To Ranulph’s line a warning sign of doom and destiny:
For when a bough is found, I trow, beneath its shade to lie,
Ere suns shall rise thrice in the skies a Rookwood sure shall die!
THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD.
GRIM Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses,
And the squire who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark discloses; —
To that varlet’s words no response accords his lord, but his aspect stern
Grows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the gaunt wolfs burn.
To his lady’s bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced is Sir Ranulph gone;
Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door, he glides — she is all alone!
Tull of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna’s feet,
Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her visage sweet.
Beats Ranulph’s heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face;
And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace;
His own name shares her murmured prayers — more freely can he breathe;
But ah! that look! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath?
On a footstool thrown lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere,
(A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier),
And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye; —
“By my father’s head,” grim Ranulph said, “false wife, thy end draws nigh.”
From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta’en that fond and
fatal pledge;
His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger’s edge!
Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry,
“For kiss impure of paramour, adult’ress, dost thou die!”
Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame,
As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame:
“Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I’ve loved thee, cruel lord;
But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou’rt abhorred.
“I’ve loved thee long, through doubt and wrong; I’ve loved thee, and no other;
And my love was pure, for my paramour, as thou call’st him, was my brother!
The Red, Red Rose, on thy banner glows, on his pennon gleams the White,
And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite.
“My bower he sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept;
Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept;
An hour flew by, too speedily! — that picture was his boon:
Ah! little thrift to me that gift: he left me all too soon!
“Wo worth the hour! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first united!
Fell lord, my truth, ‘mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou requited:
In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I’ve spent;
But to hell’s control would I give my soul, to work thy chastisement!”
These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph’s life-blood froze,
For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose:
“Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred,” cried the Fiend, “thy soul is mine!
Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line!”
Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping,
And another bride by Ranulph’s side through the livelong night is weeping.
This dame declines — a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away:
Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos — cursed is her Wedding Day!
CHARLES IX. AT MONTFAUCON.
I.
“To horse — to horse!” thus spake King Charles, “to horse, my lords, with me,
Unto Montfaucon will we ride — a sight you there shall see.”
“Montfaucon, sire!” said his esquire— “what sight, my liege? how mean ye?”
“The carcase stark of the traitor dark, and heretic Coligni.”
II.
The trumpets bray, their chargers neigh a loud and glad réveillé —
And plaudits ring, as the haughty king from the Louvre issues gaily;
On his right hand rides his mother, with her dames — a gorgeous train —
On his left careers his brother, with the proud Duke of Lorraine.
III.
Behind is seen his youthful Queen — the meek Elizabeth —
With her damsels bright, whose talk is light of the sad, sad show of death: —
Ah, lovely ones! — ah, gentle ones! from the scoffer’s judgment screen ye! —
Mock not the dust of the martyr’d just, for of such was good Coligni.
IV.
By foot uphung, to flesh-hook strung, is now revealed to all,
Mouldering and shrunk, the headless trunk of the brave old admiral;
Gash-visaged Guise the sight doth please — fierce Lord, was naught between ye?
In felon blow of base Poltrot no share had brave Coligni.
V.
“Now, by God’s death!” the monarch saith, with inauspicious smile,
As, laughing, group the reckless troop round grey Montfaucon’s pile;
“Prom off that hook its founder shook — Enguerrand de Marigni —
But gibbet chain did ne’er sustain such burthen as Coligni.”
VI.
“Back! back! my liege,” exclaimed a page, “ with death the air is tainted,
The sun grows hot, and see you not, good sire, the queen has fainted?”
“Let those retire,” quoth Charles, in ire, “who think they stand too nigh;
To us no scent yields such content as a dead enemy.”
VII.
As thus he spake, the king did quake — he heard a dismal moan —
A wounded wretch had crept to stretch his bones beneath that stone: —
“Of dying man,” groaned he, “ the ban, the Lord’s anointed dread,
My curse shall cling to thee, O king! — much righteous blood thou’st shed.”
VIII.
“Now by Christ’s blood! by holy Rood!” cried Charles, impatiently;
“With sword and pike — strike, liegemen, strike! — God’s death! this man shall die.”
Straight halbert clash’d, and matchlock flash’d — but ere a shot was fired,
With laugh of scorn that wight forlorn had suddenly expired.
IX.
From the Louvre gate, with heart elate, King Charles that mom did ride;
With aspect dem did he return; quench’d was his glance of pride:
Remorse and ruth, with serpent tooth, thenceforth seized on his breast —
With bloody tide his couch was dyed — pale visions broke his rest!
YOLANDE.
A very free adaptation of a sparkling little romance by Audefroy le Batard, to be found in the Romaneero Francois, entitled Bele Yolans. Much liberty has been taken with the concluding stanza — indeed, the song altogether bears but slight resemblance to its original.
I.
A GOLDEN flower embroidering,
A lay of love low murmuring;
Secluded in the eastern tower
Sits fair Yolande within her bower:
Fair — fair Yolande!
Suddenly a voice austere,
With sharp reproof breaks on her ear —
Her mother ’tis who silently
Has stolen upon her privacy —
Ah! fair Yolande!
“Mother! why that angry look?
Mother! why that sharp rebuke?
Is it that I while away
My solitude with amorous lay?
Or is it that my thread of gold
Idly I weave, that thus you
scold
Your own Yolande — Your own Yolande!”
II.
“It is not that you while away
Your solitude with amorous lay,
It is not that your thread of gold
Idly you weave, that thus I scold
My fair Yolande!
Your want of caution ’tis I chide: —
The Baron fancies that you hide
Beneath the cushion on your knee
A letter from the Count Mahi: —
Ah! fair Yolande!
Busy tongues have fill’d his brain
With jealousy and frantic pain;
Hither hastes he with his train!
And if a letter there should be
Conceal’d ‘neath your embroidery,
Say no more. But give it me,
My own Yolande — My own Yolande!”
ESCLAIRMONDE.
[Henri Trois sings at a Court Revel.]
I.
THE crown is proud
That decks our brow;
The laugh is loud —
That glads us now.
The sounds that fall
Around — above
Are laden all
With love — with love —
With love — with love.
II.
Heaven cannot show,
‘Mid all its sheen,
Orbs of such glow,
As here are seen.
And monarch ne’er
Exulting own’d,
Queen might compare
With Esclairmonde —
With Esclairmonde.
III.
From Bacchus’ fount
Deep draughts we drain;
Their spirits mount,
And fire our brain;
But in our heart
Of hearts enthroned,
From all apart
Rests Esclairmonde —
Rests Esclairmonde.
[Chicot replies.]
IV.
The crown is proud —
But brings it peace?
The laugh is loud —
Tull soon ‘twill cease.
The sounds that fall
From lightest breath,
Are laden all
With death — with death.
With death — with death.
YUSEF AND ZORAYDA.
The incidents of this ballad are, with some slight variation, derived from those of the exquisite French romance, “Flore et Blancheflor,” the date of which may be referred to the Thirteenth Century, and which unquestionably, as its recent editor, M. Paulin Paris, supposes, is of Spanish or Moorish origin.
I.
THROUGH the Vega of Granada, where the silver Darro glides —
From his tower within the Alpuxar — swift — swift Prince Yusef rides.
To her who holds his heart in thrall — a captive Christian maid —
On wings of fear and doubt he flies, of sore mischance afraid.
For ah! full well doth Yusef know with what relentless ire,
His love for one of adverse faith is noted by his sire:
“Zorayda mine!” he cries aloud — on — on — his courser strains —
“Zorayda mine! — thine Yusef comes!” — the Alhambra walls he gains.
II.
Through the marble court of Lions — through the stately Tocador —
To Lindaraxa’s bowers he goes — the Queen he stands before;
Her maidens round his mother group — but not a word she speaks.
In vain amid that lovely throng, one lovelier form he seeks;
In vain he tries ‘mid orient eyes, orbs darker far to meet;
No form so light, no eyes so bright, as hers his vision greet.
“Zorayda mine — Zorayda mine! ah whither art thou fled?”
A low, low wail returns his cry — a wail as for the dead.
III.
No answer made his mother, but her hand gave to her son —
To the garden of the Generalif together are they gone;
Where gushing fountains cool the air — where scents the citron pale,
Where nightingales in concert fond rehearse their love-lorn tale,
Where roses link’d with myrtles make green woof against the sky,
Half hidden by their verdant screen a sepulchre doth lie;
“Zorayda mine — Zorayda mine! — ah! wherefore art thou flown,
To gather flowers in Yemen’s bowers while I am left alone!”
IV.
Upon the ground kneels Yusef — his heart is like to break;
In vain the Queen would comfort him — no comfort will he take,
His blinded gaze he turns upon that sculptured marble fair,
Embossed with gems, and glistening with coloured pebbles rare;
. Red stones of Ind — black, vermeil, green, their mingled hues combine,
With jacinth, sapphire, amethyst, and diamond of the mine.
“Zorayda mine — Zorayda mine!” — thus ran sad Yusef’s cry,
“Zorayda mine, within this tomb, ah! sweet one! dost thou He?”
V.
Upon that costly sepulchre, two radiant forms are seen;
In sparkling alabaster carved like crystal in its sheen;
The one as Yusef fashioned, a golden crescent bears,
The other, as Zorayda wrought, a silver crosslet wears,
And ever, as soft zephyr sighs, the pair his breath obey,
And meet within each other’s arms like infants in their play.
“Zorayda fair — Zorayda fair” — thus golden letters tell
A Christian maid lies buried here — by Moslem loved too well.
VI.
Three times those golden letters with grief sad Yusef reads,
To tears and frantic agony a fearful calm succeeds —
“Ah! woe is me; Zorayda mine — ah! would the self-same blow
That laid thee ‘neath this mocking tomb, had laid thy lover low;
Two faithful hearts, like ours in vain stem death may strive to sever —
A moment more the pang is o’er, the grave unites us ever.
Zorayda mine — Zorayda mine — this dagger sets me free —
Zorayda mine — look down — look down — thus — thus I come to thee!”
VII.
“Hold! Yusef, hold!” a voice exclaims, “thy loved Zorayda lives —
Thy constancy is well approved — thy sire his son forgives;
Thine ardent passion doubting long — thy truth I thus have tried,
Behold her whom thy faith hath won — receive her as thy bride!”
In Yusef s arms — to Yusef s heart, Zorayda close is press’d,
Half stifled by a flood of joy, these words escape his breast
Zorayda mine — Zorayda mine! — ah! doubly dear thou art;
Uninterrupted bliss be ours, whom death has failed to part!”
THE LEGEND OF VALDEZ.
Founded on a story in the “Hexameron” of Antonio de Torquemada, referred to in the amusing extravagancies of Monsieur Oufle. Subsequently to the publication of this lyric, the legend in question has been delightfully narrated by Washington Irving, in his “Spectral Researches in the Convent of San Francisco, at Seville, 1855.”
I.
’Tis night! — forth Valdez, in disguise,
Hies;
And his visage, as he glides,
Hides.
Goes he to you church to pray?
Eh!
No! that fane a secret path
Hath,
Leading to a neighbouring pile’s
Aisles!
Where nuns lurk — by priests cajoled
Old.
Thither doth Don Valdez go —
Oh!
Thither vesals lips to taste
Haste.
II.
‘Neath you arch, why doth he stand?
And
Haps it that he lingers now
How?
Suddenly cowl’d priests appear
Here.
Voices chant a dirge-like dim
Hymn:
Mutes a sable coffin drear
Hear;
Where a monument doth lie
High.
‘Scutcheons proud Death’s dart parade
Aid.
Valdez sees, with fresh alarms,
Arms,
Which his own — (gules cross and star!)
Are.
III.
An hour — and yet he hath not gone
On!
Neither can he strength to speak
Eke.
“Hark!” he cries, in fear and doubt,
Out,
“Whom inter ye in that tomb?
Whom?—”
“Valdez! — He’ll be, ere twelve hours,
Ours! —
Wait we for his funeral All!”
IV.
“Monk! thou bring’st, if this he truth,
Ruth!”
Valdez his own fate with dread
Read.
Question none he uttered more; —
O’er
’Twas; and he doth peacefully
Lie
In the tomb he saw, thus crazed,
Raised.
MEMENTO MORI. Life’s a stale Tale.
DITTY OF DU GUESCLIN.
I.
A SILVER shield squire did wield, charged with an eagle black,
With talon red, and two-fold head, who followed on the track
Of the best knight that e’er in fight hurled mace, or couched the lance,
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 841
