yC-NRLF 
 
ESCARLAMONDE 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 DOUGLAS AINSLIE. 
 
 LONDON : 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS 
 
 AND NEW YORK. 
 1893. 
 
CHISWICK PRESS :— CHARLES VVHITTINGHAM AND CO., 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. 
 
95-3 
 
 A^^L 
 
 TO 
 
 J. P. N. 
 
 AND TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 S. G. 
 
 THIS BOOK IS 
 
 23ftriratetr. 
 
 709 
 
Digitized by- tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2007 witii funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/escarlamondeotlieOOainsricli 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 lAGE 
 
 ESCARLAMONDE 3 
 
 Off the Harbour of Messina 73 
 
 The Legend of St. Agnes 83 
 
 Sonnet to Wordsworth 91 
 
 To some Sunflowers 92 
 
 The Question 94 
 
 The Lunatic 95 
 
 Sonnet on "The Sorceress," Portrait by 
 
 Graham Robertson 96 
 
 Mnemosyne 97 
 
 A Sonnet of Poisons 99 
 
 The Dream 100 
 
 A Ballad of Birds loi 
 
 The Gallery 103 
 
 To A Marble Masterpiece 104 
 
 Dhu Vorn 105 
 
 Symbolism 106 
 
 The Furnace 107 
 
 The Vision 108 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Springtime 109 
 
 Memory no 
 
 Music 112 
 
 The Death of Aretino 113 
 
 The Vision 121 
 
 Hymn 127 
 
 The Sphinx 128 
 
 After Reading Maeterlinck's "Aveugles" 129 
 
 Sarah Bernhardt as Theodora enthroned 130 
 
 With a Copy of Keats 131 
 
 " Blue-raven locks and under" .... 132 
 " ' Let down your hair, sweet Sybil,' was 
 
 MY prayer " 133 
 
 "How WISELY THE HEROES OF GREECE " . . 134 
 
 Love (A Conceit) 135 
 
 Interjections 136 
 
 A Poetic Creed Reversed 138 
 
 Postscript • 139 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
CARMINIS PERSONS. 
 
 Count of Toulouse [Raymond], \ 
 
 Count of Foix [Roger). \Albigensians. 
 
 Count of Comminges. j 
 
 Count of Beziers. J 
 
 Count Simon de Montfort. ^ Crusading 
 
 Count Guy de Montfort [His son), j Barons. 
 
 Pierre DE CASTELNAU. jp^^^^^ ,,,. 
 
 Thedise. j 
 
 Roland ( The Troubadour). 
 
 Green Gregory. 
 
 Alix ( Countess of Toulouse). 
 Escarlamonde [Her daughter). 
 
 OtJier Barons on both sides, Knights, Attendants, 
 Jongleur. 
 
 Place. — Toulouse and Crusaders' camp twenty miles off. 
 
 Time.— 1208. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene \.— Toulouse, Raymond's Court. 
 
 Count Raymond and his Barons, Alix and 
 ESCARLAMONDE, Attendants. 
 
 Toulouse, {Addressing Foix, BlfeziERS and 
 
 COMMINGES.) 
 
 My Lords of Bdziers, Comminges and Foix, 
 I summoned you upon this ninth of June, 
 That with my chiefest vassals I should meet 
 Pierre, Legate of his mighty Holiness, 
 Pope Innocent the Third, and Guy de Montfort, 
 His colleague, envoy of the temporal powers. 
 And why that woman state, the Papal See, 
 Has wedded the great swords of northern France 
 Burgundy, Montfort, Bar, Nevers, which point 
 Unsheathed against my breast, it will be well 
 Ere the ambassadors are introduced, 
 That in a few clear words I set before you. 
 
4 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Albeit the causes of this armament 
 
 May seem as strange as any fairy tale 
 
 Yet are they true, but like the fairy tale 
 
 Have their hid moral, which who runs may 
 
 read ; — 
 " Qui hait son chien lui met la rage sus." 
 This Pierre de Castelnau is not the first 
 By many of the Rome-born, raven crew, 
 That cross the Alps to croak of sacrilege. 
 One out of many instances will show 
 Their evil will ; two years ago, they said. 
 While Abbot Plantin preached one day, that I 
 Did urge my yonder fool, green Gregory, 
 To mimic the divine and did lie back 
 Loud laughing in my stall ; — only half true, 
 For Gregory began without command 
 To make wry faces, as divinely quaint 
 As Plantin's were divine, but the next day 
 He was well beaten ; were you not, sirrah ? 
 
 Gregory, Zebraed, most noble Raymond. 
 
 Toulouse. None the less. 
 
 From Rome came notice, that on all my lands 
 Lay ban and interdict, and would so He 
 Till penance had been done. I went to Rome 
 And kneeling to his Holiness the Pope 
 Explained how this had come about, that I 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 5 
 
 Who loved God well, loved hawking near as 
 
 much 
 And was more prone to take the hawk at Puys ^ 
 Than spend the summer saying orisons. 
 Innocent smiled, and turning to Th^dise, 
 Said, *' Surely here we have no heretic : 
 Count Raymond loves * parage ;"* nor is at 
 
 enmity 
 With our most Holy Church ;" and therewithal 
 Granted me absolution and rare gifts ; — 
 St. Peter's tooth and a cornelian ring 
 Carved with his name, " Pope Innocent the 
 
 Third." 
 I promised, ere I left the Papal Court, 
 To aid the legates in abolishing 
 All heresy from my estates ; and here 
 Lay the sunk rock on which our peace has 
 
 split. 
 
 I To take the hawk at Puys, — The knight who took 
 the hawk from the perch where it was exhibited at Puys, 
 thereby pledged himself to provide amusements for his 
 companions throughout the coming year. 
 
 - Parage. — This word means nobilityoi2^ kinds, and 
 is used by transference for its appanages. 
 
 ' ' Her name was Berengere, fair woman of age, 
 Was ther non hir Pere of no heiere parage." 
 
 Langtoft, Chron. 
 
6 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 For soon I found that easier it were 
 To gather up Toulouse and set her down 
 Elsewhere, an exile to herself, than drive 
 All " heretics " away, for all were heretics, 
 Or, if not all, those that obeyed the Pope 
 Were heretics, so vastly larger pressed 
 The multitude of Albigensians. 
 What can a prince's will, howe'er revered. 
 Prevail against his peoples' counter-faith ? 
 This I explained to Foulques, our bishop here 
 Whose horses could not water for the mob 
 That aye went crying ** Popery, avaunt ! " 
 And drove the poor beasts back. But Thedisesaw 
 In all the insurrection my one hand 
 .Stirring the stormy sea ; he therefore laid 
 Afresh the interdict, and this man Pierre, 
 This Pierre de Castelnau is of that breed : 
 He will no whit forgive, no whit forget. 
 His life is naught but hate for love of God. 
 The embassy that now awaits my will 
 Bears the conditions of the Roman Church. 
 Therefore, brave Foix, Comminges, and Beziers 
 I pray you say whether, in case the peace 
 Cost dearer than endurance, you will fight 
 For me or Montfort ; — there's no golden mean. 
 First, let Comminges, my senior vassal, speak. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 7 
 
 Comminges, Most noble Count, with sorrow 
 
 and alarm, 
 I see you near the cataract of war. 
 I am old now, so old that my advice 
 May taste of dotage, but for what it's worth 
 I give it with a prayer for all our souls. 
 Receive the Legates well, and to their terms, 
 Whatever they be, make no hasty dissent : 
 Remember that against the combined force 
 Of France and Germany we have but gained 
 Your cousin, King of Aragon, and stand 
 Outnumbered six to one. I say no more, 
 Save that for me and mine we're always yours, 
 And will fight for you to our last blood-drop. 
 Toulouse. Sincerest thanks, most faithful 
 
 friend, Comminges. 
 Foix, For me, my lord, yours is the only 
 
 side, 
 From inclination and necessity. 
 Twice have I met the Holy Roman Church ; 
 Twice have we parted, scarce the best of friends. 
 Our first encounter was a half-year back 
 Outside my town of Foix ; the priests were 
 
 bearing 
 The bones of some dead saint in a procession ; 
 I passed them, mounted, laughing, and my head. 
 
8 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 In their own words, showed "lofty as a stag's : " 
 Whereon this Legate dog and fellow curs 
 Followed my horse's heels and dared to lay 
 The curses of the Church upon my soul. 
 Hearing them curse me and to clearly show 
 How much I feared them or their woman's creed, 
 I bad turn bridle that we all might seek 
 The nearest church ; my knaves threw wide the 
 
 doors 
 And on my jennet, Rosy Queen, I rode 
 Up to the altar, where we foddered her, 
 Mixing the wine with water for her thirst. 
 Again, three months ago came Gaston Bois 
 Bearing a tale of how the scorpion priests 
 Had stung his mother with their tongues and 
 
 driven 
 The lady forth from Pamiers, I but rode 
 Across to Pamiers and laid low the head 
 Of a black raven, croaking out his mass ; 
 The monks and abbot, well-nigh dead with fear, 
 Oifered me absolution for their lives : 
 But above all these things and if I were 
 Most virtuous Catholic in the whole Provence, 
 Yonder fair lady, bright Escarlamonde, 
 Your sister and my long-affianced bride, 
 Would magnetize the mountain of my faith 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 9 
 
 And draw me back to her sweet heresy. 
 Therefore, most noble Count, receive my sword, 
 Hers is my heart. 
 
 Toulouse. Best thanks, my noble Bertram ; 
 These troubles over, mine the care shall be 
 To graft her rosebud on your standard tree. 
 Bdziers, Last year the Legate travelled Bdziers 
 
 through, 
 " To drive lambs back to fold," and sought from 
 
 me 
 Homage to Rome ; he whispered in my ear, 
 " If you will now abjure your vassaldom 
 To the Count Raymond and be ours, you're 
 
 saved ; 
 If not, that very hand whereon you lean, 
 A sorry prop, shall hurl you in the dust." 
 " Words dark as these," I answered, " may breed 
 
 acts 
 Too dark for words, nevertheless, sir priest, 
 I love and fear you not, so go your ways, 
 Seek Rome again, say masses for my soul." 
 'Twas thus I made of choice necessity. 
 
 Toulouse, Then I may count a trinity of 
 
 friends, 
 Forming an unity of friendship ; thus 
 Bucklered about by such stout champions I 
 
lo ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Dare Europe to pick up my fallen glove. 
 
 {To a marshal.) Let the ambassadors be ushered 
 
 Enter Guy de Montfort, Pierre de 
 Castelnau, Papal Legate^ with 
 Attendants, 
 
 Toulouse. Pierre, Papal Legate, Guy de Mont- 
 fort, you, 
 wSon and ambassador of Simon Montfort, 
 The Earl of Leicester, general in chief 
 Of the invading army, greeting, speak. 
 Pierre, To you. Count Raymond, sixth Lord 
 of Toulouse, 
 Duke of Narbonne and Marquis of Provence, 
 I bear these terms, concluded on at Aries, 
 By Thedise, Arnauld and the other priests 
 In mission from the Pope ; to them are joined 
 Eudes, the Duke of Burgundy, Simon Montfort, 
 Counts of Nevers, St. Pierre, Auxerre, Geneve, 
 Treves and a host of others, with their men, 
 Twenty-four thousand strong ; the King of 
 
 France, , 
 Philip, has hearkened to the Pope's appeal ; 
 And if to these conditions you are deaf, 
 Body and spirit, Church and State as one, 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. ii 
 
 Blessed by the Lord and by his Holiness, 
 Shall bum with fire and utterly consume 
 The filthy foxes that destroy the vines. 
 Toulouse. {Half aloudy and heard by ROLAND 
 THE Troubadour, who stands just 
 behind him.) 
 Who'll choke for me this croaking spawn of Paul ? 
 {Aloud.) Have a care, master Legate ; 
 Anger me not too far, lest the sharp words 
 Now sheathed within my throat leap forth as 
 
 swords 
 And cleave your shaven pate. Put forth the 
 
 terms. 
 Pierre, ( Unrolling a manuscript which he 
 holds in his hand. Reads.) 
 Count Raymond to disband his present army, 
 Dismiss his. vassals, raze his castles level 
 With the flat plain, in all things to obey 
 And bow before the Church, to straightway drive 
 All heretics away from all the lands 
 Lying beneath his sway, that of his Court 
 Not one remain within Toulouse but all 
 Live rustic lives apart ; for glittering cloaks, 
 Bright caps and jewels, sombre hues alone. 
 And unadorned to serve, and of cooked meat 
 But two sorts to be ate in all the land. 
 
T2 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 When all these terms shall duly be fulfilled 
 Count Raymond is to join the knightly order 
 Known as Saint John's, and fight against the 
 
 Turk : 
 Nor shall he ever seek his natal shores 
 Until the Legate grant him fullest grace. 
 If all these things be done, and it seem good 
 To the Count Montfort and the Legate, they 
 May pass Count Raymond back his lands again. 
 Toulouse. If these be terms then peace is 
 
 slavery ; 
 Through their black drapery of gall I see 
 The souls of those who planned them like a flock 
 Of vampire bats, which suck away men's lives 
 Between two dreams, but here 'tis morning still. 
 Avaunt ! Depart ! get thee back to the tomb. 
 Thou man of death, come from the land of death 
 That was the land of life ; tell Simon Montfort 
 That I will not myself strip off my flesh 
 To lie within the hollow of his grave ; 
 And ere thy vultures make me skeleton, 
 Who now am body and blood, they'll have to peck 
 Through many a mailM coat, so it may chance 
 They break both beak and claws before the end. 
 
 1 This is a translation from the original Latin. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 13 
 
 Pierre. Is this the answer I am to report ? 
 
 Toulouse. Yes, in the bowing of the summer 
 com 
 That yellows now through all my fair Provence ; 
 Yes, in the rustle of the tuneful trees 
 Stooping to kiss their courtier gale of June ; 
 In the quick sparkle of the distant stars ; 
 In the immense gold glory of the sun ; 
 In all my land and all my lieges see 
 One large defiance of the Papacy. \Rising. 
 
 No stranger, friend or enemy, e'er went 
 Unfeasted from Toulouse, therefore I pray you 
 Follow me now to the great banquet-hall. 
 
 [Exeu7tt all but R. DE Trencavel. 
 
 Roland. "Who'll slay me yonder spawn of 
 Paul?" 
 Thus spake Count J^ymond, and methought his 
 
 glance -^^ 
 Flashed under on ^^s word, for well he knew 
 None other dared the^jgpd. I will persuade 
 My jongleur, Jacques, to ^pn the penitent's garb 
 And as the chosen representative 
 Of Castres, that once o'erteemed with heretics 
 But now seeks Papal grace, he shall implore 
 The presence of the Legate in his town. 
 Priests travel singly and I will await 
 
14 ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 His Eminence in the dark fir-tree wood 
 A league without Toulouse and thereby save 
 His Eminence all earthly journeys more. 
 Then come the worst I shall have done my 
 
 best 
 For love of Raymond and Escarlamonde — 
 Escarlamonde for whom the Creator needed 
 So many colours, such pure chosen white, 
 Such roses, such large pearls, such golden 
 
 showers. 
 Borrowed from earth, from heaven and crimson 
 
 hell, 
 That ever working for ten thousand years 
 But now in this the latest point of time 
 He has produced the equal of himself. 
 And that the whole wide world should worship 
 
 Has sent her for a momeij^»m the skies 
 Robed in blue and calledBKarlamonde. - 
 I love her, fountain of JJoveliness, 
 That flows in our Pr^^nce, there is a chain 
 By which all flower§,TMl birds', all music notes 
 Are bound to her gold girdle, every rose 
 That drops a petal doth one instant tinge 
 With pallor her fair cheeks and every bud 
 Springing to blossom re-illumines them 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 15 
 
 With palest blushes of a new-bom pink, 
 So quickly doth her colour come and go. 
 
 Enter ESCARLAMONDE. 
 Escarlamoiide, Roland, are we alone, I have 
 but left 
 The banquet, seeking you ? 
 
 Roland, My lovely one, 
 
 But shortly mine no longer. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Wherefore so, 
 
 Dear Roland ? 
 Roland, Heard you not Count Raymond's 
 words 
 Of promise to the Count of Foix ? 
 
 Escarlamo7tde. Such words 
 
 As you well know are only snares with him 
 To gain the Count of Foix, a waverer, 
 Toward the Crusaders' side and but restrained 
 By my betrothal ; once the peace confirmed 
 (For Raymond loves him not) I will contrive 
 The severance, never fear, and then, dear 
 
 Roland, 
 Your single name shall speak our double bliss. 
 
 \A voice calls Escarlamonde. 
 Yes, mother, now farewell, my dearest one. 
 
 {Exit Escarlamonde. 
 
i6 ESCARLAMONDE. _ 
 
 Enter Guy de Montfort. 
 
 Guy. Roland de Trencavel, a word apart — 
 I sought you here. 
 
 '^ Roland, Say on then, Guy de Montfort ; 
 We are old friends, and' I can ne'er forget 
 How once in Paris, taunted by a crew 
 Of vulgar roysterers as foreigner, 
 My circling sword had certain flashed no more 
 But for your sinewy aid ; I promised then 
 A fair return, and Roland's promises 
 Live with his life, not die upon his lips ; 
 Therefore if now I can by any means 
 Make deeds of words and help you to your ends 
 Speak them but forth. 
 
 Guy. Roland, you have divined 
 
 Rightly, I sought you here with a request, 
 But not of life and death ; indeed I fear 
 Your laughter niore than your assent, although 
 God knows for me 'tis more than life or death. 
 
 Roland. You love. Count Guy, or use a lover's 
 tongue ; 
 I ne'er had classed you with that pierced band. 
 
 Guy. An hour agone I was love-free indeed. 
 
 Roland. Then that I may with every nerve 
 assist 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. iy 
 
 In siege of love and loving stratagem 
 
 Tell me her name, her home is in Toulouse. 
 
 Guy. In your hand lies the hope of all my life, 
 My peace in death, 1 love Escarlamonde. 
 
 Roland, {Aside.) Why to the world is beauty 
 beautiful ? 
 
 Guy. For among all the fair and all the proud, 
 All the gold-garmented and golden-haired 
 Provencal ladies, to my sceptic eye 
 Always there lacked the crowning element — 
 That cross of beauty which on women shines 
 As on a church, to mark a holy place, 
 With them was golden, silver or mean brass, 
 But with Escarlamonde is diamond. 
 One burning jewel of most perfect form 
 That from the moment mine eyes lit on her 
 Darted its blinding radiance through my soul. 
 In your hand lies the joy of all my life. 
 My peace in death, I love Escarlamonde. 
 
 Roland. Count Guy speaks as a poet out of place 
 Courting the countess of some foreign tower. 
 
 Guy. I am no poet, fighting is my trade. 
 But stung by love till I could tear my heart 
 Out from my bosom for her smooth white teeth. 
 
 Rolajtd {Smiling.) Guillaume de Cabstaing's 
 heart against his will 
 c 
 
t8 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Was served to Countess Roussillon, if you 
 Would carve yours out for her, 'twill be my pleasure 
 To bear it to the fair Escarlamonde. 
 
 Guy. Torture me not, but hearken to my 
 prayer ; 
 It is your blessed fate to wander free 
 In this bright town where even the pebble-stones 
 Along her garden walk have every day 
 The glory to be crushed by her slight feet. 
 Your idlest seconds as you saunter here 
 In converse with the Queen Escarlamonde 
 Would, were they mine, weigh down eternity. 
 
 Roland, Say on, what would you of me ? 
 
 Gtcy, I who was stranger, now am enemy, 
 And wretched lover shall ne'er see the walls 
 That prison all I love, until the peace. 
 
 Roland, Methinks that those who seek the 
 dove of peace 
 Should rather cast their searching glances back 
 To some dim island anchored in the past. 
 Where still the white bird coos and all-forgotten 
 White breast to breast the last true lovers cling. 
 
 Guy. Too true, alas, too sadly true, and thence 
 Flows my request. 
 
 Roland. So far as with me lies 
 
 Fulfilment, you may trust my plighted word. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 19 
 
 Guy. If you will bear Escarlamonde from me 
 Letters, and be the mirror of my love 
 Until the peace, when I may dare to woo, 
 Then is your ancient debt of friendship paid 
 A many times. 
 
 Roland. Such letters I will bear 
 
 And be the echo of your absent love. 
 
 Guy, Ten thousand thanks most noble friend, 
 Roland, 
 feest of brave friends, how glorious you look ! 
 
 Roland, Thank not too hastefully ; you saw 
 just now 
 The Count of Foix. 
 
 Guy, One of Count Raymond^s lords ? 
 
 Roland. Escarlamonde is promised him for 
 bride 
 When but the peace be signed. 
 
 Guy. I marked the Count ; 
 
 There sat he glowering on all around, 
 And when his gaze did fall upon his love 
 Grew dark instead of brighter, as the shade 
 Cast by grim tower when the sun outshines. 
 She cannot love him and the chance of war 
 Sows all anew the seed of destiny. 
 But say, dear Roland, is the Count of Foix 
 My only rival ? ■ • 
 
20 BSCARLAMONDE, 
 
 RoIa?td. Yes, although there was 
 
 Another once did love her well, I think, 
 But he is dead or gone beyond the seas — 
 And yet I think he loved her ver>^ well. 
 
 Guy. So, good, I fear not Foix, and by your aid 
 Shall woo and win the fair Escarlamonde ; 
 And should de Montfort's son in aught avail 
 To smooth life's path for Roland, here he lays 
 His utmost stretch of power at Roland's feet. 
 By letters-to the King of France or grants 
 Of lands and coin or the like help in love. 
 
 Roland. I must away ; adieu, I'll meet you in 
 the hall : 
 Have ready the letter. 
 
 Enter Attendant. 
 Attenda7tt. Count Raymond asks your presence 
 in the hall 
 To quaff with him a parting stoup of wine. 
 
 {Exit Guy de Montfort (a:;^^ Attendant. 
 
 E7iter Jacques. 
 What think you ? 
 Roland. We have not time to think, but only 
 act. 
 The Legate. ... [Exeunt. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Scene II. — A wood through which runs a path- 
 way, Roland discovered walking up and 
 down, 
 
 Roland, I gave Jacques fullest orders, saw him 
 dressed 
 In cinders, girdled with a knotty scourge 
 As penitent from Castres who doth request 
 Humbly the absolution and the presence 
 Of the most holy Legate in his town, 
 Craving for pardon ; and the priestly law 
 Is to be everywhere the spirit calls. 
 And Jacques, my jongleur, clever, twinkling 
 
 Jacques, 
 The " penitent." Ha ! ha ! most holy Church 
 Ne'er bred the peacock in that jackdaw's skin ; 
 He will not fail. But hark ! i' the distance steps : 
 I must retreat lest yonder be not Pierre. 
 
 \pisappears in the wood. 
 
 Enter Pierre. 
 Pierre. Narrow the way that leads to Paradise, 
 But I will wear the crown ; these men of Castres 
 Are sudden turned to God. 
 
22 ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Enter Roland. 
 Roland, Salve ! Sir Priest. 
 Pierre, Salve ! Sir Knight. How many miles 
 
 to Castres? 
 Roland. Some six or seven, but prithee stay 
 awhile 
 I would with you discourse theology. 
 Pierre, I cannot stay ; God's service calls me 
 hence ; 
 I am the Legate Pierre. 
 Roland, {Placing himself so as to intercept the 
 Legate), My reverend father, 
 
 Haste ill becomes old age, and you shall stay 
 Till all be answered that my fancy craves. 
 Pierre, Loose me, base knight ; you are impor- 
 tunate, 
 Full of vain words as are the heretics ; 
 And now, methinks, that I have seen your face 
 At Raymond's court ; you are a Troubadour, 
 One of those coloured marsh-flies that do haunt 
 Where most corruption reigns. 
 
 Roland, If that were so 
 
 Then should I buzz about St. Peter's dome 
 And whisper in the scarlet harlot's ear 
 Tales of her own true sons, the cardinals, 
 Who worship Mary — but the Magdalene — 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 43 
 
 And quaff such seas of wine — the blood of 
 
 Christ !— 
 That antique Bacchus, sleeping in the hill, 
 Waits but his tigers to be God again. 
 Pierre, Fearful blasphemer, fall upon your 
 
 knees 
 And pray for mercy, 'tis to purge Provence 
 Of such as you I come ; if yet there live 
 One lamb of God in all this fold of wolves 
 He may be saved alive. 
 Roland. Enough ! you have your Gods and I 
 
 have mine, 
 Poets did sing and make the only prayers 
 To strong, bright, golden, ever-verdant gods 
 Long ere the priests were bom. An ugly God 
 Loves ugliness and therefore you exist. 
 
 Pierre. To the infernal glow of hell's red blaze 
 There lacks the torment that will chasten you. . 
 I will upon my way ; aside ! {Striving) give 
 
 place ! 
 Roland. {Thrusting him back.) Black angel, 
 
 bent upon your search for souls. 
 Know that in Castres, although I let you pass, 
 Dwells not an enemy to brave Count Raymond — 
 Raymond that means parage and chivalry — 
 / wrote the letter begging your attendance. 
 
24 ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Pierre. Then will I to the camp. 
 Roland. No, not so fast. 
 
 {Showing the swords. 
 There hang two deaths above us in the air ; 
 These swords may cut both down, but one they 
 will. 
 \Offers one sword to Pierre, who rejects it, 
 the weapon falls by his side. 
 Pierre. {Starting back.) Those who take the 
 sword 
 Shall by the sword be slain. 
 
 Roland. Then must you perish ; 
 
 Aye, had you twenty thousand lives, should perish 
 Justly as many times ; yes, your black robes, 
 Those soft hands hanging as though made to 
 
 bless, 
 That smile where oil and honey seem to meet ; 
 All, all the swords unsheathed in Provence 
 They have discabbarded ; if all were slain 
 Who took the sword, then Rome were execution — 
 Blood flowing from the topmost Papal throne 
 (Where now rules Antichrist, Pope Innocent) 
 Over the whole world, plunged in bloody ruin 
 But by Rome's mitred art, her closet lore, 
 Her deaf ambition that doth ever lean 
 On ghostly fear and stalk about the worU 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. «5 
 
 Garnering power with promises of heaven, 
 Or smolting it with nietaphors of hell. 
 
 \Pffers the other sword. 
 Here are two swords, I say, choose which you 
 
 will- 
 No choice is choice of death. 
 Pierre. {Crossing his arms and himself,) I 
 
 choose salvation. 
 Roland. Then I prick forth your soul to join 
 the saints. \Stabs him, 
 
 Pierre, {Staggering. Then falls with clasped 
 
 hands. In a faint voice ^ slowly.) 
 I hear the angels flying, 
 Those large white wings on which they come to 
 
 bear me 
 Rustle so distant soft to my faint sense. 
 
 * « « * * 
 
 * * « # « 
 
 \Gasping, 
 M ine too the martyr^s crown, O thorn-crowned 
 Christ ! 
 
 * * * # « 
 Mine as thy pardon to thy murderers. 
 
 * * # # * 
 
 \pies. 
 
26 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Scene III. — Toulouse. Afternoon of the fol- 
 lowing day. Outside Raymond's palace. 
 A tree-shaded walk. Comte de Foix 
 and ESCARLAMONDE discovered strolling 
 up a7id dow7i. 
 
 Foix, I watched his eyes and all the while that 
 Pierre 
 Read out the treaty or Count Raymond spoke 
 They centred on your face ; it is an insult 
 To my betrothed and one I should chastise 
 Were he of ours ; but you, I think, returned 
 With eager gaze his gazing. 
 
 Escarlamonde. You mistake, 
 
 Dear Roger, if Count Guy de Montfort's looks 
 Were fixed on me I could not therefore vanish : 
 In truth I saw him not, and had I seen 
 What could the face of a mere stranger knight 
 (And one, they say, to France an alien, 
 For though his father be the Poitiers count 
 Yet is he English and an enemy) 
 Work upon me who am your promised bride ? 
 
 Foix. Indeed I know not, save that women's 
 wills 
 Outvie the winds that laugh at compasses ;— 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 27 
 
 For what can Montfort give a bride as I 
 Who next your brother am the richest baron 
 In all the southern France, my stables full 
 Of fiery chargers that do stamp and shake 
 The burnished armour hanging in my hall ? 
 Beneath my banner gather clouds of strength — 
 Great brawny loons whose blows breed victory. 
 My coffers teem with gold and I have jewels 
 To buy a queen to wife, but I will you, 
 My gentle soft, my fair Escarlamonde I 
 
 {^Draws her to him and kisses her. She 
 
 returns his kiss, 
 Escarla^nonde, There, there, you kiss me like 
 
 a husband, Roger ; 
 And we're not married yet ; — lo, yonder, Roland 
 The Troubadour who cometh this way, strolling ; 
 He rarely wanders from the land of dreams, 
 But when he does there ever seem to glisten 
 On his pale forehead pearls of fairyland. 
 Foix, Another of your swains and one less 
 
 worthy 
 Than even Guy de Montfort. Roland's father 
 (A solitary watcher of the sea. 
 Who's long since dead) had but one lonely tower : 
 His son, you know, has sold it and doth cater 
 In tunes your brother's favour ; that his race 
 
28 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Is old with oldest no man will deny 
 But sunk below the wasting of your smile ; 
 And I — have all. 
 Escarlamonde, {Aside.) Yes, you have all ; his 
 nothing 'tis I love. 
 
 Enter Roland. Bows to Escarlamonde 
 and Foix. 
 
 Foix, Good morrow, Troubadour, you bring us 
 songs, 
 Or such-like toys ? 
 
 Roland. Did you not say just now 
 
 " All things are mine " ? permit me to salute 
 The " Lord of everything " who cannot w^ant 
 For worthless rhyming ware. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Ah ! Roland, peace ! 
 
 You and the Count are friends. 
 
 Foix. Ay, friends indeed — 
 
 Methinks, de Trencavel, your wit were wont 
 Be sharper once than now, prithee beware 
 It rust not and you straightway lose your place. 
 
 Roland. The noble Count says true ; I've lately 
 lacked 
 Of something dull whereon to edge my wit ; 
 But the high honour of his company 
 Serves well the turn ; I do again salute 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. S9 
 
 The Count of Foix. 
 
 Foix. I and the Countess here 
 
 Discoursed of private matters. 
 
 Roland, If the Countess 
 
 Ask for my absence, I am like the wind, 
 Here, the next moment gone. 
 
 Escarlainonde, Why are you both 
 
 So fiery foolish ? Greet and be good friends. 
 
 Foix, I see then that you seek his company. 
 Farewell : de Trencavel, we meet again. [Exit. 
 
 Escarlamonde, Thus high-intolerant is the 
 Count of Foix, 
 He holds himself the one knight paragon, 
 The star of maidens' eyes. How long it is 
 Since I have seen de Trencavel pass by ! 
 
 Roland, And now I come, but bearer of a 
 letter 
 From a dear friend. 
 
 Escarlamonde, {^Laughing.) VVho, may I ask, 
 is he? 
 
 Rola7id. He is a soul to whom all earthly 
 things 
 Did float in a pale mist, so that he saw 
 But shades for men, and as for women shades 
 Of shadows, so was all his life a mist ; 
 Till suddenly at midday through those clouds 
 
30 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Shot the bright ray of more than earthly light 
 Which to most mortals is Escarlamonde, 
 To some the sun — 
 
 Escarlatnonde. His name, his name, I pray. 
 
 Roland. In letters making up such words as 
 "Truth," 
 ** Virtue and Chivalry," or " Continence," 
 "Steadfast in Aim," "Firm Friend," "Fierce 
 
 Enemy," 
 "Love till the Death," there sleeps the very 
 
 echo 
 Aye follows on his name, but to your ears 
 It may sound harshly. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Prithee, sweet Roland, 
 
 Spare me more waiting, I must hear it now. 
 
 Roland. I pray you be not frighted at the name, 
 He loves you well that bears it, as will show 
 The letter. 
 
 Escarlamonde. How strange you are, dear 
 Roland, swiftly wrought 
 From poet-chivalrous to messenger 
 Of love to me your love ; those airy gods 
 Who do but brush our cheeks with windy wings 
 Or kiss them in the rain, I think to poets 
 Whisper the secrets of the universe. 
 Half raise for them the veil so that they wander 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 3T 
 
 Awry and stumbling through the world and 
 
 follow 
 Some more than earthly phantom of the fair 
 Whereof they throw the shadow in their songs, 
 And then die young with large, sad, seeking eyes. 
 I have always 
 
 Loved poets more than kings — a monarches lips 
 Are but the trumpet sounding to his people 
 Words of command — the king is but a man 
 Imperial for life ; his memory buried 
 By the next king, imperial as he, 
 But a true poet bears upon his lips 
 Deep organ notes that when his voice is hushed 
 Still cling about the aisles of all the world, 
 As sweet as in his early summer day 
 Spent sonnet-wreathing with each stop a kiss. 
 {Pauses.) I promise all you ask, but some new 
 
 fancy, 
 This time, dear Roland, leads you far afield. 
 What is his name ? 
 Roland, Count Guy de Montfort. 
 
 Escarlamonde, Young Count Montfort, 
 Who gazed so wistful-sadly standing there. 
 Gold-plumed, black-armoured heavy-helmeted, 
 So tired-souled, so blind of aspiration, 
 I thought him of the bruised, storm-beaten band 
 
32 ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Whose eyes look backward when they seek their 
 
 love. 
 Roland. No, he was born a seeker of the sun, 
 Far off in England, and his father's court, 
 Where flowers sought a license when to bloom, 
 Froze his whole soul, so that he thanks these 
 
 wars 
 Have borne him hitherward where men may 
 
 catch 
 One ray of light before their evening comes. 
 Here is the letter. 
 
 Escarla7nonde. (Reads.) My salvation or my 
 sepulchre, my eagle or my dove, my essence 
 of all sweet epithets, or incarnation of all that 
 burns. These wild, hasty words 7nay reach you. 
 I have loved you since first I saw you — two 
 hours ago — I will not add forever — foolish word 
 that knows not how many centuries lie for lovers 
 in a second. My best friend, Roland, bears this 
 paper. Send by him a promise of friendship 
 till the war has end, then of fairness in your 
 choice between De Foix and Guy de Montfort, 
 or send me nothing — which is death. 
 
 Guy de Montfort. 
 Roland. There lies true love, or love was never 
 
 true. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 33 
 
 Escarlamonde, But I have never spoken to 
 Count Guy : 
 What can I answer to this moon-struck knight ? 
 Roland Answer him merely : " Keep your 
 life, my friend : 
 Await and watch : no promise either way : 
 Time breeds all marvels : let us trust to time." 
 Escarlamonde. Well, dear knight Roland, 
 then I write your words ; 
 For you, your words, dear Roland, and return 
 As soon as written : wait me one moment here. 
 
 lExit, 
 Roland, So I have sold my peace to Guy de 
 Montfort. 
 She shines more steady radiant this pale night 
 Than cruellest star to watcher upon earth. 
 Escarla?nonde. {Re-entering.) Here is the 
 letter ; I have told him shortly 
 That ere the war be ended, my dear brother 
 Will not allow me marry Roger Foix, 
 Therefore to cease despair. {Aside.) A\i\ Roland, 
 
 darling, 
 What crimes for love against love's self I do ! 
 Roland. Then to the camp this evening, under 
 night 
 I should be safe. 
 
 D 
 
34 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Escarlamonde, But you will bear the answer, 
 And talk with me a little of Count Guy, 
 Or even drop some honey from your lips. 
 Gathered where bees sip from a vocal flower ? 
 
 Roland. Adieu, I come again ; the wings of 
 friendship 
 Will bear me there and back ; 
 Adieu, adieu ! {Exit Roland. 
 
 Enter Alix. 
 
 Alix, Where is the Count of Foix ; I left him 
 with you 
 Not half an hour agone ? He is the husband 
 You need to curb that wild, unruly spirit : 
 Would God the wars were over ! Roland there 
 Is dangerous — as every troubadour ; 
 He must no more alone with you consort. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Count Foix was with me, but 
 when Roland came 
 Departed, like a cloud before the sun, 
 Albeit I bade him tarry, no, he went. 
 Proud beyond praises, puffed to bursting power 
 By his own emptiness, filled full of wealth. 
 But for my Roland, the good Troubadour, 
 As brave a knight as any that can carve 
 But flesh with swords, while he with heron'splume 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 33 
 
 Blazons his scutcheon on eternity, 
 I rarely see him, though whene'er he brightens 
 My garden with his smile, the little pansies, 
 Those floral butterflies, ope wide their wings 
 And say, " Ah joy ! a brother comes to us ; " 
 The rose stoops forward, blushing to her stem, 
 And sighs, " Ah I pluck me from oblivion ; " 
 All, all the vernal blooms, all summer glories 
 Bend smiling toward him ; least of all am I, 
 But with the modest violets I stand 
 Gazing upon him with our bluest eyes ; 
 He bows and passes, humming some half-tune. 
 Some lyric anthem, clarioned in heaven, 
 On earth a whisper even to poet's ears ; — 
 I will not drive my Troubadour away. 
 Alix. Perchance your ears are closed to the 
 rumours 
 That rise through all the town ; the day when 
 
 Pierre 
 Was foully murdered by an unknown knave, 
 Roland de Trencaval, in muffling cloak. 
 With hasty steps was seen to quit Toulouse 
 On the same road by which within the hour 
 The legate left for Castres, — there's little doubt 
 His was the sword that slew the man of God. 
 If this be true, to every honest soul, 
 
36 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Though justice fail to seize his guilty body, 
 The name of Roland must swing gallows high. 
 
 Escarlamonde. I answer first that many men 
 have travelled 
 To Castres and slain no legate on the way, 
 And so may Roland ; — but I grant the murder, 
 My dearest mother, merely to declare 
 How slight a thing I hold an ugly life ; 
 When on my glistening gravel-path there crawls 
 A slimy snail, I call a gardener lad 
 To crush it with his heel : far more my brother, 
 When over all his lands a reptile writhes 
 Distilling papal poison, rightly seeks 
 His truest friend to rid him of the beast. 
 But I say further ; yea, if Roland's sword, 
 Bright as the sun, clear flashing as his eye. 
 Had plunged the point of death in half the hearts 
 That beat in vulgar bosoms through Provence ; 
 If in Toulouse he wrought a crime undreamed 
 On earth, that were a bane to fieriest hell. 
 Yet were he Roland and his arms my heaven. 
 
 Alix. I am a traveller from seventy years : 
 How swiftly all things change ! — such words as 
 
 these 
 Strike foreign on my hearing. When I married 
 Your father, the fifth Raymond, none but bowed 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. §f 
 
 His knee before the Pope ; how wild soe'er 
 
 His life had been, he feared the Holy Church. 
 
 Now there seems wine got into daily life 
 
 Leaving no reverence, no reticence. 
 
 None of the pure, unspoken, maiden love, 
 
 None of the lofty, humble chivalry. 
 
 Each one will glow, be he a very sun, 
 
 Like yonder Roland, of iniquity, 
 
 Or a mere worm with stolen hedge-row light. 
 
 How mad is now the world ! To me there 
 
 comes 
 From all these feasts and frolics but one sense ; 
 All nature seems to say, ** Adieu, farewell," 
 Your day is lived, seek the long-open grave ; 
 But ere I go, one duty calls on me, — 
 Your brother must beware the Troubadour. 
 Escarlamonde. Ah, mother, mother dearest, 
 
 spare me that ; 
 My brother loveth Roland, and your words 
 Would make him hate me, never love him less ; 
 Besides, though I love Roland, \vell I know, 
 That Foix has bought me with his arm^d men. 
 His horses, his great name in war, his riches ; 
 I must be his, therefore pray, mother, pray, 
 I pray you leave this web unweave itself. 
 You fear, not hate our life, for you are old, 
 
38 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 And always in the present you discern 
 
 Your youth disformed ; for me these modem 
 
 deeds, 
 Which make the world quake, grew up with my 
 
 birth. 
 I am twin sister of the new-born life. 
 And therefore love it sisterly ; I feel 
 Through all the air throb some strange vital scent 
 That seems to spring from Roland, for whene'er 
 His eyes meet mine they centre all my thoughts ; 
 He loves me not, or but as a bright bird 
 Among bright birds new-lit upon the tree 
 Where he sings loudest, king of nightingales. 
 No'priest, no wedding-ring, nor marriage-vow 
 Can ever kill the Roland in my soul. 
 And come what may, though all the furies turn 
 On one poor maid, I love him utterly. 
 
 Alix. Maddest maid, 
 
 My feeble hand shall save you from yourself 
 And this mad time ; I'll to your brother straight, 
 
 {Exit. 
 Escarlamonde, Ah ! stony-hearted mother of 
 
 my tears. 
 Mere name of mother, well I know your will 
 Is iron to entreaty, but my Raymond, 
 Like a clear river flowing toward the sea, 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, ^ 
 
 Glides laughing over lesser obstacles, 
 Submerging rocks that dare to stem his stream ; 
 Therefore he will but smile at mother's tale, 
 And love that fears light laughter is not love : 
 I'll laugh their laughter back and turn to tune 
 The discord of the whole court's raillery. 
 
 [ExiL 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene L 
 
 Toulouse. {Pointing upward.) Yonder, me 
 thinks, the highest of the three, 
 Hanging aloft, like beauty-spots in heaven, 
 Is my brave tiercel Jean. 
 Falconer. 'Tis so, my lord. 
 
 Toulouse. {Taking several rapid steps 
 forward.) 
 They swerve off eastward ; let us follow on. 
 
 [Horn sounds. 
 Ah ! B^ziers' horn, by the clear piping note. 
 
 [Answers. Answer in the distance. 
 
40 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Enter Bi^ziers, attended^ with falcon, 
 Beziers. What of your flight, Count Raymond? 
 for an hour 
 ^his vagrant flies at check ; she left the crow 
 For a mere buzzing partridge, but the bird 
 Did chouse thee in a ditch, my pretty dear. 
 
 [Strokes his falcon, 
 Toulouse. Your eyette's ramage ; but hast 
 chanced to spy 
 Another hawk should never leave the cadge, 
 A wingless creature, though from all I hear 
 As prone to rake and soar — Escarlamonde ? 
 Beziers, Not since we left the walls ; she was 
 attended 
 Then by the jongleur Jacques, — that idle boy. 
 Once Roland's friend and since he left the court 
 Her spaniel page. — 
 
 Foix, Now that the tomcat's gone 
 
 Whose kingly caterwauling soothed her breast 
 More than all human sound, she seeketh out 
 This tiny mewer, may — 
 
 Enter ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Or rather 
 
 Thrushes in elm-tree singing teach the leaves 
 The faint, exact re-echo of their note, 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 41 
 
 So that when autumn stoops to wed the earth 
 And music seeks the sun, amongst the green 
 Imprinted with the mavis melody 
 There dwell awhile fuU-leav^d orchestras 
 That softly play, but lack the master-spirit 
 And faint off one by one, until the last, 
 Mere yellow parchment, fly along the wind : 
 So Jacques, this bright-haired boy, the fairest 
 
 leaf 
 And waxy tablet of his master's thought, 
 Doth ring notes in mine ear that once he sang ; 
 But you will soon forget, as youthful kind 
 Are wont to do, I fear me, pretty page, 
 You'll fly along the wind, not parchment old 
 But fair young lover seeking lady fair. 
 
 Page, Ah, never, madam, could my thanks 
 forget 
 Dear Roland. 
 
 Foix, Hark, Lord Raymond, how he witches : 
 That Troubadour is half an alchemist, 
 I pray you bid Escarlamonde beware. 
 
 Toulouse. You are too prone to blame ; the 
 Troubadour 
 (I know not wherefore absent) never boiled 
 His golden words down in a crucible. 
 But poured them forth, a very Pactolus. 
 
42 ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Foix. Whole Pactoli of words would fail to 
 quell 
 An hundred angry knaves. 
 
 Toulouse. You vaunt your might ; 
 
 Your service offered frankly I received, 
 But hold you no way to it ; by St. George ! 
 I have here soldier-stuff shall well suffice 
 To turn all Montfort's surplices to shrouds. 
 
 Foix, You would be quit of me ? 
 
 Toulouse. I said not so. 
 
 Foix. Escarlamonde was promised my reward. 
 
 Tott louse. My sister is no bale, nor merchant 
 you ; 
 True, once I promised her, but you have piled 
 So many hillocks of slight difference 
 By money, pride and hard intolerance 
 Of the brave Troubadour, that as I think 
 A mountain stands between you and her love. 
 I am no longer arbiter. Count Foix, 
 Your fate as wooer lies alone with her. 
 
 {Turning to Escarlamonde. 
 Escarlamonde, I grant you fullest leave 
 To speak your soul out to the Count of Foix. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Thank you, dear brother, for 
 those brother's words ; 
 I'll strive to fit an arrow to my speech : 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 43 
 
 Know then, Count Foix, you never had my love ; 
 I bore you as a yoke, because I thought 
 Your armed force was safety for Toulouse ; 
 But since my noble brother scorns such aid 
 (Being the lord of forests wrought in steel) 
 I spurn you from me as an ill-bred hound. 
 
 Foix, What castellated towers of awful strength 
 Do women build of weakness ! 
 
 Escarlamonde. You spoke me often, as the 
 turbaned Turk 
 Might to some slave girl : " Know you I could wed 
 Queens, Empresses, all feminine is mine ? 
 But I choose you, the fair Escarlamonde." 
 Said you not so, O Prince of emptiness 1 
 
 Foix, Twas but to prove my worth, for I am 
 rich. 
 Of ancient lineage and no craven knight ; 
 What further merit seeks Escarlamonde 
 That I have not or cannot now obtain ? 
 
 Escarlamonde. There sways no sceptre, nor 
 exists the crown, 
 Though it were circled by the halo light 
 And God's eyes shone like sapphires in the gold. 
 Should bribe me sell my virgin coronet 
 Unless to save Toulouse. I see you now 
 Stooping to cull me — O thou million-manned 
 
44 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 And million-moneyed nothing, get thee gone ! 
 Go, count your gold ! take this for arrow point, 
 Maidens love men, not beasts with gold anoint. 
 Foix, Farewell, Count Raymond, we may 
 chance to meet 
 Upon the field \ I cannot parry words 
 Nor do I thrust with phrases. Here ! my men ! 
 Toulouse. Farewell. 
 Jongleur. Go in peace and hem petticoats for 
 
 Popes. 
 Falconer. Lo, yonder see they've turned the 
 Royston crow. 
 Toulouse. {Addressing the compafiy.) 
 So clear an omen lacks no prophet rede — 
 We to their raven will play peregrine. 
 See, my brave fellows, see the soaring hawks 
 How with each stoop they claw a plumy cloud, 
 And sable feathers blush to crimson death ! 
 Thus shall we meet the carrion pack of Rome ; 
 Be theirs the raven's fate. 
 All. They die ! They die ! 
 
 \Exeunt further afield all but ESCARLA- 
 MONDE and Jongleur. 
 
 Enter a Beggar. 
 Beggar. A charity, sweet Lady ! 
 
MSCARLAMONDE. 45 
 
 Escarlamonde, Here is a silver groat, poor 
 wanderer. 
 
 Beggar. A century of thanks — I bear a letter 
 
 [Gives the letter. 
 From the Count de Montfort. 
 
 Escarlamonde. {Reading.) Sweetest Lady, 
 your message let Paradise into my soul ; but even 
 now my vileness would not dare to address your 
 divinity were your messenger free : alas, he was 
 seized by the patrolling guard just leaving my 
 pavilion. He stands in danger of death ; you 
 alone can save him ; therefore I write and ask 
 you by all means to meet me at the edge of the 
 oak-wood, skirting our camp, at midnight. The 
 bearer of this will lead you secretly thither. My 
 father and the fates bind me here, or long ere this 
 would have been kneeling at your feet your 
 devoted servant, GuY DE Montfort. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Ah, mad, noble Roland ! 
 Each wind that blows fans yellower the flame 
 That ever glows within thee ; — Roland cap- 
 tured ! 
 My Roland ! But he needs me, and I parley ; 
 I'll go at once to him. Where is the wood ? 
 
 Beggar. A long three leagues from here, my 
 noble lady. 
 
46 BSCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Escarlamonde. Three leagues, three miles, 
 three inches, I am there. 
 Wilt thou conduct me ?— 
 Beggar, Gladly, noble lady. 
 
 Escarlamonde, We must be secret, for the 
 Count of Foix, 
 Has left my brother's camp and doubtless seeks 
 To join Count Montfort. 
 
 Beggar, We'll be air to eyes. 
 
 At love's and beauty's feet the whole world lies. 
 
 l^Exeunt, 
 
 Scene II. — Crusaders' camp. 
 
 Enter Simon de Montfort, Thj^dise, Duke 
 OF Burgundy, Count of Nevers, Guy 
 Montfort, Soldiers. 
 
 Simon de Montfort. Bring forth the prisoner. 
 
 Enter Roland de Trencavel, escorted by 
 
 soldiers. He is placed opposite the dais 
 
 whe7'e sit Simon de Montfort and 
 
 Th^dise, surrounded by the other barons. 
 
 To the Captain of the Guard,) 
 
 Captain, give your report. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 47 
 
 Captain. Most noble count, we seized the 
 prisoner 
 At midnight, gliding outward from the camp. 
 
 Simon de Montford, What is your name, 
 whence come you, wherefore found 
 In the Crusaders' camp ? 
 
 Roland, I am the knight 
 
 Roland of Trencavel ; Toulouse I left ; 
 But for the purpose of my journey here 
 I do refuse to speak. 
 
 Simon de Montfort. He is a knight, 
 Unbind him. [ROLAND unbound. 
 
 When we find an armed man 
 Threading our silent camp, in open war, 
 And when his own confession does reveal 
 An enemy, we slay him for a spy. 
 
 Roland. Though bugbear death 
 Affright me less than aching tooth, I swear 
 I am no spy. 
 
 Thedise. Talk thou not thus of death 
 Who shortly wilt before thy Maker stand. 
 I pray. Count Montfort, let not this sinner leave 
 The world unchastened, for a fiery death 
 Does purge the soul and save eternal flames. 
 
 Simon de Montfort. No, no, he is a brave man, 
 and shall die 
 
48 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 A gladial, knightly death. But say, my friend, 
 What brought you here ? your life hangs on your 
 lips. 
 Roland. I will not speak, though silence dig 
 
 my grave. 
 Simon de Montfo7't, Then, soldiers, lead him 
 
 out. 
 Guy, One moment, stay ! 
 Methinks I saw him at Count Raymond's 
 
 court ; 
 He is the troubadour, and we should spare 
 One poet in ten thousand enemies. 
 
 ThMise. Root out the pest Count Guy, were 
 those the words 
 Of any other baron I should guess 
 He was bewitched, for always singing-folk 
 Are satan-sprung and seek to wean men's souls 
 By melodies, as that terrific fiend 
 Lilith of old sung Adam first to sin. 
 Roland. Yes, I am troubadour, but know, sir 
 priest. 
 We poets care full little to draw men 
 Toward us by fear or force, those only come 
 Who willing come, we sell but what we have, 
 While your all-empty promises on earth 
 Will more than void celestial treasuries. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 49 
 
 Enter Marshall, announcing Count of Foix, 
 
 followed by his men. Foix approaches De 
 
 MoNTFORT and Th^dise and kneels^ in 
 
 token of subjnission. 
 
 Marshal. The Count of Foix. 
 
 Simon de Montfort. Rise up, sir Count ; you've 
 
 lately left Toulouse ? 
 Foix. I've lately left Toulouse but not, I hope, 
 Too late to serve the Church ; take all my lands 
 And vassals for the service of the Lord, 
 But let me serve against the heretic. 
 
 Thidise. The Church receives you as a 
 wandered lamb 
 Back to her bosom. 
 
 Foix. Blessed be the Lord 
 
 And the Pope Innocent. 
 
 Simon de Montfort. You shall not lack. 
 Count Foix, for chance to serve most Holy 
 
 Church 
 In the next battle. 
 
 Foix. Henceforth I will strive 
 
 To cut a path to Heaven with my sword. 
 Si?non de Montfort. Pray sit with us. 
 
 [Foix ascends dais. 
 We have before us now a prisoner 
 From heretic Toulouse ; you may be able 
 £ 
 
50 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 To clear for us the purpose of his coming 
 Alone at midnight ; he has taken oath 
 Upon his knighthood (and a knight he is, 
 Clear written o'er and o'er,) 'twas not to spy, 
 But speaks no further word. 
 
 Foix, De Trencavel, 
 
 The troubadour, aye, well I know the man ; 
 A knight in truth, but nearest to a knave 
 Of all nobility. 
 
 Roland, By Herakles ! 
 
 Your blood shall blazon for sorrow your words 
 Deep in the earth, carved ready by your 
 
 teeth, 
 If but the fates relent — vile renegade ! 
 
 Foix. This is Count Raymond's favourite, and 
 when 
 The Legate Pierre was murdered at the gates 
 All eyes were turned his way. 
 
 Thedise. The murderer ! 
 
 God's ways indeed are marvellous, he draws 
 All sinners to the stake. 
 
 Foix. I said not Roland slew the legate Pierre, 
 But only that suspicion fell on him. 
 Being known as heretic of heretics. 
 As steeped in blood, a carnage roysterer. 
 His sword bepurpled with a thousand deaths. 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 51 
 
 Roland, Count Foix, I know not whence this 
 violence 
 Unless it be that certain fairest dame 
 Preferred to yours my company. 
 
 Thddise, Declare, 
 
 Who slew our Legate Pierre ? 
 Roland, Who numbers beetles crushed beneath 
 
 his heel ? 
 Thddise. WTien prisoners are stubborn, Holy 
 Church, 
 As authorized by saintly Innocent, 
 Employs the secular arm ; you shall be tortured 
 Till from those lips, now ruddy but then pale 
 As whitest ivory, shall break confession 
 In fractured words of utter agony. 
 Simon de Montfort Guards, lead away the 
 prisoner to watch 
 Till we appear ; Thddise, he shall be questioned 
 Before us both. 
 Roland, I slew the legate Pierre. 
 
 \Shouts and mojuentary confusion. 
 I say this nowise to escape the pain 
 You promise me, but that before he dies 
 This crowd of sodden credence led by fear 
 May learn how Roland hates the Christ-born 
 creed. 
 
52 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 If from the throne of God (which you aver 
 Lies veiled beneath the blue), Christ glideth 
 
 down 
 To me all lambent with the light of Hell, 
 Vouchsafing an archangel diadem 
 And evermore the bliss of Paradise 
 Before God's throne, will I but worship God, 
 Thus shall I spit in sparks my answer back ; — 
 Base murderer of all things beautiful. 
 Get back to Heaven, blanch not our crimson 
 
 home 
 With offers of an idle empery 
 Where serving saints doff crowns before their 
 
 God ; 
 Earth-born we are, for through our human veins 
 Circles the music of the terrene world — 
 More sweet for us, however sweet may be 
 The wail of harps in heavenly symphony. 
 Therefore avaunt, pale lamb, unless again 
 Thou wilt bleat forth thy life upon the cross ! 
 And thou, Thedise, priest of the popish power. 
 Think not to fright me with thy Roman craft- 
 Long pins and screws, or racks to bend the will 
 Of tortured flesh to bless thy gentle creed. 
 I die in all defiance, but if one here 
 Do ever hap to see Escarlamonde, 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 53 
 
 Fair Countess of Toulouse, I hereby pray 
 By all he loves or ever held most dear 
 On earth, that bowing lowly to her feet 
 His lips may silent form the sacred word, 
 Her own four-petalled name, Escarlamonde ; 
 Then on their severance will an instant dwell 
 The breeze that haunts my tomb and softly sigh 
 " Escarlamonde ; " thus may she surely know 
 That Roland dreams of her. 
 
 Guy, This will I do. 
 
 Simon de Montfort. De Trencavel, those 
 words have cost your life. 
 
 ThMise. Let death embrace him on the creak- 
 ing rack. 
 
 Simon de Montfort, He has confessed and 
 now deserves to die ; 
 But we may yet glean news from the rack's grip 
 That else were lost for ever. Soldiers, lead 
 The prisoner forth ; pray follow us. Count Foix. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
54 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Scene \\\.—A Wood outside Montfort's 
 Camp. Night. 
 
 Enter GuY de Montfort. 
 
 Guy. Unless my man have played me false, or 
 
 given 
 The message wrongly, certes she should be here. 
 I sent him, hastening, before the sun 
 Was more than half-disc high — and all the roads 
 Lie open for beggars ; — sobeit through his rents 
 Have not peered out the soldier hid within 
 And wrought his capture 'ere the message 
 
 given — 
 But yonder, through the trees, I surely spy 
 Her white against the black ! 
 
 Enter Escari.amonde, with messenger^ dis- 
 guised as beggar. 
 
 Escarlamonde. {Breathless.) Count Guy de 
 
 Montfort ! 
 Guy. Madame, your humblest slave. 
 Escarlamonde. How fareth Roland ? 
 
 Guy. At the Council, holden this day in the 
 
 Camp, 
 Roland de Trencavel confessed the murder 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 55 
 
 Of Pierre de Castelnau, and cursed the Church 
 
 Before Thddise, who fills the embassy 
 
 Of papal legate, was condemned to die 
 
 And bad me, in some strange, gold- woven phrase, 
 
 To say before you but your name from him, 
 
 " Escarlamonde." — 
 
 Escarlamonde, He lives ! he lives ! 
 
 He cannot die ! — now kill me with the truth— 
 They've murdered him ? — 
 
 Guy, I think he is not dead, 
 
 But it may be that holding back his breath 
 Under the torture as did — 
 
 Escarlamonde. If he be dead, 
 
 Then is the world my living tomb, those stars 
 Mere gilded nails to penn a misery 
 Would reach beyond them into utmost space 
 And wed with chaos. 
 
 Guy. And so you love him, lady? when I heard 
 Roland before that crowd of angry looks 
 Declare such bright defiance, o'er my mind 
 Shuddered the thought he must be deep in love ; 
 Then at the last his message, " Whisper once 
 Her name Escarlamonde," brought home to me 
 Whence light did flood his soul ; but at Toulouse 
 He did deceive me basely, never word 
 To all my wild avowals of a love 
 
56 ESCARLAMOISIDE. 
 
 For your bright star ; ha ! how the rogue within 
 Must have built towers of proud contempt for me 
 Who came a stranger to the prisoned dove 
 He kept in open cage and thought to lure 
 So sweet a prey from home — 
 
 Escarlamonde. {Producing GVY^"^ letter.) You 
 sent me this, 
 And said here I might save him : I am here, 
 Ready to pay his safety with such coin 
 As molten in one crucible of pain 
 Body and soul may give. What shall I do ? 
 
 Guy, {Falling on his knees.) Ah ! let the silent 
 ocean of my love 
 But drink his furnace flame ! 
 
 Escarla7nonde. I madly wrote 
 
 To please his madness what I fear you hold 
 A letter of love to you, it bore your name : 
 But those words, " wait and watch," addressed 
 
 to you, 
 A stranger hardly seen, were the true sign 
 Of utter, deep devotion to the man 
 Whose worshipper I pride myself. 
 
 Guy. But now, 
 
 He may be dead. 
 
 Escarlamonde. {Showing a daggerl\ This will 
 soon rend the veil 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 57 
 
 Hiding his dead life from my living death — 
 Speak, what to save him ? 
 
 Guy. {Still on his knees.) Ah! Escarlamonde, 
 Fly but with me and I will be the slave 
 Of your contempt for ever, for my love 
 Beyond you sees but darkness, and behind 
 One sandy desert. 
 
 Escarlamonde, Silence, and arise ; 
 Unless you straightway point me out the road 
 That leads to Roland's rescue (if he lives) 
 I will to your father's camp, and on my knees 
 Offer this life for Roland and declare, 
 Viper, thy slimy meanness ; make thy choice. 
 
 Giiy. Escarlamonde, your love had made of 
 me 
 A giant among men, your scorn has rased 
 My manhood to the dust, not killed a love 
 Which is immortal, larger than myself, 
 Nescient of human law and uncontrolled 
 By the swift accident of earthly change. 
 I am berepliled and must therefore crawl 
 True to the coiling kind ; — If I procure 
 Roland's salvation, you must pledge your word 
 For my reception in Toulouse and grant 
 Free leave to woo you, if I may not win. 
 
 Escarlamonde. This all I swear. 
 
58 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Gtiy. Good, then return with speed, 
 
 Inform Count Raymond that with all my men 
 (My private guard) I do desert for him. 
 Let a strong force arrange to-night a march 
 And come upon our camp in the early hours. 
 Roland is guarded in the middle tent 
 Near my pavilion ; I will drug his guard, 
 And when the battle rages, with my men 
 Seize Roland and escape. 
 
 Escarlamonde. O model knave. 
 
 It is a compact sworn for Roland's sake. 
 
 Guy, I kiss the hand that laid me in the dust, 
 Then taught those lips to curl at my disgrace. 
 
 Escarlainonde. Farewell, Count Montfort, we 
 shall meet again. 
 
 Guy, Farewell, fair ringlets that have wove my 
 chain. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — Roland's prison in the Camp of 
 the Crusaders, Roland discovered prostrate 
 on a low bed. Midnight. 
 
 Enter Guy de Montfort. 
 
 Guy, In a low whisper; the whole scene is 
 carried on in undertones.) 
 Roland de Trencavel, awake, 'tis I, 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 59 
 
 Younger de Montfort. 
 
 Roland. {In a weak whisper,) What would 
 you with me ? let me lie in peace : 
 You and the rack have well-nigh made my sleep 
 Eternal, as ere long they doubtless will. 
 
 Guy, You suffered, but my utmost credit went 
 To shield you from the priest ; yea, even now 
 My father's name alone prevents suspicion 
 Choking his son. 
 
 Roland, Perchance you did your most. 
 
 Guy, If then I did my most I since achieved 
 A more than most will link your sundered bones. 
 IVe seen Escarlamonde. 
 
 Roland, You've seen the sun 
 
 At midnight, or the moon lit on an oak 
 To rest herself : Montfort, you are a dream. 
 
 Guy, No dream, true blood and flesh in 
 burnished steel. 
 Ready to wreak your rescue ; but I think 
 You slip from promises, the purpose won. 
 Like bees from drained iris. 
 
 Roland, {Half arisen.) WTiat mean you ? 
 
 \Aside, 
 I think he is a dream, and yet the voice 
 And all the presence so bespeak the man 
 I once did know for Montfort, that my eyes 
 
6o ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Can scarce believe they're closed. 
 Guy . {A dvancing to the bed-side and tendering 
 
 his gaunt leted hand to Roland, sitting up.) 
 Here, doubt no more ; 
 Marshal the senses by the sensitive : 
 But you, I fear, are drawn 
 So many ways with pain that what was once 
 Essential matter of intelligence 
 Is grown but perfume clinging round the wreck 
 Of shivered memory. 
 
 Roland. {Rising with difficulty to his feet., by 
 help ^GUY DE Montfort's hand.) 
 How come you here ? 
 Where is the guard ? 
 
 Gtiy. My father's name and fame 
 
 Set iron bolts a-tremble, and the guard 
 Cushion the ground for footstool to my feet ; 
 I come to save your life, but first will bring 
 Face to your face some trifles light as down 
 Weighty as lead to me. 
 
 Roland. Say on. 
 
 Guy. One day, 
 
 Not a week old, we met within Toulouse, 
 And holding you for trusty friend, I bared 
 The secret of my heart to friendship's ear, 
 And asked your help, having once given you mine 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 6i 
 
 In such a crisis. You then promised me 
 A fair return, that you would steadfast strive 
 To win for me until the war were done 
 The love of bright, bright blue Escarlamonde. 
 
 Roland, I promised, and so far as in me lay, 
 Performed. 
 
 Guy, Why did you not reveal your love. 
 
 Lit at the same torch ? 
 
 Roland, Because I had sworn 
 
 To help you as you once had holpen me, 
 And well I knew that once her fairness felt, 
 Hope lit and then extinguished, it would kill 
 
 you 
 More surely than the band of ruffians 
 Had sped me to my death but for your aid 
 In Paris long ago. 
 
 Guy, You rightly read 
 
 My trembling heart. 
 
 Roland, It throbbed through all your speech. 
 Therefore I built as far as words could build 
 Your favour with Escarlamonde, and now, 
 Had I not met the evil chance of night. 
 Should be again within Toulouse's walls 
 Which I shall never see again. 
 
 Guy. You spoke 
 
 No selfish word of love ? 
 
62 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 Roland. No single sigh 
 
 Breathed mute avowal through my prison lips. 
 
 Guy. Then will I save your life and bring 
 you back 
 Safely to Raymond's court. 
 
 Roland. You bring me back 
 
 To Raymond's court ! 
 
 Guy. Yes, though the blazoned gates 
 
 Of proud Toulouse see the all-proudest son 
 Of lion father crawl there on his knees. 
 
 Roland. What means this ? How can Mont- 
 fort seek Toulouse ? 
 
 Guy. Hearken and hear a calendar of death. 
 When last we met at Raymond's court, my name 
 Glinted the sun-ray back with ten-fold light ; 
 Honour and pride did perch upon my crest 
 Like eagles on their mountain pinnacle. 
 Undaunted, unapproached ; then none had dared 
 To but rebuke me, smiling, for a fault 
 My doing had made virtue. Thus I shone 
 Until the stars gave me another sun, 
 A fearsome orb — 
 
 Quite full of flame and fierce malignity. 
 Of perfect splendour which did concentrate. 
 Such dire, effective lightnings in her gaze 
 As turned me to decay (thus often lakes, 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 63 
 
 Lying beneath the intolerable heat 
 
 Of some vast tropic constellation, shrink 
 
 Until the crystal mantle of their waves 
 
 Be rent asunder and beneath reveal 
 
 Miasma plains of mud ) ; mine is their fate ; 
 
 I rot beneath the fire of this new sun, 
 
 Escarlamonde, all creviced, all sucked-up 
 
 And burned to ruin with eternal love 
 
 Of her infernal fairness ; — all has gone — 
 
 Honour, religion, country, father, fame ; 
 
 Long, lean-necked vultures probe their prostrate 
 
 corse. 
 And fleeing eagles shriek along the wind. 
 
 [Distant sounds 0/ battle. 
 Roland. If we escape I'm anchored to my 
 oath. 
 Of loyal love service. 
 
 Guy. I must away 
 
 Gather my trusted men. 
 
 Roland. Ah, I forgot 
 
 To question the salvation of my life. 
 
 Guy. In truth I should have told you — an 
 attack 
 From Raymond we devised — hear the first 
 
 breath — 
 I join and simulate resistance, then 
 
64 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 In the red cloak and black of warful knight 
 Hither return, first slay the amazed guard, 
 Then skirt with you the battle and take horse 
 Straight for Toulouse. Farewell, we meet again. 
 \Exit Guy de Montfort. 
 Roland. Alive again ! I who so deeply drank 
 Of death's deep-poppied bowl that all the world 
 Seemed to my distant senses as a star, 
 Buried in blue to gazer upon earth. 
 
 [Shouts and clash of battle. 
 Escarlamonde ! then once again these eyes 
 May steal the lyrics sleeping in thy smile. 
 And draw gold rapture from thy floating hair. 
 Ah ! I could live for ages on the life 
 Of seeing her alive ! Ah ! but to know 
 She breathed yet and with her amber sighs 
 Turned all the other winds to wed the south. 
 
 \Tumult. 
 And northern Montfort loves ; his frosty soul 
 Once melted in the meeting of her eyes 
 Now flows a torrent to the cataract. [Tmmilt. 
 I might plead for him all the years of earth 
 And every word but make her love him less. 
 
 \^Tu?nult. 
 I pity him to lowest similes, 
 For well I know she loves me utterly 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 65 
 
 With a far richer treasury of love 
 
 Than we can reach the spending on the earth. 
 
 Enter G\JY DE MONTFORT, 
 
 Guy. Come, lean on me, I have a horse for 
 you. 
 Or mine for both, if still you are too weak 
 To sit in saddle. [Exeunt, 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Toulouse, The Great Banquet- Hall, 
 Raymond, Count of Toulouse, Roland 
 DE Trencavel, Beziers, Comminges, 
 ESCARLAMONDE, other BarofiSy Retainers^ 
 discovered, 
 
 Raymond, Fill all the cups with reddest wine 
 9.nd drink 
 Our Rpland back again, and Guy de Montfort 
 Who saved his life and thereby gains our love. 
 
 \All drink. 
 F 
 
66 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 And what of the escape ? why did you venture, 
 Roland, so near their camp ? 
 
 Roland. My lord, to judge 
 
 Their numbers and position ; by ill-chance 
 A log that smouldered in a watch-fire 
 Flared up as I passed by and thus revealed 
 My presence to their guard of fifty ; — but 
 Count Guy will better tell of our escape 
 After my trial, for 'twas he that planned it — 
 He only — and his name our talisman. 
 
 Guy. First let me thank the noble Count 
 Raymond 
 (And all my thanks do leave me deep in debt), 
 For his so princely welcome in Toulouse 
 And swift acceptance of such services 
 As I may render ; but for our escape 
 ' Twas easy managed, I but gave the alarm 
 Of your attack, and rushing foremost forth, 
 Roland and I, with fifty of my men, 
 Did join your Albigensians and retreat. 
 
 Raymond. Again all welcome. 
 
 Escarlamonde. Brother mine, how pale 
 
 Is Roland since he left us ! 
 
 Roland. Yes, my cheeks 
 
 Caught pallor from their company, but soon 
 Toulouse and her red wine will re-imprint 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 67 
 
 The hue that used to haunt them. 
 
 Escarlamonde, {Aside to Roland). Will you 
 meet me 
 To-morrow in the garden, for I have 
 A world of words to whisper you alone ? 
 
 Guy. {Aside to Roland). Roland, methinks 
 you strangely keep your faith. 
 
 Roland. How can I hinder her ? 
 
 Gi4y. Most easefully, 
 
 Were it but with your will. 
 
 Raymond, I pray you cease 
 
 Disputes, and rather let our Roland sing 
 Some song of his to cheer us. 
 
 Guy. Will not Count Roland 
 
 Sing the gay verse he penned to please a maid 
 Once in Anjou ; they say she died of love 
 For his bright eyes. 
 
 Roland. I know not what you mean. 
 
 I have made many songs for many maids — 
 It is my only craft — but which an one 
 Died for my love I know not ; nor I think 
 Does the Count Guy, but rather that he will 
 Goad from me hasteful words and cast a sull)^. 
 So far as in him lies, on my fair fame. 
 
 Raymond. Silence, I pray ; once more fill high 
 the cups, 
 
68 ESCARLAMONDE. 
 
 And let us drink the death to all our foes, 
 
 \To Count Guy. 
 Save, for your sake, your father's ! 
 
 Guy. Would he were 
 
 Slain by my hand ; ah, let him but appear 
 Within these walls, and if the fates be fair 
 I shall transpierce him. 
 
 AIL Well said! Well said ! 
 
 Ray7nond, For those words you shall guard 
 our palace gate, 
 And here the voucher of my earnestness, 
 The master-key. [Gives golden key, 
 
 Roland. Does no command fall mine 
 
 As once. Prince Raymond ? 
 
 Escarlamonde. Roland must allow 
 
 His weary body rest ere it can match 
 Imperious spirit promptings. 
 
 Raymond. Truly said. 
 
 Countess, my sister ; Roland, thou shalt lie 
 Here in the palace, till Escarlamonde 
 Our doctoress do grant thee fully cured, 
 Able to wield again thy burnished blade 
 That animates with death the servant- spears 
 Crowding behind ; {Rising\ now let us part, and 
 
 pray 
 The radiant gods of bright antiquity 
 
ESCARLAMONDE. 69 
 
 To bear our cause at heart. Let Count de Mont- 
 fort 
 Be shewn the chamber destined for his use. 
 
 \ExeunL 
 
 Scene II. — The Palace garden. 
 
 Enter Roland and Escarlamonde : they 
 walk up and down, 
 
 Roland, You know I love you and shall always 
 
 love. 
 Escarlamonde, You see I ever love you and 
 
 shall love. 
 Roland. Wherefore, when now each has the 
 other's faith 
 Eternal, seek you more ? 
 
 Escarla?nonde. I will to know 
 
 Your sudden change from open adoration 
 To distant, cold eye-worship. 
 
 Roland, Loveliest one 
 
 My honour stands before a closer bond. 
 Escarlamonde, Your honour I is it therefore 
 honourable 
 To steal away both heart and soul, and then, 
 In lofty fashion pleading your honour, ban 
 
ya ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Me all my life and death to misery ! 
 Ah, Roland let us live back to the past ! 
 Roland. Could I outlive my promise to Count 
 
 Guy, 
 Which as a net thrown forward from the past 
 Snares all my future in its coiled web. 
 Could I but grasp anew the floating hair 
 Of Destiny, and drag her back again 
 To the clear hill-top whence we viewed the world 
 Glittering below, then wer'st thou surely mine ; 
 But now — no words nor deeds can fill the chasm 
 Between us blasted to eternity. 
 Escarlamonde, Farewell, farewell for ever, now 
 
 I will 
 Seek some old turret-cloister and alone 
 Dream a long, stationary dream of thee 
 As once a year ago tky meeting smile 
 Builded for me my share of Paradise. [ Weeps. 
 
 Enter GuY de Montfort. 
 
 Guy, Vile, perjured hound ! where is your 
 pledged faith 
 Never again to court Escarlamonde ? 
 
 Roland. No man can be another man in love, 
 Only himself, therefore I said adieu 
 For ever to Escarlamonde ; you have 
 
ESCARLAMONDE, 71 
 
 The longed-for haven open and can urge 
 Alone your suit, but of that bitter speech 
 Our judges hang beside us. [They draw,^ 
 
 Guy. So, let us fight, and by your speedy death 
 I will disclose to fair Escarlamonde 
 How more than you I love her. 
 
 Escarlamonde, Should your boast 
 
 Chance true, and Roland fall, I could not hate 
 
 you. 
 Love him, one whit the more. 
 
 [Exit Escarlamonde. Roland and Guy 
 DE MoNTFORxyf^^/, but are arrested by 
 sounds of battle. 
 
 Enter Simon de Montfort, de Foix, 
 a^td Crusaders. 
 
 Roland, ^y> Guy de Montfort ! 
 
 You left the walls unguarded, and behold 
 Your work. Ha ! Count of Foix, have at you ! 
 Foix. Stand back, my men, while I chastise 
 this knave. [Roland and De Yo\y. fight. 
 Guy. Loveless and lonely I will drown myself 
 In living blood. A Montfort ! A Montfort ! 
 [Rushes mio the meUe and is killed. Roland 
 falls wounded — the battle moves onwards 
 —flames burst from the palace windows. 
 
72 ESCARLAMONDE, 
 
 Roland, Escarlamonde ! Escarlamonde ! 
 
 - Enter Escarlamonde /r^;;^ the Palace, % 
 The utter joy of thy fair vision 
 Makes of this moment an eternity : 
 When I am gone those eyes will think of me 
 Tearfully sometimes ? 
 
 Escarlamonde, You left me once and went but 
 fifty miles ; 
 My heart bled out the inches of your way : 
 And now, my darling, when your path is set 
 Much farther off, among the yellow stars, 
 Shall I not follow ? 
 
 Roland. Escarlamonde, I think no other man 
 Has ever slept in such a bed of bliss 
 As where your soft words lay me ; let us pass 
 Starward together, for I feel my soul 
 Disanchored ride upon thin waves of air. \pies. 
 
 Escarlamoftde. Farewell, farewell, forever to 
 the world. [Stabs herself. Dies, 
 
 FINIS* 
 1887. 
 
73 
 
 OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 
 
 1586. 
 
 Scene.— Q^/>^ Harbour of Messina. 
 
 The Cabin of SciPio Cicala.* 
 
 Scipio Cicala, My own dear mother, here at 
 length you stand 
 On Islam's soil ; yon puling Spanish cur 
 May bite his mangy paws for your return 
 In coward impotence ; but tell me why 
 Lucretia comes not with you ? I received 
 Your letter saying she was ill, but so 
 I knew it was not — had the Viceroy sent 
 Such an excuse. Viceroy by now he were 
 With flames and cinders for Viceroyalty. 
 
 Countess Cicala, She was indeed too weak to 
 leave her bed : 
 Your nephew, called Scipio after you, 
 
 ^^ For an account of Cicala see Creasy's * ' History of the 
 Ottoman Turks." 
 
74 OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 
 
 I s now but three weeks old. " Tell him," she said, 
 " How all my thoughts are his, and that my child 
 Shall learn my brother's life for history : 
 Often," she said, " I look toward the east 
 Down the broad stretch of sea that flows to where 
 Constantinople rises from the waves. 
 Feeling I'm Scipio's guest, to whom the sea 
 Is all one blue-eyed slave." 
 
 Scipio Cicala. So let it be ; 
 
 Sweet sister's flattery covers as a veil 
 The Christian hate ; tell her, if e'er her son 
 Feel as I felt, and would return again 
 To Islam's faith, let him be sent to me, 
 And I will carve him out in the steep rock 
 That leads to fame those earliest vantage-steps. 
 More difficult than any after them. 
 Tell me, dear mother, during all the years 
 That have rolled over us, since father and I 
 Set sail for Djerbe, where he found his death 
 And I my life, has the Sicilian air 
 Blown gently on my mother's gentleness ? 
 
 Countess Cicala. Two years I mourned your 
 father and my son 
 (For you, I thought, were also dead, or worse- 
 Sold as a slave), I never left my home 
 Until the radiant news came from the East— 
 
OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 75 
 
 The Padischah had smiled t^on my son, 
 My own, my beautiful (what help had he ?) — 
 Then I went forth and sought the Christian Church 
 To thank the Christian God, but all the words 
 My heart could find were " Allah Merciful," 
 " Prophet, I thank thee, lover of the brave " ;— 
 Then back again to "Allah Merciful." 
 
 Scipio Cicala. News travels slowly from the 
 East, except 
 The news of war. 
 
 Countess Cicala. Aye, it was many months 
 Before I heard again that you had topped 
 So many Moslem heads and stood at last 
 Yourself proud Aga of Janissaries. 
 
 Scipio Cicala. My upward path was easy with 
 the sun 
 Of great Solyman shining. 
 
 Countess Cicala. Afterwards, 
 
 Again there fell a silence ; " He is dead 
 Perhaps," I thought, and every colourless day 
 Led me a further step into the tomb. 
 I trembled, for I knew the perilous height 
 Where you were standing was enclosed round 
 With the snake's circle of the scimitar, 
 Most deadly treacherous. 
 
 Scipio Cicala. I had a charm 
 
76 OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 
 
 To soothe such snakes asleep, one little word, 
 " The Bosphorus." 
 
 Countess Cicala, And then ? 
 
 Scipio Cicala, I sought a bride, 
 
 And found Irene, daughter of the Sot,^ 
 Granddaughter of the mighty Padischah, 
 Sister of Amurath, and thus equipped 
 I dared forsake the town. 
 
 Countess Cicala, You left your bride 
 
 With but your name to husband ? 
 
 Scipio Cicala, Choice was none, 
 
 The Persian thunder rumbled. 
 
 Countess Cicala, And she wept ? 
 
 Scipio Cicala, Mayhap she wept. 
 
 Countess Cicala, You won the victor}'', 
 
 And then she dried her tears to know you safe, 
 Sweet daughter mine. 
 
 Scipio Cicala, Oh ! 'twas a bloody field ! ^ 
 
 We fell upon them at the dead of the night ; 
 Their camp was black, — scarcely a glimmering 
 
 light 
 Shewed us their tents, — they slumbered, — with a 
 rush 
 
 1 Sultan Selim the Sot son of Solyman. This epithet is 
 applied to Selim by the historians of his own country. 
 
 2 The Battle of the Torches is here described. 
 
OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. rj 
 
 We were upon them, and the fiery glare 
 Of forty thousand torches struck a dread 
 Of demon's to their heart, before they knew 
 That we were men they were not men them- 
 selves — 
 Corpses or cowards — oh ! 'twas a butchery 
 To make the earth spue blood, myself I was 
 A gardener lopping mandrake ; * one alone 
 Of all the crew dared face me, he had left 
 The battle, mounted for retreat ; he was 
 A squadron officer ; he drew rein and turned, 
 Viewed me, dismounted, and our married steel 
 Struck sparks like fire-flies dancing in the night. 
 He fell at last, — I had gashed his forehead deep, 
 Blinded his eyes with blood j I knelt by his side. 
 Saying, " Confess the faith and save your days — 
 Mahomet and Amurath the Padischah 
 And one God over all ; " he gaspM forth, 
 ** Ormuzd Ahriman and the Schah-in-Schah." 
 
 Countess Cicala, You spared him, Scipio ? 
 
 Scipio Cicala, I propped his head 
 
 Upon a stone, bound up his wound, and sought 
 Again the garden. 
 
 Countess Cicala, There spokemy own brave son. 
 
 1 Mandrake. This plant was supposed to shriek when 
 plucked. 
 
78 OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 
 
 Scipio Cicalo. I think it was my mother, not 
 her son 
 That spared the Persian ; mercy's a weakling 
 
 word, 
 Lacks to my alphabet ; before nor since 
 I never wavered. 
 
 Countess Cicala, Now you are advanced 
 To Lord High Admiral of the Crescent fleets ? 
 
 Scipio Cicala. Aye, they thought my mood 
 Were more in tune with pirates and with foes : 
 They missed too many heads when I was Aga, 
 So the " son of a slave " ' wrote with his own 
 
 great hand 
 My appointment to be Capitan Pascha 
 Of all the fleets, gilded the wording well, 
 Called mine " amphibious glory," ^ and a host 
 Of such strange words, all this the learned said 
 Was poetry ; if this be poetry. 
 Then poetry was useless even to mask 
 The dread they felt to see me once again : 
 (I mean the eunuchs and the courtly crowd) 
 
 1 The * ' Son of a Slave " is a term by which the Turkish, 
 people often speak of the Sultan. Creasy, ' ' History of 
 the Ottoman Turks." 
 
 2 The love and practice of poetry is traditional in the 
 House of Othman. 
 
OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 79 
 
 Aga of them and of Janissaries. 
 
 Countess Cicala. The sun is sinking — galloping 
 to the west 
 To end my little day ; oh ! the gun will sound, 
 Calling me back to death and Sicily, 
 It booms already in my heart. 
 
 [Taking a small golden cross from her neck^ 
 
 This cross ; 
 [Giving it to CiCALA. 
 Your father gave me on our wedding day ; 
 I swore to wear it while I loved him best 
 Of all the world ; now keep it for my sake, 
 Not as religious sign, — since I was seized. 
 Trembling, a prey at Modon, I have felt 
 Sufficient weight of sorrow to deserve 
 
 This as my symbol also 
 
 Wear it, my son, my darling, for my sake. 
 We shall not meet again, it cannot be. 
 For I am old and you too near the heart 
 Of the throbbing world ; mayhap when I am dead, 
 And you are laid with glory in the grave, 
 Mayhap, though I have left the Prophet's faith. 
 Such perfect love is mine that Christ will build 
 A little bridge across to Mahomet's heaven, 
 That I may pass along, and peeping through 
 The brilliant chinks, have but one glimpse of you 
 
8o OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 
 
 Throned on the white and green ; I will not ask 
 More than to see you once, for my gray hairs 
 Were all ajar in Mahomet's glorious heaven. 
 
 Scipio Cicala, But, mother dear, in Jesus' Para- 
 dise 
 You will be young, your locks run gold again 
 As once they did. 
 
 Countess Cicala. No, I have grown too old 
 upon the earth 
 For even Heaven to make me young again, 
 And happy — never in the Christian Heaven, 
 When all my thoughts are twined about my son. 
 
 Scipio Cicala. Then come with me and join 
 the Prophet's faith. 
 
 Countess Cicala. I cannot leave Lucretia 
 To be the victim of the Christian rage ; 
 They well might murder her to prove the hate 
 They bear to Islam. 
 
 Scipio Cicala. By the Prophet's beard, 
 
 I'll burn Messina down, I'll rake the coast 
 For leagues and leagues, as once before I did 
 When they refused me sight of you ; I'll stamp 
 The Viceroy and his princedom into dust ! 
 
 [Calls to the patrol. 
 What ho there ! 
 
 Captain of the Patrol. My lord ?— 
 
OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 8i 
 
 Countess Cicala. And little sister, her whose 
 hand you held 
 A tiny boy, and said, " Lucretia, 
 I am your brother, I am stronger far 
 Than you can ever be, and therefore I 
 Will guard you through the world, and if any dare 
 So much as look unkindly — he must die." 
 'Twas tUus you lisped in the old, early time, 
 And now ? 
 Scipio Cicala, Now, I am still her brother. 
 
 \Gun sounds on shore. 
 Countess Cicala, My recall, the sunset gun : I 
 will not weep. 
 No, I am rich for ever from to-day, 
 
 {Hides her face y then suddenly throws her 
 arms rowid his neck and embraces him 
 silently, 
 Scipio Cicala, Farewell, my mother. 
 
 \She enters the skiff and disappears at the 
 entrance to the harbour of Messina. 
 When she is out of sight, SciPiO CiCALA 
 turns to the Captain of the Patrol. 
 Weigh anchor, steer to the east, set free 
 What sailors are in chains, and give them wine. 
 Captain of the Watch. {Aside.) A miracle ! 
 Scipio Cicala. You said ? 
 
 G 
 
82 OFF THE HARBOUR OF MESSINA. 
 
 Captain of the Watch. Nothing, my Lord. 
 Scipio Cicala. ( To the Sailors standing round.) 
 Hang me this fellow to the mast. 
 Sailors^ Yes, my Lord. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE LEGEND OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 Through the spacious streets of Rome do you 
 see 
 
 Yon sylph-slim damosel tripping alone — 
 Alone, or is it her ancient nurse 
 
 Stumbling behind over every stone ? 
 
 (Rome is herself and the eagle wings 
 Yet darken the uttermost ends of earth, 
 
 But the humble manger of Bethlehem 
 Has given the God Son birth, 
 
 Has given him birth and the death he craved, 
 From the mountain peak he has cried, 
 
 " Whosever will come to my Father's House 
 Shall in nowise be denied.") 
 
 Agnes is yet but a little child, 
 
 For Summer has scarcely had time to alight 
 In gold on her hair, or skies to lend azure, 
 
 Or Winter to dress her in white : 
 
84 THE LEGEND OP ST. AGATES. 
 
 She is hastening homeward, her lesson is over : 
 Thinking is she, now free of control. 
 
 Of one whom she loves with her white with her 
 golden 
 With her violet eyes, with her soul. 
 
 " Good-morrow, I wish you, Agnes nobilis, 
 
 Agnes venusta, Agnes columba, 
 Agnes animula, long have I loved you, 
 
 Rome have I sought for you days without 
 number." 
 
 But h'm she loves not, she fawn-like shrinketh 
 
 (O nurse, are the ways so steep ?) 
 " Sir ,1 know you not, I am homeward hasting, 
 
 I fain my path would keep." 
 
 " I am Procopius, son of Symphorion 
 
 Prefect of Rome, and I will not leave you, 
 
 Ere you have promised to wed me, my Father 
 Says as a daughter he will receive you." 
 
 " I thank you, Procopius, my bridegroom is 
 chosen. 
 
 Choose for yourself some fairer woman." 
 " Who," said Procopius, "who is the bridegroom? 
 
 You shall be my bride or the bride of no man : 
 
THE LEGEND OF ST. AGNES. 85 
 
 " Purple and slaves and swift-rolling chariots, 
 All these are mine and whoever you are, 
 
 Bridegroom elected, better you have not." — 
 Said Agnes, " Better far." 
 
 ** Mehercule ! maiden, I pray you to to tell me 
 Who is the man, does he dwell in Rome? 
 
 I fain would see him — see him and slay him." 
 Said the virgin, "Yonder his home." 
 
 Skyward she pointed, Procopius staring 
 From her tiny finger-tip, stared till his eyes, 
 
 Weary of roaming immensity, 
 Fell back into her eyes. 
 
 Then all the madness flowed in upon him, 
 *' O thou art mine, I swear it shall be ; 
 
 If you love me not, my love shall suffice us ;" 
 Said Agnes, "You are not He. 
 
 "He is far greater, better and wiser. 
 
 Perfect is he, see his blood in my. cheeks ^ 
 
 Glows at your insult, leave me, unhand me, 
 Victim of death ! " Procopius seeks 
 1 Sanguis ejus ornavit genas meas. — Acts of St. Agues. 
 
86 THE LEGEND OF ST. AGNES, 
 
 Vainly the word or the strength to detain her, 
 He leans on the wall with her scorn in his 
 heart ; 
 
 They found him at nightfall a raving madness ; 
 " He is far beyond the sphere of our art," 
 
 Whisper the doctors, "she only can save 
 him." 
 
 " Will you murder or marry my only son ? " 
 Thunders the prefect, " I cannot ; I will not," ' 
 
 Answers heroic the little one. 
 
 " You will not marry him, certes^ none other 
 Bridegroom but mine shall achieve your 
 desire ; 
 
 Shut out from the world and a virgin for ever 
 You shall guard the Vestal Fire." 
 
 " O pave your streets with your gods," said the 
 maiden, 
 
 " Stone and bronze were of use to tread — 
 My God lives yonder," (she pointed to Heaven), 
 
 " Yours were of earth and were always dead." 
 
 1 Non possum, non volo. — Acts of St. Agnes. 
 
THE LEGEND OF ST. AGNES. 87 
 
 " Christian accursed ! vilest blasphemer! 
 
 " Witch Galilean ! Guards, bear her hence ! 
 Vesta will none of her, godly Priapus 
 
 Shall show her a larger lenience." 
 
 O 'twas a sight to turn day to night 
 As white, with her golden hair that hung 
 The while they walked the*ir feet among. 
 
 The child was swayed to left to right, 
 Jostled, bespattered by the rude, 
 The pagan Roman multitude. 
 
 And as they passed the crier cried, 
 
 " See the magician that denied 
 
 The gods of Rome, lo, now we bear her 
 
 Where every man of you may share her." 
 ♦ *#*## 
 
 And now she stands in the nameless place, 
 Face to face with a worse than death. 
 
 She trembles not, she has faith in her Lover. 
 " Tear off her robe," the centurion saith. 
 
 It falls in pieces, but all of the golden 
 Curls will defend her a moment's space, 
 
88 THE LEGEND OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 Till from the mystical air that is round her, 
 Sweet Agnes is wrapped in a garment of grace. 
 
 This is a tissue wrought for the angels, 
 Clothed in heaven she raises her eyes, 
 
 Silently thanking her royal bridegroom ; 
 None dare approach her save him who defies 
 
 The very Son of his God, 'tis Procopius, 
 Madly he cries, " Now at last she is mine ; " 
 
 He rushes to seize her, but rolls on the marble, 
 Shivered to dust by a shaft divine. 
 
 And now see the Prefect, shaken with sobbing, 
 (O a strong man's tears are a terrible thing,) 
 
 He kneels at her feet, "O pray to your Lover, 
 Pray that my son back to life he may bring." 
 
 " Leave me alone with him, then I will ask him ; " 
 (Could her blanched lips be denied ? ) 
 
 Returning, they find him from Hell back-wafted, 
 A miracle, at her side. 
 
 And here the very words of the history 
 
 Burst into scarlet to speak of their shame ; — 
 
THE LEGEND OF ST. AGNES. 89 
 
 Father and son without help or thanksgiving 
 Slink to their kennel. " Come, kindle a flame," 
 
 Shouts the centurion, "Guards, bear the faggots," 
 Echoes the crowd, " Let her burn, let her 
 burn," 
 
 Vainly Aspasius * (like Pilate before him) 
 Strives the blind flow of their frenzy to turn. 
 
 Tied to the stake, see the tijiy maiden. 
 
 Like an opening flower spread the flames of 
 her pyre ; 
 
 Scatheless and radiant she stands in the centre. 
 Peerless Anemone, petalled with fire : 
 
 Pressing around her the Roman vainglorious 
 With a gust of the furnace withers away ; 
 
 For an hour she beholds from her magic circle 
 The powers of the pagan world at bay. 
 
 1 Aspasias was vicar of Rome. Tillemont is of opinion 
 that this office was created under Diocletian. The 
 vicar's judgments were without appeal. Upon the de- 
 parture of Symphorion he doubtless occupied the place 
 of chief magistrate, which suggests the parallel of Pontius 
 Pilate. 
 
9d THE LEGEND OF ST. AGNES, 
 
 Then at their flames and her flowers sun-setting 
 She raises her blue inestimate orbs 
 
 Up to the zenith and prays to her Lover, 
 " As the ambient air these flames absorbs 
 
 " So may I now pass to the bliss of thy dwelling 
 If so it seems good to thee, good my Lord." 
 
 Is there God or man could resist such a pleading? 
 Nor man, nor God, with a glittering sword, 
 
 Calling on Mars, on Priapus, on Pluto, 
 Blindly the soldier strikes at her breast : 
 
 She is gone, she is passed to the arms of her 
 -•bridegroom, 
 Youngest of saints, child queen of the blest ! 
 
 And this is thy legend on earth, O St. Agnes ; 
 
 It is all too fair and too blue for my rhyme^ 
 I would claim one boon of the Lord, thy Lover, 
 
 Crave to adore thee in heavenly clime. 
 
 Then were my song and my saying triumphant, 
 Limitless, perfect and pure as thou art ; 
 
 Here upon earth I but love thee and follow, 
 Counting thy steps by the beats of my heart. 
 
91 
 
 SONNET TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " One touch of Nature makes the whole world 
 
 kin," 
 And thou wast Nature's self, ambassador 
 To bear the message that the Mantuan bore ; 
 Therefore we love thee, whether we have been 
 Bred among bricks or know the beech-tree's 
 
 sheen. 
 Hearken ! 'tis Wordsworth speaks, his lips out- 
 pour 
 The vasty sum of things ; hearken once more, 
 Or did the field-mouse chirrup on the green ? 
 Alone thou lookest from yon Julian peak. 
 The winds are holding silence round thy head, 
 The eagle passes downward to his bed 
 Weary of heaven. Ah ! vain indeed to seek 
 The path among the clouds that thou didst 
 
 tread, 
 Athwart the chasm thou canst with Shakespeare 
 speak. 
 
92 
 
 TO SOME SUNFLOWERS 
 
 Seen with their Heads turned away 
 FROM THE Sun. Germany, 1892. 
 
 Sun-flowers, sun-flowers, 
 
 Why seek ye not the sun ? 
 Ye cannot tell how many hours 
 
 He has gilded on his round. 
 
 . We are tired of peeping. 
 
 We would be sleeping 
 Beneath the quiet ground ; 
 Sun-flowers, sun-flowers, 
 
 All is not well with ye ; 
 Of old throughout September's showers 
 
 Ye waited patiently. 
 
 'Tis true, O poet. 
 
 But well ye know it, 
 We are but mortals, a god is he. 
 
 Days long we waited 
 
 Bestormed, belated. 
 
TO SOME SUNFLOWERS. 93 
 
 Nor ever a glimpse of his face did see — 
 
 And now that he's waking, 
 
 His couch forsaking, 
 
 Our heads are aching, 
 
 Our brown eyes dim — 
 Oh ! we'd be creeping 
 
 Earthward and sleeping 
 Rescued from heaven and from memories 
 of him. 
 
94 
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 Is it a leaf or a butterfly 
 
 That flutters there against the sky, 
 
 Sometimes it seems to live, 
 
 Sometimes to die 
 
 Sinking earthward helplessly ? 
 
 It is a leaf and a butterfly, 
 
 Living and dead like earth and sky ; 
 
 All things thou seemst to see 
 
 Are as this leafy butterfly 
 
 Mere phases of thy phantasy. 
 
95 
 
 THE LUNATIC. 
 
 The moon is veiled to-night, 
 
 She shines behind a cloud, 
 
 She shines for other's sight. 
 
 I do not care to pass 
 
 When the moon has ceased to shine ; 
 
 The moon is veiled, alas. 
 
 Yet will I wander on 
 
 Through streets or through the woods, 
 
 Although the moon be gone. 
 
 When the early morning cleared 
 
 The misty things of night, 
 
 Then sometimes she appeared, — 
 
 She shone not, being dead, 
 
 She was so pale and faint, 
 
 " Good-bye," was all she said — 
 
 But what more could she say. 
 
 Poor victim of the sun ? 
 
 I hate his garish day. 
 
^ 
 
 SONNET ON "THE SORCERESS," 
 
 PORTRAIT BY GRAHAM 
 
 ROBERTSON. 
 
 She stands amid the fir-trees while the light 
 Of the ever-evening sun about her shed 
 Makes ruddier the russet of her head : 
 Sister of Vivian and of Circe bright, 
 She waits among the woods upon the dead, 
 N earing her now, in vain, the silly sprite. 
 The ingenuous goblin, they have tricked and fled, 
 For them her arms are blue with aconite. 
 Thou art not human, essence of the air. 
 Bred on the earth long ere the age of man, 
 Protean sorceress thou standest there. 
 Woman a moment, in a moment's span 
 Serpent again ; change not, no daemon can 
 Be better daemon than a woman fair. 
 
MNEMOSYNE. 
 
 I^OW many an age is buried 
 
 Since first thou rosest for me 
 Where I stood in the June-green coppice 
 
 Gazing outward on the sea. 
 Blue were the morning billows, 
 
 White gleamed the mariner's sails, 
 The tufted grass was playing 
 
 With the edgeless western gales. 
 Meward the Tritons bore thee. 
 
 Poised on thy roseate shell, 
 Pendant thy gold hair glittered, 
 
 Thy sea-eyes wrought their spelL 
 I did not dare to greet thee, 
 
 Thou wast so fearful fair : 
 " Steer to his heart," thou saidest, 
 
 " I will make harbour there." 
 
 The thousand years are over, 
 My spear is spHt in twain, 
 H 
 
98 MNEMOSYNE. 
 
 Dinted are hauberk and helmet, 
 
 And I have fought in vain. 
 Thou wast nor goddess nor daemon 
 
 Thou wast an Eidolon, 
 The shadow of something perfect 
 
 Breathing a malison. 
 I know I shall never know it, 
 
 I shall never know of thee 
 More than the right eternal 
 
 To thy bright agony. 
 And now though the God of Heaven 
 
 Made gift of myself to me, 
 I would choose to meet thee gliding 
 
 Again on the morning sea. 
 
99 
 
 A SONNET OF POISONS. 
 
 Witch, come thou forth from out the ebony 
 
 night 
 Bearing us armfuls o' th' infernal flowers, 
 Enough of life enarsenaled with hours 
 Soul-murderers all, come wreath the aconite, 
 Fit coronal for this dark brow of ours. 
 Sweet witch, come forth, and let thy kiss alight 
 Cold on our lips, that when we meet the powers 
 Of hell we may find favour in their sight. 
 Foul witch ! thy deaths are dead, see where they 
 
 lie, 
 Monkshood, the nightshade, withered at our feet. 
 Yea, and thyself, the very witch, art dead 
 That kissed our lips more puissant poisoned 
 Than thy dead deadly lips ; come, Daphne, greet 
 Us with thy pitying smile, we fain would die. 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 Last night as I lay a-dreaming 
 
 Alone in my frozen bed 
 Meseem^d I caught the gleaming 
 
 Of thine imperial head. 
 Then me from my place upraising 
 
 (For I sat far away) 
 I thridded the crowd agazing 
 
 On the players at their play. 
 But when our eyes ameeting 
 
 I was pierced by the gleam, 
 I knew by thy sweet smile greeting 
 
 In my dream it was a dream. 
 
A BALLAD OF BIRDS. 
 
 High, high above the earth the happy birds 
 Are passing with the sunlight on their wings. 
 Oh, eastward ho ! or westward ho ! 
 Ye know nor heed not whither ye go. 
 Above the clouds the sky is fair 
 The sun is shining everywhere, 
 Why should ye care ? 
 Oh to be of you, 
 Oh to be with you. 
 For ever roaming hither, thither. 
 Sweet birds, for ever careless whither ; 
 Oh to be free from myself in the air ! 
 
 High, high above the earth we are looking down 
 On quiet hamlet or on busy town. 
 All things we see, dew glittering on the rose, 
 Dew or a tear, who knows ? 
 
52 A BALLAD OF BIRDS. 
 
 We see but do not know. 
 
 Oh, eastward ho ! or westward ho ! 
 
 We know nor care not whither we go. 
 
 Above the clouds the sky is fair, 
 
 The sun is shining everywhere, 
 
 Why should we care ? 
 For ever roaming hither, thither. 
 We birds, for ever careless whither 
 
 Oh, I am of you, 
 
 Oh, I am with you. 
 Oh, I am free from myself in the air. 
 
103 
 
 THE GALLERY. 
 
 I MET thee in the gallery, 
 
 Glittering Medusawise, 
 I knew that thou wast seeking me 
 
 With those Medusa eyes. 
 I did not dare to look, but fled, 
 
 I fled— and felt thee smile : 
 It meant "is not his body dead"? 
 
 Thy damnM pitying smile. 
 Oh I thou that drawest men as the moon 
 
 The billows of the sea. 
 Shrink to a toad — God grant the boon — 
 
 That in a rock with thee 
 I, only I, may dwell and say, 
 
 " These fearful crimson eyes, 
 This plated back, this glairy clay. 
 
 These are my paradise, 
 For these are thee and thou art mine ; 
 
 Crash Athens, Egypt, Rome, 
 I drink thy reptile blood like wine, 
 
 Thy toad's heart is my home." 
 
104 
 
 TO A MARBLE MASTERPIECE. 
 
 Thou standest there, serene indeed a form 
 As e'ei Apollo conjured from the night 
 Or Dian sought again with silver rays. 
 There is not anything in all thyself 
 But telleth of the wisdom of the Gods 
 Whomadetheelikethemselves, that thou shouldst 
 
 take 
 Unblinded as thy right the seat beside 
 Olympian Zeus ; but now, thy friends being dead, 
 Lo, thou art left alone upon the earth 
 To dwell with pygmies in a world of pain. 
 Yea, ours thou art, but thine I will not be 
 To perish animate in thy marble arms. 
 
105 
 
 DHU VORN. 
 
 See yonder river gliding through the plain 
 In silence to the immemorial sea, 
 Black as the clouds, instinct with memory, 
 She is all turned to tears which flow in vain, 
 Weeping they flow, for never drop can gain 
 That birch-tree glade, where glittering in glee 
 Ages agone they dwelt an hour with thee 
 And earned an immortality of pain. 
 
 * * # # « 
 
 Oh for the rainbow art ! I knelt in prayer 
 Before the faintest shadowing of her 
 By one whose soul had slipped into his brush ; 
 Praying I knelt amid the inconscious rush 
 Of multitudes reechoing, " woman ne'er 
 Was fair as this " — while I was kneeling there. 
 
io6 
 
 SYMBOLISM. 
 
 To sit and think, to lie and dream of thee 
 
 Eternally 
 Till all the world's a symbol, as thy dress 
 The forest green, and as thy tenderness 
 
 The snow-flake is. 
 Thyself thou art, but I am merged in thee ; 
 
 No boat may be 
 More lost to earth, more thine eternally, 
 
 That sinks at sea. 
 
1^ 
 
 107 
 
 THE FURNACE. 
 
 He hurled upon the flames a book of light, 
 Claspdd in gold, with rubies studded o'er ; 
 I gaze and shudder to the vision's core 
 Watching those many-coloured leaves invite 
 The forked fury of the conqueror j — 
 One is all "Elfin," "Realized Delight" 
 Glows on a second ; on a third I saw 
 Rise the first sun for Adam from the night. 
 When all were burned a quivering shade remained^ 
 Each colour merged in a ghostly gray, 
 Most eloquent of all their glories waned ; 
 Upsprung a breeze, and while they passed away 
 Methought a voice, as from the dead, did say — 
 " These are the ashes of a love disdained." 
 
io8 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 Last night I saw thee, not in dull disguise 
 Diurnal of base worldly intercourse, 
 But swimming in upon the tide of dreams 
 Thou dawnedst on me as in ancient days, 
 Imperial in imperial perfectness. 
 But wherefore didst thou whisper, as I thought, 
 " See where my hair is withered into gray " ? 
 I looked again, but lo, thine ivory brow 
 %hone out eternal from the radiant night — 
 And then again methought that such a ring 
 As once was ours had come upon my hand 
 All unbeknown, and turning round to seek 
 The riddle's meaning, read it in thine eyes 
 That fair brimmed o'er with heavenly promises. 
 Thus was my fate revoked — but lo, thy face 
 Sudden grows marble, and thy vanished eyes 
 Speak truth in silence from their scooped graves. 
 
109 
 
 SPRINGTIDE. 
 
 Open the windows of thy soul 
 
 And let the morning in, 
 Thy garden glows with the rathe primrose, 
 
 The sweet spring days begin. 
 The dew still glitters in the cup 
 
 So green the fairies love : 
 It is their wine, a draught divine. 
 
 No tear from the sky above. 
 
 * « * # 4 
 
 Yet, yet beware the dove that sits 
 
 Cooing upon the sill, 
 Her rosy beak of human blood 
 
 Has not yet drunk its fill. 
 
MEMORY 
 
 A. Let loose the locks of memory, 
 Let them stream along the wind, 
 And to the phantom of the past 
 The hideous present bind. 
 
 It may be she will reach thee yet 
 Alone in distant path. 
 The yellow ribbon in her hair 
 Gleams as an aftermath- 
 Then cease thy wail. 
 
 B, Had Death been kind, 
 As once her sister was. 
 
 No happier wight had taken flight — 
 
 A, Thou blamest Death because 
 SAe did not strike when at thy hand 
 Ten thousand daggers stood. 
 Poltroon ! 'twas fear and her soft voice 
 That murmured " God is good." 
 
 B, I could not tear myself away 
 prom where myself was given ; 
 
MEMORY. 
 
 I could not seek for Paradise 
 When earth was hell and heaven ; 
 So grant me leave to play awhile, 
 Like idiots in the sun, 
 With gems, religion, power and art, 
 For life and death are one. 
 
MUSIC. 
 
 Wander along the grove while music plays, 
 Thine Ariadne be thy pensiveness, 
 Then will she lift thee into subtler sphere 
 Than any track of well-defined thought. 
 There fancy palpitates, the goal outstepped, 
 Like a white fawn when from her mother strayed 
 She lifts her eyes within a charmed wood. 
 
"3 
 
 THE DEATH OF ARETINO. 
 PERSONS. 
 
 PlETRO ARETINO. 
 
 TiziANO Vecellio. 
 
 GlORGIONE. 
 
 Antonio Morosini {A Gentleman of Venice). 
 Veronica Franco {A Courtesan). 
 
 Scene. — Veronica Franco's house in Venice. 
 
 Aretino. The world has been asleep five hun- 
 dred years, 
 Bound in the vellum of the Veronese ; • 
 I drink her health renascent. i^He drinks.) 
 V. Franco. My fellow-townsman I where does 
 he abide ? 
 Loves he the revel ? Is he quick of wit, 
 Worthy divine Pietro ? 
 Aretino. Give me a kiss, thou queen of inno- 
 . cents, . 
 And yet another. \Tries to embrace her. 
 
 V, Franco- Not the smallest touch 
 
 Thine of my lips shall know, till thou hast made 
 For such an insult due apology. 
 I 
 
114 THE DEATH OF A RET I NO. 
 
 Titian. Well said, Veronica, and till he prove 
 His paradox, let Pietro drink alone. 
 
 V. Franco. {Going to Titian.) Are these the 
 roses that should know my curls, 
 Or paler flowers, Vecellio ? 
 
 Titian. Golden hair 
 
 Was never crowned as this ; ah for the day, 
 ni make a Mary of thee shall eclipse 
 The best in Venice. 
 
 Aretino. Titian, thou shalt watch 
 
 The daylight on her cheeks, for me the night 
 Paints her full lovelier — come, innocent I 
 
 {Approaches Veronica Franco. 
 
 V. Franco. No ! no ! Vecellio, keep me from 
 the wretch ; 
 He'd rape the innocent. 
 
 Aretino. Sweet ignorant ! 
 
 Thine innocence is equal to a nun's. 
 
 Titia7i. See how he asks thy pardon. 
 
 V. Franco. Now retract, 
 
 Pietro, thy naughty " ignorant." 
 
 Aretino. Very well : 
 
 Ni te perdite amoj — let me add 
 The kisses of the poem, bird as sweet 
 As ever fled from Lesbia. 
 
 \Takes Veronica Ykx^qo from Titian. 
 
THE DEATH OF ARETINO, 115 
 
 V. Fraiico. The Morosini comes to sup to- 
 night ; 
 Leave me some kisses for his amorous name. 
 Aretino. No, none, not any, neither smallest 
 touch 
 Of thy lips on to mine, but shall be stamped 
 Through with the signet of my love ; I dare 
 Antonio Morosini, were he Doge, 
 To mar one white page of my manuscnpt. 
 V, Franco, {Embracing Aretino.) Ah ! Pie- 
 tro, dear, « 
 
 Thine am I. 
 
 Titian. {Aside.) And Venezia's. 
 Aretino. Pass the wine : 
 
 Vesuvio bubbles in my veins to-night. 
 
 Titian. {Going to the window.) The star of 
 
 war is all afire to-night. 
 Aretino. {To Giorgione.) Make us some 
 melody, Giorgione, 
 Whereon our souls may float, like Mahomet's 
 
 corse. 
 Between the earth and heaven. 
 
 Giorgione. {Taking his lute.) What you will, 
 Divine Pietro, though a sleepless week. 
 Made up of love and labour, little lends 
 But discord to the music ; shall I play 
 
ii6 THE DEATH OF ARETINO, 
 
 The waving melody Soranzo loves ? 
 She says it sets her tapestry alive, 
 Veining the very stitches. 
 
 V. Franco, Pass the wine. 
 
 Here I baptize you. 
 
 [Pours a glass of red wine on Aretino's 
 head; it trickles down his face in thin 
 streams, 
 A retina, Evoe ! Evoe ! 
 
 [Drinks, Giorgione plays. 
 How sweet the music, like a wind that blew 
 Through Sappho's lyre, imprisoned till to-day 
 In Giorgione's lute. 
 
 V. Fra7zco. Ah ! play again, 
 
 To please Veronica, Giorgione. 
 
 Titian, {From the window.) I pray you, play 
 
 again. 
 Giorgione, First, let us drink 
 The ruddiest hair that ever framed in red 
 The bluest eyes that ever moved the world. 
 
 {They drink. 
 Aretino. I drink the eyes and hair, but you 
 have left 
 The picture hardly drawn ; see now, I drink 
 
 [Heflls. 
 The other veiled marvels, little nose, 
 
THE DEATH OF ARETINO. 117 
 
 — ^That pinnacle of pride between the cheeks — 
 And those wet lips of her's, the goddess neck 
 Those breasts, white billows of a perfumed sea 
 Thighs, hips, and arms to rock the mariner 
 In weary joy asleep, I drink the rest \prinks. 
 In silence, deep as all its hidden bliss. 
 {To GiORGiONE.) I'll drink you drunk with 
 jealousy ! 
 
 Giorgione, Beware I 
 
 You are ablaze to-night, Pietro, none 
 As yet knows even her name, but you shall prove 
 Her every charm. 
 
 V. Franco. {Laughs^ Ha ! ha ! none knows 
 her name ! 
 Save all the gondolieri and they know 
 More than Bianca's ^ face, where the very paint 
 Blushes for shame to cover such a skin. 
 
 Giorgione.. 'Tis not Bianca. 
 
 K Franco, Then another she, 
 
 An elder sister, were it possible. 
 
 Aretino. (^j/^^ /^ GiORGiONE.) Whisper her 
 name. 
 
 Giorgione, {Going to Aretino.) Beware Ve- 
 cellio ! 
 Old Palma's daughter. 
 
 1 Bianca Capello, a famous courtesan of the period. 
 
ii8 THE DEATH OF ARETINO. 
 
 Af'etino. ( Whispers,) What, so soon untrue 
 To Titian ? 
 
 Giorgione, ( Whispers.) Yes, I met her at the 
 mask ; 
 Told her the lies that woman loves to hear ; 
 The morrow came the message, " Titian's gone 
 To Malamocco ; come and mourn his loss." 
 
 Aretino, Ha ! ha ! most excellent. 
 
 Titian. {Coining from window.) The moon's 
 to-night 
 Curved like a sickle or Diana's horn. 
 
 Aretino, A horn, you said ? 
 
 Titian. A sickle or a horn, 
 
 Or what you will, Pietro. 
 
 Aretitto, Nay, a horn ; 
 
 That is the happiest likeness, and methinks 
 Upon your brow yet dwells the lunar curve. 
 
 [GiORGiONE and Aretino laugh loudly* 
 
 V. Franco. Titian, Pietro and Giorgione 
 Keep whispering their secrets ; let us make 
 Oiir mystery together. 
 
 Titian. (6^^///^/^ Veronica FRANCO.) Please 
 comfort me, 
 I am alone to-night, Annina's ill ; 
 These August suns, she says, have weaned 
 her. 
 
THE DEATH OF ARETINO. 119 
 
 Giorgione. ( Whispers Aretino.) Then am I 
 God Apollo ! 
 
 Aretino. {^Laughing,) Helios, hail ! 
 
 Titian, {Filling,) Veronica ! a toast ! 
 
 Aretino, So, pass the wine. 
 
 Veronica, I drink you in this glass ! 
 Come, melt the frown and let me drink it too. 
 Veronica ! Veronica ! \They drink, 
 
 V. Franco. {Smili7ig.) Ah ! Pietro mine, 
 You'll coax his keys from Pietro. 
 
 Giorgione. {Rising.) I must go 
 
 Where Duty calls. 
 
 Titian. Thrice fortunate are you 
 
 To own so fair a Duty, prithee lay 
 Also my homage at the unknown shrine. 
 Curtained in russet, prankt with white and blue, 
 So like Annina. {Sighs.) 
 
 Aretino. {Laughing.) Very like, indeed. 
 
 V.Franco. {Laughing) Old Palma's daughter ! 
 now the riddle 's clear, 
 Twas not Bianca. 
 
 Titian. {Starting to his feet.) By Madonna's 
 soul, 
 Giorgione, you have not stolen my love t 
 
 Giorgione. No, Titian, never. 
 
 Aretino. {Laughing loudly .) Never more than I 
 
I20 THE DEATH OF A RET I NO. 
 
 WhoVe known her well this twelve-month. . 
 
 Giorgione, By the stars, 
 
 Pietro, you lie ! 
 Aretino. {^Continues to laugh.) Ha ! ha ! well 
 then, I lie, 
 You lie, and Titian and the whole world lies 
 With the same lie. 
 
 \_He falls face forward on the table and re- 
 mains motionless. They all rush to him. 
 Titian raises his head; it falls back, 
 Titian. He 's dead. 
 
 Giorgione. Dead ? 
 
 Enter Antonio Morosini. 
 Antonio, Bona sera ! 
 
 V.Franco. {Weeping.) Antonio, Pietro's dead, 
 
 divine Pietro ! 
 Antonio. Christ ! is Pietro dead ? 
 V. Franco. {Taking Antonio's hand and 
 kissing it.) You'll stay to-night 
 
 And comfort me, Antonio ? 
 Giorgione. 
 
 J 
 
 ^.,. r Pietro's dead ! 
 
 Titian. ' 
 
 {Exeunt Titian and Giorgione. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE VISION. 
 
 I STOOD alone above the Leven lake 
 
 Amid the fairies' circle, where the trees 
 
 Draw back to watch their dance ; the autumn 
 
 breeze 
 Came tired to this old place, too tired to shake 
 One fir-tree cone, but ever as it passed 
 Dead leaves kept falling fast 
 
 Within my heart, for I was very sad, 
 Thinking of Mary, Queen, and the blue spears 
 Glinting adown these shores in buried years. 
 Sudden beside me was a tiny lad. 
 His voice seemed faint, and, though he stood by 
 me, 
 Sounded beyond the sea. 
 
 " She is not gone," he said, " red hair and lip. 
 And many-changeful eyes, and the ruinous smile 
 Wreathing such sweet perdition in the isle 
 Yonder where once she dwelt, but as a ship 
 
122 THE VISION. 
 
 Full-sail a-tossing now upon thy brain 
 I see the Queen again." 
 
 " Oh ancient man," I said (for now I saw 
 That he was very old), " I prithee tell 
 By what fell pact my secret soul you spell, 
 And who you are ? " he answered, " By a law 
 Simple beyond thy ken, but who I be 
 I will reveal to thee : 
 
 " Merlin I was in England yesterage, 
 Silviano for infant Italy, 
 The better part of Faust ; here I am he 
 That wrought King Fairy bale and mickle rage 
 Kissing his Queen by magic of the moon,— 
 Thomas of Ercildoune. 
 
 "And (for thou couldst not see me otherwise, 
 And only here mid-circle of the ring,) 
 Thou art of ours, no vain imagining 
 Which as thou thinkst deep in thy being lies 
 But is for me clear, clearer than the sphere 
 Of yonder placid mere." 
 
 He pointed to the lake that then was glowing 
 Beneath a coloured cloud ; I did discern 
 Rise to the sky-hne from the little burn 
 
THE VISION, 123 
 
 Two purple hems, and though I watched their 
 
 going, 
 Anxious, intent, no way they seemed to gain, 
 Circling around in vain. 
 
 " They are enchanted birds," he said, " at eve 
 They rise and circle till the twilight dies ; 
 'Twas Mary charmed them, and her island lies 
 Midway their circular flight, for her they grieve 
 Hopeless as thou ; deep doting on their grief 
 They would disdain relief, 
 
 " And if perchance the tide of ages rolled 
 Back on its waves, and the beloved Queen 
 Reigned secure in royalty serene. 
 Thou and these birds would seek some other- 
 where 
 A queen for their despair. 
 
 **Wide is the daemon circle, and you ride 
 -^ons apart the centre where I stand 
 Heart to the mystery's heart, but there is a band 
 Woven of lights, thoughts, scents and sounds, 
 
 that hide 
 Their secret from the uniniate — 
 These link our fate. 
 
t24 THE VISION. 
 
 " Such are our gems and flower, the chrysophras, 
 The dfpal with her green and milky Hghts, 
 Mimosa asking love from those who pass 
 Then dying when the kiss upon her lights, 
 Such also that sweet singing of the swan 
 Unheard yet dreamed upon. 
 
 " And all these things are phases of the vision. 
 Changing from age to age its symbolry, 
 Whereof we are part, fast fixed beyond division 
 To the sad secret of our destiny." 
 He paused, I heard the tinkling of her bells 
 Whereof his legend tells. 
 
 "Thomas," I said, "bide yet with me awhile. 
 Fain in this charmed roundel would I see 
 The regent-soul to do her fealty." 
 Then fathom-sunk rose to his lips a smile. 
 Like murderous pearl unclenched from diver's 
 hand 
 Who brings it dead to land. 
 
 " Oh temerous moth that vagrantly awinging 
 Followest the light that dances on the moss 
 Hither and thither fluttering till across 
 
THE VISION, 125 
 
 Some reed-bound pool the moon her image 
 
 flinging V 
 
 Drowns 'i the rippling circle of her mirth, 
 Such thy request is worth. 
 
 " But for the sake of the daemonic spark 
 That doth inform thy clay, I will reveal 
 What most of things daemonic thou mayest feel 
 And perish not ; look in my eyes and mark 
 What with thine eyes thou mayest on earth be- 
 hold 
 
 Multiplied millionfold." 
 
 Then suddenly I felt as though, expanding, 
 Earth's total store of joy myself contained. 
 Round me, as on a mountain crest, were standing 
 A thousand perfect forms, and each retained 
 The crown as of a thousand wars victorious, 
 Placed on their brows by my transcendant 
 
 power ; 
 A light as of the seventh heaven shone o'er us, 
 Bliss-plumed I soared on the triumphal hour. 
 Sudden, I felt as though a chasm were riven 
 Deep in my central self wherein they fell, 
 And like a vapour from the chasm arisen. 
 Anguish ecstatic folded me in hell. 
 
126 THE VISION, 
 
 Then I beheld their thousand hands a-waving 
 Farewell eternal through the hopeless night, 
 Felt wafted kisses in my pierced craving, 
 Each one the last upon my lips alight. 
 
 When I awoke the day had come again, 
 Thomas was gone with all his wizardry. 
 And I alone, save for a crested wren 
 Who in his beak a leaf of chestnut-tree 
 Had brought to wreathe the corse, and stood 
 amazed 
 
 Seeing the dead man raised. 
 
127 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 " Le not your hearts be troubled ; ye believe in God, 
 believe also in me." — John, xiv. i, 
 
 " Let not your hearts be troubled," were 
 
 The soft last words He laid 
 For ointment on His soldiers' wounds, 
 
 " Children be not dismayed." 
 " I go but to prepare a place 
 
 For those that follow me, 
 I come again to bid you all 
 
 Welcome eternally. 
 Let not your minds be troubled with 
 
 Celestial symbolry, 
 The youngest cherub in God's house 
 
 Knoweth the Trinity. 
 Ye that believe in God, believe, 
 
 Love and believe in me. 
 His only son, I saw Him weave 
 
 In Heaven Earth's mystery." 
 
128 
 
 THE SPHINX. 
 
 I HAVE touched the heart of the world, and know 
 
 The abyss of woe : 
 Nothing can wring from me sorrow or joy, 
 
 No earthy alloy 
 Troubles the soul, informs the mind that probes 
 
 The fiery globes. 
 I am all the world to myself ; I am burning hell, 
 
 I an: heaven as well. 
 Mine eyelid's fringe moves never an inch to 
 behold 
 
 The plague unfold 
 Her leopardine mantle and motherwise gather 
 
 Mortals together. 
 My atoms are essence you shiver in vain, 
 
 They form again. 
 The world is a thought that proceeds from my 
 head, 
 
 I am living, and dead. 
 
129 
 
 AFTER READING MAETERLINCK'S 
 "AVEUGLES." 
 
 Throw off the veil, here is no palace hall 
 
 For golden epithet and glittering rhyme, 
 
 Here words are steel and stone — transpierce or 
 
 fall 
 By natural law — here where the only crime 
 Is to be blind, to have never seen the sun 
 Sail through his realm at midday, to have known 
 Midnight a hundred years (and there was one 
 Far older sat among them). Life is sown 
 So deep with sorrow that at length may rise. 
 Piled on the grief of ages, to the skies 
 Some word supreme, some vision fit to tell 
 The gods they slumber mingling earth and hell 
 — Vision and word ; — on dii que tu es belle^ 
 And poor blind hands seeking the asphodel. 
 
I30 
 
 SARAH BERNHARDT AS THEODORA 
 ENTHRONED. 
 
 What further incense can my trembling plume 
 Waft with those clouds that are your heraldry ? — 
 The Orient lightens in your pearls, and by 
 The tiger couchant 'neath the lily's bloom 
 You sceptre love and symbolize the doom 
 That blinded him who dared, with bleary eye, 
 Gaze where above, in height of empery, 
 Throned the last scion of Slavonian groom. 
 
 Said I " the last '' and read the legend right, 
 You and not you, a soul within a soul, 
 Where many souls take refuge from the night, 
 And speechful through thy lips again unroll 
 Of their great deeds the reemblazoned scroll, 
 Sarah Lucifera, the queen of light ? 
 
131 
 
 WITH A COPY OF KEATS. 
 
 Thou that wast once to me 
 More than all gods may be, 
 Than respite from the strife 
 Of most disastrous life, 
 Take back this holy book 
 But never dare to look, 
 Traitress to love and art, 
 Into Endymion's heart. 
 Lest there thy soul discern. 
 Shrined in the Grecian urn. 
 Veiled in Corinthian eyes. 
 Lamia's paradise 
 Mirrored in Saturn's face. 
 Murdered of all its grace, 
 Despair, dead Hope's dear child. 
 
133 
 
 Blue-raven locks and under 
 In those her deep eyes, lay 
 
 The secret of all colours 
 That turn the night to day ; 
 
 For they were full of sunsets, 
 Blue-heaving morning sea. 
 
 Of tiger's topaz gazing, 
 Of all the joys that be. 
 
 And all these things for ever, 
 For ever never thine — 
 
 Go burn thy soul to ashes 
 And wallow with the swine. 
 
133 
 
 " Let down your hair, sweet Sibyl," was my 
 prayer, 
 
 *' Your glorious hair 
 This only once ; we are alone, but were 
 Olympus there. 
 What god so fair ? " — 
 She smiled and looked, and smiled and laughing 
 drew 
 
 A gold pin through 
 Their coiled brown, then suddenly there flew 
 Such-wise as do 
 The brave bright blue 
 Sea waves that love their lady, roll on roll, 
 
 And hid the whole 
 Of her fair form, hid time, and hold my soul 
 In their control 
 While ages roll. 
 
 K 2 
 
134 
 
 " How wisely the heroes of Greece 
 
 Are buried away ! 
 Poor creatures, they sleep now in peace 
 
 From jealousy ! " 
 " How sweetly my poet can talk" 
 
 (She smiled as we kissed), 
 *' Our genius and beauty shall walk . 
 
 Crowned as they list." 
 So sounds her soft voice in my ear 
 
 Like a tinkling bell. 
 But the chime that for marriage rings clear 
 
 Tolls forth the knell— 
 And I whom my fate outran 
 
 Now lying alone, 
 I know I was only a man 
 
 And she a stone. 
 
LOVE (A CONCEIT). 
 
 Speak to me not of love, it is a word 
 
 Cosmic, coeval with the mysteries 
 
 That barrier off our being, never heard 
 
 Without the echo Life, and Him that is 
 
 Father and Son of both, mysterious Death. 
 
 Call Love the diamond myriad-faceted 
 
 That pins the ostrich plume, or chokes ' his 
 
 breath 
 Who dared engulf the eye of idolhead. 
 Or (for our humour runs to metaphor) 
 He Is the cloud that on an April day 
 Smiles sunny tears upon the labourer 
 And almost touches earth, then floats away 
 Far in the blue to robe the fading skies 
 In rosy crape to greet his closing eyes, 
 
 * There is a story to the effect that the diamond eye 
 of an idol was picked out and swallowed by a thief. 
 
136 
 
 INTERJECTIONS. 
 
 I LOVED you far too well 
 Ever to tell 
 How much I loved you more than well. 
 
 Fathoms deep in the past I 
 I stand and gaze aghast 
 Down fathoms of the past. 
 
 TO THE STARS. 
 Ye golden corpses buried in the air. 
 
 The deep red rose eternal of my love. 
 
 Thou canst not give me heaven, then give me 
 hell. 
 
INTERJECTIONS, 137 
 
 TO TH^OPHILE GAUTIER. 
 O RAINBOW soul that overspanned a sky 
 Black with creed mist exhaled in Galilee. 
 
 TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. 
 Sweet poet, I have held thy hand 
 
 Across the stream of years, 
 Ours the same soul, same time and land. 
 
 Same love, same hopes and fears. 
 
138 
 
 A POETIC CREED REVERSED. 
 (Byron, Don Juan, Canto I., ccv.) 
 
 Thou shalt believe in Shelley, Swinburne, Keats. 
 
 Thou shalt not set up'Dryden, Pope, or Byron ; 
 The first is stiff, stuffed full of quaint conceits. 
 
 The second prose, the third thou soon must 
 tire on, 
 Despite long series of athletic feats — 
 
 Metre and rhyme beat flat as with an iron — 
 And own Keats' soul indeed a " fiery particle " 
 Snuffed out by neither Byron nor " an article." 
 
139 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 As one that seeking aureate grain 
 
 Youthlong has delved the burning plain, 
 
 Now sick at heart, now sudden bold, 
 
 Swearing he does, does not behold 
 
 Mixed with the siftings of the pan 
 
 One " colour " ^ speck of gold, 
 
 Sudden arising, grown to man, 
 
 Hurls all upon the river. 
 
 And presses on with emptied hands 
 
 Toward untrodden glittering sands, 
 
 Toward Herodotean lands. 
 
 Blue vistas opening ever, — 
 
 So I this book, nor turn to see 
 
 The whelming swirl nor the wind's fury ; 
 
 This no more is a part of me 
 
 Who press toward the untrodden strands, 
 
 Toward Herodotean lands, 
 
 Blue vistas opening ever. 
 
 1 " Colour" gold. The grains of gold found by the 
 digger who is prospecting are thus called. 
 
CHISWICK PRESS : — CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO., 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. 
 
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\C 
 
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