Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AMY ROBSART, by CHARLES WHITWORTH WYNNE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AMY ROBSART, by                    
First Line: The hour is late, yet streaks of light appear
Last Line: Dudley, I do absolve thee through my tears!'
Alternate Author Name(s): Cayzer, Charles
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Hearts; Love


THE hour is late, yet streaks of light appear
Along the West, and fade, and glimmer there
With such enchantment in their still eclipse
Over the hills and valleys and the tips
Of many a forest at the horizon's brim,
That the dusk wardress of the twilight dim
Reluctant seems to close the gates of day.
No sound of life, no stir of leaf at play—
The world with all its voices is at rest,
Its fret and tumult fled into the West.

When hark! a voice upon the Autumn air,
Flooding the night with music of despair,
So melancholy sweet, so full of woe—
Alas! that Love should be requited so!
What tender longing! What affection dear!
A woman's love, with all its hope and fear!
In every note the passion of a life,
In every note a soul too sweet for strife—
The hunger of a heart for ever fed
On love and hope, when hope and love are dead!

And what are these—these accents wild of grief?
And who the fair that sings her soul's relief?—
Who to the pitiless woods from her high tower
Doth chaunt love's requiem at evening hour,
While Cumnor's turrets fade along the sky,
And the wing'd mouse of twilight flitters by?
Sure such a voice was never heard in bower
Since Enid's heart awoke in Yniol's tower!
Sure never lady's face grief did so stain
Since Love bewitch'd the lily-maid Elaine!
The violets within these tender eyes
Had robb'd Queen Guinevere of Lancelot's sighs!

'Leicester! my Leicester, could this voice of mine
Recall to thee thy duty, and these eyne
But show thee half the sorrow that I bear,
Since in thy thought I am no longer fair,
Or could mine arms thy wonted ardours fan
And thou but fold me to thy heart again,
I might forget the past, and learn to live
In memory of that thou once didst give—
The passion and the rapture of thy kiss,
That fatal ecstasy I took for bliss,
Those eyes whose magic wrought my mortal dole,
Which did enmesh my will, to snare my soul,
The subtle poison of thy matchless tongue,
On whose least accents I so fondly hung.
All, all must I forgo?—Ah, death to me,
The love I lived for can no longer be!
Now nevermore shall Spring-time bring me hope,
Nor Summer crown, nor Autumn gild life's slope,
But Winter—always Winter! bleak and cold,
Until I thread the Valley—sorrows told!

'How happier were the days when young and free
I lisp'd my sorrows at a father's knee,
When all my joys and all my griefs were his,
And every secret shared—save only this!
Ah, had I then, too foolish maid, given ear
To his brave counsel and monitions dear,
I might have stood, where I, impassion'd, fell—
And thou been victim, whom I loved too well!
Yet, Leicester! am I doom'd to love thee so,
Whose cruel scorn should trample out my woe?
Must fondness ever in my breast abide,
And hope of freedom perish with my pride?
Is it thy will my loving heart should be
Estranged from thine to all eternity?
Thou, whose first vows were sweet as manna dew,
Thy breathless kisses thrilling thro' and thro',
Whose every word some richer promise gave
That I should never ask, what now I crave.
"That Pyramids might crumble in the dust,
The stars be quench'd before the whirling gust,
The unfathom'd ocean and her seas run dry,
And mountains quit their mansions in the sky,
Ere breath of treason cloud a Dudley's sword,
Or maiden skaith arraign his plighted word."

'So vehement his vows, till love was given!
Alas! there is but one thing under Heaven
That never Dudley yet had strength to face—
Ambition is the curse of his proud race—
A prospect of advancement in the state,
And honour, virtue, truth itself might wait!
No Dudley ever question'd whom he slew
If end would justify the means—and few
Who cross'd his path their line of crossing knew!
A Dudley's vengeance pierced where steel might fail
In days when poison lurk'd beneath the nail—
A glove, a letter, some such friendly token,
And, with the seal, the cords of life were broken!

'But now a Virgin Queen had shown him grace,
Had praised him to the Court and to his face,
Had flatter'd him how far beyond his dreams,
Consulted him on all her monarch schemes.
With such a vista widening to his eyes,
What wonder that a Dudley list the prize!
What marvel that his love for Amy waned,
Where honour stood so sovranly constrain'd!
What vows would he not break, what love disown,
With but a step 'twixt freedom and the throne!
Oh, Memory! wilt scald me with thy tears?
Fain would I blot remembrance of the years!
From my soul's self myself I cannot save,
My only peace—the solace of the grave.

'O blinded one! hast thou no strength within
To give thy life a sacrifice for sin,
To pray in some dim convent's cloistral shade
For peace—both to betrayer and betray'd,
That when we meet in that dear Home above
Our lives may there be perfected in love?'
So sang that Lady of her soul's despair,
Making low moan upon the midnight air,
And with faint sobs her tender hands of grief
She stretch'd to God—and found in Him relief.

Now morning rose on other hills and towers,
And kiss'd fair Windsor's streams and shady bowers—
Here all was joyance, hastenings to and fro,
Here hounds were baying in the court below,
And horses champ'd the bit, and hearts ran high
'Mid eager questions if the scent would lie.
The Queen herself would view the kingly sport
With all the splendour of that Virgin Court,
The noble Earl of Leicester at her side,
Like to a prince in his imperious pride:
The Earl—the envy of all gallant men,
The Queen—what maid had not been Countess then?

So all that morn by forest, lake, and fen,
Where Nature wound by many a secret glen,
Where every voice that trill'd from brake and bough
Did love's impassion'd tenderment avow,
The Queen and Leicester rode—and with them shame
Of that sweet trouble neither dared to name,
And yet their eyes too often met to fear
What each from either came attuned to hear,
What each had waited month by month to tell,
What each of either but divined too well!
At length the Queen broke silence—yet with voice
So tremulous, it seem'd to mock her choice—
'Leicester, this day of grace must be our last,
Its radiance draws now to the treasured past.
Thy Amy pines for thee—to her be true,
Else wilt thou make sure misery for two.
Monarch of this wide realm, this heart so great,
We must remain the mistress of our fate.
Love comes and goes: it leavens awhile our lot,
And, like the rose, is all too soon forgot!'

'Love comes but once, my Queen, and like the rose
Its fragrance lingers with us till life's close!
Despoil me of my honours, rank, and fame,
And all my service done in thy dear name,
But doom me not to shades of endless night,
I cannot live an outcast from the light!
I never loved before! Be this my vow,
How much my soul is perill'd by thee now.
Elizabeth! thou must, thou shalt be mine!
Love owns no law but what is all-divine.
Fate calls us! Fate is calling thee and me—
Yield, and I consecrate my life to thee!'

'No, Dudley, no!—it shall not—may not be.
Were our heart's choice undiadem'd and free,
We had not exiled happiness,—nor stood
Aloof in cold, majestic solitude.'

Ah, Night! prolific author of all ill,
Whose misbegotten progeny doth fill
Palace and dungeon, hovel and hut of the poor,
Adventuring shame and vice from door to door—
How long wilt thou bedarken and betray,
Disrobe the vestal, and the meek dismay?

'Varney, to horse!—despatch her as thou wilt,
Yet see thou leave behind no track of guilt!
Should once suspicion hap upon my name,
Liker were I to wed the block than fame!
"The wrath of Kings is as a flaming fire,"
And Tudor blood was never slow to ire,—
Our Sovereign Lady hath for all her smiles
A hint of Nilus in her serpent wiles!
Let not thy right hand to thy left reveal
The fateful task that shall thy service seal.'

Dark is the night, but not more dark than dread,
While heavy looms the tempest overhead,
Mephitic vapours roll along the ground,
And murder, muffled, haunts in every sound.—
A pause, for the fierce wind to gather breath.—
But now the thunder breaks the ban of death
With rattling bursts which rend the very skies;
Now the sheer darkness opens to our eyes
And all the terrors of the storm lie bare!—
Weird and fantastic demons of the air,
Abhorrent imps, deform'd with deadly sin,
Dance, and make riot o'er the village Inn,
While Cumnor towers are wrapt in lambent fire,
As round them sweep the storm-fiends in their ire!

And many a watch-dog howl'd that night from fear,
And many a maiden wish'd her lover near,
And many a gable-end was cleft in twain,
And many an oak lay shatter'd on the plain:
And ever as the wind went moaning by
It wail'd with burden of a mortal cry—
And still that plaintive cry sobs down the years—
'Dudley, I do absolve thee through my tears!'





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