The Ritter Bann

The Ritter Bann from HungaryCame back renowned in arms,But scorning jousts of chivalryAnd love and ladies’ charms.

While other knights held revels, heWas wrapt in thoughts of gloom,And in Vienna’s hostelrieSlow paced his lonely room.

There entered one whose face he knew,—Whose voice, he was aware,He oft at mass had listened to,In the holy house of prayer.

’Twas the Abbot of St. James’s monks,A fresh and fair old man:His reverend air arrested evenThe gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dameCome clad in Scotch attire,The Ritter’s colour went and came,And loud he spoke in ire.

“Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,Name not her name to me;I wish it blotted from my brain:Art poor?—take alms, and flee.”

“Sir Knight,” the Abbot interposed,“This case your ear demands;”And the crone cried, with a cross enclosedIn both her trembling hands:—

“Remember, each his sentence waits;And he that shall rebutSweet Mercy’s suit, on him the gatesOf Mercy shall be shut.

“You wedded, undispensed by Church,Your cousin Jane in Spring;In Autumn, when you went to searchFor churchmen’s pardoning,

“Her house denounced your marriage-band,Betrothed her to De Grey,And the ring you put upon her handWas wrenched by force away.

“Then wept your Jane upon my neck,Crying, ‘Help me, nurse, to fleeTo my Howel Bann’s Glamorgan hills;’But word arrived—ah me!—

“You were not there; and ’twas their threat,By foul means or by fair,To-morrow morning was to setThe seal on her despair.

“I had a son, a sea-boy, inA ship at Hartland Bay;By his aid from her cruel kinI bore my bird away.

“To Scotland from the Devon’sGreen myrtle shores we fled;And the Hand that sent the ravensTo Elijah, gave us bread.

“She wrote you by my son, but heFrom England sent us wordYou had gone into some far countrie,In grief and gloom he heard.

“For they that wronged you, to eludeYour wrath, defamed my child;And you—ay, blush, Sir, as you should—Believed, and were beguiled.

“To die but at your feet, she vowedTo roam the world; and weWould both have sped and begged our bread,But so it might not be.

“For when the snow-storm beat our roof,She bore a boy, Sir Bann,Who grew as fair your likeness proofAs child e’er grew like man.

“’Twas smiling on that babe one mornWhile heath bloomed on the moor,Her beauty struck young Lord KinghornAs he hunted past our door.

‘She shunned him, but he raved of Jane,And roused his mother’s pride;Who came to us in high disdain,—‘And where’s the face,’ she cried,

“‘Has witched my boy to wish for oneSo wretched for his wife?—Dost love thy husband? Know, my sonHas sworn to seek his life.’

“Her anger sore dismayed us,For our mite was wearing scant,And unless that dame would aid us,There was none to aid our want.

“So I told her, weeping bitterly,What all our woes had been;And though she was a stern ladie,The tears stood in her een.

“And she housed us both, when, cheerfully,My child to her had sworn,That even if made a widow, sheWould never wed Kinghorn.”——

Here paused the nurse, and then beganThe Abbot, standing by:—“Three months ago a wounded manTo our abbey came to die.

“He heard me long, with ghastly eyesAnd hand obdurate clenched,Speak of the worm that never dies,And the fire that is not quenched.

“At last by what this scroll attestsHe left atonement brief,For years of anguish to the breastsHis guilt had wrung with grief.

“‘There lived,’ he said, ‘a fair young dameBeneath my mother’s roof;I loved her, but against my flameHer purity was proof.

“‘I feigned repentance, friendship pure:That mood she did not check,But let her husband’s miniatureBe copied from her neck.

“‘As means to search him, my deceitTook care to him was borneNought but his picture’s counterfeit,And Jane’s reported scorn.

“‘The treachery took: she waited wild;My slave came back and liedWhate’er I wished; she clasped her child,And swooned, and all but died.

“‘I felt her tears for years and yearsQuench not my flame, but stir;The very hate I bore her mateIncreased my love for her.

“‘Fame told us of his glory, whileJoy flushed the face of Jane;And while she blessed his name, her smileStruck fire into my brain.

“‘No fears could damp; I reached the camp,Sought out its champion;And if my broad-sword failed at last,’Twas long and well laid on.

“‘This wound’s my meed, my name’s Kinghorn,My foe’s the Ritter Bann.’——The wafer to his lips was borne,And we shrived the dying man.

“He died not till you went to fightThe Turks at Warradein;But I see my tale has changed you pale.”—The Abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page who pouredIt out, and knelt and smiled:—The stunned knight saw himself restoredTo childhood in his child;

And stooped and caught him to his breast,Laughed loud and wept anon,And with a shower of kisses pressedThe darling little one.

“And where went Jane?”—“To a nunnery, Sir—Look not again so pale—Kinghorn’s old dame grew harsh to her.”—“And has she ta’en the veil?”—

“Sit down, Sir,” said the priest, “I barRash words.”—They sat all three,And the boy played with the knight’s broad star,As he kept him on his knee.

“Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,”The Abbot further said;“Time draws a veil o’er beauty’s faceMore deep than cloister’s shade.

“Grief may have made her what you canScarce love perhaps for life.”“Hush, Abbot,” cried the Ritter Bann,“Or tell me where’s my wife.”

The priest undid two doors that hidThe inn’s adjacent room,And there a lovely woman stood,Tears bathed her beauty’s bloom.

One moment may with bliss repayUnnumbered hours of pain;Such was the throb and mutual sobOf the Knight embracing Jane.