Part 24 (2/2)
The wine or wounds may have made me rough, And men at the bottom are merely brutes.
Three weeks I slept at St. Hubert's Chase; When I woke from the fever of wounds and wine, I could scarce believe that the ghastly face That the gla.s.s reflected was really mine.
I sought the hall--where a wedding HAD BEEN-- The wedding of Guy and of Gwendoline.
The romance of a grizzled old trooper's life May make you laugh in your sleeves: laugh out, Lads; we have most of us seen some strife; We have all of us had some sport, no doubt.
I have won some honour and gain'd some gold, Now that our king returns to his own; If the pulses beat slow, if the blood runs cold, And if friends have faded and loves have flown, Then the greater reason is ours to drink, And the more we swallow the less we shall think.
At the battle of Naseby, Miles was slain, And Huntly sank from his wounds that week; We left young Clare upon Worcester plain-- How the ”Ironside” gash'd his girlish cheek.
Aye, strut, and swagger, and ruffle anew, Gay gallants, now that the war is done!
They fought like fiends (give the fiend his due)-- We fought like fops, it was thus they won.
Holdsworth is living for aught I know, At least he was living two years ago,
And Guy--Lord Guy--so stately and stern, He is changed, I met him at Winchester; He has grown quite gloomy and taciturn.
Gwendoline!--why do you ask for her?
Died as her mother had died before-- Died giving birth to the baby Guy!
Did my voice shake? Then am I fool the more.
Sooner or later we all must die; But, at least, let us live while we live to-night.
The DAYS may be dark, but the LAMPS are bright.
For to me the sunlight seems worn and wan: The sun, he is losing his splendour now-- He can never s.h.i.+ne as of old he shone On her glorious hair and glittering brow.
Ah! those DAYS THAT WERE, when my beard was black, NOW I have only the NIGHTS THAT ARE.
What, landlord, ho! bring in haste burnt sack, And a flask of your fiercest usquebaugh.
You, Cuthbert! surely you know by heart The story of HER and of Britomarte.
Laudamus
The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save!
He is righteous whether He save or slay-- Brother, give thanks for the gifts He gave, Though the gifts He gave He hath taken away.
Shall we strive for that which is nothing? Nay.
Shall we hate each other for that which fled?
She is but a marvel of modelled clay, And the smooth, clear white, and the soft, pure red, That we coveted, shall endure no day.
Was it wise or well that I hated you For the fruit that hung too high on the tree?
For the blossom out of our reach that grew, Was it well or wise that you hated me?-- My hate has flown, and your hate shall flee.
Let us veil our faces like children chid-- Can that violet orb we swore by see Through that violet-vein'd, transparent lid?-- Now the Lord forbid that this strife should be.
Would you knit the forehead or clench the fist, For the curls that never were well caress'd-- For the red that never was fairly kiss'd-- For the white that never was fondly press'd?
Shall we nourish wrath while she lies at rest Between us? Surely our wrath shall cease.
We would fain know better--the Lord knows best-- Is there peace between us? Yea, there is peace, In the soul's release she at least is blest.
Let us thank the Lord for His bounties all, For the brave old days of pleasure and pain, When the world for both of us seem'd too small-- Though the love was void and the hate was vain-- Though the word was bitter between us twain, And the bitter word was kin to the blow, For her gloss and ripple of rich gold rain, For her velvet crimson and satin snow-- Though we never shall know the old days again.
The Lord!--His mercy is great, men say; His wrath, men say, is a burning brand-- Let us praise Him whether He save or slay, And above her body let hand join hand.
We shall meet, my friend, in the spirit land-- Will our strife renew? Nay, I dare not trust, For the grim, great gulf that cannot be spann'd Will divide us from her. The Lord is just, She shall not be thrust where our spirits stand.
<script>