </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair, Or Peter's legs to us? </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O! John, John, John! Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well, Hang Peter up and Jacques; They're no good, We shall not build, man. </div> </div> John Curzon (going). <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Shall I call the guard To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools, We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well. [Muttering as he goes. What have I done that he should jape at me? And why not build? the walls are weak enough, And we've two masons and a heap of tools. [Goes, still muttering. [Pg 69]</div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> To think a man should have a lump like that For his lieutenant! I must call him back, Or else, as surely as St. George is dead, He'll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John! </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> At your good service, sir. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Come now, and talk This weighty matter out; there, we've no stone To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone. </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> We are not strong enough to send ten men Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build. In three hours' time they would be taken or slain, The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick. </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> But we can send some villaynes to get stone. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back, [Pg 70] They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere, And tell them we were weak in walls and men, Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed, And now no longer does the country shake At sound of English names; our captains fade From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridge I daresay you may even yet see the hole That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here; Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse; Oliver Clisson turn'd these years agone; The Captal died in prison; and, over all, Edward the prince lies underneath the ground, Edward the king is dead, at Westminster The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard. Everything goes to rack—eh! and we too. Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French, Whom have I got to lean on here, but you? A man can die but once, will you die then, Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart Of all the deeds we have done here in France— And yet may do? So God will have your soul, Whoever has your body. [Pg 71]</div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Why, sir, I Will fight till the last moment, until then Will do whate'er you tell me. Now I see We must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps They're stronger than I think for; pity, though! For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well, I doubt them. </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div class="rgt">[Goes.</div> Truly, sir, I will watch well. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said, 'Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes; Some dozen stones from his petrariae, And, under shelter of his crossbows, just An hour's steady work with pickaxes, Then a great noise—some dozen swords and glaives A-playing on my basnet all at once, And little more cross purposes on earth For me. Now this is hard: a month ago, And a few minutes' talk had set things right [Pg 72] 'Twixt me and Alice; if she had a doubt, As, may Heaven bless her! I scarce think she had, 'Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears, Of how Sir Peter fail'd at Lusac Bridge: And how he was grown moody of late days; And how Sir Lambert, think now! his dear friend, His sweet, dear cousin, could not but confess That Peter's talk tended towards the French, Which he, for instance Lambert, was glad of, Being, Lambert, you see, on the French side. Well, If I could but have seen her on that day, Then, when they sent me off! I like to think, Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what, If I had seen her, what I should have said, What she, my darling, would have said and done. As thus perchance. To find her sitting there, In the window-seat, not looking well at all, Crying perhaps, and I say quietly: Alice! she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave, Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks, [Pg 73] Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees, And say: O lady, have I sinn'd, your knight? That still you ever let me walk alone In the rose garden, that you sing no songs When I am by, that ever in the dance You quietly walk away when I come near? Now that I have you, will you go, think you? </div> <div class="stanza"> Ere she could answer I would speak again, Still kneeling there. What! they have frighted you, By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets, Round my good name; but afterwards, my love, I will say what this means; this moment, see! Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea: For she would put her hands upon my face: Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed? And she would say: Good knight, come, kiss my lips! And afterwards as I sat there would say: </div> <div class="stanza"> Please a poor silly girl by telling me What all those things they talk of really were, For it is true you did not help Chandos, [Pg 74] And true, poor love! you could not come to me When I was in such peril. I should say: I am like Balen, all things turn to blame. I did not come to you? At Bergerath The constable had held us close shut up, If from the barriers I had made three steps, I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too, We struggled in a marish half the day, And came too late at last: you know, my love, How heavy men and horses are all arm'd. All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix'd, Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love. </div> <div class="stanza"> She, holding tight my hand as we sat there, Started a little at Sir Lambert's name, But otherwise she listen'd scarce at all To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes, And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak, She said: I love you. Other words were few, The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd down [Pg 75] My foolish head; she kiss'd me all about My face, and through the tangles of my beard Her little fingers crept! </div> <div class="stanza"> O God, my Alice, Not this good way: my lord but sent and said That Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth, Therefore that day I was to start, and keep This hold against the French; and I am here: [Looks out of the window. A sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls, And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes, Or any other. There's a pennon now! At last. But not the constable's: whose arms, I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings On a red ground; my cousin's by the rood! Well, I should like to kill him, certainly, <div class="rgt">[A trumpet sounds.</div> But to be kill'd by him: That's for a herald; I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet. [Pg 76]</div> </div> Enter John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> What says the herald of our cousin, sir? </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> So please you, sir, concerning your estate, He has good will to talk with you. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Outside, I'll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives. Is he unarm'd? </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Yea, sir, in a long gown. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gown With the long sleeves, and under it I'll wear, By Lambert's leave, a secret coat of mail; And will you lend me, John, your little axe? I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade? And I will carry it inside my sleeve, Good to be ready always; you, John, go And bid them set up many suits of arms, Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and Yourself, from the south postern setting out, With twenty men, be ready to break through [Pg 77] Their unguarded rear when I cry out, St. George! </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> How, sir! will you attack him unawares, And slay him unarm'd? </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Trust me, John, I know The reason why he comes here with sleeved gown, <div class="rgt">[They go.</div> Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go. [Pg 78]</div> </div> <div class="blockquot">Outside the castle by the great gate; Sir Lambert and Sir Peter seated; guards attending each, the rest of Sir Lambert's men drawn up about a furlong off. </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> AND if I choose to take the losing side Still, does it hurt you? </div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O! no hurt to me; I see you sneering, Why take trouble then, Seeing you love me not? Look you, our house (Which, taken altogether, I love much) Had better be upon the right side now, If, once for all, it wishes to bear rule As such a house should: cousin, you're too wise To feed your hope up fat, that this fair France Will ever draw two ways again; this side The French, wrong-headed, all a-jar With envious longings; and the other side The order'd English, orderly led on [Pg 79] By those two Edwards through all wrong and right, And muddling right and wrong to a thick broth With that long stick, their strength. This is all changed, The true French win, on either side you have Cool-headed men, good at a tilting match, And good at setting battles in array, And good at squeezing taxes at due time; Therefore by nature we French being here <div class="rgt">[Sir Peter laughs aloud.</div> Upon our own big land: Well, Peter! well! What makes you laugh? </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Hearing you sweat to prove All this I know so well; but you have read The siege of Troy? </div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O! yea, I know it well. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be For, as I think, they found it such delight To see fair Helen going through their town; Yea, any little common thing she did [Pg 80] (As stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange, So new in its great beauty, that they said: Here we will keep her living in this town, Till all burns up together. And so, fought, In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong; Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands, Over some great height, did they struggle sore, Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note How almost all men, reading that sad siege, Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least, Thought Hector the best knight a long way: Now Why should I not do this thing that I think; For even when I come to count the gains, I have them my side: men will talk, you know (We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,) When I am dead, of how this Peter clung To what he thought the right; of how he died, Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed Few men would care do now, and this is gain To me, as ease and money is to you. Moreover, too, I like the straining game Of striving well to hold up things that fall; [Pg 81] So one becomes great. See you! in good times All men live well together, and you, too, Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick, Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up? Why then, but just to fight as I do now, A halter round my neck, would be great bliss. <div class="rgt">[Aside.</div> O! I am well off. Talk, and talk, and talk, I know this man has come to murder me, And yet I talk still. </div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If your side were right, You might be, though you lost; but if I said, 'You are a traitor, being, as you are, Born Frenchman.' What are Edwards unto you, Or Richards? </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold! For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm, Don't call me traitor. </div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Furthermore, my knight, Men call you slippery on your losing side, When at Bordeaux I was ambassador, [Pg 82] I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay. [He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises. </div> </div> Sir Peter, rising. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> They lied: and you lie, not for the first time. What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve, A stolen purse? </div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Nay, liar in your teeth! Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert! [Strikes at Sir Peter with a dagger. </div> </div> Sir Peter, striking him flatlings with his axe. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there, St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan! You French, you are but dead, unless you lay Your spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne! </div> <div class="stanza"> Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now. [Pg 83]</div> </div> In the Castle. John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> WHAT shall we do with all these prisoners, sir? </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Why, put them all to ransom, those that can Pay anything, but not too light though, John, Seeing we have them on the hip: for those That have no money, that being certified, Why, turn them out of doors before they spy; But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me. </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div class="rgt">[He goes.</div> I will, fair sir. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I do not wish to kill him, Although I think I ought; he shall go mark'd, By all the saints, though! Enter Lambert guarded. Now, Sir Lambert, now! What sort of death do you expect to get, Being taken this way? [Pg 84]</div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Cousin! cousin! think! I am your own blood; may God pardon me! I am not fit to die; if you knew all, All I have done since I was young and good. O! you would give me yet another chance, As God would, that I might wash all clear out, By serving you and Him. Let me go now! And I will pay you down more golden crowns Of ransom than the king would! </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Well, stand back, And do not touch me! No, you shall not die, Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, cause Some carpenters to build a scaffold, high, Outside the gate; when it is built, sound out To all good folks, 'Come, see a traitor punish'd!' Take me my knight, and set him up thereon, And let the hangman shave his head quite clean, And cut his ears off close up to the head; And cause the minstrels all the while to play Soft music, and good singing; for this day Is my high day of triumph; is it not, Sir Lambert? [Pg 85]</div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Ah! on your own blood, Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare, With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back And take the lady Alice? </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Say her name Again, and you are dead, slain here by me. Why should I talk with you? I'm master here, And do not want your schooling; is it not My mercy that you are not dangling dead There in the gateway with a broken neck? </div> </div> Sir Lambert. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Such mercy! why not kill me then outright? To die is nothing; but to live that all May point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die. </div> </div> John Curzon. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Why, will it make you any uglier man To lose your ears? they're much too big for you, You ugly Judas! </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div class="rgt">[To Lambert.</div> Hold, John! That's your choice, To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine, [Pg 86] I thank you now for choosing this so well, It saves me much perplexity and doubt; Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count This sparing traitors is an ill deed. Well, Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends. </div> </div> Sir Lambert, grovelling. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O God! this is a fiend and not a man; Will some one save me from him? help, help, help! I will not die. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Why, what is this I see? A man who is a knight, and bandied words So well just now with me, is lying down, Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased. I should have guess'd this from a man like you. Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin, Yea, all a man can have for simple life, And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this, Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell Will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk, 'Would rather die,' all that. Now sir, get up! [Pg 87] And choose again: shall it be head sans ears, Or trunk sans head? John Curzon, pull him up! What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John. Lambert, I hope that never on this earth We meet again; that you'll turn out a monk, And mend the life I give you, so farewell, I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch. [Pg 88]</div> </div> In the French camp before the Castle. Sir Peter prisoner, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert. Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> SO now is come the ending of my life; If I could clear this sickening lump away That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word, Guesclin might listen. </div> </div> Guesclin. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Tell me, fair sir knight, If you have been clean liver before God, And then you need not fear much; as for me, I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath, And cousin Lambert's ears here clench the thing. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I knew you could not hate me, therefore I Am bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your cause To hang knights of good name, harms here in France I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter Men will remember you another way Than I should care to be remember'd, ah! [Pg 89] Although hot lead runs through me for my blood, All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords, Give back my falcon! See how young I am, Do you care altogether more for France, Say rather one French faction, than for all The state of Christendom? a gallant knight, As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worth Than many castles; will you bring this death, For a mere act of justice, on my head? </div> <div class="stanza"> Think how it ends all, death! all other things Can somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forth Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here; Then somehow will I get me other clothes, And somehow will I get me some poor horse, And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms, Will ride and smite among the serried glaives, Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well, Let me not say I could; I know all tricks, That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you, You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind, How in the trodden corn by Chartres town, [Pg 90] When you were nearly swooning from the back Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once From off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord! </div> </div> Clisson. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die. My Lord the Constable, I pray you note That you are losing some few thousand crowns By slaying this man; also think: his lands Along the Garonne river lie for leagues, And are right rich, a many mills he has, Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him: Though wishing well for Clement, as we do, I know the next heir, his old uncle, well, Who does not care two deniers for the knight As things go now, but slay him, and then see, How he will bristle up like any perch, With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord, You'll get the money, this man saved my life, And I will buy him for two thousand crowns; Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then, Ten thousand crowns? </div> </div> Guesclin. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> My sweet lord, much I grieve [Pg 91] I cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieve This knight must die, as verily he must; For I have sworn it, so men take him out, Use him not roughly. </div> </div> Sir Lambert, coming forward. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Music, do you know, Music will suit you well, I think, because You look so mild, like Laurence being grill'd; Or perhaps music soft and slow, because This is high day of triumph unto me, Is it not, Peter? You are frighten'd, though, Eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much, Whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine, You ruin'd wretch! Men mock me in the streets, Only in whispers loud, because I am Friend of the constable; will this please you, Unhappy Peter? once a-going home, Without my servants, and a little drunk, At midnight through the lone dim lamp-lit streets. A whore came up and spat into my eyes, Rather to blind me than to make me see, But she was very drunk, and tottering back, Even in the middle of her laughter fell [Pg 92] And cut her head against the pointed stones, While I lean'd on my staff, and look'd at her, And cried, being drunk. Girls would not spit at you. You are so handsome, I think verily Most ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes, And yet you will be hung like a cur dog Five minutes hence, and grow black in the face, And curl your toes up. Therefore I am glad. </div> <div class="stanza"> Guess why I stand and talk this nonsense now, With Guesclin getting ready to play chess, And Clisson doing something with his sword, I can't see what, talking to Guesclin though, I don't know what about, perhaps of you. But, cousin Peter, while I stroke your beard, Let me say this, I'd like to tell you now That your life hung upon a game of chess, That if, say, my squire Robert here should beat, Why you should live, but hang if I beat him; Then guess, clever Peter, what I should do then: Well, give it up? why, Peter, I should let My squire Robert beat me, then you would think That you were safe, you know; Eh? not at all, [Pg 93] But I should keep you three days in some hold, Giving you salt to eat, which would be kind, Considering the tax there is on salt; And afterwards should let you go, perhaps? No I should not, but I should hang you, sir, With a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope. </div> <div class="stanza"> But I forgot, you have not told me yet If you can guess why I talk nonsense thus, Instead of drinking wine while you are hang'd? You are not quick at guessing, give it up. This is the reason; here I hold your hand, And watch you growing paler, see you writhe And this, my Peter, is a joy so dear, I cannot by all striving tell you how I love it, nor I think, good man, would you Quite understand my great delight therein; You, when you had me underneath you once, Spat as it were, and said, 'Go take him out,' That they might do that thing to me whereat, E'en now this long time off I could well shriek, And then you tried forget I ever lived, And sunk your hating into other things; While I: St. Denis! though, I think you'll faint, [Pg 94] Your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unless You let it out and weep like a hurt child; Hurrah! you do now. Do not go just yet, For I am Alice, am right like her now, Will you not kiss me on the lips, my love? </div> </div> Clisson. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> You filthy beast, stand back and let him go, Or by God's eyes I'll choke you! [Kneeling to Sir Peter. Fair sir knight I kneel upon my knees and pray to you That you would pardon me for this your death; God knows how much I wish you still alive, Also how heartily I strove to save Your life at this time; yea, he knows quite well, (I swear it, so forgive me!) how I would, If it were possible, give up my life Upon this grass for yours; fair knight, although, He knowing all things knows this thing too, well, Yet when you see his face some short time hence, Tell him I tried to save you. </div> </div> Sir Peter. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O! my lord, I cannot say this is as good as life, [Pg 95] But yet it makes me feel far happier now, And if at all, after a thousand years, I see God's face, I will speak loud and bold, And tell Him you were kind, and like Himself; Sir, may God bless you! Did you note how I Fell weeping just now? pray you, do not think That Lambert's taunts did this, I hardly heard The base things that he said, being deep in thought Of all things that have happen'd since I was A little child; and so at last I thought Of my true lady: truly, sir, it seem'd No longer gone than yesterday, that this Was the sole reason God let me be born Twenty-five years ago, that I might love Her, my sweet lady, and be loved by her; This seem'd so yesterday, to-day death comes, And is so bitter strong, I cannot see Why I was born. But as a last request, I pray you, O kind Clisson, send some man, Some good man, mind you, to say how I died, And take my last love to her: fare-you-well, And may God keep you; I must go now, lest [Pg 96] I grow too sick with thinking on these things; Likewise my feet are wearied of the earth, From whence I shall be lifted upright soon. [As he goes. Ah me! shamed too, I wept at fear of death; And yet not so, I only wept because There was no beautiful lady to kiss me Before I died, and sweetly wish good speed From her dear lips. O for some lady, though I saw her ne'er before; Alice, my love, I do not ask for; Clisson was right kind, If he had been a woman, I should die Without this sickness: but I am all wrong, So wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die. There, I will go. My God! how sick I am, If only she could come and kiss me now. [Pg 97]</div> </div> The Hotel de la Barde, Bordeaux. The Lady Alice de la Barde looking out of a window into the street. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> NO news yet! surely, still he holds his own: That garde stands well; I mind me passing it Some months ago; God grant the walls are strong! I heard some knights say something yestereve, I tried hard to forget: words far apart Struck on my heart something like this; one said: What eh! a Gascon with an English name, Harpdon? then nought, but afterwards: Poictou. As one who answers to a question ask'd, Then carelessly regretful came: No, no. Whereto in answer loud and eagerly, One said: Impossible? Christ, what foul play! And went off angrily; and while thenceforth I hurried gaspingly afraid, I heard: Guesclin; Five thousand men-at-arms; Clisson. My heart misgives me it is all in vain [Pg 98] I send these succours; and in good time there Their trumpet sounds: ah! here they are; good knights, God up in Heaven keep you. If they come And find him prisoner, for I can't believe Guesclin will slay him, even though they storm. The last horse turns the corner. God in Heaven! What have I got to thinking of at last! That thief I will not name is with Guesclin, Who loves him for his lands. My love! my love! O, if I lose you after all the past, What shall I do? I cannot bear the noise And light street out there, with this thought alive, Like any curling snake within my brain; Let me just hide my head within these soft Deep cushions, there to try and think it out. [Lying in the window-seat. I cannot hear much noise now, and I think That I shall go to sleep: it all sounds dim And faint, and I shall soon forget most things; Yea, almost that I am alive and here; [Pg 99] It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel On some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway, And soft and slow it rises and it falls, Still going onward. Lying so, one kiss, And I should be in Avalon asleep, Among the poppies, and the yellow flowers; And they should brush my cheek, my hair being spread Far out among the stems; soft mice and small Eating and creeping all about my feet, Red shod and tired; and the flies should come Creeping o'er my broad eyelids unafraid; And there should be a noise of water going, Clear blue fresh water breaking on the slates, Likewise the flies should creep: God's eyes! God help! A trumpet? I will run fast, leap adown The slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs fight. Ah! I was half dreaming, but the trumpet's true; He stops here at our house. The Clisson arms? Ah, now for news. But I must hold my heart, [Pg 100] And be quite gentle till he is gone out; And afterwards: but he is still alive, He must be still alive. </div> <div class="stanza"> Enter a Squire of Clisson's. </div> <div class="stanza"> Good day, fair sir, I give you welcome, knowing whence you come. </div> </div> Squire. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> My Lady Alice de la Barde, I come From Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty lord, Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hope You will not count me villain, even if They wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate; For I am but a mouthpiece after all, A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well To you and your's. </div> </div> Alice. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Can you talk faster, sir, Get over all this quicker? fix your eyes On mine, I pray you, and whate'er you see, Still go on talking fast, unless I fall, Or bid you stop. </div> </div> Squire. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I pray your pardon then, [Pg 101] And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say I am unhappy that your knight is dead. Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all. We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms, And scant five hundred had he in that hold: His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain, And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit; Yet for three days about the barrier there The deadly glaives were gather'd, laid across, And push'd and pull'd; the fourth our engines came; But still amid the crash of falling walls, And roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts, The steady bow-strings flash'd, and still stream'd out St. George's banner, and the seven swords, And still they cried: St. George Guienne! until Their walls were flat as Jericho's of old, And our rush came, and cut them from the keep. </div> </div> Alice. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Stop, sir, and tell me if you slew him then, And where he died, if you can really mean That Peter Harpdon, the good knight, is dead? </div> </div> Squire. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Fair lady, in the base-court: [Pg 102]</div> </div> Alice. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> What base-court? What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on; 'Twas only something gone within my head: Do you not know, one turns one's head round quick, And something cracks there with sore pain? go on, And still look at my eyes. </div> </div> Squire. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Almost alone, There in the base-court fought he with his sword, Using his left hand much, more than the wont Of most knights now-a-days; our men gave back, For wheresoever he hit a downright blow, Some one fell bleeding, for no plate could hold Against the sway of body and great arm; Till he grew tired, and some man (no! not I, I swear not I, fair lady, as I live!) Thrust at him with a glaive between the knees, And threw him; down he fell, sword undermost; Many fell on him, crying out their cries, Tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and: </div> </div> Alice. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Yea, slew him: I am much too young to live, Fair God, so let me die! [Pg 103] You have done well, Done all your message gently, pray you go, Our knights will make you cheer; moreover, take This bag of franks for your expenses. [The Squire kneels. But You do not go; still looking at my face, You kneel! what, squire, do you mock me then? You need not tell me who has set you on, But tell me only, 'tis a made-up tale. You are some lover may-be or his friend; Sir, if you loved me once, or your friend loved, Think, is it not enough that I kneel down And kiss your feet? your jest will be right good If you give in now; carry it too far, And 'twill be cruel: not yet? but you weep Almost, as though you loved me; love me then, And go to Heaven by telling all your sport, And I will kiss you then with all my heart, Upon the mouth: O! what can I do then To move you? </div> </div> Squire. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Lady fair, forgive me still! You know I am so sorry, but my tale [Pg 104] Is not yet finish'd: So they bound his hands, And brought him tall and pale to Guesclin's tent, Who, seeing him, leant his head upon his hand, And ponder'd somewhile, afterwards, looking up: Fair dame, what shall I say? </div> </div> Alice. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Yea, I know now, Good squire, you may go now with my thanks. </div> </div> Squire. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Yet, lady, for your own sake I say this, Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson's sake. When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon, Within a while he lifted up his head And spoke for his own life; not crouching, though, As abjectly afraid to die, nor yet Sullenly brave as many a thief will die, Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God: Few words he spoke; not so much what he said Moved us, I think, as, saying it, there played Strange tenderness from that big soldier there About his pleading; eagerness to live Because folk loved him, and he loved them back, And many gallant plans unfinish'd now [Pg 105] For ever. Clisson's heart, which may God bless! Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain; Wherefore I bring this message: That he waits, Still loving you, within the little church Whose windows, with the one eye of the light Over the altar, every night behold The great dim broken walls he strove to keep! </div> <div class="stanza"> There my Lord Clisson did his burial well. Now, lady, I will go: God give you rest! </div> </div> Alice. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell! And now to keep myself from going mad. Christ! I have been a many times to church, And, ever since my mother taught me prayers, Have used them daily, but to-day I wish To pray another way; come face to face, O Christ, that I may clasp your knees and pray I know not what; at any rate come now From one of many places where you are, Either in Heaven amid thick angel wings, Or sitting on the altar strange with gems, Or high up in the duskness of the apse; [Pg 106] Let us go, You and I, a long way off, To the little damp, dark, Poitevin church. While you sit on the coffin in the dark, Will I lie down, my face on the bare stone Between your feet, and chatter anything I have heard long ago. What matters it So I may keep you there, your solemn face And long hair even-flowing on each side, Until you love me well enough to speak, And give me comfort? yea, till o'er your chin, And cloven red beard the great tears roll down In pity for my misery, and I die, Kissed over by you. Eh Guesclin! if I were Like Countess Mountfort now, that kiss'd the knight, Across the salt sea come to fight for her: Ah! just to go about with many knights, Wherever you went, and somehow on one day, In a thick wood to catch you off your guard, Let you find, you and your some fifty friends, Nothing but arrows wheresoe'er you turn'd, Yea, and red crosses, great spears over them; And so, between a lane of my true men, [Pg 107] To walk up pale and stern and tall, and with My arms on my surcoat, and his therewith, And then to make you kneel, O knight Guesclin; And then: alas! alas! when all is said, What could I do but let you go again, Being pitiful woman? I get no revenge, Whatever happens; and I get no comfort: I am but weak, and cannot move my feet, But as men bid me. Strange I do not die. Suppose this has not happen'd after all? I will lean out again and watch for news. </div> <div class="stanza"> I wonder how long I can still feel thus, As though I watch'd for news, feel as I did Just half-an-hour ago, before this news. How all the street is humming, some men sing, And some men talk; some look up at the house, Then lay their heads together and look grave: Their laughter pains me sorely in the heart; Their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round: Yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing? Eh? Launcelot, and love and fate and death: They ought to sing of him who was as wight [Pg 108] As Launcelot or Wade, and yet avail'd Just nothing, but to fail and fail and fail, And so at last to die and leave me here, Alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will, When many years are past, make songs of us: God help me, though, truly I never thought That I should make a story in this way, A story that his eyes can never see. </div> <div class="stanza"> [One sings from outside.] </div> <div class="stanza"> Therefore be it believed Whatsoever he grieved, When his horse was relieved, This Launcelot, </div> <div class="stanza"> Beat down on his knee, Right valiant was he God's body to see, Though he saw it not. </div> <div class="stanza"> Right valiant to move, But for his sad love The high God above Stinted his praise. [Pg 109]</div> <div class="stanza"> Yet so he was glad That his son, Lord Galahad, That high joyaunce had All his life-days. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sing we therefore then Launcelot's praise again, For he wan crownés ten, If he wan not twelve. </div> <div class="stanza"> To his death from his birth He was mickle of worth, Lay him in the cold earth, A long grave ye may delve. </div> <div class="stanza"> Omnes homines benedicite! This last fitte ye may see, All men pray for me Who made this history Cunning and fairly. </div> </div></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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