Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 32

Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, I am told; but giddy and vain.

Eric: Some musty tales on my memory grow Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; Thou knew'st his daughter?

Hugo: Aye, years ago.

I should scarcely know her now.

It seems, when her father's vow was made, She was taken sorely ill; Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; He could never his oath fulfil.

Eric: If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha That fled with some Danish knight-- I forget the name.

Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; She returned again that night.

Thora: For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed.

Hugo: That is no affair of mine.

My task is over, my word fulfilled, Should I bring her safe to the Rhine.

Come, Thora, sing.

Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, Nor would I now if I could.

Sing thou.

Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring No sound save a discord rude.

(Sings.) Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, The pine lies low in the dust; And the corn is withered and blighted, Where the fields are red with the rust; Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, Where its petals the violet rears, And the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.

The strong in their strength are shaken, The wise in their wisdom fall; And the bloom of beauty is taken-- Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, They vanish, their lot fulfilling, Their doom approaches and nears, But the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.

'Tis the will of a Great Creator, He is wise, His will must be done, And it cometh sooner or later; And one shall be taken, and one Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, In this vale of sorrows and tears, Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.

Tell me, mine own one, tell me, The shadows of life and the fears Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, While I can avert thy tears: Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling To realise lonely years?

Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.

Enter HENRY.

Henry: My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, He has come on foot from the chapel; Some stranger perished beside his gate When the dawn began to dapple.

SCENE--A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle.

HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD.

Luke: When the dawn was breaking, Came a faint sound, waking Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, Found the stranger lying At the threshold, dying.

Somewhere have I seen a face like his before.

Hugo: Harold he is hight.

Only yester-night From our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail; Well his face I know, Both as friend and foe; Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale.

Luke: Few the words he said, Faint the signs he made, Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd.

This is retribution, Seek for absolution; Answer me--then cast thy sorrows to the wind.

Do their voices reach thee, Friends who failed to teach thee, In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong?

Charges 'gainst thee cited, Cares all unrequited, Counsels spurned and slighted--do they press and throng?"

But he shook his head.

"'Tis not so," he said; "They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore.

If their counsels good, Rashly I withstood; Having suffered longer, I have suffered more."

"Do their curses stun thee?

Foes who failed to shun thee, Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, As the barbed arrow Cleaveth bone and marrow, From those chambers narrow--do they pierce thine ear?"

And he made reply, Laughing bitterly, "Did I fear them living--shall I fear them dead?

Blood that I have spilt Leaveth little guilt; On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head."

"Is there one whom thou May'st have wronged ere now, Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart?

By some saint in heaven, Sanctified and shriven, Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?"

Not a word he said, But he bowed his head Till his temples rested on the chilly sods And we heard him groan-- "Ah! mine own, mine own!

If I had thy pardon I might ask for G.o.d's."

Hubert raised him slowly, Sunrise, faint and holy, Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be.

May the troubled spirit, Through Christ's saving merit, Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee.

Hugo: G.o.d o'erruleth fate.

I had cause for hate; In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, Joined by priestly vows, He became the spouse Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong.

And he wrought her woe, Making me his foe; Not alone unfaithful--brutal, too, was he.

She had scarce been dead Three months, ere he fled With Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me.

Fortune straight forsook him, Vengeance overtook him; Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment.

All his strength was shatter'd, Even his wits were scatter'd, Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went.

We are unforgiving While our foes are living; Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavily That I feel remorse, Gazing on his corpse, For my rudeness when he left our gates to die.

And his grave shall be 'Neath the chestnut tree, Where he met my sister many years ago; Leave that tress of hair On his bosom there-- Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go.

SCENE--A Room in the Castle.

HUGO and ERIC. Early morning.

Hugo: The morn is fair, the weary miles Will shorten 'neath the summer's wiles; Pomona in the orchard smiles, And in the meadow, Flora!

And I have roused a chosen band For escort through the troubled land; And shaken Elspeth by the hand, And said farewell to Thora.

Comrade and kinsman--for thou art Comrade and kin to me--we part Ere nightfall, if at once we start, We gain the dead Count's castle.

The roads are fair, the days are fine, Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine.

Forsooth, no friend to me or mine Is that same Abbot Basil; I thought he wronged us by his greed.

My father sign'd a foolish deed For lack of gold in time of need, And thus our lands went by us; Yet wrong on our side may have been: As far as my will goes, I ween, 'Tis past, the grudge that lay between Us twain. Men call him pious-- And I have prosper'd much since then, And gain'd for one lost acre ten; And even the ancient house and glen Rebought with purchase-money.

He, too, is wealthy; he has got By churchly rights a fertile spot, A land of corn and wine, I wot, A land of milk and honey.

Now, Eric, change thy plans and ride With us; thou hast no ties, no bride.

Eric: Nay, ties I have, and time and tide, Thou knowest, wait for no man; And I go north; G.o.d's blessing shuns The dwellings of forgetful sons, That proverb he may read who runs, In Christian lore or Roman.

My good old mother she hath heard, For twelve long months, from me no word; At thought of her my heart is stirr'd, And even mine eyes grow moister.

Greet Ursula from me; her fame Is known to all. A n.o.bler dame, Since days of Clovis, ne'er became The inmate of a cloister.

Our paths diverge, yet we may go Together for a league or so; I, too, will join thy band below When thou thy bugle windest.

[Eric goes out.]

Hugo: From weaknesses we stand afar, On us unpleasantly they jar; And yet the stoutest-hearted are The gentlest and the kindest.

My mother loved me tenderly; Alas! her only son was I.