I.

A knight of gallant deeds
       &nbspAnd a young page at his side,
From the holy war in Palestine
       &nbspDid slow and thoughtful ride,
As each were a palmer and told for beads
       &nbspThe dews of the eventide.

II.

"O young page," said the knight,
       &nbsp"A noble page art thou!
Thou fearest not to steep in blood
       &nbspThe curls upon thy brow;
And once in the tent, and twice in the fight,
       &nbspDidst ward me a mortal blow."

III.

"O brave knight," said the page,
       &nbsp"Or ere we hither came,
We talked in tent, we talked in field,
       &nbspOf the bloody battle-game;
But here, below this greenwood bough,
       &nbspI cannot speak the same.
IV.

"Our troop is far behind,
       &nbspThe woodland calm is new;
Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs,
       &nbspTread deep the shadows through;
And, in my mind, some blessing kind
       &nbspIs dropping with the dew.

V.

"The woodland calm is pure—
       &nbspI cannot choose but have
A thought from these, o' the beechen-trees,
       &nbspWhich in our England wave,
And of the little finches fine
Which sang there while in Palestine
       &nbspThe warrior-hilt we drave.


VI.

"Methinks, a moment gone,
       &nbspI heard my mother pray!
I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me
       &nbspWherein she passed away;
And I know the heavens are leaning down
       &nbspTo hear what I shall say."
VII.

The page spake calm and high,
       &nbspAs of no mean degree;
Perhaps he felt in nature's broad
       &nbspFull heart, his own was free:
And the knight looked up to his lifted eye,
       &nbspThen answered smilingly—

VIII.

"Sir page, I pray your grace!
       &nbspCertes, I meant not so
To cross your pastoral mood, sir page,
       &nbspWith the crook of the battle-bow;
But a knight may speak of a lady's face,
I ween, in any mood or place,
       &nbspIf the grasses die or grow.

IX.

"And this I meant to say—
       &nbspMy lady's face shall shine
As ladies' faces use, to greet
       &nbspMy page from Palestine;
Or, speak she fair or prank she gay,
       &nbspShe is no lady of mine.
X.

"And this I meant to fear—
       &nbspHer bower may suit thee ill;
For, sooth, in that same field and tent,
       &nbspThy talk was somewhat still:
And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear
       &nbspThan thy tongue for my lady's will!"

XI.

Slowly and thankfully
       &nbspThe young page bowed his head;
His large eyes seemed to muse a smile,
       &nbspUntil he blushed instead,
And no lady in her bower, pardiè,
       &nbspCould blush more sudden red:
"Sir Knight,—thy lady's bower to me
       &nbspIs suited well," he said.


XII.

       &nbspBeati, beati, mortui!
       &nbspFrom the convent on the sea,
       &nbspOne mile off, or scarce so nigh,
       &nbspSwells the dirge as clear and high
       &nbspAs if that, over brake and lea,
       &nbspBodily the wind did carry
       &nbspThe great altar of Saint Mary,
       &nbspAnd the fifty tapers burning o'er it,
       &nbspAnd the lady Abbess dead before it,
       &nbspAnd the chanting nuns whom yesterweek
       &nbspHer voice did charge and bless,—
       &nbspChanting steady, chanting meek,
       &nbspChanting with a solemn breath,
       &nbspBecause that they are thinking less
       &nbspUpon the dead than upon death.
       &nbspBeati, beati, mortui!
       &nbspNow the vision in the sound
       &nbspWheeleth on the wind around;
       &nbspNow it sweepeth back, away—
       &nbspThe uplands will not let it stay
       &nbspTo dark the western sun:
       &nbspMortui!—away at last,—
       &nbspOr ere the page's blush is past!
And the knight heard all, and the page heard none.


XIII.

       &nbsp       &nbsp"A boon, thou noble knight,
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspIf ever I servèd thee!
Though thou art a knight and I am a page,
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspNow grant a boon to me;
And tell me sooth, if dark or bright,
If little loved or loved aright
       &nbspBe the face of thy ladye."

XIV.


Gloomily looked the knight—
       &nbsp"As a son thou hast servèd me,
And would to none I had granted boon
       &nbspExcept to only thee!
For haply then I should love aright,
For then I should know if dark or bright
       &nbspWere the face of my ladye.

XV.

"Yet it ill suits my knightly tongue
       &nbspTo grudge that granted boon,
That heavy price from heart and life
       &nbspI paid in silence down;
The hand that claimed it, cleared in fine
My father's fame: I swear by mine,
       &nbspThat price was nobly won!

XVI.

"Earl Walter was a brave old earl,
       &nbspHe was my father's friend,
And while I rode the lists at court
       &nbspAnd little guessed the end,
My noble father in his shroud
Against a slanderer lying loud,
       &nbspHe rose up to defend.


XVII.

"Oh, calm below the marble grey
       &nbspMy father's dust was strown!
Oh, meek above the marble grey
       &nbspHis image prayed alone!
The slanderer lied: the wretch was brave—
For, looking up the minster-nave,
He saw my father's knightly glaive
       &nbspWas changed from steel to stone.

XVIII.

"Earl Walter's glaive was steel,
       &nbspWith a brave old hand to wear it,
And dashed the lie back in the mouth
Which lied against the godly truth
       &nbspAnd against the knightly merit
The slanderer, 'neath the avenger's heel,
Struck up the dagger in appeal
From stealthy lie to brutal force—
And out upon the traitor's corse
       &nbspWas yielded the true spirit.

XIX.

"I would mine hand had fought that fight
       &nbspAnd justified my father!
I would mine heart had caught that wound
       &nbspAnd slept beside him rather!
I think it were a better thing
Than murdered friend and marriage-ring
       &nbspForced on my life together.

XX.

"Wail shook Earl Walter's house;
       &nbspHis true wife shed no tear;
She lay upon her bed as mute
       &nbspAs the earl did on his bier:
Till—'Ride, ride fast,' she said at last,
       &nbsp'And bring the avengèd's son anear!
Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee,
For white of blee with waiting for me
       &nbspIs the corse in the next chambère.'

XXI.

"I came, I knelt beside her bed;
       &nbspHer calm was worse than strife:
'My husband, for thy father dear,
Gave freely when thou wast not here
       &nbspHis own and eke my life.
A boon! Of that sweet child we make
An orphan for thy father's sake,
       &nbspMake thou, for ours, a wife.'

XXII.

"I said, 'My steed neighs in the court,
       &nbspMy bark rocks on the brine,
And the warrior's vow I am under now
       &nbspTo free the pilgrim's shrine;
But fetch the ring and fetch the priest
       &nbspAnd call that daughter of thine,
And rule she wide from my castle on Nyde
       &nbspWhile I am in Palestine.'

XXIII.

"In the dark chambère, if the bride was fair,
       &nbspYe wis, I could not see,
But the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed,
       &nbspAnd wedded fast were we.
Her mother smiled upon her bed
       &nbspAs at its side we knelt to wed,
And the bride rose from her knee
And kissed the smile of her mother dead,
       &nbspOr ever she kissed me.

XXIV.

"My page, my page, what grieves thee so,
       &nbspThat the tears run down thy face?"—
"Alas, alas! mine own sistèr
       &nbspWas in thy lady's case:
But she laid down the silks she wore
And followed him she wed before,
Disguised as his true servitor,
       &nbspTo the very battle-place."

XXV.

And wept the page, but laughed the knight,
       &nbspA careless laugh laughed he:
"Well done it were for thy sistèr,
       &nbspBut not for my ladye!
My love, so please you, shall requite
No woman, whether dark or bright,
       &nbspUnwomaned if she be."

XXVI.

The page stopped weeping and smiled cold—
       &nbsp"Your wisdom may declare
That womanhood is proved the best
By golden brooch and glossy vest
       &nbspThe mincing ladies wear;
Yet is it proved, and was of old,
Anear as well, I dare to hold,
       &nbspBy truth, or by despair."

XXVII.

He smiled no more, he wept no more,
       &nbspBut passionate he spake—
"Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,
       &nbspWhen none beside did wake!
Oh, womanly she paled in fight,
       &nbspFor one belovèd's sake!—
And her little hand, defiled with blood,
Her tender tears of womanhood
       &nbspMost woman-pure did make!"

XXVIII.

—"Well done it were for thy sistèr,
       &nbspThou tellest well her tale!
But for my lady, she shall pray
       &nbspI' the kirk of Nydesdale.
Not dread for me but love for me
       &nbspShall make my lady pale;
No casque shall hide her woman's tear—
It shall have room to trickle clear
       &nbspBehind her woman's veil."

XXIX.

—"But what if she mistook thy mind
       &nbspAnd followed thee to strife,
Then kneeling did entreat thy love
       &nbspAs Paynims ask for life?"
—"I would forgive, and evermore
Would love her as my servitor,
       &nbspBut little as my wife.


XXX.

"Look up—there is a small bright cloud
       &nbspAlone amid the skies!
So high, so pure, and so apart,
       &nbspA woman's honour lies."
The page looked up—the cloud was sheen—
A sadder cloud did rush, I ween,
       &nbspBetwixt it and his eyes.

XXXI.

Then dimly dropped his eyes away
       &nbspFrom welkin unto hill—
Ha! who rides there?—the page is 'ware,
       &nbspThough the cry at his heart is still:
And the page seeth all and the knight seeth none,
Though banner and spear do fleck the sun,
       &nbspAnd the Saracens ride at will.

XXXII.

He speaketh calm, he speaketh low,—
       &nbsp"Ride fast, my master, ride,
Or ere within the broadening dark
       &nbspThe narrow shadows hide."
"Yea, fast, my page, I will do so,
       &nbspAnd keep thou at my side."

XXXIII.

"Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way,
       &nbspThy faithful page precede.
For I must loose on saddle-bow
My battle-casque that galls, I trow,
       &nbspThe shoulder of my steed;
And I must pray, as I did vow,
       &nbspFor one in bitter need.

XXXIV.

"Ere night I shall be near to thee,—
       &nbspNow ride, my master, ride!
Ere night, as parted spirits cleave
To mortals too beloved to leave,
       &nbspI shall be at thy side."
The knight smiled free at the fantasy,
       &nbspAnd adown the dell did ride.

XXXV.

Had the knight looked up to the page's face,
       &nbspNo smile the word had won;
Had the knight looked up to the page's face,
       &nbspI ween he had never gone:
Had the knight looked back to the page's geste,
       &nbspI ween he had turned anon,
For dread was the woe in the face so young,
And wild was the silent geste that flung
Casque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprung
       &nbspAnd stood—alone, alone.

XXXVI.

       &nbspHe clenched his hands as if to hold
His soul's great agony—
       &nbsp"Have I renounced my womanhood,
For wifehood unto thee,
And is this the last, last look of thine
       &nbspThat ever I shall see?

XXXVII.

"Yet God thee save, and mayst thou have
       &nbspA lady to thy mind,
More woman-proud and half as true
       &nbspAs one thou leav'st behind!
And God me take with Him to dwell—
For Him I cannot love too well,
       &nbspAs I have loved my kind."

XXXVIII.

She looketh up, in earth's despair,
       &nbspThe hopeful heavens to seek;
That little cloud still floateth there,
       &nbspWhereof her loved did speak:
How bright the little cloud appears!
Her eyelids fall upon the tears,
       &nbspAnd the tears down either cheek.

XXXIX.

The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel—
       &nbspThe Paynims round her coming!
The sound and sight have made her calm,—
       &nbspFalse page, but truthful woman;
She stands amid them all unmoved:
A heart once broken by the loved
       &nbspIs strong to meet the foeman.

XL.


"Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep,
       &nbspFrom pouring wine-cups resting?"—
"I keep my master's noble name,
       &nbspFor warring, not for feasting;
And if that here Sir Hubert were,
My master brave, my master dear,
       &nbspYe would not stay the questing."

XLI.

"Where is thy master, scornful page,
       &nbspThat we may slay or bind him?"—
"Now search the lea and search the wood,
       &nbspAnd see if ye can find him!
Nathless, as hath been often tried,
Your Paynim heroes faster ride
       &nbspBefore him than behind him."

XLII.

"Give smoother answers, lying page,
       &nbspOr perish in the lying!"—
"I trow that if the warrior brand
Beside my foot, were in my hand,
       &nbsp'T were better at replying!"
They cursed her deep, they smote her low,
They cleft her golden ringlets through;
       &nbspThe Loving is the Dying.

XLIII.

She felt the scimitar gleam down,
       &nbspAnd met it from beneath
With smile more bright in victory
       &nbspThan any sword from sheath,—
Which flashed across her lip serene,
Most like the spirit-light between
       &nbspThe darks of life and death.

XLIV.

       &nbspIngemisco, ingemisco!
From the convent on the sea,
Now it sweepeth solemnly,
As over wood and over lea
Bodily the wind did carry
The great altar of St. Mary,
And the fifty tapers paling o'er it,
And the Lady Abbess stark before it,
And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly
Beat along their voices saintly—
       &nbspIngemisco, ingemisco!
Dirge for abbess laid in shroud
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,
Page or lady, as we said,
With the dews upon her head,
All as sad if not as loud.
       &nbspIngemisco, ingemisco!
Is ever a lament begun
By any mourner under sun,
Which, ere it endeth, suits but one?