The Lay of Marie and Vignettes in Verse Part 1

The Lay of Marie.

by Matilda Betham, et al.

PREFACE

As there is little, in all I have been able to collect respecting MARIE, which has any thing to do with the Poem, I have chosen to place such information at the end of the book, in form of an Appendix, rather than here; where the only things necessary to state are, that she was an Anglo-Norman Minstrel of the thirteenth century; and as she lived at the time of our losing Normandy, I have connected her history with that event: that the young king who sees her in his progress through his foreign possessions is our Henry III.; and the Earl William who steps forward to speak in her favour is William Longsword, brother to Richard Coeur de Lion. Perhaps there is no record of minstrels being called upon to sing at a feast in celebration of a victory which involves their own greatest possible misfortune; but such an incident is not of improbable occurrence. It is likely, also, that a woman, said to be more learned, accomplished, and pleasing, than was usually the case with those of her profession, might have a father, who, with the ardour, the disobedience, the remorse of his heroic master, had been, like him, a crusader and a captive; and in the after solitude of self-inflicted penitence, full of romantic and mournful recollections, fostered in the mind of his daughter, by nature embued with a portion of his own impa.s.sioned feelings, every tendency to that wild and poetical turn of thought which qualified her for a minstrel; and, after his death, induced her to become one.

The union of European and Eastern beauty, in the person of Marie, I have attempted to describe as lovely as possible. The consciousness of n.o.ble birth, of injurious depression, and the result of that education which absorbed the whole glowing mind of a highly gifted parent, a mind rich with adventures, with enthusiasm and tenderness, ought to be pourtrayed in her deportment; while the elegance and delicacy which more particularly distinguish the gentlewoman, would naturally be imbibed from a constant early a.s.sociation with a model of what the chivalrous spirit of the age could form, with all its perfections and its faults; in a situation, too, calculated still more to refine such a character; especially with one who was the centre of his affections and regrets, and whom he was so soon to leave unprotected. That, possessing all these advantages, notwithstanding her low station, she should be beloved by, and, on the discovery of her birth, married to a young n.o.bleman, whose high favour with his sovereign would lead him to hope such an offence against the then royal prerogative of directing choice would be deemed a venial one, is, I should think, an admissible supposition.

That a woman would not be able to sing under such afflicting circ.u.mstances might be objected; but history shews us, scarcely any exertion of fort.i.tude or despair is too great to be looked for in that total deprivation of all worldly interest consequent to such misfortunes. Whether that train of melancholy ideas which her own fate suggests is sufficiently removed from narration to be natural, or not near it enough to be clear, the judgment of others must determine. No wish or determination to have it one way or another, in sentiment, stile, or story, influenced its composition; though, occasionally, lines previously written are interwoven; and, in one instance, a few that have been published.

Her Twelve Lays are added in a second Appendix, as curious in themselves, and ill.u.s.trative of the manners and morals of an age when they formed the amus.e.m.e.nt of the better orders.

THE LAY OF MARIE.

CANTO FIRST.

The guests are met, the feast is near, But Marie does not yet appear!

And to her vacant seat on high Is lifted many an anxious eye.

The splendid show, the sumptuous board, The long details which feuds afford, And discontent is p.r.o.ne to hold, Absorb the factious and the cold;-- Absorb dull minds, who, in despair, The standard grasp of worldly care, Which none can quit who once adore-- They love, confide, and hope no more; Seek not for truth, nor e'er aspire To nurse that immaterial fire, From whose most healthful warmth proceed Each real joy and generous deed; Which, once extinct, no toil or pain Can kindle into life again, To light the then unvarying eye, To melt, in question or reply, Those tones, so subtil and so sweet, That none can look for, none repeat; Which, self-impell'd, defy controul,-- They bear the signet of the soul; And, as attendants of their flight, Enforce persuasion and delight.

Words that an instant have reclin'd Upon the pillow of the mind, Or caught, upon their rapid way, The beams of intellectual day, Pour fresh upon the thirsty ear, O'erjoy'd, and all awake to hear, Proof that in other hearts is known The secret language of our own.

They to the way-worn pilgrim bring A draught from Rapture's sparkling spring; And, ever welcome, are, when given, Like some few scatter'd flowers from heaven; Could such in earthly garlands twine, To bloom by others less divine.

Where does this idle Minstrel stay?

Proud are the guests, august the day; And princes of the realm attend The triumph of their sovereign's friend;-- Triumph of stratagem and fight Gain'd o'er a young and gallant knight, Who, the last fort compell'd to yield, Perish'd, despairing, in the field.

The Norman Chief, whose sudden blow Had laid fair England's banner low; Spite of resistance firm and bold Secur'd the latest, surest hold Its sceptre touch'd across the main, Important, difficult to gain, Easy against her to retain;-- Baron de Brehan--seem'd to stand An alien in his native land; One whom no social ties endear'd Except his child; and she appear'd Unconsciously to prompt his toil,-- Unconsciously to take the spoil Of hate and treason; and, 'twas said, The pillage of a kinsman dead, Whom, for his large domain, he slew: 'Twas whisper'd only,--no one knew.

At tale of murderous deed, his ear No startling summons seem'd to hear; Yet should some sudden theme intrude Of friend betray'd--ingrat.i.tude;-- Or treacherous counsel--follies nurs'd In ardent minds, who, dying, curs'd The guileful author of their woes; His troubled look would then disclose Some secret anguish, inward care, Which mutely, sternly, said, Forbear!

He spake of policy and right, Of bold exploits in recent fight,-- Of interest, and the common weal, Of distant empire, slow appeal.

Skill'd to elicit thoughts unknown In other minds, and hide his own, His brighter eye, in darting round Their purposes and wishes found.

Praises, and smiles, and promise play'd Around his speech; which yet convey'd No meaning, when, the moment past, Memory retold her stores at last.

Courtiers were there, the old and young, Of high and haughty lineage sprung; And jewell'd matrons: some had been, Erewhile, spectators of a scene Like this, with mien and manners gay; Who now, their hearts consum'd away, Held all the pageant in disdain, And seem'd to smile and speak with pain.

Of such were widows, who deplor'd Husbands long lost, but still ador'd; To grace their children, fierce and proud, Like martyrs led into the crowd: Mothers, their sole remaining stay, In some dear son, late s.n.a.t.c.h'd away; Whose duty made them better brook Their lords' high tone and careless look; Whose praises had awaken'd pride In bosoms dead to all beside.

Warriors, infirm with battles grown, Were there, in languid grandeur thrown On the low bench, who seem'd to say, "Our mortal vigour wanes away;"

And gentle maid, with aspect meek, While cloud-like blushes cross her cheek, Restless awaits the Minstrel's power To dispossess the present hour, And by a spirit-seizing charm, Her thoughts employ, her fancy warm, And s.n.a.t.c.h her from the mute distress Of conscious, breathless bashfulness.

Young knights, who never tamely wait, Crowd in the porch, or near the gate, By quick return, and sudden throng, Announcing the expected song.

The Minstrel comes, and, by command, Before the n.o.bles of the land, In her poor order's simple dress, Grac'd only by the native tress, A flowing ma.s.s of yellow'd light, Whose bold swells gleam with silver bright, And dove-like shadows sink from sight.

Those long, soft locks, in many a wave Curv'd with each turn her figure gave; Thick, or if threatening to divide, They still by sunny meshes hide; Eluding, by commingling lines, Whatever severs or defines.

Amid the crowd of beauties there, None were so exquisitely fair; And, with the tender, mellow'd air, The taper, flexile, polish'd limb, The form so perfect, yet so slim, And movement, only thought to grace The dark and yielding Eastern race; As if on pure and brilliant day Repose, as soft as moonlight, lay.

Reluctant still she seem'd,--her feet Sought slowly the appointed seat: Her hand, oft lifting to her head, She lightly o'er her forehead spread; Then the unconscious motion check'd, And, struggling with her own neglect, Seem'd as she but by effort found The presence of an audience round.

Meanwhile the murmurings died away Which spake impatience of delay: A pitying wonder, new and kind, Arose in each beholder's mind: They saw no scorn to meet reproof, No arrogance to keep aloof; Her air absorb'd, her sadden'd mien, Combin'd the mourning, captive queen, With _her_ who at the altar stands To raise aloft her spotless hands, In meek and persevering prayer, For such as falter in despair.

All that was smiling, bright, and gay, Youth's show of triumph during May, Its roseate crown, was s.n.a.t.c.h'd away!

Yet sorrows, which had come so soon, Like tender morning dew repos'd, O'er hope and joy as softly clos'd As moist clouds on the light at noon.

Opprest by some heart-withering pang, Upon her harp she seem'd to hang Awhile o'erpower'd--then faintly sang:

"Demand no lay of long-past times; Of foreign loves, or foreign crimes; Demand no visions which arise To Rapture's eager, tearless eyes!

Those who can travel far, I ween, Whose strength can reach a distant scene, And measure o'er large s.p.a.ce of ground, Have not, like me, a deadly wound!

Near home, perforce, alas, I stray, Perforce pursue my destin'd way, Through scenes where all my trouble grows, And where alone remembrance flows.

Like evening swallows, still my wings Float round in low, perpetual rings; But never fold the plume for rest One moment in the tranquil nest; And have no strength to reach the skies, No power, no hope, no wish to rise!

"Blame me not, _Fancy_, if I now restrain Thy wandering footsteps, now thy wings confine; Tis the decree of Fate,--it is not mine!

For I would let thee free and widely stray-- Would follow gladly, tend thee on thy way, And never of the devious track complain, Never thy wild and sportive flights disdain!

Though reasonless those graceful moods may be, They still, alas! were pa.s.sing sweet to me.

"Unhappy that I am, compell'd to bind This murmuring captive! one who ever strove By each endearing art to win my love; Who, ever unoffending, ever bright, Danc'd in my view, and pleas'd me to delight!

She scatter'd showers of lilies on my mind; For, oh! so fair, so fresh, and so refin'd, Her child-like offerings, without thorns to pain, Without one canker'd wound, or earthly stain.

"And, _darling!_ as my trembling fingers twine Those fetters round thee, they are wet with tears!

For the sweet playmate of my early years I cannot thus afflict, nor thus resign My equal liberty, and not repine!

For I had made thee, infant as thou art, Queen of my hopes, my leisure, and my heart; Given thee its happiest laugh, its sweetest tear, And all I found or conquer'd every year.

"I blame me now I let thy sports offend Old Time, and laid thy snare within his path To make him falter, as it often hath; For he grew angry soon, and held his breath, And hurried on, in frightful league with Death, To make the way through which my footsteps bend, Late rich in all that social scenes attend, A desert; and with thee I droop, I die, Beneath the look of his malignant eye.

"Me do triumphant heroes call To grace with harp their festal hall?

O! must my voice awake the song?-- My skill the artful tale prolong?

Yes! I am call'd--it is my doom!

Unhappily, ye know not whom, Nor what, impatient ye demand!

How hostile now the fever'd hand, Across these chords unwilling thrown, To echo plainings of my own!

Little indeed can ye divine What song ye ask who call for mine!

"Till now, before the courtly crowd I humbly and I gaily bow'd; The blush was not to shame allied Which on my glowing cheek I wore; No lowly seemings pain'd nay pride, My heart was laughing at the core; And sometimes, as the stream of song Bore me with eddying haste along, My father's spirit would arise, And speak strange meaning from these eyes, At which a conscious cheek would quail, A stern and lofty bearing fail: Then could a chieftain condescend In me to recognize his friend!

Then could a warrior low incline His eye, when it encounter'd mine!

A tone can make the guilty start!

A glance can pierce the conscious heart, Encountering memory in its flight, Most waywardly! Such wounds are slight; But I withdraw the painful light!

"Fair lords and princes! many a time For you I wove my pictur'd rhyme; Refin'd new thoughts and fancies crude In deep and careful solitude; 'And, when my task was finish'd, came To seek the meed of praise or blame; While, even then, untir'd I strove To serve beneath the yoke of love.

Whene'er I mark'd a fearful look, When pride, or when resentment, spoke, I bent the tenor of my strain, And trembled lest it were in vain.

By many an undiscover'd wile I brought the pallid lip to smile, Clear'd the maz'd thought for ampler scope, Sustain'd the flagging wings of hope; And threw a mantle over care Such as the blooming Graces wear!