The Romaunt of the Page

A knight of gallant deedsAnd a young page at his side,From the holy war in PalestineDid slow and thoughtful ride,As each were a palmer and told for beadsThe dews of the eventide.

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

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

"Our troop is far behind,The woodland calm is new;Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs,Tread deep the shadows through;And, in my mind, some blessing kindIs dropping with the dew.

"The woodland calm is pure--I cannot choose but haveA thought from these, o' the beechen-trees,Which in our England wave,And of the little finches fineWhich sang there while in PalestineThe warrior-hilt we drave.

"Methinks, a moment gone,I heard my mother pray!I heard, sir knight, the prayer for meWherein she passed away;And I know the heavens are leaning downTo hear what I shall say."

The page spake calm and high,As of no mean degree;Perhaps he felt in nature's broadFull heart, his own was free:And the knight looked up to his lifted eye,Then answered smilingly--

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

"And this I meant to say--My lady's face shall shineAs ladies' faces use, to greetMy page from Palestine;Or, speak she fair or prank she gay,She is no lady of mine.

"And this I meant to fear--Her bower may suit thee ill;For, sooth, in that same field and tent,Thy talk was somewhat still:And fitter thy hand for my knightly spearThan thy tongue for my lady's will!"

Slowly and thankfullyThe young page bowed his head;His large eyes seemed to muse a smile,Until he blushed instead,And no lady in her bower, pardie,Could blush more sudden red:"Sir Knight,--thy lady's bower to meIs suited well," he said.

Beati, beati, mortui!From the convent on the sea,One mile off, or scarce so nigh,Swells the dirge as clear and highAs if that, over brake and lea,Bodily the wind did carryThe great altar of Saint Mary,And the fifty tapers burning o'er it,And the lady Abbess dead before it,And the chanting nuns whom yesterweekHer voice did charge and bless,--Chanting steady, chanting meek,Chanting with a solemn breath,Because that they are thinking lessUpon the dead than upon death.Beati, beati, mortui!Now the vision in the soundWheeleth on the wind around;Now it sweepeth back, away--The uplands will not let it stayTo dark the western sun:Mortui!--away at last,--Or ere the page's blush is past!And the knight heard all, and the page heard none.

"A boon, thou noble knight,If ever I served thee!Though thou art a knight and I am a page,Now grant a boon to me;And tell me sooth, if dark or bright,If little loved or loved arightBe the face of thy ladye."

Gloomily looked the knight--"As a son thou hast served me,And would to none I had granted boonExcept to only thee!For haply then I should love aright,For then I should know if dark or brightWere the face of my ladye.

"Yet it ill suits my knightly tongueTo grudge that granted boon,That heavy price from heart and lifeI paid in silence down;The hand that claimed it, cleared in fineMy father's fame: I swear by mine,That price was nobly won!

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

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

"Earl Walter's glaive was steel,With a brave old hand to wear it,And dashed the lie back in the mouthWhich lied against the godly truthAnd against the knightly meritThe slanderer, 'neath the avenger's heel,Struck up the dagger in appealFrom stealthy lie to brutal force--And out upon the traitor's corseWas yielded the true spirit.

"I would mine hand had fought that fightAnd justified my father!I would mine heart had caught that woundAnd slept beside him rather!I think it were a better thingThan murdered friend and marriage-ringForced on my life together.

"Wail shook Earl Walter's house;His true wife shed no tear;She lay upon her bed as muteAs the earl did on his bier:Till--'Ride, ride fast,' she said at last,'And bring the avenged's son anear!Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee,For white of blee with waiting for meIs the corse in the next chambere.'

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

"I said, 'My steed neighs in the court,My bark rocks on the brine,And the warrior's vow I am under nowTo free the pilgrim's shrine;But fetch the ring and fetch the priestAnd call that daughter of thine,And rule she wide from my castle on NydeWhile I am in Palestine.'

"In the dark chambere, if the bride was fair,Ye wis, I could not see,But the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed,And wedded fast were we.Her mother smiled upon her bedAs at its side we knelt to wed,And the bride rose from her kneeAnd kissed the smile of her mother dead,Or ever she kissed me.

"My page, my page, what grieves thee so,That the tears run down thy face?"--"Alas, alas! mine own sisterWas in thy lady's case:But she laid down the silks she woreAnd followed him she wed before,Disguised as his true servitor,To the very battle-place."

And wept the page, but laughed the knight,A careless laugh laughed he:"Well done it were for thy sister,But not for my ladye!My love, so please you, shall requiteNo woman, whether dark or bright,Unwomaned if she be."

The page stopped weeping and smiled cold--"Your wisdom may declareThat womanhood is proved the bestBy golden brooch and glossy vestThe mincing ladies wear;Yet is it proved, and was of old,Anear as well, I dare to hold,By truth, or by despair."

He smiled no more, he wept no more,But passionate he spake--"Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,When none beside did wake!Oh, womanly she paled in fight,For one beloved's sake!--And her little hand, defiled with blood,Her tender tears of womanhoodMost woman-pure did make!"

--"Well done it were for thy sister,Thou tellest well her tale!But for my lady, she shall prayI' the kirk of Nydesdale.Not dread for me but love for meShall make my lady pale;No casque shall hide her woman's tear--It shall have room to trickle clearBehind her woman's veil."

--"But what if she mistook thy mindAnd followed thee to strife,Then kneeling did entreat thy loveAs Paynims ask for life?"--"I would forgive, and evermoreWould love her as my servitor,But little as my wife.

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

Then dimly dropped his eyes awayFrom welkin unto hill--Ha! who rides there?--the page is 'ware,Though 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,And the Saracens ride at will.

He speaketh calm, he speaketh low,--"Ride fast, my master, ride,Or ere within the broadening darkThe narrow shadows hide.""Yea, fast, my page, I will do so,And keep thou at my side."

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

"Ere night I shall be near to thee,--Now ride, my master, ride!Ere night, as parted spirits cleaveTo mortals too beloved to leave,I shall be at thy side."The knight smiled free at the fantasy,And adown the dell did ride.

Had the knight looked up to the page's face,No smile the word had won;Had the knight looked up to the page's face,I ween he had never gone:Had the knight looked back to the page's geste,I ween he had turned anon,For dread was the woe in the face so young,And wild was the silent geste that flungCasque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprungAnd stood--alone, alone.

He clenched his hands as if to holdHis soul's great agony--"Have I renounced my womanhood,For wifehood unto thee,And is this the last, last look of thineThat ever I shall see?

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

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

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

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

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

"Give smoother answers, lying page,Or perish in the lying!"--"I trow that if the warrior brandBeside my foot, were in my hand,'T were better at replying!"They cursed her deep, they smote her low,They cleft her golden ringlets through;The Loving is the Dying.

She felt the scimitar gleam down,And met it from beneathWith smile more bright in victoryThan any sword from sheath,--Which flashed across her lip serene,Most like the spirit-light betweenThe darks of life and death.

Ingemisco, ingemisco!From the convent on the sea,Now it sweepeth solemnly,As over wood and over leaBodily the wind did carryThe 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 faintlyBeat along their voices saintly--Ingemisco, ingemisco!Dirge for abbess laid in shroudSweepeth o'er the shroudless dead,Page or lady, as we said,With the dews upon her head,All as sad if not as loud.Ingemisco, ingemisco!Is ever a lament begunBy any mourner under sun,Which, ere it endeth, suits but one?