Volume Ii Part 23 (1/2)
THE YOUNG PRINCESS--A BALLAD OF OLD LAWS OF LOVE
1--I
When the South sang like a nightingale Above a bower in May, The training of Love's vine of flame Was writ in laws, for lord and dame To say their yea and nay.
II
When the South sang like a nightingale Across the flowering night, And lord and dame held gentle sport, There came a young princess to Court, A frost of beauty white.
III
The South sang like a nightingale To thaw her glittering dream: No vine of Love her bosom gave, She drank no wine of Love, but grave She held them to Love's theme.
IV
The South grew all a nightingale Beneath a moon unmoved: Like the banner of war she led them on; She left them to lie, like the light that has gone From wine-cups overproved.
V
When the South was a fervid nightingale, And she a chilling moon, 'Twas pity to see on the garden swards, Against Love's laws, those rival lords As willow-wands lie strewn.
VI
The South had throat of a nightingale For her, the young princess: She gave no vine of Love to rear, Love's wine drank not, yet bent her ear To themes of Love no less.
2--I
The lords of the Court they sighed heart-sick, Heart-free Lord Dusiote laughed: I prize her no more than a fling o' the dice, But, or shame to my manhood, a lady of ice, We master her by craft!
II
Heart-sick the lords of joyance yawned, Lord Dusiote laughed heart-free: I count her as much as a crack o' my thumb, But, or shame of my manhood, to me she shall come Like the bird to roost in the tree!
III
At dead of night when the palace-guard Had pa.s.sed the measured rounds, The young princess awoke to feel A shudder of blood at the crackle of steel Within the garden-bounds.
IV
It ceased, and she thought of whom was need, The friar or the leech; When lo, stood her tirewoman breathless by: Lord Dusiote, madam, to death is nigh, Of you he would have speech.
V
He prays you of your gentleness, To light him to his dark end.
The princess rose, and forth she went, For charity was her intent, Devoutly to befriend.
VI
Lord Dusiote hung on his good squire's arm, The priest beside him knelt: A weeping handkerchief was pressed To stay the red flood at his breast, And bid cold ladies melt.