Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  With an arrow deadly bright;

  And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof,

  And the wings were spread far over the roof

  More dark than the winter night.

  Yet truly along the amorous song

  Of Love's high pomp and state,

  There were words of Fortune's trackless doom

  And the dreadful face of Fate.

  And oft have I heard again in dreams

  The voice of dire appeal

  In which the King sang of the pit

  That is under Fortune's wheel.

  "And under the wheel beheld I there

  An ugly Pit as deep as hell,

  That to behold I quaked for fear:

  And this I heard, that who therein fell

  Came no more up, tidings to tell:

  Whereat, astound of the fearful sight,

  I wist not what to do for fright."

  And oft has my thought called up again

  These words of the changeful song:

  "Wist thou thy pain and thy travàil

  To come, well might'st thou weep and wail!"

  And our wail, O God! is long.

  But the song's end was all of his love;

  And well his heart was grac'd

  With her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyes

  As his arm went round her waist.

  And on the swell of her long fair throat

  Close clung the necklet-chain

  As he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside,

  And in the warmth of his love and pride

  He kissed her lips full fain.

  And her true face was a rosy red,

  The very red of the rose

  That, couched on the happy garden-bed,

  In the summer sunlight glows.

  And all the wondrous things of love

  That sang so sweet through the song

  Were in the look that met in their eyes,

  And the look was deep and long.

  'T was then a knock came at the outer gate,

  And the usher sought the King.

  "The woman you met by the Scotish Sea,

  My Liege, would tell you a thing;

  And she says that her present need for speech

  Will bear no gainsaying."

  And the King said: "The hour is late;

  To-morrow will serve, I ween."

  Then he charged the usher strictly, and said:

  "No word of this to the Queen."

  But the usher came again to the King.

  "Shall I call her back?" quoth he:

  "For as she went on her way, she cried,

  'Woe! Woe! then the thing must be!'"

  And the King paused, but he did not speak.

  Then he called for the Voidee-cup:

  And as we heard the twelfth hour strike,

  There by true lips and false lips alike

  Was the draught of trust drained up.

  So with reverence meet to King and Queen

  To bed went all from the board;

  And the last to leave the courtly train

  Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain

  Who had sold his sovereign lord.

  And all the locks of the chamber-door

  Had the traitor riven and brast;

  And that Fate might win sure way from afar,

  He had drawn out every bolt and bar

  That made the entrance fast.

  And now at midnight he stole his way

  To the moat of the outer wall,

  And laid strong hurdles closely across

  Where the traitors' tread should fall.

  But we that were the Queen's bower-maids

  Alone were left behind;

  And with heed we drew the curtains close

  Against the winter wind.

  And now that all was still through the hall,

  More clearly we heard the rain

  That clamoured ever against the glass

  And the boughs that beat on the pane

  But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook,

  And through empty space around

  The shadows cast on the arras'd wall

  'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall

  Like spectres sprung from the ground.

  And the bed was dight in a deep alcove;

  And as he stood by the fire

  The King was still in talk with the Queen

  While he doffed his goodly attire.

  And the song had brought the image back

  Of many a bygone year;

  And many a loving word they said

  With hand in hand and head laid to head;

  And none of us went anear.

  But Love was weeping outside the house,

  A child in the piteous rain;

  And as he watched the arrow of Death,

  He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath

  That never should fly again.

  And now beneath the window arose

  A wild voice suddenly:

  And the King reared straight, but the Queen fell back

  As for bitter dule to dree;

  And all of us knew the woman's voice

  Who spoke by the Scotish Sea.

  "O King," she cried, "in an evil hour

  They drove me from thy gate;

  And yet my voice must rise to thine ears;

  But alas! it comes too late!

  "Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour,

  When the moon was dead in the skies,

  O King, in a death-light of thine own

  I saw thy shape arise.

  "And in full season, as erst I said,

  The doom had gained its growth;

  And the shroud had risen above thy neck

  And covered thine eyes and mouth.

  "And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke,

  And still thy soul stood there;

  And I thought its silence cried to my soul

  As the first rays crowned its hair.

  "Since then have I journeyed fast and fain

  In very despite of Fate,

  Lest Hope might still be found in God's will:

  But they drove me from thy gate.

  "For every man on God's ground, O King,

  His death grows up from his birth

  In the shadow-plant perpetually;

  And thine towers high, a black yew-tree,

  O'er the Charterhouse of Perth!"

  That room was built far out from the house;

  And none but we in the room

  Might hear the voice that rose beneath,

  Nor the tread of the coming doom.

  For now there came a torchlight-glare,

  And a clang of arms there came;

  And not a soul in that space but thought

  Of the foe Sir Robert Græme.

  Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots,

  O'er mountain, valley, and glen,

  He had brought with him in murderous league

  Three hundred armèd men.

  The King knew all in an instant's flash,

  And like a King did he stand;

  But there was no armour in all the room,

  Nor weapon lay to his hand.

  And all we women flew to the door

  And thought to have made it fast;

  But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone

  And the locks were riven and brast.

  And he caught the pale pale Queen in his arms

  As the iron footsteps fell,

  Then loosed her, standing alone, and said,

  "Our bliss was our farewell!"

  And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer,

  And he crossed his brow and breast;

  And proudly in royal hardihood

  Even so with folded arms he stood--

  The prize of the bloody quest.

  Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer:

  "O Catherine, help!" she cried.

  And low at his f
eet we clasped his knees

  Together side by side.

  "Oh! even a King, for his people's sake,

  From treasonous death must hide!"

  "For her sake most!" I cried, and I marked

  The pang that my words could wring.

  And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook

  I snatched and held to the King:

  "Wrench up the plank! and the vault beneath

  Shall yield safe harbouring."

  With brows low-bent, from my eager hand

  The heavy heft did he take;

  And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore;

  And as he frowned through the open floor,

  Again I said, "For her sake!"

  Then he cried to the Queen, "God's will be done!"

  For her hands were clasped in prayer.

  And down he sprang to the inner crypt;

  And straight we closed the plank he had ripp'd

  And toiled to smoothe it fair.

  (Alas! in that vault a gap once was

  Wherethro' the King might have fled;

  But three days since close-walled had it been

  By his will; for the ball would roll therein

  When without at the palm he play'd.)

  Then the Queen cried, "Catherine, keep the door,

  And I to this will suffice!"

  At her word I rose all dazed to my feet,

  And my heart was fire and ice.

  And louder ever the voices grew,

  And the tramp of men in mail;

  Until to my brain it seemed to be

  As though I tossed on a ship at sea

  In the teeth of a crashing gale.

  Then back I flew to the rest; and hard

  We strove with sinews knit

  To force the table against the door

  But we might not compass it.

  Then my wild gaze sped far down the hall

  To the place of the hearthstone-sill;

  And the Queen bent ever above the floor,

  For the plank was rising still.

  And now the rush was heard on the stair,

  And "God, what help?" was our cry.

  And was I frenzied or was I bold?

  I looked at each empty stanchion-hold,

  And no bar but my arm had I!

  Like iron felt my arm, as through

  The staple I made it pass:

  Alack! it was flesh and bone--no more!

  'T was Catherine Douglas sprang to the door,

  But I fell back Kate Barlass.

  With that they all thronged into the hall,

  Half dim to my failing ken;

  And the space that was but a void before

  Was a crowd of wrathful men.

  Behind the door I had fall'n and lay,

  Yet my sense was widely aware,

  And for all the pain of my shattered arm

  I never fainted there.

  Even as I fell, my eyes were cast

  Where the King leaped down to the pit;

  And lo! the plank was smooth in its place,

  And the Queen stood far from it.

  And under the litters and through the bed

  And within the presses all

  The traitors sought for the King, and pierced

  The arras around the wall.

  And through the chamber they ramped and stormed

  Like lions loose in the lair,

  And scarce could trust to their very eyes--

  For behold! no King was there.

  Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried,

  "Now tells us, where is thy lord?"

  And he held the sharp point over her heart:

  She drooped not her eyes nor did she start,

  But she answered never a word.

  Then the sword half pierced the true true breast:

  But it was the Græme's own son

  Cried, "This is a woman--we seek a man!"

  And away from her girdle-zone

  He struck the point of the murderous steel;

  And that foul deed was not done.

  And forth flowed all the throng like a sea,

  And 't was empty space once more;

  And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen

  As I lay behind the door.

  And I said: "Dear Lady, leave me here,

  For I cannot help you now;

  But fly while you may, and none shall reck

  Of my place here lying low."

  And she said, "My Catherine, God help thee!"

  Then she looked to the distant floor,

  And clapsing her hands, "O God help him,"

  She sobbed, "for we can no more!"

  But God He knows what help may mean,

  If it mean to live or to die;

  And what sore sorrow and mighty moan

  On earth it may cost ere yet a throne

  Be filled in His house on high.

  And now the ladies fled with the Queen;

  And through the open door

  The night-wind wailed round the empty room

  And the rushes shook on the floor.

  And the bed drooped low in the dark recess

  Whence the arras was rent away;

  And the firelight still shone over the space

  Where our hidden secret lay.

  And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit

  The window high in the wall--

  Bright beams that on the plank that I knew

  Through the painted pane did fall

  And gleamed with the splendour of Scotland's crown

  And shield armorial.

  But then a great wind swept up the skies,

  And the climbing moon fell back;

  And the royal blazon fled from the floor,

  And naught remained on its track;

  And high in the darkened window-pane

  The shield and the crown were black.

  And what I say next I partly saw

  And partly I heard in sooth,

  And partly since from the murderers' lips

  The torture wrung the truth.

  For now again came the armèd tread,

  And fast through the hall it fell;

  But the throng was less: and ere I saw,

  By the voice without I could tell

  That Robert Stuart had come with them

  Who knew that chamber well.

  And over the space the Græme strode dark

  With his mantle round him flung;

  And in his eye was a flaming light

  But not a word on his tongue.

  And Stuart held a torch to the floor,

  And he found the thing he sought;

  And they slashed the plank away with their swords

  And O God! I fainted not!

  And the traitor held his torch in the gap,

  All smoking and smouldering;

  And through the vapour and fire, beneath

  In the dark crypt's narrow ring,

  With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof

  They saw their naked King.

  Half naked he stood, but stood as one

  Who yet could do and dare;

  With the crown, the King was stript away--

  The Knight was reft of his battle-array--

  But still the Man was there.

  From the rout then stepped a villain forth--

  Sir John Hall was his name:

  With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault

  Beneath the torchlight-flame.

  Of his person and stature was the King

  A man right manly strong,

  And mightily by the shoulderblades

  His foe to his feet he flung.

  Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall,

  Sprang down to work his worst;

  And the King caught the second man by the neck

  And flung him above the first.

  And he smote and trampled them under him;

  And a lon
g month thence they bare

  All black their throats with the grip of his hands

  When the hangman's hand came there.

  And sore he strove to have had their knives,

  But the sharp blades gashed his hands.

  Oh James! so armed, thou hadst battled there

  Till help had come of thy bands;

  And oh! once more thou hadst held our throne

  And ruled thy Scotish lands!

  But while the King o'er his foes still raged

  With a heart that naught could tame,

  Another man sprange down to the crypt;

  And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'd,

  There stood Sir Robert Græme.

  (Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart

  Who durst not face his King

  Till the body unarmed was wearied out

  With two-fold combating!

  Ah! well might the people sing and say,

  As oft ye have heard aright:

  "O Robert Græme, O Robert Græme,

  Who slew our King, God give thee shame!"

  For he slew him not as a knight.)

  And the naked King turned round at bay,

  But his strength had passed the goal,

  And he could but gasp: "Mine hour is come;

  But oh! to succour thine own soul's doom,

  Let a priest now shrive my soul!"

  And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength

  And said: "Have I kept my word?

  Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave?

  No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have,

  But the shrift of this red sword!"

  With that he smote his King through the breast;

  And all they three in the pen

  Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there

  Like merciless murderous men

  Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Græme,

  Ere the King's last breath was o'er,

  Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight

  And would have done no more.

  But a cry came from the troop above:

  "If him thou do not slay,

  The price of his life that thou dost spare

  Thy forfeit life shall pay!"

  O God! what more did I hear or see,

  Or how should I tell the rest?

  But there at length our King lay slain

  With sixteen wounds in his breast.

  O God! and now did a bell boom forth,

  And the murderers turned and fled;

  Too late, too late, O God, did it sound!

  And I heard the true men mustering round,

  And the cries and the coming tread.

  But ere they came, to the black death-gap

  Somewise did I creep and steal;

  And lo! or ever I swooned away,

  Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay

  In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel.

  And now, ye Scotish maids who have heard

  Dread things of the days grown old--

  Even at the last, of true Queen Jane

  May somewhat yet be told,