Collected Poems Volume II Part 91

Yet his rhymes Have caught the very colours of that night!

I can see through them, Ay, just as through our cottage window-panes, Can see the great black coach, Carrying the dead queen past our garden-gate.

The roses bobbing and fluttering to and fro, Hide, and yet show the more by hiding, half.

And, like smoked gla.s.s through which you see the sun, The song shows truest when it blurs the truth.

This is the way it goes."

He rose to his feet, Picked up his spade, and struck an att.i.tude, Leaning upon it. "I've got to feel my spade, Or I'll forget it. This is the way I speak it.

Always." And, with a schoolboy's rigid face, And eyes fixed on the rafters, he began, Sing-song, the pedlar-poet's bunch of rhymes:--

As I went by the cattle-shed The grey dew dimmed the gra.s.s, And, under a twisted apple-tree, Old Robin Scarlet stood by me.

"Keep watch! Keep watch to-night," he said, "There's things 'ull come to pa.s.s.

"Keep watch until the moon has cleared The thatch of yonder rick; Then I'll come out of my cottage-door To wait for the coach of a queen once more; And--you'll say nothing of what you've heard, But rise and follow me quick."

"And what 'ull I see if I keep your trust, And wait and watch so late?"

"Pride," he said, "and Pomp," he said, "Beauty to haunt you till you're dead, And Glorious Dust that goes to dust, Pa.s.sing the white farm-gate.

"You are young and all for adventure, lad, And the great tales to be told: This night, before the clock strike one, Your lordliest hour will all be done; But you'll remember it and be glad, In the days when you are old!"

All in the middle of the night, My face was at the pane; When, creeping out of his cottage-door, To wait for the coach of a queen once more, Old Scarlet, in the moon-light, Beckoned to me again.

He stood beneath a lilac-spray, Like Father Time for dole, In Reading Tawny cloak and hood, With mattock and with spade he stood, And, far away to southward, A bell began to toll.

He stood beneath a lilac-spray, And never a word he said; But, as I stole out of the house, He pointed over the orchard boughs, Where, not with dawn or sunset, The Northern sky grew red.

I followed him, and half in fear, To the old farm-gate again; And, round the curve of the long white road, I saw that the dew-dashed hedges glowed Red with the grandeur drawing near, And the torches of her train.

They carried her down with singing, With singing sweet and low, Slowly round the curve they came, Twenty torches dropping flame, The heralds that were bringing her The way we all must go.

'Twas master William Dethick, The Garter King of Arms, Before her royal coach did ride, With none to see his Coat of Pride, For peace was on the countryside, And sleep upon the farms;

Peace upon the red farm, Peace upon the grey, Peace on the heavy orchard trees, And little white-walled cottages, Peace upon the wayside, And sleep upon the way.

So master William Dethick, With forty horse and men, Like any common man and mean Rode on before the Queen, the Queen, And--only a wandering pedlar Could tell the tale again.

How, like a cloud of darkness, Between the torches moved Four black steeds and a velvet pall Crowned with the Crown Imperiall And--on her s.h.i.+eld--the lilies, The lilies that she loved.

Ah, stained and ever stainless Ah, white as her own hand, White as the wonder of that brow, Crowned with colder lilies now, White on the velvet darkness, The lilies of her land!

The witch from over the water, The fay from over the foam, The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' town With satin shoes and a silken gown, A queen, and a great king's daughter,-- Thus they carried her home,

With torches and with scutcheons, Unhonoured and unseen, With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir, And the Lion of Scotland over her, Darkly, in the dead of night, They carried the Queen, the Queen.

The s.e.xton paused and took a draught of ale.

"'Twas there," he said, "I joined 'em at the gate, My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang, The little shadowy throng of men that walked Behind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent heads I know not; but 'twas very soft and low.

They walked behind the rest, like shadows flung Behind the torch-light, from that strange dark hea.r.s.e.

And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghosts Of lovers that this queen had brought to death.

A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yet Like the night-wind they sang. And there was one An olive-coloured man,--the pedlar said Was like a certain foreigner that she loved, One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers.

Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell'

In words like this, and that the words in French Were written by the hapless Queen herself, When as a girl she left the vines of France For Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:--

I

Though thy hands have plied their trade Eighty years without a rest, Robin Scarlet, never thy spade Built a house for such a guest!

Carry her where, in earliest June, All the whitest hawthorns blow; Carry her under the midnight moon, Singing very soft and low.

Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping, Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way!

Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping!

Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,--_Fotheringhay!_

II

She was gayer than a child!

--_Let your torches droop for sorrow._-- Laughter in her eyes ran wild!

--_Carry her down to Peterboro'._-- Words were kisses in her mouth!

--_Let no word of blame be spoken._-- She was Queen of all the South!

--_In the North, her heart was broken._-- They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping, Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance.

Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping, weeping, weeping,-- _O, ma patrie, La plus cherie, Adieu, plaisant pays de France!_

III

Many a red heart died to beat --_Music swelled in Holyrood!_-- Once, beneath her fair white feet.

--_Now the floors may rot with blood_-- She was young and her deep hair-- --_Wind and rain were all her fate!_-- Trapped young Love as in a snare, --_And the wind's a sword in the Canongate!

Edinboro'!

Edinboro'!

Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow!_ Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping, What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows?

What if her hair were a silken mesh?

Hands of steel can deal hard blows, Iron breast-plates bruise fair fles.h.!.+

Carry her southward, palled in purple, Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping, What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose.

Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went, We three behind,--the pedlar-poet and I, And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringed The escutcheoned hea.r.s.e, lit every leaf distinct Along the hedges and woke the sleeping birds, But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms.

Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep, We brought her to the doors of her last home, In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tomb They stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles, The heralds with their torches, but their light Struggled in vain with that tremendous dark.

Their ring of smoky red could only show A few sad faces round the purple pall, The wings of a stone angel overhead, The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully, Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault, One little slab of marble, far away.

Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's words Had made me fanciful, I thought I saw Bowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles, Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a grief That still was built of silence, like the drip Of water from a frozen fountain-head.

We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb.

With echoing footsteps all the funeral went; And I went last to close and lock the doors; Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloom That rolled along behind me as one by one The torches vanished. O, I was glad to see The moonlight on the kind turf-mounds again.

But, as I turned the key, a quivering hand Was laid upon my arm. I turned and saw That foreigner with the olive-coloured face.

From head to foot he s.h.i.+vered, as with cold.

He drew me into the shadows of the porch.

'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand --Like ice it was!--along my wrist, and slipped A ring upon my finger, muttering quick, As in a burning fever, 'All the wealth Of Eldorado for one hour! Come back!

I must go back and see her face again!

I was not there, not there, the day she--died.

You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soul Will know. Come back! One moment, only one!'

I thought the man was mad, and plucked my hand Away from him. He caught me by the sleeve, And sank upon his knees, lifting his face Most piteously to mine. 'One moment! See!

I loved her!'

I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears, Great, long, slow tears they were; and then--my G.o.d-- As his face lifted and his head sank back Beseeching me--I saw a crimson thread Circling his throat, as though the headsman's axe Had cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen, The head had slipped not from the trunk.

I gasped; And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back, The wound, O like a second awful mouth, The wound began to gape.

I tore my cloak Out of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash.

I left them where they lay, and with a shout I dashed into the broad white empty road.

There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fear I hastened home, not daring to look back; But as I turned the corner, I heard the clang Of those great doors, and knew he had entered in.