OF all the noble damsels, in all our Brittany, Gwennola was the sweetest far, a maiden fair to see. Scarce eighteen summers shed their gold upon her shapely head, Yet all who loved the fair girl best were numbered with the dead -- Her father and her mother, and eke her sisters dear. Ah! Mary, pity 'twas to see her shed the bitter tear At her casement in the castle, where a step-dame now bare sway, Her dim eyes fixed upon the sea, which glimmered far away. * * * * For three long years she watched in vain, in dole and misery, To see her foster brother's sail rise up from under sea; For three long years she watched in vain, hoping each day would send The only heart which beat to hers, her lover and her friend. "Go, get you gone and tend the kine," the cruel step-dame said; "Leave brooding over long-past years: go, earn your daily bread." She woke her, ere the darkling dawns, while yet 'twas dead of night, To sweep the floors and cleanse the house, and set the fires alight; To fetch the water from the brook, again and yet again, With heavy toil and panting breath, and young form bent in twain. * * * * One darkling winter morning, before the dawning light, With ringing hoofs, across the brook there rode a noble knight: "Good morrow, gracious maiden, and art thou free to wed?" And she, so young she was and meek, "I know not, sir," she said. "I prithee tell me, maiden, if thou art fancy-free?" "To none, sir, have I plighted yet my maiden troth," said she. "Then take, fair maid, this ring of gold, and to your step-dame say, That to-day your troth is plighted to a knight from far away; "That at Nantes a battle fierce was fought, wherein his squire was slain, And he himself lies stricken sore upon his bed of pain; "But when three weeks are overpast, whatever fate betide, He will come himself full gaily, and claim thee for his bride." Affrighted ran she to her home, when, lo, a wondrous thing! For on her slender finger blazed her foster brother's ring. II. The weeks crept onward slowly, crept slowly -- one, two, three; But never came the young knight, no never more came he. "Come, it is time that you were wed, for I have sought for you A bridegroom fitted to your rank, an honest man and true." "Nay, nay, I prithee, step-dame, there is none that I can wed, Only my foster brother dear I love, alive or dead. "With this ring his troth he plighted, and whatever fate betide, He will come himself full gaily, and claim me for his bride." "Peace, with thy golden wedding-ring! peace, fool, or I will teach With blows thy senseless chattering tongue to hold discreeter speech; "To-morrow thou shalt be the bride, whether thou wilt or not, Of Giles the neat-herd, honest man: ay, this shall be thy lot." "Of Giles the neat-herd, saidst thou? oh, I shall die of pain! Oh mother, dear dead mother, that thou wert in life again!" "Go, cry and wail without the house; go, feed on misery: Go, take thy fill of moans and tears, for wedded thou shalt be." III. Just then the ancient sexton, with the bell that tolls the dead, Went up and down the country side, and these the words he said: -- "Pray for the soul of one who was a brave and loyal knight, Who bare at Nantes a grievous hurt, what time they fought the fight: "To-morrow eve, at set of sun, amid the gathering gloom, From the white church they bear him forth, to rest within the tomb." IV. "Thou art early from the wedding feast!" "Good truth, I could not stay; I dared not see the piteous sight, and therefore turned away; "I could not bear the pity and the horror in her eyne, As she stood so fair, in blank despair, within the sacred shrine. "Around the hapless maiden, all were weeping bitterly, And the good old rector at the church, a heavy heart had he; "Not a dry eye was around her, save the step-dame stern alone, Who looked on with an evil smile, as from a heart of stone; "And when the ringers rang a peal, as now they came again, And the women whispered comfort, yet her heart seemed rent in twain. "High in the place of honour at the marriage feast she sate, Yet no drop of water drank she, and no crumb of bread she ate; "And when at last, the feast being done, they would light the bride to bed, The ring from off her hand she flung, the wreath from off her head, "And with wild eyes that spoke despair, and locks that streamed behind, Into the darkling night she fled, as swiftly as the wind." V. The lights within the castle were out, and all asleep; Only, with fever in her brain, the maid would watch and weep. The chamber door swung open. "Who goes there?" "Do not fear, Gwen; 'tis I, your foster brother." "Oh! at last, my love, my dear!" He raised her to the saddle, and his strong arm clasped her round, As, through the night, his charger white flew on without a sound. "How fast we go, my brother!" "'Tis a hundred leagues and more." "How happy am I, happier than in all my life before! "And have we far to go, brother? I would that we were come." "Have patience, sister; hold me fast; 'tis a long way to our home." The white owl shrieked around them, the wild things shrank in fear As through the night a cloud of light that ghostly steed drew near. "How swift your charger is, brother! and your armour oh, how bright! Ah, no more you are a boy, brother, but in troth a noble knight! "How beautiful you are, brother! but I would that we were come." "Have patience, sister; hold me fast; we are not far from home." "Your breath is icy-cold, brother, your locks are dank and wet; Your heart, your hands are icy-cold; oh! is it further yet?" "Have patience, sister; hold me fast; for we are nearly there; Hist! hear you not our marriage bells ring through the midnight air?" Even with the word, that ghostly steed neighed suddenly and shrill, Then trembled once through every limb, and like a stone stood still. * * * * And lo, within a land they were, a land of mirth and pleasure, Where youths and maidens hand in hand danced to a joyous measure; A verdant orchard closed them round with golden fruit bedight, And above them, from the heaven-kissed hills, came shafts of golden light; Hard by, a cool spring bubbled clear, a fountain without stain, Whereof the dead lips tasting, grew warm with life again. There was Gwennola's mother mild, and eke her sisters dear: Oh, land of joy and bliss and love! -- oh, land without a tear! VI. But when the next sun on the earth, brake from the gathered gloom, From the white church, the young maids bore, the virgin to her tomb. |