Part 8 (1/2)

”O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk, Would I could better tell a tale to-day; But hark to this, which while our good s.h.i.+p lay Within the Weser such a while agone, A Fleming told me, as we sat alone One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland, And all the other folk were gone a-land After their pleasure, like sea-faring men.

Surely I deem it no great wonder then That I remember everything he said, Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led That keel and me on such a weary way-- Well, at the least it serveth you to-day.”

THE LADY OF THE LAND.

ARGUMENT.

A certain man having landed on an island in the Greek Sea found there a beautiful damsel, whom he would fain have delivered from a strange and dreadful doom, but failing herein, he died soon afterwards.

It happened once, some men of Italy Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, And much good fortune had they on the sea: Of many a man they had the ransoming, And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing; And midst their voyage to an isle they came, Whereof my story keepeth not the name.

Now though but little was there left to gain, Because the richer folk had gone away, Yet since by this of water they were fain They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, Whence in a while some went ash.o.r.e to play, Going but lightly armed in twos or threes, For midst that folk they feared no enemies.

And of these fellows that thus went ash.o.r.e, One was there who left all his friends behind; Who going inland ever more and more, And being left quite alone, at last did find A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, A long-deserted ruined castle stood.

The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade, With gardens overlooked by terraces, And marble-paved pools for pleasure made, Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees; And he who went there, with but little ease Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet For tender women's dainty wandering feet.

The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear, The baffled stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry, Were all the sounds that mariner could hear, As through the wood he wandered painfully; But as unto the house he drew anigh, The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw, The once fair temple of a fallen law.

No image was there left behind to tell Before whose face the knees of men had bowed; An altar of black stone, of old wrought well, Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd, Seeking for things forgotten long ago, Praying for heads long ages laid a-low.

Close to the temple was the castle-gate, Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned, Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned To know the most of what might there be learned, And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear, To light on such things as all men hold dear.

n.o.ble the house was, nor seemed built for war, But rather like the work of other days, When men, in better peace than now they are, Had leisure on the world around to gaze, And noted well the past times' changing ways; And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought, By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought.

Now as he looked about on all these things, And strove to read the mouldering histories, Above the door an image with wide wings, Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize, He dimly saw, although the western breeze, And years of biting frost and was.h.i.+ng rain, Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain.

But this, though perished sore, and worn away, He noted well, because it seemed to be, After the fas.h.i.+on of another day, Some great man's badge of war, or armoury, And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see; But taking note of these things, at the last The mariner beneath the gateway pa.s.sed.

And there a lovely cloistered court he found, A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry, And in the cloister briers twining round The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery Outworn by more than many years gone by, Because the country people, in their fear Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here;

And piteously these fair things had been maimed; There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might; Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed; The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light Bound with the cable of some coasting s.h.i.+p; And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip.

Therefrom unto the chambers did he pa.s.s, And found them fair still, midst of their decay, Though in them now no sign of man there was, And everything but stone had pa.s.sed away That made them lovely in that vanished day; Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone And nought be left but heaps of mouldering stone.

But he, when all the place he had gone o'er.

And with much trouble clomb the broken stair, And from the topmost turret seen the sh.o.r.e And his good s.h.i.+p drawn up at anchor there, Came down again, and found a crypt most fair Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall, And there he saw a door within the wall,

Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place Another on its hinges, therefore he Stood there and pondered for a little s.p.a.ce, And thought, ”Perchance some marvel I shall see, For surely here some dweller there must be, Because this door seems whole, and new, and sound.

While nought but ruin I can see around.”

So with that word, moved by a strong desire, He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand, And in a strange place, lit as by a fire Unseen but near, he presently did stand; And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned, As though in some Arabian plain he stood, Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood.

He moved not for awhile, but looking round, He wondered much to see the place so fair, Because, unlike the castle above ground, No pillager or wrecker had been there; It seemed that time had pa.s.sed on otherwhere, Nor laid a finger on this hidden place, Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race.

With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom, The walls were hung a s.p.a.ce above the head, Slim ivory chairs were set about the room, And in one corner was a dainty bed, That seemed for some fair queen apparelled; And marble was the worst stone of the floor, That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er.

The wanderer trembled when he saw all this, Because he deemed by magic it was wrought; Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss, Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought, Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought That there perchance some devil lurked to slay The heedless wanderer from the light of day.

Over against him was another door Set in the wall, so, casting fear aside, With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor, And there again the silver latch he tried And with no pain the door he opened wide, And entering the new chamber cautiously The glory of great heaps of gold could see.

Upon the floor uncounted medals lay, Like things of little value; here and there Stood golden caldrons, that might well outweigh The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware, And golden cups were set on tables fair, Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings.