My pretty ladies, mid this Christmas cheer,
Loth though I am to wake a single tear
From thy soft bosoms, yet I claim a sigh
For hapless love and frenzied jealousy.
And if, beneath the favour of thy smile,
I dare reprove some restless love, whose guile
Had bid him enter to this garden close
Of speedwell eyes, and every cheek a rose,
To snatch from some sweet bloom a wanton hour.
Ah, chide me not, but hide, O hapless flower,
Thy honied head, and listen to my lay
Of Margarida, who on luckless day
Had found such love, and ill-advised desire
That all her beauteous self did soon expire,
As some poor rose, chilled by too rough a wind,
Leaves but a scattered memory behind.
So, though we grieve the perfect bloom decays,
We can admire no more, nor sing the praise
Of her fair being.So Margarida cast
Her prudence to the teeth of passion's blast,
And scattered were her virtues by its breath.
She died dishonoured of a sinful death.
If there be one who holds, within this hall,
For Margarida scorn, and her downfall,
Let him but list to all this tangled tale
Of misplaced love. So let his cheek grow pale.
If in his heart he plays the troubadour,
As Guillem de Cabestaing, in days of yore,
Who loved unwisely Count Rossillon's bride,
And for this wanton love most sorely died.
And if my grievous tale doth hold some ear,
And strike some heart that hath a jealous fear
That restless love had sought his garden close,
To steal the treasure of his sweetest rose,
Let him but pause. For know where love doth be,
That evil snake, his jaundiced jealousy,
Doth linger too. So bitter is its sting,
That to love's self it can destruction bring.
So did it coil about Rossillon's heart,
Till pity in despair did swift depart,
And his cold breast sweet mercy did forsake.
Then two were slain to feed the horrid snake.
Nor did love's tears or weeping aught avail,
As you shall hear who listen to my tale.
I The Pitiful Tragedy of Margarida and the Troubadour
Sweet Margarida, dreaming in her bower
Through lonely days, lamented each long hour
That thrust her forth from her dream paradise
Of youthful years, that knew but summer skies.
Alack! quoth she, is love then but a theme
For maiden lips, and constancy a dream?
Here lone I sit who once Rossillon wooed.
Me, like some speeding doe, he fierce pursued.
And as swift hawks his wingèd words so came
That all my young reluctance soon was slain
And we were wed. No longer cheek to cheek,
Or heart to heart, he strives to make me speak
Those words of love that once so precious were.
He dreams me his, and so he hath no care.
Now goes he to the chase with hawk and hound,
To slay some beast that had not such a wound
As I have here. On Margarida's breast
Her slender palm with outspread fingers pressed.
Then rapped her shoe upon the mossy ground,
The shoe that once with its silk latchets bound,
Full oft some heart so seeking thus to die,
Upon her pretty path was glad to lie.
She raised her hand,oft had some knight in state
Rode for its pleasure to her father's gate
There neath her tears hung loose her marriage ring.
She felt, once more, her lord's rough fingers cling
In their fierce joy to press the bauble there
That pledged her his. And sudden came aware
Of watching eyes. She checked the soothing tear
And bade th' intruding stranger draw him near.
Sharp on her tongue scorn's bitter arrows pressed
To pierce this rude intruder's curious breast.
But when she saw no laughter in that eye,
And his breast heave with many a piteous sigh
For her sad plight, her tears broke forth anew,
For here was one who guessed her sorrow too.
And since for her a cheek so pale he bore,
She felt her wrongs more bitter than before.
So wept she for herself, and he for her,
Till in that bower of rose and lavender,
A little storm did grow in sudden way,
With gentle moans, Ah me, and Well-a-day.
Their windy grief blew forth in gusty sighs,
And bitter tears rained from their downcast eyes.
Now, hear, ye gallants, who this love deride,
And find a moral ere you pause to chide.
Or if no lesson from this tale you seek,
Let Margarida's tragic story speak
Of one who left his treasure house unbarred,
And its most precious gem without a guard.
Oh, hearken then, to have is not to hold,
As ye will learn who hear my tale unfold.
Now, their strong sighing woke from his repose
A sleeping cupid cradled in a rose.
The wicked boy, attracted by their sighs,
Stole from his covert to attain his prize.
And while Rossillon hunted on the hill,
Within his home Dan Cupid worked his will.
That tender home a woman's faithful heart,
Whose chainèd portals here were burst apart.
Its sacred chambers he did penetrate,
Where once he went before in holy state.
Alack, quoth he, thieves entered me before,
A husband's love were lock upon this door.
But since 'tis wide, and hath no guardian here,
Grief comes unchidden, and the constant tear,
I do not love this sorrow in my place,
And with my bow I shall the shade efface.
Sweet mother, speed my arrow on its quest,
To pierce this chaste and most neglected breast;
So Margarida's heart doth not pursue
Her careless lord, while others stay to woo.
Swift to its mark the reckless arrow sped;
More wild the tears the wounded mortals shed.
But Margarida, as a woman will,
Though tempest tossed, did hold possession still
Of all her senses, so that while she seemed
Blind in her grief, she also sat and dreamed
Of this strange youth, his modesty, his grace,
The tender beauty of his gentle face.
In truth she loved, and loving 'gan to find
This youth's shy looks more pleasing to her mind
Than were Rossillon's bold and savage ways.
And with her lord's downfall there came the praise
Of this sad boy, who was so passing fair.
So will the absent lover ill compare
With him, who by his lady's side will bide
To swear no joy could tempt him from her side.
While Margarida wept with sore heart-break,
The pitying stranger stood afraid to speak,
Till Cupid grew impatient at the sight,
And set their foolish tremors all to flight.
Amid the leaves he fluted like some bird
Who seeks his mate and sings, all passion stirred.
Then did the youth its tender message know,
And from his heart let its sweet rapture flow.
All that he dare not say he told in song,
Nor did his lady find the tale too long.
And when he ceased, she bade him draw anear,
Boldly to speak, and put aside his fear.
Say what thou wilt, O voice of golden thrill,
To her whose tears are handmaid to thy will.
O gracious one, the kneeling youth replied
Then spoke his heart, nor would it be denied
Sweet eyes, sweet lips, sweet lady all so sweet,
Behold thy slave in torment at thy feet.
He must not love, yet loves thee all too well.
Here let him die who dares this tale to tell.
Oh, bring those tears, sweet tears that bade him spake,
To his lone grave some recompense to make
For all he lost in losing thy fair face.
Nor could high Heav'n this happiness replace.
Thus having said, the youth in silence knelt,
His brow on hand, awaiting banishment.
Then came her voice sweet as an altar bell,
I, too, could lovea moment's stillness fell
So sweet a song. Hast thou then tuned this tale
From some bright lark or some sweet nightingale?
Nay, lady, said the youth, my master dear
Is love himself, who tuned to please thine ear
My very heart, so that its chords will break
Should my bold words thy righteous anger wake.
Then down he fell, low at her feet again,
As might her spaniel meriting disdain.
But her soft voice spoke comfort, saying slow,
Thy words, like little bees that singing go
From some fair flower safe to the distant hive,
Bear honey to my heart, and sweet arrive
To fill the empty place, by hope forgot.
Rise, then, dear youth, and fear remember not.
Sing, golden voice that doth my heart content,
And change this world of tears to merriment.
Here at thy feet, the kneeling youth replied,
I consecrate my song, so far and wide.
It sings thy praise, O peerless one and dear,
That all for love of thee must pause and hear.
Heart of my song must be thy secret name.
I shall be great, who here so lowly came,
The humble servant at Rossillon's call
Once did I stand to tend him in the hall,
To bear his weapons, and to hold his steed,
Robe him for state. Oh, slave were I indeed.
Thou raiseth me, so I supreme attained
Love's very throne, where once Rossillon reigned.
Thus did they twitter, till from their day doze
The shadow children of the night arose,
Swift to elude her call they silent played,
And through the garden arbours peeping strayed.
Here 'mongst the leaves of dainty columbine
A little shadow crept to close entwine
With the long cypress shade. There on the grass,
From some rose-wreathed chain, her sisters pass,
Hand linked in hand, all tremulous to dance,
Till the nocturnal hours, in swift advance,
Rebuke their playing and their aid invite
To spread the spangled canopy of night.
While in the bower the lovers whispered still,
A bugle sounded from some distant hill.
And Margarida, with a sudden cry,
Sprang to her feet, Oh, hush, my lord is nigh.
Quick, get thee gone. Her cheek grew cold and pale,
That had been happy rose with love's sweet tale.
Must we then part? Fear came on Guillem's brow.
O Margarida, hast thou heard enough
Of my heart's story? 'Tis first love and young,
Has it then spoken with a faltering tongue?
Then Margarida raised and softly pressed
His clinging hand upon her panting breast,
With Come again, sweet love, for I have heard
But half thy tale. So be the joy deferred
Of hearing all, in some not distant hour
Again to meet in this most lovely bower.
So did she go in haste to meet her lord.
But Guillem stayed to kiss the velvet sward,
Where her small feet had passed in their swift flight.
And when, within the banquet-hall that night,
He stood behind Rossillon's chair, to fill
His cup with wine, he felt his pulses thrill
With tender joy, as though he were betroth
In secret now, so that his master's wrath,
Ta'en from the hunting-field of teasing spear,
Of lagging steed, and swift out-racing deer,
Thrust for his hurt on love's safe shield in vain;
Save Margarida, none could cause him pain.
And Margarida, never did there seem
So sweet a thing to make a poet's dream.
Her shining hair, her rich embroidered dress,
Made him a picture of fair loveliness.
What likened she, besought the love-sick boy,
A golden vessel overful of joy,
A cagèd bird that now had learned to sing,
A drooping flower uplifted by the spring?
Ah, no, too sweet, and all beyond compare,
She Margarida was, and had no share
In earthly beauty, but a thing apart,
The dream-ideal of a poet's heart.
Now, had Rossillon's thoughts but travelled home,
Which yet about the distant deer did roam,
To find excuse that still the beast had breath,
Which Count Rossillon's spear had pledged to death,
He else had seen his lady's eyes too bright
For his home-coming, and their secret light
Flash by him till it found a resting-place,
And fell abashed from Guillem's glowing face.
Her cheek too red, beneath his careless kiss,
Her laugh too quick, and all her wifely bliss
Too new, too sudden, from their wedded years,
That else were spent in pettiness and tears.
And he had seen the tender face, so young,
Pale from its bloom; and heard the rippling tongue
To faltering silence go, soon, when he bade
The youth retire. Had his fierce gaze once strayed
To Margarida's eyes, he sure had seen
How quenched the glow where once the flame had been,
As though young Guillem, in his passing, stole
The lamp that lit the windows of her soul.
But Count Rossillon, weary from the day,
Beside his hearth half slumbering soon lay,
And from his chair, with idle hand caressed
The slender hound, now with his fancy blessed;
And Margarida moved her robe aside,
That stayed the beast from favour her denied.
And thus thrust forth she lingered all forlorn
Till in the night, through open casement borne,
A lovely song came sighing on the air.
Pale Margarida trembled in her chair.
She thought, Love wakes within his cradling rose,
And with his breath a tender message blows
To one held dear. Rossillon's heavy eyes
Lit for a moment to a pleased surprise.
Who sings so sweet? and Margarida said,
'Tis but young Guillem. Then she drooped her head,
Lest he should see the flame upon her cheek.
But Count Rossillon did but slumber seek,
And ere she answered slept within his place.
Lone Margarida watched his sleeping face.
O eyes, she said, that find in me no joy,
Chill lips that speak my dreams to e'er destroy,
Cold heart wherein I wake no passion beat,
Deaf ears that find my coming never sweet,
Strong hands that hold my pulsing body bound
To share their chance caresses with the hound,
Sleep on, sleep on, and then she softly wept,
Till to her ears the gentle singing crept.
O Margarida, sweet beyond compare,
My eyes close not because they found thee fair,
My ears attuned but for thy step alone,
My poor heart slain, that calls thee not its own.
Come, Margarida, then the whisper left
A sigh of one whose hope was all bereft.
Alack! who would not two such loves contrast,
Quick Margarida through the window passed,
While Count Rossillon in his sleep caressed
The hound's sleek head that on his knee did rest.
II The Cruel End of the Lovers' Tale
How quick breeds scandal. In some danksome place
She builds her nest of shame and sore disgrace,
There rears her brood, swift flying far and wide
For all her loathsome nestling to provide,
And whispered words from off some careless tongue
She plucks to bear to her unfeathered young.
Where spite and envy fly their poisoned seed,
Deep from the dust she snatches in her greed.
Soon from their home, hate, jealousy, despair,
Fly forth, within their turn to nest, and bear
Their evil brood of torture, crime, and death,
To blight the heart that meets their noisome breath.
What heard Rossillon, riding through the wood,
Of this dark bird that fed her horrid brood
Close on his path; that made him turn and stay
His restless steed upon young Guillem's way.
How now, fond youth, my Guillem, all so pale,
Lone dost thou sigh as doth the nightingale;
Who, while all gentle birds have stayed their flight,
Still cries his passion to the silent night.
'Tis sure love's way that makes a man to go
A wanderer when nocturnal breezes blow.
Nor in lone branches builds the bird of fame,
He seeks the crowd, who wooes immortal name.
Not on the road where valour boldly rides,
Nor on the hill where glory safe abides,
Do thy feet press, but on the silent path
Within the secret wood, that nature hath
Made for her children her green veiling through,
For those who fly, and those who would pursue.
Here, in this place where only those abide
Who creep in fear, or in their terror hide,
Or pass soft-footed to some wanton play,
Or mid the leaves do wage a gory fray,
What doth thou, then, in this remote recess,
Who should be captor of sweet loveliness?
Why let thy sighs all unrequited go,
Since gentle ears were vanquished by their woe?
Where hides thy love, this most elusive she?
Come, speak, poor bondsman to love's cruelty.
Then Guillem spoke, and in his sore distress
Forgot all save his heart's lone barrenness.
As doth each bird, wise with the mating spring,
I well do love, and therefore must I sing.
As sighs the nightingale, with breast to thorn,
In the lone night for joys for e'er unborn.
Lest guilt should claim a hideous motherhood.
So I despair, since none can bring me good.
Still Count Rossillon with his captive plays,
Fixed on his face a fierce suspicious gaze.
How now, pale scholar at love's school, he cries.
But name thy fair, for thee I'll win the prize.
Half from its sheath his dagger sharp he drew,
When white and wan the cheek of Guillem grew.
Oh, list, my lord, the youth all falt'ring said,
To my despair, and then in pity shed
My poor heart's blood, lest it in grief expire
For ill-advisèd love and fond desire.
Look kindly, then, O gentle lord, on one
Who hath grown blind in worshipping the sun,
And in his darkness, groping on his way,
Lost his sure path, and for a while did stray.
Then Guillem paused, for in Rossillon's eyes
He saw the crimson flame of murder rise,
And was afraid, in sooth, to tell his tale.
No true repentance here would aught avail,
But bitter jealousy with poisoned dart
Would pierce his own and Margarida's heart.
Therefore he stayed the valour of his tongue,
And from his lips in honied accents sung
A tale of love that was but half his own,
Of some sweet lady who had made him moan.
When God created Eden, He inclined
To wish some fairer thought for Heav'n designed,
Than beast, or bird, or flower, or branching tree,
To hold the soul that He desired to be.
So God made man, and with him not content,
To mould some fairer image o'er him bent.
He took the red of rose, the lily's white,
The beech-nut's brown, and the soft blue of night,
And all the perfumed breath of paradise,
To make a creature fair to meet His eyes.
And so came woman, who, for her disgrace
Fell from the glory of that sacred place.
Yet oft, though forth this woman went accurst,
A mould is made as lovely as the first
That in God's garden to perfection came.
And one sweet shape hath Margarida's name,
And Agnes one, her sister passing fair;
Her do I love, and, with a lover's fear,
Fly from her side, when fain I would be near.
If this be true, the fierce Rossillon said,
That this shy maid doth shun the marriage-bed,
I'll speak her fair; for to thee be the blame,
'Tis the bold hunter spears the swiftest game.
Out on thee, fool, who, pleading for a kiss,
Would urge the modest maid request the bliss,
And thus offend her for her virtue's sake
Less than she longed to give he feared to take.
Then, Guillem, rise, and lift thy pallid cheek
From dew-wet grass some sweeter rest to seek
On thy love's breast. Come, lest in fond desire
She die at home, as thou wouldst here expire.
Loud in the woods Rossillon's laughter rung,
And echoed long the purple shades among.
But Guillem went beside him, wan with fear
And hopes, all fugitive as he drew near
The castle where sweet Agnes now did dwell.
Loud at their feet the clanging drawbridge fell
As they passed through, and up the winding stair.
Lone in her chamber found young Agnes there,
With two white doves she played, and bid them fly
From her soft shoulder as came Guillem nigh,
And fierce Rossillon laughing in his beard.
Then drew she back of this strange pair afeard.
And hast thou brought some evil tidings here,
O Count Rossillon, of my sister dear?
Red is thy cheek, as Guillem's is too white.
Speak, else my heart must perish of its fright.
Nay, laughed Rossillon, 'tis not grief who flies
To greet thee now, but love himself who cries
"Sweet, give me peace and respite after pain,
Say dost thou love, or must I pine in vain?"
This hapless lover did I find astray;
In the lone woods he sang his roundelay.
Then the dark earth embraced, and left his tear
On the brown leaves and grasses long and sear.
Him did I lead from out that shady place,
And bade him seek the sunshine of thy face.
So am I red and somewhat scant of breath,
Lest this poor youth should die a hapless death.
See thou his pallid cheek, his sunken eyes.
Say that thou lovest not, and say he dies.
Then looked fair Agnes proudly and all pale
In dire offence to hear this tatler's tale,
And saw poor Guillem's bent and humbled head,
His piteous eyes, and there his story read;
And for her sister's sake, and for his pain,
Vowed that she lovedif he did love again.
She laid her slender fingers, soft and white,
On Guillem's hands, still clenched in their affright.
And he, poor youth, did hold them to his heart,
And kiss them oft with all a lover's art.
So Count Rossillon, watching from his place,
Saw but love's message writ on each young face.
Soon with content he sprang upon his steed,
And home did hie, from his suspicions freed.
When fair that night the banquet-hall was spread
For many an honoured guest, Rossillon said,
Now when the wine doth make our hearts on fire,
I'll tell a tale of love and young desire.
He, nothing loth, responded to their cries,
All in a piteous voice with lovers' sighs
Told how lamenting lone young Guillem stood
And cried his sorrows to the list'ning wood.
In faith, quoth he, I thought that some foul snare
Tore at the vitals of a tortured hare,
Or that some bird, sore wounded, found its death,
And shrieked its anguish with half-human breath.
Quick did I urge my charger to his speed,
And saw poor Guillem weeping in his need.
"And is," said I, "thy love so far from here,
That such loud sorrow must assail her ear?
Come, Guillem, leave the birds to their sweet rest,
And sooth this sorrow on thy lady's breast."
Rossillon paused, and Margarida grew
White as the rose that peeped the window through.
Beneath the board she let her slim hands fall,
Lest their pale fear be visible to all,
And her quick fingers plucked in their distress
The gold embroidery of her silken dress.
But when Rossillon, merry with his tale,
Laughed, Soon I with young Guillem did prevail
To bring his woe to his dear lady's feet,
Where soon he knelt her pity to entreat.
His famished kisses did her small hand glove,
When I did go, and leave them to their love.
More loud than all young Margarida laughed,
And to this love right willingly she quaffed,
But on her cheek scorn's passion-flower was born,
Flushed as the cloud that ushers in the morn,
And from each eye a crystal drop out-flows,
Clear as the dew that sparkles on the rose.
Was Guillem false, then were no lovers true,
And Cupid's favours but the bitter rue
That she would wear no longer in her heart.
Soon from the board she went and walked apart
To where young Guillem stood alone, forgot
By all save she, and wept, Thou lovest not.
And Guillem cried, Why dost thou doubt this love
That holds thee dearer than the saints above,
Who for the sorrows of thy piteous youth
Had slain for thee his honour and his truth?
Then Margarida, fearful of his frown,
Hid jealous eyes beneath long lashes brown,
And leaned towards him, in a little voice
Spoke soft to make his chidden heart rejoice.
Then thou, my Guillem, thou shalt sing for me
What thou didst chant beneath the greenwood tree.
If that dear song were tuned for me alone,
Oh, let me make the melody my own.
Or, must I seek within that green recess,
Where all alone thou didst thy love confess,
From bud to blossom, and from leaf to bower,
Shake the wild bell of every forest flower,
To loose the captive echo of thy song?
Since it is mine, it must to me belong.
And then, half tearful and half full of glee,
Went Margarida, her last guests to see
Safe to their saddles, and to say God-speed,
As each gay gallant leaped upon his steed.
And as her guests went riding through the night,
They did discuss, with shameful appetite,
Young Margarida's eyes, her neck, her hair,
Vowed her too slender, or too lily fair.
One called her cold, and one with laughter said,
But rumour talks, and then his jesting fled.
He muttered in his beard, and, scowling went,
Because the banquet did not him content.
And one, who, riding, followed hindermost,
Spoke words that smote the honour of his host,
Because the wine his taste did all displease.
Thus did they go, nor did their laughter cease,
When 'gan a nightingale in heart's delight
To praise the splendour of the summer night,
Nor when the moon unwound her golden horn
To hang above the cradle of the morn.
Fair Margarida soon her guests forgot,
In happy dreams she all remembered not
Save her heart's love, and, as she smiling slept,
Beside her bed two phantom visions crept,
Grey Time and Death, to count her failing hours.
But Margarida walked amidst the flowers
Of all her joys in sleep's enchanted land,
Nor knew that night would drive her from that strand,
Where she would come no more, and yet she smiled,
Safe in her slumber as a little child.
Then from the wood, as nightingale ne'er sung,
A hymn of love upon the silence rung
Its silver circle of outspreading sound,
Till Margarida's dreaming ear it found.
'Twas Guillem, who, beneath some spreading tree,
Let all the rapture of his passion free.
To bid his lady's doubting heart rejoice,
He called the choir of his dulcet voice,
And let each note on its fond mission fly.
The tender treble, in a joyful cry
Beside her ear, did timidly repeat
He held his serfdom at his lady's feet.
But chiming bass did hold himself the king,
And bade her to his throne her favours bring.
While thus he sung, all in his youthful power,
Death told the moments of his passing hour.
Within the hall Rossillon idle cast
His belt aside, still smiling at the last
Guest's parting quip, and from the leather fell
A jewelled knife, that chimed like some sweet bell.
What wouldst thou speak? then whisper unafraid
And in his hand he raised the shining blade;
And wouldst thou warn me of some secret foe,
Some runagate, whom thou wouldst fain lay low?
Rossillon laughed, and ere his laughter died,
He heard young Guillem's song that soared and sighed,
A song of love upon the balmy night.
And on Rossillon's cheek the red grew white,
And then he spoke no more, but up the stair
Crept soft, and Margarida, unaware
Of his fierce eyes, beside the casement bent
Her slender body in its good content.
Oft would she raise her little hands on high,
As though to hold the music passing by;
Oft sighed to dream each note that soared so fair
Should blend, dissolve into the upper air.
So Margarida, wrapped in fond desire,
Saw not Rossillon's frown and eyes of fire,
Knew not that by her side stood Time and Death,
And Murder, panting with his poisoned breath.
And as Rossillon soft crept down the stair,
These three most awful shapes pursued him there,
Held to his hands, and whispered by his ear,
Till to young Guillem's side he drew anear,
And ere the startled youth could stay his song,
Plunged in his side his dagger keen and long.
Nor did he stay on this sad sight to gaze,
As one might look in pity and amaze,
Who had his jealous anger chidden dumb
To see so much young loveliness succumb.
Long on her bed did Margarida toss,
Bereft of joy, for that sweet song, whose loss
Did come so swift, and in some sudden way
She wot not of. Full oft she leaned to pray,
And oft to weep. And when at dawn she went
To walk beside the tower's high battlements
She heard a step upon the winding stair,
And Guillem cried, and then Rossillon came,
And on her brow he saw the flush of shame.
O sweet, he said, thou art so pale and white,
Didst thou not rest through all the weary night?
It was in truth made noisy by some bard,
Who for his lady fair had such regard
That he could nought but trill, and troll, and sigh,
Till dawn crept all reluctant to the sky.
Then Margarida raised her shame-bowed head,
I heard a little song, she trembling said;
But oh, it did not stay me from my sleep.
She turned aside lest he should see her weep.
My Margarida doth pretend but ill.
Who would deceive, must lie with right good-will.
Thy paling cheek, thy dim and distant gaze,
Doth fill my heart with pity and amaze.
So I have vowed that here shall rest thee, sweet,
With all the world, as should be, at thy feet.
And here I, too, all kindly for thy sake,
Have made a dish of which thou must partake.
He struck his hands, and from a secret door
A page came forth, and in his arms he bore
A covered dish, that Count Rossillon set
By Margarida on the parapet.
What meat is this? Soft Margarida laid
Her hand upon the boy, for, all afraid,
She feared to stay so lone on that high place
With fierce Rossillon. Then the youth's white face
And shaking hands did make her cry aloud
In her swift terror. Low the pale youth bowed
And ran to hiding in some secret spot,
And Margarida knew he'd aid her not.
And then she stood to meet Rossillon's eyes,
Fierce in their hate beneath their feigned surprise
At her strange fears, since he but bade her eat.
What dost thou ail, my Margarida sweet?
Come, try this dish I did myself prepare
For thy dear fancy. Pray you, think it fair.
Thrice Margarida's hand did hover white,
Like some shy moth all fearing to alight,
Above the dish, and then drew back afraid.
Thrice did she sigh her Guillem to upbraid,
Who left her so in fear and lone disgrace
To brave the frenzy on Rossillon's face.
Wilt thou forgive? she did repentant cry,
Since from this poisoned dish I sure must die.
Nay, Margarida, thou dost all mistake,
Rossillon said. If this thou dost partake,
Thou sure wilt find it of all dishes sweet.
Come, lest I weary, let me see thee eat.
And from the dish the clanging cover flew
Beneath his hand. What horror came to view!
The leaf-brown hair that hung in ringlets long,
Those paling lips still parted for their song,
Those eyes, so dim, that seemed on her to gaze.
Loud Margarida shrieked in her amaze.
Thou dost not like the dish. Why dost thou fear?
I could have sworn no other thing so dear
As this to thee, which I did all prepare.
Then Margarida, in her mad despair
Snatched to her breast her sin's most awful fee.
So well I love what thou hast tended me,
That I shall ask no more, and then she sprung
From the rude battlement, and screaming flung
Her soul unshriven to its certain death,
And her young body, that with dying breath
Called still on him, whose sad immortal shade
She must not meet to comfort or to aid,
Since both did die without repentance sore.
So ends my tale of the fierce days of yore.
Then did the agèd minstrel cease to play
On his bright harp, but let his fingers stray
Soft on the strings that murmured 'neath his hand
In some low whisper he did understand.
At Christmas in the Baron's hall,
The guests no longer held in thrall
By the old harper's tragic lay,
Laughed, Love is young, and he must stray;
Let him not lead, but thou command
And take the truant by the hand.
Then did each gallant bold advance
To lead his lady to the dance,
And soon in stately minuet
They did the piteous tale forget.
But lone the Baron sat and sighed,
Still by the hearth, all deep and wide,
Watched where his lady weeping pressed
Against the window facing west.
And then upon his hand he laid
His bent grey head, as though afraid
Again to see her wistful eyes,
And her fair youth, and hear her sighs.
And as he sat there sudden came
A whispered voice that called his name.
All slow there crept beside his chair,
His weeping lady, kneeling there.
