The Lay of Marie and Vignettes in Verse Part 8

Vainly do voices tidings bring, That succours from the former king, Too late for that intent,--are come To take the dead and wounded home; Waiting, impatient, in the bay, Till they can safely bear away,-- Not men that temporize and yield, But heroes stricken in the field; True sons of England, who, unmov'd, Could hear their fears, their interest plead; Led by no lure they disapprov'd, Stooping to no unsanction'd deed!

Spirits so finely tun'd, so high, That grovelling influences die a.s.sailing them! The venal mind Can neither fit inducement find To lead their purpose or their fate-- To sway, to probe, or stimulate!

What knowledge can they gain of such Whom worldly motives may not touch?

Those who, the instant they are known, Each generous mind springs forth to own!

Joyful, as if in distant land, Amid mistrust, and hate, and guile, Insidious speech, and lurking wile, They grasp'd a brother's cordial hand!

Hearts so embued with fire from heaven, That all their failings are forgiven!

Nay, o'er, perchance, whose laurel wreath When tears of pity s.h.i.+ne, We softer, fonder sighs bequeath; More dear, though less divine.

Can kind and loyal bosoms bleed, And Marie not bewail the deed?

Can England's valiant sons be slain, In whose fair isle so long she dwelt-- To whom she sang, with whom she felt!

Can kindred Normans die in vain!

Or, banish'd from their native sh.o.r.e, Enjoy their sire's domains no more!

Brothers, with whom her mind was nurs'd, Who shar'd her young ideas first!-- And not her tears their doom arraign?

Alas! no stimulus avails!

Each former potent influence fails: No longer e'en a sigh can part From that oppress'd and wearied heart.

What broke, at length, the spell? There came The sound of Hugh de Lacy's name!

It struck like lightning on her ear-- But did she truly, rightly hear?

For terror through her senses ran, E'en as the song of hope began.-- His charge arriv'd on England's coast, Consign'd where they had wish'd it most, Had brave De Lacy join'd the train Which sought the Norman sh.o.r.es again?-- _Then_ liv'd her darling and her pride!

What anguish was awaken'd there!

A joy close mating with despair-- He liv'd for whom her Eustace died!

Yes! yes! he lives! the sea could spare That Island warrior's infant heir!

For whom, when thick-surrounding foes, Nigh spent with toil, had sought repose, Slow stealing forth, with wary feet, From covert of secure retreat,-- A soldier leading on the way To where his dear commander lay,-- Over the field, at dead midnight, By a pale torch's flickering light, Did _Friends.h.i.+p_ wander to behold, Breathing, but senseless, pallid, cold, With many a gash, and many a stain, Him,--whom the morrow sought in vain!

_Love_ had not dar'd that form to find, Ungifted with excelling grace!

Nor, thus without a glimpse of mind, Acknowledg'd that familiar face!

Disfigur'd now with many a trace Of recent agony!--Its power Had not withstood this fatal hour!

_Friends.h.i.+p_ firm-nerv'd, resolv'd, mature, With hand more steady, strong, and sore, Can torpid Horror's veil remove, Which palsies all the force of _Love!_

What is _Love's_ office, then? To tend The hero rescued by a friend!

All unperceiv'd, with balmy wing To wave away each restless thing That wakes to breathe disturbance round!

To temper all in peace profound.

With whisper soft and lightsome touch, To aid, a.s.suage,--relieving much Of trouble neither seen nor told-- Of pain, which it alone divines, Which scarcely he who feels defines, Which lynx-like eyes alone behold!

And heavy were De Stafford's sighs, And oft impatient would they rise; Though Friends.h.i.+p, Honour's self was there, Until he found a nurse more fair!

A nicer tact, a finer skill, To know and to perform his will-- Until he felt the healing look, The tones that only Marie spoke!

How patient, then, awaiting ease, And suffering pain, he cross'd the seas!

How patient, when they reach'd the sh.o.r.e, A long, long tract he journey'd o'er!

Though days and months flow'd past, at length, Ere he regain'd his former strength, He yet had courage to sustain, Without a murmur, every pain!

"At home once more--with friends so true-- My boy recover'd thus"--he cried, "His mother smiling by my side-- Resigned each lesser ill I view!

As bubbles on the Ocean's breast, When gloriously calm, will rise; As shadows from o'er-clouded skies, Or some few angry waves may dance Nor ruffle that serene expanse; So lightly o'er my comfort glides Each adverse feeling--so subsides Each discontent--and leaves me blest!"

NOTES.

NOTE I.

_The Lay of Marie_.--t.i.tle.

The words _roman, fabliau_, and _lai_, are so often used indifferently by the old French writers, that it is difficult to lay down any positive rule for discriminating between them. But I believe the word _roman_ particularly applies to such works as were to be supposed strictly historical: such are the romances of Arthur, Charlemagne, the Trojan War, &c. The _fabliaux_ were generally, stories supposed to have been invented for the purpose of ill.u.s.trating some moral; or real anecdotes, capable of being so applied. The _lai_, according to Le Grand, chiefly differed from the _fabliau_, in being interspersed with musical interludes; but I suspect they were generally translations from the British. The word is said to be derived from _leudus_; but _laoi_ seems to be the general name of a cla.s.s of Irish metrical compositions, as "Laoi na Seilge" and others, quoted by Mr. Walker (Hist. Mem. of Irish Bards), and it may be doubted whether the word was not formerly common to the Welsh and American dialects.--_Ellis's Specimens_.

The conclusion of Orfeo and Herodiis, in the Auchinlech MS, seems to prove that the lay was set to music:

That lay Orfeo is yhote, G.o.de is the lay, swete is the note.

In Sir Tristrem also, the Irish harper is expressly said to sing to the harp a merry _lay_.

It is not to be supposed, what we now call metrical romances were always read. On the contrary, several of them bear internal evidence that they were occasionally chaunted to the harp. The Creseide of Chaucer, a long performance, is written expressly to be read, or else sung. It is evident that the minstrels could derive no advantage from these compositions, unless by reciting or singing them; and later poems have been said to be composed to their _tunes_.--_Notes to Sir Tristrem_.

NOTE II.

_Baron De Brehan seem'd to stand_.--p. 6. l. 10.

Brehan--Maison reconnue pour une des plus anciennes. _Vraie race d'ancienne n.o.blesse de Chevalerie_, qui dans les onxieme et douzieme siecles, tenoit rang parmi les _anciens Barons_, avant la reduction faite en 1451.

NOTE III.

_Where does this idle Minstrel stay?_--p. 5. l. 13.

It appears that female minstrels were not uncommon, as one is mentioned in the Romance of Richard Coeur de Lion, without any remark on the strangeness of the circ.u.mstance.

A goose they dight to their dinner In a tavern where they were.

King Richard the fire bet; Thomas to the spit him set; Fouk Doyley tempered the wood: Dear abought they that good!

When they had drunken well, a fin, A minstralle com theirin, And said, "Gentlemen, wittily, Will ye have any minstrelsy?"

Richard bade that she should go; That turned him to mickle woe!

The minstralle _took in mind_,[1]

And said, "Ye are men unkind; And, if I may, ye shall _for-think_[2]

Ye gave me neither meat ne drink.

For gentlemen should bede To minstrels that abouten yede, Of their meat, wine, and ale; For _los_[3] rises of minstrale."

She was English, and well true, By speech, and sight, and hide, and hue.

_Ellis's Specimens of early English Metrical Romances_.

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