Part 5

And now she stood above the parapet, And, spreading out her arms, let her hair flow, Beneath that veil her smooth white forehead set Upon the marble, more I do not know;

Because before my eyes a film of gold Floated, as now it floats. O unknown love, Would that I could thy yellow stair behold, If still thou standest the lead roof above!

THE WITCH, _as she passes_.

Is there any who will dare To climb up the yellow stair, Glorious Rapunzel's golden hair?

THE PRINCE.

If it would please God make you sing again, I think that I might very sweetly die, My soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain, My heavy body on the beech-nuts lie.

Now I remember what a most strange year, Most strange and awful, in the beechen wood I have pass'd now; I still have a faint fear It is a kind of dream not understood.

I have seen no one in this wood except The witch and her; have heard no human tones, But when the witches' revelry has crept Between the very jointing of my bones.

Ah! I know now; I could not go away, But needs must stop to hear her sing that song She always sings at dawning of the day. I am not happy here, for I am strong,

And every morning do I whet my sword, Yet Rapunzel still weeps within the tower, And still God ties me down to the green sward, Because I cannot see the gold stair floating lower.

RAPUNZEL _sings from the tower_.

My mother taught me prayers To say when I had need; I have so many cares, That I can take no heed Of many words in them; But I remember this: _Christ, bring me to thy bliss. Mary, maid withouten wem, Keep me!_ I am lone, I wis, Yet besides I have made this By myself: _Give me a kiss, Dear God dwelling up in heaven!_ Also: _Send me a true knight, Lord Christ, with a steel sword, bright, Broad, and trenchant; yea, and seven Spans from hilt to point, O Lord! And let the handle of his sword Be gold on silver, Lord in heaven! Such a sword as I see gleam Sometimes, when they let me dream._

Yea, besides, I have made this: _Lord, give Mary a dear kiss, And let gold Michael, who looked down, When I was there, on Rouen town From the spire, bring me that kiss On a lily! Lord do this!_

These prayers on the dreadful nights, When the witches plait my hair, And the fearfullest of sights On the earth and in the air, Will not let me close my eyes, I murmur often, mix'd with sighs, That my weak heart will not hold At some things that I behold. Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans, That swell out the little bones Of my bosom; till a trance God sends in middle of that dance, And I behold the countenance Of Michael, and can feel no more The bitter east wind biting sore My naked feet; can see no more The crayfish on the leaden floor, That mock with feeler and grim claw.

Yea, often in that happy trance, Beside the blessed countenance Of golden Michael, on the spire Glowing all crimson in the fire Of sunset, I behold a face, Which sometime, if God give me grace, May kiss me in this very place.

_Evening in the tower._

RAPUNZEL.

It grows half way between the dark and light; Love, we have been six hours here alone: I fear that she will come before the night, And if she finds us thus we are undone.

THE PRINCE.

Nay, draw a little nearer, that your breath May touch my lips, let my cheek feel your arm; Now tell me, did you ever see a death, Or ever see a man take mortal harm?

RAPUNZEL.

Once came two knights and fought with swords below, And while they fought I scarce could look at all, My head swam so; after, a moaning low Drew my eyes down; I saw against the wall

One knight lean dead, bleeding from head and breast, Yet seem'd it like a line of poppies red In the golden twilight, as he took his rest, In the dusky time he scarcely seemed dead.

But the other, on his face, six paces off, Lay moaning, and the old familiar name He mutter'd through the grass, seem'd like a scoff Of some lost soul remembering his past fame.

His helm all dinted lay beside him there, The visor-bars were twisted towards the face, The crest, which was a lady very fair, Wrought wonderfully, was shifted from its place.

The shower'd mail-rings on the speedwell lay, Perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the light That blazed in the west, yet surely on that day Some crimson thing had changed the grass from bright

Pure green I love so. But the knight who died Lay there for days after the other went; Until one day I heard a voice that cried: Fair knight, I see Sir Robert we were sent

To carry dead or living to the king. So the knights came and bore him straight away On their lance truncheons, such a batter'd thing, His mother had not known him on that day,

But for his helm-crest, a gold lady fair Wrought wonderfully.

THE PRINCE.

Ah, they were brothers then, And often rode together, doubtless where The swords were thickest, and were loyal men,

Until they fell in these same evil dreams.

RAPUNZEL.

Yea, love; but shall we not depart from hence? The white moon groweth golden fast, and gleams Between the aspens stems; I fear, and yet a sense

Of fluttering victory comes over me, That will not let me fear aright; my heart, Feel how it beats, love, strives to get to thee; I breathe so fast that my lips needs must part;

Your breath swims round my mouth, but let us go.

THE PRINCE.

I, Sebald, also, pluck from off the staff The crimson banner; let it lie below, Above it in the wind let grasses laugh.

Now let us go, love, down the winding stair, With fingers intertwined: ay, feel my sword! I wrought it long ago, with golden hair Flowing about the hilts, because a word,

Sung by a minstrel old, had set me dreaming Of a sweet bow'd down face with yellow hair; Betwixt green leaves I used to see it gleaming, A half smile on the lips, though lines of care

Had sunk the cheeks, and made the great eyes hollow; What other work in all the world had I, But through all turns of fate that face to follow? But wars and business kept me there to die.

O child, I should have slain my brother, too, My brother, Love, lain moaning in the grass, Had I not ridden out to look for you, When I had watch'd the gilded courtiers pass

From the golden hall. But it is strange your name Is not the same the minstrel sung of yore; You call'd it Rapunzel, 'tis not the name. See, love, the stems shine through the open door.

_Morning in the woods._

RAPUNZEL.

O love! me and my unknown name you have well won; The witch's name was Rapunzel: eh! not so sweet? No! but is this real grass, love, that I tread upon? What call they these blue flowers that lean across my feet?

THE PRINCE.

Dip down your dear face in the dewy grass, O love! And ever let the sweet slim harebells, tenderly hung, Kiss both your parted lips; and I will hang above, And try to sing that song the dreamy harper sung.

_He sings._

'Twixt the sunlight and the shade Float up memories of my maid: God, remember Guendolen!

Gold or gems she did not wear, But her yellow rippled hair, Like a veil, hid Guendolen!

'Twixt the sunlight and the shade, My rough hands so strangely made, Folded Golden Guendolen.

Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard, Framed her face, while on the sward Tears fell down from Guendolen.

Guendolen now speaks no word, Hands fold round about the sword: Now no more of Guendolen.

Only 'twixt the light and shade Floating memories of my maid Make me pray for Guendolen.

GUENDOLEN.

I kiss thee, new-found name! but I will never go: Your hands need never grip the hammer'd sword again, But all my golden hair shall ever round you flow, Between the light and shade from Golden Guendolen.

_Afterwards, in the Palace._

KING SEBALD.

I took my armour off, Put on king's robes of gold; Over the kirtle green The gold fell fold on fold.

THE WITCH, _out of hell_.

_Guendolen! Guendolen! One lock of hair!_

GUENDOLEN.

I am so glad, for every day He kisses me much the same way As in the tower: under the sway Of all my golden hair.

KING SEBALD.

We rode throughout the town, A gold crown on my head; Through all the gold-hung streets, Praise God! the people said.

THE WITCH.

_Gwendolen! Guendolen! Lend me your hair!_

GUENDOLEN.

Verily, I seem like one Who, when day is almost done, Through a thick wood meets the sun That blazes in her hair.

KING SEBALD.

Yea, at the palace gates, Praise God! the great knights said, For Sebald the high king, And the lady's golden head.

THE WITCH.

_Woe is me! Guendolen Sweeps back her hair._

GUENDOLEN.

Nothing wretched now, no screams; I was unhappy once in dreams, And even now a harsh voice seems To hang about my hair.

THE WITCH.

WOE! THAT ANY MAN COULD DARE TO CLIMB UP THE YELLOW STAIR, GLORIOUS GUENDOLEN'S GOLDEN HAIR.

CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE

CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE

And if you meet the Canon of Chimay, As going to Ortaise you well may do, Greet him from John of Castel Neuf, and say All that I tell you, for all this is true.

This Geffray Teste Noire was a Gascon thief, Who, under shadow of the English name, Pilled all such towns and countries as were lief To King Charles and St. Denis; thought it blame

If anything escaped him; so my lord, The Duke of Berry, sent Sir John Bonne Lance, And other knights, good players with the sword, To check this thief, and give the land a chance.

Therefore we set our bastides round the tower That Geffray held, the strong thief! like a king, High perch'd upon the rock of Ventadour, Hopelessly strong by Christ! It was mid spring,

When first I joined the little army there With ten good spears; Auvergne is hot, each day We sweated armed before the barrier; Good feats of arms were done there often. Eh?

Your brother was slain there? I mind me now, A right good man-at-arms, God pardon him! I think 'twas Geffray smote him on the brow With some spiked axe, and while he totter'd, dim

About the eyes, the spear of Alleyne Roux Slipped through his camaille and his throat; well, well! Alleyne is paid now; your name Alleyne too? Mary! how strange! but this tale I would tell:

For spite of all our bastides, damned Blackhead Would ride abroad whene'er he chose to ride, We could not stop him; many a burgher bled Dear gold all round his girdle; far and wide

The villaynes dwelt in utter misery 'Twixt us and thief Sir Geffray; hauled this way By Sir Bonne Lance at one time; he gone by, Down comes this Teste Noire on another day.

And therefore they dig up the stone, grind corn, Hew wood, draw water, yea, they lived, in short, As I said just now, utterly forlorn, Till this our knave and blackhead was out-fought.

So Bonne Lance fretted, thinking of some trap Day after day, till on a time he said: John of Newcastle, if we have good hap, We catch our thief in two days. How? I said.

Why, Sir, to-day he rideth out again, Hoping to take well certain sumpter mules From Carcassonne, going with little train, Because, forsooth, he thinketh us mere fools;

But if we set an ambush in some wood, He is but dead: so, Sir, take thirty spears To Verville forest, if it seem you good. Then felt I like the horse in Job, who hears

The dancing trumpet sound, and we went forth; And my red lion on the spear-head flapped, As faster than the cool wind we rode north, Towards the wood of Verville; thus it happed.

We rode a soft pace on that day, while spies Got news about Sir Geffray: the red wine Under the road-side bush was clear; the flies, The dragon-flies I mind me most, did shine

In brighter arms than ever I put on; So: Geffray, said our spies, would pass that way Next day at sundown: then he must be won; And so we enter'd Verville wood next day,

In the afternoon; through it the highway runs, 'Twixt copses of green hazel, very thick, And underneath, with glimmering of suns, The primroses are happy; the dews lick

The soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms, Lest they should glitter; surely they will go In a long thin line, watchful for alarms, With all their carriages of booty; so,

Lay down my pennon in the grass: Lord God. What have we lying here? will they be cold, I wonder, being so bare, above the sod, Instead of under? This was a knight too, fold

Lying on fold of ancient rusted mail; No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs, And see the quiet gleam of turquoise pale Along the ceinture; but the long time blurs

Even the tinder of his coat to nought, Except these scraps of leather; see how white The skull is, loose within the coif! He fought A good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite.

No armour on the legs too; strange in faith! A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah! This one is bigger, truly without scathe His enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far;

That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now, What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?' Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow, Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie,

Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small, This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord, These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall. Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord?

Often, God help me! I remember when I was a simple boy, fifteen years old, The Jacquerie froze up the blood of men With their fell deeds, not fit now to be told.

God help again! we enter'd Beauvais town, Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boy As I was then; we gentles cut them down, These burners and defilers, with great joy.

Reason for that, too, in the great church there These fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out, The church at Beauvais being so great and fair: My father, who was by me, gave a shout

Between a beast's howl and a woman's scream, Then, panting, chuckled to me: 'John, look! look! Count the dames' skeletons!' From some bad dream Like a man just awaked, my father shook;

And I, being faint with smelling the burnt bones, And very hot with fighting down the street, And sick of such a life, fell down, with groans My head went weakly nodding to my feet.

--An arrow had gone through her tender throat, And her right wrist was broken; then I saw The reason why she had on that war-coat, Their story came out clear without a flaw;

For when he knew that they were being waylaid, He threw it over her, yea, hood and all; Whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'd By those their murderers; many an one did fall

Beneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'd Their circle, bore his death-wound out of it; But as they rode, some archer least afear'd Drew a strong bow, and thereby she was hit.

Still as he rode he knew not she was dead, Thought her but fainted from her broken wrist, He bound with his great leathern belt: she bled? Who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'd

The beating of her heart, his heart beat well For both of them, till here, within this wood, He died scarce sorry; easy this to tell; After these years the flowers forget their blood.

How could it be? never before that day, However much a soldier I might be, Could I look on a skeleton and say I care not for it, shudder not: now see,

Over those bones I sat and pored for hours, And thought, and dream'd, and still I scarce could see The small white bones that lay upon the flowers, But evermore I saw the lady; she

With her dear gentle walking leading in, By a chain of silver twined about her wrists, Her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to win Great honour for her, fighting in the lists.

O most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrow Into men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharp That joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrow For ever, like an overwinded harp).

Your face must hurt me always: pray you now, Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some pain To hold you always, pain to hold your brow So smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again,

Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop, Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feel Far merrier? there so high they will not stop, They are most sly to glide forth and to steal

Into my heart; I kiss their soft lids there, And in green gardens scarce can stop my lips From wandering on your face, but that your hair Falls down and tangles me, back my face slips.

Or say your mouth, I saw you drink red wine Once at a feast; how slowly it sank in, As though you fear'd that some wild fate might twine Within that cup, and slay you for a sin.

And when you talk your lips do arch and move In such wise that a language new I know Besides their sound; they quiver, too, with love When you are standing silent; know this, too,

I saw you kissing once, like a curved sword That bites with all its edge, did your lips lie, Curled gently, slowly, long time could afford For caught-up breathings: like a dying sigh

They gather'd up their lines and went away, And still kept twitching with a sort of smile, As likely to be weeping presently; Your hands too, how I watch'd them all the while!

Cry out St. Peter now, quoth Aldovrand; I cried, St. Peter! broke out from the wood With all my spears; we met them hand to hand, And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood,

We caught not Blackhead then, or any day; Months after that he died at last in bed, From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray; That same year's end a steel bolt in the head,

And much bad living killed Teste Noire at last; John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now, No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past; Perchance then you can tell him what I show.

In my new castle, down beside the Eure, There is a little chapel of squared stone, Painted inside and out; in green nook pure There did I lay them, every wearied bone;

And over it they lay, with stone-white hands Clasped fast together, hair made bright with gold; This Jaques Picard, known through many lands, Wrought cunningly; he's dead now: I am old.

A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON

SIR GUY, _being in the court of a Pagan castle_.

This castle where I dwell, it stands A long way off from Christian lands, A long way off my lady's hands, A long way off the aspen trees, And murmur of the lime-tree bees.

But down the Valley of the Rose My lady often hawking goes, Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, Leaning towards the western wind, Because it bringeth to her mind Sad whisperings of happy times, The face of him who sings these rhymes.

King Guilbert rides beside her there, Bends low and calls her very fair, And strives, by pulling down his hair, To hide from my dear lady's ken The grisly gash I gave him, when I cut him down at Camelot; However he strives, he hides it not, That tourney will not be forgot, Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot, Whatever he says she answers not.

Now tell me, you that are in love, From the king's son to the wood-dove, Which is the better, he or I?

For this king means that I should die In this lone Pagan castle, where The flowers droop in the bad air On the September evening.

Look, now I take mine ease and sing, Counting as but a little thing The foolish spite of a bad king.

For these vile things that hem me in, These Pagan beasts who live in sin, The sickly flowers pale and wan, The grim blue-bearded castellan, The stanchions half worn-out with rust, Whereto their banner vile they trust: Why, all these things I hold them just As dragons in a missal book, Wherein, whenever we may look, We see no horror, yea delight We have, the colours are so bright; Likewise we note the specks of white, And the great plates of burnish'd gold.

Just so this Pagan castle old, And everything I can see there, Sick-pining in the marshland air, I note: I will go over now, Like one who paints with knitted brow, The flowers and all things one by one, From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.

Four great walls, and a little one That leads down to the barbican, Which walls with many spears they man, When news comes to the castellan Of Launcelot being in the land.

And as I sit here, close at hand Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand; The castellan with a long wand Cuts down their leaves as he goes by, Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye, And fingers twisted in his beard. Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard? I have a hope makes me afeard: It cannot be, but if some dream Just for a minute made me deem I saw among the flowers there My lady's face with long red hair, Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come, As I was wont to see her some Fading September afternoon, And kiss me, saying nothing, soon To leave me by myself again; Could I get this by longing? vain!

The castellan is gone: I see On one broad yellow flower a bee Drunk with much honey. Christ! again, Some distant knight's voice brings me pain, I thought I had forgot to feel, I never heard the blissful steel These ten years past; year after year, Through all my hopeless sojourn here, No Christian pennon has been near. Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on Over the marshes, battle won, Knights' shouts, and axes hammering; Yea, quicker now the dint and ring Of flying hoofs; ah, castellan, When they come back count man for man, Say whom you miss.

THE PAGANS, _from the battlements_.

Mahound to aid! Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?

THE PAGANS, _from without_.

Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot, Who follows quick upon us, hot And shouting with his men-at-arms.

SIR GUY.

Also the Pagans raise alarms, And ring the bells for fear; at last My prison walls will be well past.

SIR LAUNCELOT, _from outside_.