I. 'Tis morn!—in clustered rays increased— Exulting rays, that deeply drink The starlight of the East, And strew with crocus dyes the brink Of those blue streams that pause and sink Far underneath their heavenly strand— Soft capes of vapour, ribbed like sand. Along the Loire white sails are flashing, Through stars of spray their dark oars dashing; The rocks are reddening one by one, The purple sandbanks flushed with sun, And crowned with fire on crags and keep, Amboise! above thy lifted steep, Far lightning o'er the subject vale, Blaze thy broad range of ramparts pale! Through distance azure as the sky, That vale sends up its morning cry. From countless leaves, that shaking shade Its tangled paths of pillared glade, And ceaseless fan, with quivering cool, Each gentle stream and slumbrous pool, That catch the leaf-song as they flow, In tinkling echo pure and low, Clear, deep, and moving, as the night, And starred with orbs of lily light. Nor are they leaves alone that sing, Nor waves alone that flow; The leaves are lifted on the wing Of voices from below; The waters keep, with shade subdued, The image of a multitude— A merry crowd promiscuous met, Of every age and heart united— Gray hairs with golden twined, and yet With equal mien and eyes delighted, With thoughts that mix, and hands that lock, Behold they tread, with hurrying feet, Along the thousand paths that meet Beneath Amboise's rock; For there upon the meadows wide, That couch along the river-side, Are pitched a snowy flock Of warrior tents, like clouds that rest, Through champaigns of the quiet west, When, far in distance, stretched serene, The evening sky lies calm and green. Amboise's lord must bear to-day His love-gage through the rival fray; Through all the coasts of fiery France His challenge shook the air, That none could break so true a lance, Nor for a dame so fair. II. The lists are circled round with shields, Like lily-leaves that lie On forest pools in clustered fields Of countless company. But every buckler's bosses black Dash the full beams of morning back, In orbèd wave of welded lines, With mingled blaze of crimson signs, And light of lineage high: As sounds that gush when thoughts are strong, But words are weak with tears, Awoke, above the warrior throng, The wind among the spears; Afar in hollow surge they shook, As reeds along some summer brook, Glancing beneath the July moon, All bowed and touched in pleasant tune; Their steely lightning passed and played Alternate with the cloudy shade Of crested casques, and flying flakes Of horse-manes, twined like sable snakes, And misty plumes in darkness drifted, And chargèd banners broadly lifted, Purpling the air with storm-tints cast Down through their undulation vast, Wide the billowy army strewing, Like to flags of victory From some wretched Armada's ruin, Left to robe the sea. III. As the morning star new risen In a circle of calm sky, Where the white clouds stand to listen For the sphered melody Of her planetary path, And her soft rays pierce the wrath Of the night storms stretched below, Till they sink like wreaths of snow, (Lighting heaven with their decay) Into sudden silentness— Throned above the stormy stress Of that knightly host's array, Goddess-formed, as one whom mortals Need but gaze on to obey, Distant seen, as through the portals Of some temple gray; The glory of a marble dream, Kindling the eyes that gaze, the lips that pray— One gentle lady sat, retiring but supreme. IV. Upon her brow there was no crown, Upon her robe no gem; Yet few were there who would not own Her queen of earth, and them, Because that brow was crowned with light As with a diadem, And her quick thoughts, as they did rise, Were in the deep change of her eyes, Traced one by one, as stars that start Out of the orbèd peace of night, Still drooping as they dart, And her sweet limbs shone heavenly bright, Following with undulation white, The heaving of her heart. High she sat, and all apart, Meek of mien, with eyes declined, Less like one of mortal mind, Than some changeless spirit shrined In the memories of men, Whom the passions of its kind Cannot hurt nor move again. V. High she sat in meekness shaming, All of best and brighest there, Till the herald's voice, proclaiming Her the fairest of the fair, Rang along the morning air; And then she started, and that shade, Which in the moonlit garden glade Had marked her with its mortal stain, Did pass upon her face again, And in her eye a sudden flash Came and was gone; but it were rash To say if it were pride or pain; And on her lips a smile, scarce worn, Less, as it seemed, of joy than scorn, Was with a strange quick quivering mixed, Which passed away, and left them fixed In calm, persisting, colorless, Perchance too perfect to be peace A moment more, and still serene Returned, yet changed—her mood and mien; What eye that traceless change could tell, Slight, transient,—but unspeakable! She sat, divine of soul and brow; It passed,—and all is human now VI. The multitude, with loud acclaim, Caught up the lovely lady's name; Thrice round the lists arose the cry; But when it sunk, and all the sky Grew doubly silent by its loss, A slow strange murmur came across The waves of the reposing air, A deep, soft voice that everywhere Arose at once, so lowly clear, That each seemed in himself to hear Alone, and fixed with sweet surprise, Did ask around him, with his eyes, If t'were not some dream-music dim And false, that only rose for him, VII. "Oh, lady Queen,—Oh, lady Queen! Fairest of all who tread The soft earth carpet green, Or breathe the blessings shed By the stars and tempest free; Know thou, oh, lady Queen, Earth hath borne, sun hath seen, Fairer than thee. "The flush of beauty burneth In the palaces of earth, But thy lifted spirit scorneth All match of mortal birth: And the nymph of the hill, And the naiad of the sea, Were of beauty quenched and chill, Beside thee! "Where the gray cypress shadows Move onward with the moon, Round the low mounded meadows, And the grave-stones, whitely hewn, Gleam like camp-fires through the night, There, in silence of long swoon, In the horror of decay; With the worm for their delight, And the shroud for their array, With the garland on their brow, And the black cross by their side, With the darkness for their beauty, And the dust for their pride, With the smile of baffled pain On the cold lips half apart, With the dimness on the brain, And the peace upon the heart; Even sunk in solemn shade, Underneath the cypress tree, Lady Queen, there are laid Fairer than thee!" VIII. It passed away, that melodie, But none the minstrel there could see; The lady sat still calm of thought, Save that there rose a narrow spot Of crimson on her cheek; But then, the words were far and weak, Perchance she heard them not. The crowd still listening, feared to speak, And only mixed in sympathy Of pressing hand and wondering eye, And left the lists all hushed and mute, For every wind of heaven had sunk To that aerial lute. The ponderous banners, closed and shrunk, Down from their listless lances hung, The windless plumes were feebly flung. With lifted foot, the listening steed, Did scarcely fret the fern, And the challenger on his charmed steed Sat statue-like and stern, Till mixed with martial trumpet-strain, The herald's voice arose again, Proclaiming that Amboise's lord Dared by the trial of the sword, The bravest knights of France, to prove Their fairer dame or truer love,— And ere the brazen blast had died, That strange sweet singing voice replied, So wild that every heart did keep Its pulse to time the cadence deep: IX. "Where the purple swords are swiftest, And the rage of death unreigned. Lord of battle, though thou liftest Crest unstooped, and shield unstained, Vain before thy footsteps fail, Useless spear and rended mail, Shuddering from thy glance and blow, Earth's best armies sink like snow; Know thou this; unmatched, unmet, Might hath children mightier yet. The chapel vaults are deadly damp, Their air is breathless all, The downy bats they clasp and cramp Their cold wings to the wall; The bright-eyed eft, from cranny and cleft, Doth noiselessly pursue The twining light of the death-worms white, In the pools of the earth dew; The downy bat,—the death-worm white, And the eft with its sable coil— They are company good for a sworded knight. In his rest from the battle toil; The sworded knight is sunk in rest, With the cross-hilt in his hand; But his arms are folded o'er his breast As weak as ropes of sand. His eyes are dark, his sword of wrath Is impotent and dim; Dark lord, in this thy victor path, Remember him." X. The sounds sunk deeply,—and were gone, And for a time the quiet crowd Hung on the long departing tone, Of wailing in the morning cloud, In spirit wondering and beguiled; Then turned with steadfast gaze to learn What recked he, of such warning wild— Amboise's champion stern. But little to their sight betrayed The visor bars and plumage shade; The nearest thought he smiled; Yet more in bitterness than mirth, And held his eyes upon the earth With thoughtful gaze, half sad, half keen, As they would seek beneath the screen Of living turf and golden bloom, The secrets of its under tomb. XI. A moment more, with burning look, High in the air his plume he shook, And waved his lance as in disdain, And struck his charger with the rein, And loosed the sword-hilt to his grasp, And closed the visor's grisly clasp, And all expectant sate and still; The herald blew his summons shrill, Keen answer rose from list and tent, For France had there her bravest sent, With hearts of steel, and eyes of flame, Full armed the knightly concourse came; They came like storms of heaven set free, They came like surges of the sea, Resistless, dark and dense, Like surges on a sable rock, They fell with their own fiery shock, Dashed into impotence. O'er each encounter's rush and gloom, Like meteor rose Amboise's plume, As stubble to his calm career; Crashed from his breast the splintered spear, Before his charge the war-horse reeled, And bowed the helm, and sunk the shield, And checked the heart, and failed the arm; And still the herald's loud alarm Disturbed the short delay— On, chevaliers! for fame, for love,— For these dark eyes that burn above The field of your affray! XII. Six knights had fallen, the last in death,— Deeply the challenger drew his breath. The field was hushed,—the wind that rocked His standard staff grew light and low. A seventh came not. He unlocked His visor clasp, and raised his brow To catch its coolness. Marvel not If it were pale with weariness, For fast that day his hand had wrought Its warrior work of victory; Yet, one who loved him might have thought There was a trouble in his eye, And that it turned in some distress Unto the quiet sky. Indeed that sky was strangely still, And through the air unwonted chill Hung on the heat of noon; Men spoke in whispers, and their words Came brokenly, as if the chords Of their hearts were out of tune; And deeper still, and yet more deep The coldness of that heavy sleep Came on the lulled air. And men saw In every glance, an answering awe Meeting their own with doubtful change Of expectation wild and strange. Dread marvel was it thus to feel The echoing earth, the trumpet-peal, The thundering hoof, the crashing steel, Cease to a pause so dead, They heard the aspens moaning shiver, And the low tinkling of the river Upon its pebble bed. The challenger's trump rang long and loud, And the light upon his standard proud Grew indistinct and dun; The challenger's trump rang long and loud, And the shadow of a narrow cloud Came suddenly o'er the sun. XIII. A narrow cloud of outline quaint, Much like a human hand; And after it, with following faint, Came up a dull grey lengthening band Of small cloud billows, like sea sand, And then out of the gaps of blue, Left moveless in the sky, there grew Long snaky knots of sable mist, Which counter winds did vex and twist, Knitted and loosed, and tossed and tore, Like passive weeds on that sandy shore; And these seemed with their touch to infect The sweet white upper clouds, and checked Their pacing on the heavenly floor, And quenched the light which was to them As blood and life, singing the while A fitful requiem, Until the hues of each cloud isle Sank into one vast veil of dread, Coping the heaven as if with lead, With drag'd pale edges here and there, Through which the noon's transparent glare Fell with a dusky red. And all the summer voices sank To let that darkness pass; The weeds were quiet on the bank, The cricket in the grass; The merry birds the buzzing flies, The leaves of many lips, Did make their songs a sacrifice Unto the noon eclipse. XIV. The challenger's trump rang long and loud— Hark! as its notes decay! Was it out of the earth—or up in the cloud?— Or an echo far away? Soft it came and none knew whence— Deep, melodious and intense, So lightly breathed, so wildly blown, Distant it seemed—yet everywhere Possessing all the infinite air— One quivering trumpet tone! With slow increase of gathering sway, Louder along the wind it lay; It shook the woods, it pressed the wave, The guarding rocks through chasm and cave Roared in their fierce reply. It rose, and o'er the lists at length Crashed into full tempestuous strength, Shook through its storm-tried turrets high Amboise's mountain home, And the broad thunder-vaulted sky Clanged like a brazen dome. XV. Unchanged, unchilled in heart and eye; The challenger heard that dread reply; His head was bowed upon his breast, And on the darkness in the west His glance dwelt patiently; Out of that western gloom there came A small white vapor, shaped like flame, Unscattering, and on constant wing; Rode lonely, like a living thing, Upon its stormy path; it grew, And gathered as it onward drew— It paused above the lists, a roof Inwoven with a lightning woof Of undulating fire, whose trace, Like corpse-fire on a human face, Was mixed of light and death; it sank Slowly; the wild war-horses shrank Tame from the nearing flash; their eyes Glared the blue terror back, it shone On the broad spears, like wavering wan Of unaccepted sacrifice. Down to the earth the smoke-cloud rolled— Pale shadowed through sulphurous fold, Banner and armor, spear and plume Gleamed like a vision of the tomb. One form alone was all of gloom— In deep and dusky arms arrayed, Changeless alike through flash and shade, Sudden within the barrier gate Behold, the Seventh champion sate! He waved his hand—he stooped his lance— The challenger started from his trance; He plunged his spur—he loosed his rein— A flash—a groan—a woman's cry— And up to the receiving sky The white cloud rose again! XVI. The white cloud rose—the white cloud fled— The peace of heaven returned in dew, And soft and far the noontide shed Its holiness of blue. The rock, the earth, the wave, the brake Rejoiced beneath that sweet succeeding; No sun nor sound can warm or wake One human heart's unheeding. Stretched on the dark earth's bosom, chill, Amboise's lord lay stark and still. The heralds raise him, but to mark The last light leave his eyeballs dark— The last blood dwindle on his cheek— They turned; a murmur wild and weak Passed on the air, in passion broken, The faint low sob of one in pain— "Lo! the faith thou hast forgotten Binds thee with its broken chain!" |