The Chapel in Lyoness

All day long and every day,From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday,Within that Chapel-aisle I lay,And no man came a-near.

Naked to the waist was I,And deep within my breast did lie,Though no man any blood could spy,The truncheon of a spear.

No meat did ever pass my lipsThose days. Alas! the sunlight slipsFrom off the gilded parclose, dips,And night comes on apace.

My arms lay back behind my head;Over my raised-up knees was spreadA samite cloth of white and red;A rose lay on my face.

Many a time I tried to shout;But as in dream of battle-rout,My frozen speech would not well out;I could not even weep.

With inward sigh I see the sunFade off the pillars one by one,My heart faints when the day is done,Because I cannot sleep.

Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head;Not like a tomb is this my bed,Yet oft I think that I am dead;That round my tomb is writ,

'Ozana of the hardy heart,Knight of the Table Round,Pray for his soul, lords, of your part;A true knight he was found.'Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. [He sleeps.

All day long and every day,Till his madness pass'd away,I watch'd Ozana as he layWithin the gilded screen.

All my singing moved him not;As I sung my heart grew hot,With the thought of LauncelotFar away, I ween.

So I went a little spaceFrom out the chapel, bathed my faceIn the stream that runs apaceBy the churchyard wall.

There I pluck'd a faint wild rose,Hard by where the linden grows,Sighing over silver rowsOf the lilies tall.

I laid the flower across his mouth;The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth;He smiled, turn'd round towards the south.Held up a golden tress.

The light smote on it from the west;He drew the covering from his breast,Against his heart that hair he prest;Death him soon will bless.

I enter'd by the western door;I saw a knight's helm lying there:I raised my eyes from off the floor,And caught the gleaming of his hair.

I stept full softly up to him;I laid my chin upon his head;I felt him smile; my eyes did swim,I was so glad he was not dead.

I heard Ozana murmur low,'There comes no sleep nor any love.'But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow:He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move.

There comes no sleep nor any love;Ah me! I shiver with delight.I am so weak I cannot move;God move me to thee, dear, to-night!Christ help! I have but little wit:My life went wrong; I see it writ,

'Ozana of the hardy heart,Knight of the Table Round,Pray for his soul, lords, on your part;A good knight he was found.'

Galahad sits dreamily;What strange things may his eyes see,Great blue eyes fix'd full on me?On his soul, Lord, have mercy.

Ozana, shall I pray for thee?Her cheek is laid to thine;No long time hence, also I seeThy wasted fingers twine

Within the tresses of her hairThat shineth gloriously,Thinly outspread in the clear airAgainst the jasper sea.

Of those three prisoners, that before you cameWe took down at St. John's hard by the mill,Two are good masons; we have tools enough,And you have skill to set them working.

O! John, John, John!Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,Hang Peter up and Jacques; They're no good,We shall not build, man.

Shall I call the guardTo hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.What have I done that he should jape at me?And why not build? the walls are weak enough,And we've two masons and a heap of tools.

To think a man should have a lump like thatFor his lieutenant! I must call him back,Or else, as surely as St. George is dead,He'll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John!

We are not strong enough to send ten menTen miles to fetch us stone enough to build.In three hours' time they would be taken or slain,The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.

Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back,They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere,And tell them we were weak in walls and men,Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed,And now no longer does the country shakeAt sound of English names; our captains fadeFrom off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridgeI daresay you may even yet see the holeThat Chandos beat in dying; far in SpainPembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here;Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse;Oliver Clisson turn'd these years agone;The Captal died in prison; and, over all,Edward the prince lies underneath the ground,Edward the king is dead, at WestminsterThe carvers smooth the curls of his long beard.Everything goes to rack--eh! and we too.Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French,Whom have I got to lean on here, but you?A man can die but once, will you die then,Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heartOf all the deeds we have done here in France--And yet may do? So God will have your soul,Whoever has your body.

Why, sir, IWill fight till the last moment, until thenWill do whate'er you tell me. Now I seeWe must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhapsThey're stronger than I think for; pity, though!For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.

Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said,'Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes;Some dozen stones from his petrariae,And, under shelter of his crossbows, justAn hour's steady work with pickaxes,Then a great noise--some dozen swords and glaivesA-playing on my basnet all at once,And little more cross purposes on earthFor me.Now this is hard: a month ago,And a few minutes' talk had set things right'Twixt me and Alice; if she had a doubt,As, may Heaven bless her! I scarce think she had,'Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears,Of how Sir Peter fail'd at Lusac Bridge:And how he was grown moody of late days;And how Sir Lambert, think now! his dear friend,His sweet, dear cousin, could not but confessThat Peter's talk tended towards the French,Which he, for instance Lambert, was glad of,Being, Lambert, you see, on the French side.Well,If I could but have seen her on that day,Then, when they sent me off!I like to think,Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what,If I had seen her, what I should have said,What she, my darling, would have said and done.As thus perchance.To find her sitting there,In the window-seat, not looking well at all,Crying perhaps, and I say quietly:Alice! she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave,Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks,Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees,And say: O lady, have I sinn'd, your knight?That still you ever let me walk aloneIn the rose garden, that you sing no songsWhen I am by, that ever in the danceYou quietly walk away when I come near?Now that I have you, will you go, think you?

Ere she could answer I would speak again,Still kneeling there.What! they have frighted you,By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets,Round my good name; but afterwards, my love,I will say what this means; this moment, see!Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea:For she would put her hands upon my face:Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed?And she would say: Good knight, come, kiss my lips!And afterwards as I sat there would say:

Please a poor silly girl by telling meWhat all those things they talk of really were,For it is true you did not help Chandos,And true, poor love! you could not come to meWhen I was in such peril.I should say:I am like Balen, all things turn to blame.I did not come to you? At BergerathThe constable had held us close shut up,If from the barriers I had made three steps,I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too,We struggled in a marish half the day,And came too late at last: you know, my love,How heavy men and horses are all arm'd.All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix'd,Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love.

She, holding tight my hand as we sat there,Started a little at Sir Lambert's name,But otherwise she listen'd scarce at allTo what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes,And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak,She said: I love you.Other words were few,The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd downMy foolish head; she kiss'd me all aboutMy face, and through the tangles of my beardHer little fingers crept!

O God, my Alice,Not this good way: my lord but sent and saidThat Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth,Therefore that day I was to start, and keepThis hold against the French; and I am here:A sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls,And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes,Or any other.There's a pennon now!At last.But not the constable's: whose arms,I wonder, does it bear? Three golden ringsOn a red ground; my cousin's by the rood!Well, I should like to kill him, certainly,But to be kill'd by him: [A trumpet sounds.That's for a herald;I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet.

Then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gownWith the long sleeves, and under it I'll wear,By Lambert's leave, a secret coat of mail;And will you lend me, John, your little axe?I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade?And I will carry it inside my sleeve,Good to be ready always; you, John, goAnd bid them set up many suits of arms,Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, andYourself, from the south postern setting out,With twenty men, be ready to break throughTheir unguarded rear when I cry out, St. George!

O! no hurt to me;I see you sneering, Why take trouble then,Seeing you love me not? Look you, our house(Which, taken altogether, I love much)Had better be upon the right side now,If, once for all, it wishes to bear ruleAs such a house should: cousin, you're too wiseTo feed your hope up fat, that this fair FranceWill ever draw two ways again; this sideThe French, wrong-headed, all a-jarWith envious longings; and the other sideThe order'd English, orderly led onBy those two Edwards through all wrong and right,And muddling right and wrong to a thick brothWith that long stick, their strength. This is all changed,The true French win, on either side you haveCool-headed men, good at a tilting match,And good at setting battles in array,And good at squeezing taxes at due time;Therefore by nature we French being hereUpon our own big land: [Sir Peter laughs aloud.Well, Peter! well!What makes you laugh?

There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could beFor, as I think, they found it such delightTo see fair Helen going through their town;Yea, any little common thing she did(As stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange,So new in its great beauty, that they said:Here we will keep her living in this town,Till all burns up together. And so, fought,In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong;Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a manThat hangs legs off the ground by both his hands,Over some great height, did they struggle sore,Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take noteHow almost all men, reading that sad siege,Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least,Thought Hector the best knight a long way:NowWhy should I not do this thing that I think;For even when I come to count the gains,I have them my side: men will talk, you know(We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,)When I am dead, of how this Peter clungTo what he thought the right; of how he died,Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deedFew men would care do now, and this is gainTo me, as ease and money is to you.Moreover, too, I like the straining gameOf striving well to hold up things that fall;So one becomes great. See you! in good timesAll men live well together, and you, too,Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick,Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up?Why then, but just to fight as I do now,A halter round my neck, would be great bliss.O! I am well off. [Aside.Talk, and talk, and talk,I know this man has come to murder me,And yet I talk still.

If your side were right,You might be, though you lost; but if I said,'You are a traitor, being, as you are,Born Frenchman.' What are Edwards unto you,Or Richards?

Furthermore, my knight,Men call you slippery on your losing side,When at Bordeaux I was ambassador,I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay.his sleeve, and rises.

They lied: and you lie, not for the first time.What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve,A stolen purse?

Nay, liar in your teeth!Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert!

How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there,St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan!You French, you are but dead, unless you layYour spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne!

Why, put them all to ransom, those that canPay anything, but not too light though, John,Seeing we have them on the hip: for thoseThat have no money, that being certified,Why, turn them out of doors before they spy;But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me.

I do not wish to kill him,Although I think I ought; he shall go mark'd,By all the saints, though!Enter Lambert guarded.Now, Sir Lambert, now!What sort of death do you expect to get,Being taken this way?

Cousin! cousin! think!I am your own blood; may God pardon me!I am not fit to die; if you knew all,All I have done since I was young and good.O! you would give me yet another chance,As God would, that I might wash all clear out,By serving you and Him. Let me go now!And I will pay you down more golden crownsOf ransom than the king would!

Well, stand back,And do not touch me! No, you shall not die,Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, causeSome carpenters to build a scaffold, high,Outside the gate; when it is built, sound outTo all good folks, 'Come, see a traitor punish'd!'Take me my knight, and set him up thereon,And let the hangman shave his head quite clean,And cut his ears off close up to the head;And cause the minstrels all the while to playSoft music, and good singing; for this dayIs my high day of triumph; is it not,Sir Lambert?

Ah! on your own blood,Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare,With hands and fame thus sullied, to go backAnd take the lady Alice?

Say her nameAgain, and you are dead, slain here by me.Why should I talk with you? I'm master here,And do not want your schooling; is it notMy mercy that you are not dangling deadThere in the gateway with a broken neck?

Hold, John! [To Lambert.That's your choice,To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine,I thank you now for choosing this so well,It saves me much perplexity and doubt;Perchance an ill deed too, for half I countThis sparing traitors is an ill deed.Well,Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends.

O God! this is a fiend and not a man;Will some one save me from him? help, help, help!I will not die.

Why, what is this I see?A man who is a knight, and bandied wordsSo well just now with me, is lying down,Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thoughtYou knew the worst, and might say what you pleased.I should have guess'd this from a man like you.Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin,Yea, all a man can have for simple life,And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this,Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hellWill hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk,'Would rather die,' all that. Now sir, get up!And choose again: shall it be head sans ears,Or trunk sans head?John Curzon, pull him up!What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John.Lambert, I hope that never on this earthWe meet again; that you'll turn out a monk,And mend the life I give you, so farewell,I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch.

So now is come the ending of my life;If I could clear this sickening lump awayThat sticks in my dry throat, and say a word,Guesclin might listen.

Tell me, fair sir knight,If you have been clean liver before God,And then you need not fear much; as for me,I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath,And cousin Lambert's ears here clench the thing.

I knew you could not hate me, therefore IAm bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your causeTo hang knights of good name, harms here in FranceI have small doubt, at any rate hereafterMen will remember you another wayThan I should care to be remember'd, ah!Although hot lead runs through me for my blood,All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords,Give back my falcon!See how young I am,Do you care altogether more for France,Say rather one French faction, than for allThe state of Christendom? a gallant knight,As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worthThan many castles; will you bring this death,For a mere act of justice, on my head?

Think how it ends all, death! all other thingsCan somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forthNaked and maimed, rather than slay me here;Then somehow will I get me other clothes,And somehow will I get me some poor horse,And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms,Will ride and smite among the serried glaives,Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well,Let me not say I could; I know all tricks,That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you,You, my Lord Clisson, in the other daysHave seen me learning these, yea, call to mind,How in the trodden corn by Chartres town,When you were nearly swooning from the backOf your black horse, those three blades slid at onceFrom off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord!

Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die.My Lord the Constable, I pray you noteThat you are losing some few thousand crownsBy slaying this man; also think: his landsAlong the Garonne river lie for leagues,And are right rich, a many mills he has,Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him:Though wishing well for Clement, as we do,I know the next heir, his old uncle, well,Who does not care two deniers for the knightAs things go now, but slay him, and then see,How he will bristle up like any perch,With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord,You'll get the money, this man saved my life,And I will buy him for two thousand crowns;Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then,Ten thousand crowns?

My sweet lord, much I grieveI cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieveThis knight must die, as verily he must;For I have sworn it, so men take him out,Use him not roughly.

Music, do you know,Music will suit you well, I think, becauseYou look so mild, like Laurence being grill'd;Or perhaps music soft and slow, becauseThis is high day of triumph unto me,Is it not, Peter?You are frighten'd, though,Eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much,Whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine,You ruin'd wretch! Men mock me in the streets,Only in whispers loud, because I amFriend of the constable; will this please you,Unhappy Peter? once a-going home,Without my servants, and a little drunk,At midnight through the lone dim lamp-lit streets.A whore came up and spat into my eyes,Rather to blind me than to make me see,But she was very drunk, and tottering back,Even in the middle of her laughter fellAnd cut her head against the pointed stones,While I lean'd on my staff, and look'd at her,And cried, being drunk.Girls would not spit at you.You are so handsome, I think verilyMost ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes,And yet you will be hung like a cur dogFive minutes hence, and grow black in the face,And curl your toes up. Therefore I am glad.

Guess why I stand and talk this nonsense now,With Guesclin getting ready to play chess,And Clisson doing something with his sword,I can't see what, talking to Guesclin though,I don't know what about, perhaps of you.But, cousin Peter, while I stroke your beard,Let me say this, I'd like to tell you nowThat your life hung upon a game of chess,That if, say, my squire Robert here should beat,Why you should live, but hang if I beat him;Then guess, clever Peter, what I should do then:Well, give it up? why, Peter, I should letMy squire Robert beat me, then you would thinkThat you were safe, you know; Eh? not at all,But I should keep you three days in some hold,Giving you salt to eat, which would be kind,Considering the tax there is on salt;And afterwards should let you go, perhaps?No I should not, but I should hang you, sir,With a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope.

But I forgot, you have not told me yetIf you can guess why I talk nonsense thus,Instead of drinking wine while you are hang'd?You are not quick at guessing, give it up.This is the reason; here I hold your hand,And watch you growing paler, see you writheAnd this, my Peter, is a joy so dear,I cannot by all striving tell you howI love it, nor I think, good man, would youQuite understand my great delight therein;You, when you had me underneath you once,Spat as it were, and said, 'Go take him out,'That they might do that thing to me whereat,E'en now this long time off I could well shriek,And then you tried forget I ever lived,And sunk your hating into other things;While I: St. Denis! though, I think you'll faint,Your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unlessYou let it out and weep like a hurt child;Hurrah! you do now. Do not go just yet,For I am Alice, am right like her now,Will you not kiss me on the lips, my love?

You filthy beast, stand back and let him go,Or by God's eyes I'll choke you!Fair sir knightI kneel upon my knees and pray to youThat you would pardon me for this your death;God knows how much I wish you still alive,Also how heartily I strove to saveYour life at this time; yea, he knows quite well,(I swear it, so forgive me!) how I would,If it were possible, give up my lifeUpon this grass for yours; fair knight, although,He knowing all things knows this thing too, well,Yet when you see his face some short time hence,Tell him I tried to save you.

O! my lord,I cannot say this is as good as life,But yet it makes me feel far happier now,And if at all, after a thousand years,I see God's face, I will speak loud and bold,And tell Him you were kind, and like Himself;Sir, may God bless you!Did you note how IFell weeping just now? pray you, do not thinkThat Lambert's taunts did this, I hardly heardThe base things that he said, being deep in thoughtOf all things that have happen'd since I wasA little child; and so at last I thoughtOf my true lady: truly, sir, it seem'dNo longer gone than yesterday, that thisWas the sole reason God let me be bornTwenty-five years ago, that I might loveHer, my sweet lady, and be loved by her;This seem'd so yesterday, to-day death comes,And is so bitter strong, I cannot seeWhy I was born.But as a last request,I pray you, O kind Clisson, send some man,Some good man, mind you, to say how I died,And take my last love to her: fare-you-well,And may God keep you; I must go now, lestI grow too sick with thinking on these things;Likewise my feet are wearied of the earth,From whence I shall be lifted upright soon.Ah me! shamed too, I wept at fear of death;And yet not so, I only wept becauseThere was no beautiful lady to kiss meBefore I died, and sweetly wish good speedFrom her dear lips. O for some lady, thoughI saw her ne'er before; Alice, my love,I do not ask for; Clisson was right kind,If he had been a woman, I should dieWithout this sickness: but I am all wrong,So wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die.There, I will go.My God! how sick I am,If only she could come and kiss me now.

No news yet! surely, still he holds his own:That garde stands well; I mind me passing itSome months ago; God grant the walls are strong!I heard some knights say something yestereve,I tried hard to forget: words far apartStruck on my heart something like this; one said:What eh! a Gascon with an English name,Harpdon? then nought, but afterwards: Poictou.As one who answers to a question ask'd,Then carelessly regretful came: No, no.Whereto in answer loud and eagerly,One said: Impossible? Christ, what foul play!And went off angrily; and while thenceforthI hurried gaspingly afraid, I heard:Guesclin; Five thousand men-at-arms; Clisson.My heart misgives me it is all in vainI send these succours; and in good time thereTheir trumpet sounds: ah! here they are; good knights,God up in Heaven keep you.If they comeAnd find him prisoner, for I can't believeGuesclin will slay him, even though they storm.The last horse turns the corner.God in Heaven!What have I got to thinking of at last!That thief I will not name is with Guesclin,Who loves him for his lands. My love! my love!O, if I lose you after all the past,What shall I do?I cannot bear the noiseAnd light street out there, with this thought alive,Like any curling snake within my brain;Let me just hide my head within these softDeep cushions, there to try and think it out.I cannot hear much noise now, and I thinkThat I shall go to sleep: it all sounds dimAnd faint, and I shall soon forget most things;Yea, almost that I am alive and here;It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheelOn some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway,And soft and slow it rises and it falls,Still going onward.Lying so, one kiss,And I should be in Avalon asleep,Among the poppies, and the yellow flowers;And they should brush my cheek, my hair being spreadFar out among the stems; soft mice and smallEating and creeping all about my feet,Red shod and tired; and the flies should comeCreeping o'er my broad eyelids unafraid;And there should be a noise of water going,Clear blue fresh water breaking on the slates,Likewise the flies should creep: God's eyes! God help!A trumpet? I will run fast, leap adownThe slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs fight.Ah!I was half dreaming, but the trumpet's true;He stops here at our house. The Clisson arms?Ah, now for news. But I must hold my heart,And be quite gentle till he is gone out;And afterwards: but he is still alive,He must be still alive.

My Lady Alice de la Barde, I comeFrom Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty lord,Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hopeYou will not count me villain, even ifThey wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate;For I am but a mouthpiece after all,A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes wellTo you and your's.

Can you talk faster, sir,Get over all this quicker? fix your eyesOn mine, I pray you, and whate'er you see,Still go on talking fast, unless I fall,Or bid you stop.

I pray your pardon then,And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, sayI am unhappy that your knight is dead.Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all.We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms,And scant five hundred had he in that hold:His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain,And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit;Yet for three days about the barrier thereThe deadly glaives were gather'd, laid across,And push'd and pull'd; the fourth our engines came;But still amid the crash of falling walls,And roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts,The steady bow-strings flash'd, and still stream'd outSt. George's banner, and the seven swords,And still they cried: St. George Guienne! untilTheir walls were flat as Jericho's of old,And our rush came, and cut them from the keep.

What base-court?What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on;'Twas only something gone within my head:Do you not know, one turns one's head round quick,And something cracks there with sore pain? go on,And still look at my eyes.

Almost alone,There in the base-court fought he with his sword,Using his left hand much, more than the wontOf most knights now-a-days; our men gave back,For wheresoever he hit a downright blow,Some one fell bleeding, for no plate could holdAgainst the sway of body and great arm;Till he grew tired, and some man (no! not I,I swear not I, fair lady, as I live!)Thrust at him with a glaive between the knees,And threw him; down he fell, sword undermost;Many fell on him, crying out their cries,Tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and:

Yea, slew him: I am much too young to live,Fair God, so let me die!You have done well,Done all your message gently, pray you go,Our knights will make you cheer; moreover, takeThis bag of franks for your expenses.ButYou do not go; still looking at my face,You kneel! what, squire, do you mock me then?You need not tell me who has set you on,But tell me only, 'tis a made-up tale.You are some lover may-be or his friend;Sir, if you loved me once, or your friend loved,Think, is it not enough that I kneel downAnd kiss your feet? your jest will be right goodIf you give in now; carry it too far,And 'twill be cruel: not yet? but you weepAlmost, as though you loved me; love me then,And go to Heaven by telling all your sport,And I will kiss you then with all my heart,Upon the mouth: O! what can I do thenTo move you?

Lady fair, forgive me still!You know I am so sorry, but my taleIs not yet finish'd:So they bound his hands,And brought him tall and pale to Guesclin's tent,Who, seeing him, leant his head upon his hand,And ponder'd somewhile, afterwards, looking up:Fair dame, what shall I say?

Yet, lady, for your own sake I say this,Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson's sake.When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon,Within a while he lifted up his headAnd spoke for his own life; not crouching, though,As abjectly afraid to die, nor yetSullenly brave as many a thief will die,Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God:Few words he spoke; not so much what he saidMoved us, I think, as, saying it, there playedStrange tenderness from that big soldier thereAbout his pleading; eagerness to liveBecause folk loved him, and he loved them back,And many gallant plans unfinish'd nowFor ever. Clisson's heart, which may God bless!Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain;Wherefore I bring this message:That he waits,Still loving you, within the little churchWhose windows, with the one eye of the lightOver the altar, every night beholdThe great dim broken walls he strove to keep!

There my Lord Clisson did his burial well.Now, lady, I will go: God give you rest!

Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell!And now to keep myself from going mad.Christ! I have been a many times to church,And, ever since my mother taught me prayers,Have used them daily, but to-day I wishTo pray another way; come face to face,O Christ, that I may clasp your knees and prayI know not what; at any rate come nowFrom one of many places where you are,Either in Heaven amid thick angel wings,Or sitting on the altar strange with gems,Or high up in the duskness of the apse;Let us go, You and I, a long way off,To the little damp, dark, Poitevin church.While you sit on the coffin in the dark,Will I lie down, my face on the bare stoneBetween your feet, and chatter anythingI have heard long ago. What matters itSo I may keep you there, your solemn faceAnd long hair even-flowing on each side,Until you love me well enough to speak,And give me comfort? yea, till o'er your chin,And cloven red beard the great tears roll downIn pity for my misery, and I die,Kissed over by you.Eh Guesclin! if I wereLike Countess Mountfort now, that kiss'd the knight,Across the salt sea come to fight for her:Ah! just to go about with many knights,Wherever you went, and somehow on one day,In a thick wood to catch you off your guard,Let you find, you and your some fifty friends,Nothing but arrows wheresoe'er you turn'd,Yea, and red crosses, great spears over them;And so, between a lane of my true men,To walk up pale and stern and tall, and withMy arms on my surcoat, and his therewith,And then to make you kneel, O knight Guesclin;And then: alas! alas! when all is said,What could I do but let you go again,Being pitiful woman? I get no revenge,Whatever happens; and I get no comfort:I am but weak, and cannot move my feet,But as men bid me.Strange I do not die.Suppose this has not happen'd after all?I will lean out again and watch for news.

I wonder how long I can still feel thus,As though I watch'd for news, feel as I didJust half-an-hour ago, before this news.How all the street is humming, some men sing,And some men talk; some look up at the house,Then lay their heads together and look grave:Their laughter pains me sorely in the heart;Their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round:Yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing?Eh? Launcelot, and love and fate and death:They ought to sing of him who was as wightAs Launcelot or Wade, and yet avail'dJust nothing, but to fail and fail and fail,And so at last to die and leave me here,Alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will,When many years are past, make songs of us:God help me, though, truly I never thoughtThat I should make a story in this way,A story that his eyes can never see.

Therefore be it believedWhatsoever he grieved,When his horse was relieved,This Launcelot,

Beat down on his knee,Right valiant was heGod's body to see,Though he saw it not.

Right valiant to move,But for his sad loveThe high God aboveStinted his praise.

Yet so he was gladThat his son, Lord Galahad,That high joyaunce hadAll his life-days.

Sing we therefore thenLauncelot's praise again,For he wan crownes ten,If he wan not twelve.

To his death from his birthHe was mickle of worth,Lay him in the cold earth,A long grave ye may delve.

Omnes homines benedicite!This last fitte ye may see,All men pray for meWho made this historyCunning and fairly.

I could not even thinkWhat made me weep that day,When out of the council-hallThe courtiers pass'd away,--

Is it not true that every dayShe climbeth up the same strange way,Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay,Over my golden hair?