Ballads and Sonnets (Harvard mixed proofs, 1881) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 ©President and Fellows of Harvard College, Harvard University Proof-sheets of the “Ballads” section of 1881, corrected by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Dante Gabriel Rossetti Chiswick Press, Charles Wittingham and Co., Tooks Ct. Chancery Lane, [E?].C. London 1881 April - 1881 May 1 [iii]-xii, [3]-40, 43-48, [97]-[160], [97]-158, [159]-[160] Signature A (iii-xii), B (3-16), C, D (33-40, 43-48), H, I, K, L, H, I K, L DGR DGR Houghton Library, Harvard University HEW 9.5.3 Blue folded stiff board cover 10 point, 6 point leading 24 (Sig. A); 17 (rest of the proofs) 2 cm. 3.8 cm. 2 cm. 2.5cm. 19.2 cm x 12.9 cm Commentary
Introduction

This set of mixed proofs gathers signatures that were printed at various times during April-May 1881. Printer's date stamps on certain signatures, as well as comparisons with other extant proofs, show the following dates: Sig. A, 19 May; Sig. B, 7 April; Sig. C, 22 April; Sig. D, 13 April; Sig. H, 3 May; Sig. I, 14 April; Sig. K, 31 May; Sig. L, 31 May. The second copy of Signature H is an uncorrected duplicate of the first, the second copy of Signature K is an uncorrected duplicate of the first revise (printed on 22 April), and the second copy of Signature L is an uncorrected duplicate of a revise printed on 26 April.

Printer's marks for improving the printing appear at various points. Signature I has numerous corrections by DGR and was clearly an author's proof. Signature D and the first copy of Signature H carry various marginal notes by WMR; these were proofs that DGR had sent to his brother for comment and suggestions (at pages 47, 98, 102, 107, and 111). Other authorial text corrections appear on pages 5, 10, 11, 138, and 140.

All these proofs should be compared with the elaborate sets preserved in the Delaware Art Museum library, with the proofs at Yale, and with the British Library set.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

<authorline/> <note>Bookplate on inside of the cover, with an image of a woman reading a book in a windowseat.</note> </divheader> <p>EX LIBRIS<lb/> HARRY ELKINS WIDENER</p> </div0> <epage/> <page n="" image="a.2-1881.harvard.title.tif"/> <pageheader> <technotes/> <note>Narrow slip of paper with bibliographic notes on it, laid over first page of proofs. The note is cut out from a bookseller's catalogue.</note> </pageheader> <div0 anchor="front.2" type="note" n="1"> <p>Proof-sheets of the “Ballads” of 1881, corrected by Dante Gabriel<lb/> Rossetti.</p> <p>8vo, in sheets.<lb/> Pp. v-xii; 1-159; another set of proofs of pp. 129-158, with a half-title, “The<lb/> House of Life,” on p. 159, and a note on p. 160.</p> </div0> <epage/> </front> <body> <div0 anchor="0.1" type="proof" n="1" workcode="2-1881" title="Ballads and Sonnets, Harvard Proofs"> <epage/> <page n="[v]" image="a.2-1881.harvard.toc1.tif"/> <msadds type="other"> <trans>1</trans> <desc>Printer's proof number added in upper left.</desc> </msadds> <msadds type="other"> <trans>[Charles Whittingham's printer date stamp, 19 May 81]</trans> <desc/> </msadds> <div1 anchor="0.1.1" type="proof" n="1" workcode="2-1881" title="Ballads and Sonnets, Harvard Proofs, Signature A"> <divheader> <title> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">CONTENTS.</hi> </hi> BALLADS. Rose Mary, Part I . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Rose Mary, Part II . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Rose Mary, Part III . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 The White Ship . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 The King's Tragedy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. A SONNET-SEQUENCE .1 Introductory Sonnet. . . . . . . . . . . 161 Part I. Youth and Change. I. Love Enthroned . . . . . . . 163 *II. Bridal Birth . . . . . . . . 164 *III. Love's Testament . . . . . . . 165

1 In this table, the sonnets marked * are those which appeared in the author'sformer volume.

 *IV. Lovesight . . . . . . . 166 V. Heart's Hope . . . . . . . 167 *VI. The Kiss . . . . . . . 168 *VII. Supreme Surrender. . . . . . 169 *VIII. Love's Lover's . . . . . . . 170 *IX. Passion and Worship. . . . . 171 *X. The Portrait . . . . . . . . 172 *XI. The Love-Letter . . . . . . . 173 XII. The Lover's Walk . . . . . . . 174 XIII. Youth's Antiphony . . . . . . . 175 XIV. Youth's Spring-Tribute . . . . . 176 *XV. The Birth-Bond . . . . . . . . . 177 *XVI. A Day of Love . . . . . . . . . 178 XVII. Beauty's Pageant . . . . . . . . 179 XVIII. Genius in Beauty . . . . . . . . 180 XIX. Silent Noon . . . . . . . . . . 181 XX. Gracious Moonlight . . . . . . . 182 *XXI. Love-Sweetness . . . . . . . . . 183 XXII. Heart's Haven . . . . . . . . . 184 *XXIII. Love's Baubles . . . . . . . . . 185 XXIV. Pride of Youth . . . . . . . . . 186 *XXV. Winged Hours . . . . . . . . . . 187 XXVI. Mid-Rapture . . . . . . . . . . 188 XXVII. Heart's Compass . . . . . . . . 189 XXVIII. Soul-Light . . . . . . . . . . 190 XXIX. The Moonstar . . . . . . . . . 191 XXX. Last Fire . . . . . . . . . . . 192 XXXI. Her Gifts . . . . . . . . . . . 193 XXXII. Equal Troth . . . . . . . . . . 194 XXXIII. Venus Victrix . . . . . . . . . 195 XXXIV. The Dark Glass . . . . . . . . . 196 XXXV. The Lamp's Shrine. . . . . . . . 197 *XXXVI. Life-in-Love . . . . . . . . . . 198 *XXXVII. The Love-Moon . . . . . . . . . 199 *XXXVIII. The Morrow's Message. . . . . . 200 *XXXIX. Sleepless Dreams. . . . . . . . 201 XL. Severed Selves . . . . . . . . 202 XLI. Through Death to Love . . . . . 203 XLII. Hope Overtaken . . . . . . . . 204 XLIII. Love and Hope . . . . . . . . . 205 XLIV. Cloud and Wind . . . . . . . . 206 *XLV. Secret Parting . . . . . . . . 207 *XLVI. Parted Love . . . . . . . . . . 208 *XLVII. Broken Music. . . . . . . . . . 209 *XLVIII. Death-in-Love . . . . . . . . . 210 *XLIX. Willowwood. . . . . . . . . . . 211 *L. Willowwood II . . . . . . . . . 212 *LI. Willowwood III. . . . . . . . . 213 Printer marks heading of Part II for fixing type. The page number for sonnet LXII. (The Choice. II) wrongly appears as 334, not 234. *LII. Willowwood IV . . . . . . . . . 214 LIII. Without Her . . . . . . . . . . 215 LIV. Love's Fatality . . . . . . . . 216 *LV. Stillborn Love . . . . . . . . 217 LVI. True Woman. I. Herself. . . . . 218 LVII. True Woman. II. Her Love . . . 219 LVIII. True Woman. III. Her Heaven . . 220 LIX. Love's Last Gift. . . . . . . 221 Part II. Change and Fate. LX. Transfigured Life. . . . . . . . 222 LXI. The Song-Throe . . . . . . . . . 223 LXII. The Soul's Sphere. . . . . . . . 224 *LXIII. Inclusiveness. . . . . . . . . . 225 LXIV. Ardour and Memory. . . . . . . . 226 *LXV. Known in Vain. . . . . . . . . . 227 LXVI. The Heart of the Night . . . . . 228 *LXVII. The Landmark . . . . . . . . . . 229 *LXVIII. A Dark Day . . . . . . . . . . . 230 *LXIX. Autumn Idleness. . . . . . . . . 231 *LXX. The Hill Summit . . . . . . . . 232 *LXXI. The Choice. I. . . . . . . . . . 233 *LXXII. The Choice. II. . . . . . . . . 334 Printer marks line 2 for correction of asterisk placement.. *LXXIII. The Choice. III. . . . . . . . . 235 LXXIV. Old and New Art. *I. St. Luke the Painter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236 LXXV. Old and New Art. II. Not as These . 237 LXXVI. Old and New Art. III. The Husband- men. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238 *LXXVII. Soul's Beauty. . . . . . . . . . 239 *LXXVIII. Body's Beauty. . . . . . . . . . 240 *LXXIX. The Monochord . . . . . . . . . . 241 LXXX. From Dawn to Noon . . . . . . . . 242 LXXXI. Memorial Thresholds . . . . . . . 243 *LXXXII. Hoarded Joy . . . . . . . . . . . 244 *LXXXIII.Barren Spring . . . . . . . . . . 245 *LXXXIV. Farewell to the Glen . . . . . . 246 *LXXXV. Vain Virtues. . . . . . . . . . . 247 *LXXXVI. Lost Days . . . . . . . . . . . . 248 *LXXXVII.Death's Songsters . . . . . . . . 249 LXXXVIII.Hero's Lamp . . . . . . . . . . . 250 LXXXIX. The Trees of the Garden . . . . . 251 *XC. “Retro me, Sathana!”. 252 *XCI. Lost on Both Sides . . . . . . . 253 XCII. The Sun's Shame. I. . . . . . . . 254 XCIII. The Sun's Shame. II.. . . . . . . 255 XCIV. Michael Angelo's Kiss . . . . . . . 256 *XCV. The Vase of Life . . . . . . . . 257 XCVI. Life the Beloved. . . . . . . . . 258 *XCVII. A Superscription. . . . . . . . . 259 *XCVIII. He and I. . . . . . . . . . . . . 260 *XCIX. Newborn Death. I. . . . . . . . . 261 *C. Newborn Death. II. . . . . . . . 262 *CI. The One Hope. . . . . . . . . . . 263 LYRICS, &c. Soothsay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 Chimes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 Parted Presence . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282 A Death-Parting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286 Spheral Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288 Sunset Wings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290 Song and Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 Three Shadows. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 Alas, So Long! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297 Adieu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299 Insomnia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301 Possession . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303 The Cloud Confines . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 SONNETS . For the Holy Family (by Michael Angelo). . . 311 For Spring (by Sandro Botticelli) . . . . 312 Five English Poets— I. Thomas Chatterton . . . . . . . . . . . 313 II. William Blake . . . . . . . . . . . . 314 III. Samuel Taylor Coleridge . . . . . . . 315 IV. John Keats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316 V. Percy Bysshe Shelley . . . . . . . . . 317 Tiber, Nile, and Thames . . . . . . . . . 318 The Last Three From Trafalgar. . . . . . . 319 Czar Alexander II . . . . . . . . . . . . 320 Words on the Window-pane . . . . . . . . . 321 Winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322 Spring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323 The Church-Porch . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324 Untimely Lost. (Oliver Madox Brown). . . . 325 Place de la Bastille, Paris . . . . . . . 326 “Found” (for a Picture). . . 327 A Sea-Spell (for a Picture) . . . . . . . 328 Fiammetta (for a Picture). . . . . . . . . 329 The Day-Dream (for a Picture). . . . . . . 330 Astarte Syriaca (for a Picture) . . . . . 331 Proserpina (per un Quadro) . . . . . . . . 332 Proserpina (for a Picture) . . . . . . . . 333 La Bella Mano (per un Quadro). . . . . . . 334 La Bella Mano (for a Picture). . . . . . . 335 <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">ROSE MARY</hi> </hi>. Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone: Lost the first, but the second won. <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">PART I.</hi> </hi> “Mary mine that art Mary's Rose, Come in to me from the garden-close. The sun sinks fast with the rising dew, And we marked not how the faint moon grew; But the hidden stars are calling you. “Tall Rose Mary, come to my side, And read the stars if you'd be a bride. In hours whose need was not your own, While you were a young maid yet ungrown, You've read the stars in the Beryl-stone. “Daughter, once more I bid you read; But now let it be for your own need: Because to-morrow, at break of day, To Holy Cross he rides on his way, Your knight Sir James of Heronhaye. “Ere he wed you, flower of mine, For a heavy shrift he seeks the shrine. Now hark to my words and do not fear; Ill news next I have for your ear; But be you strong, and our help is here. “On his road, as the rumour's rife, An ambush waits to take his life. He needs will go, and will go alone; Where the peril lurks may not be known; But in this glass all things are shown.” Pale Rose Mary sank to the floor:— “The night will come if the day is o'er!” “Nay, heaven takes counsel, star with star, And help shall reach your heart from afar: A bride you'll be, as a maid you are.” The lady unbound her jewelled zone And drew from her robe the Beryl-stone. Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere,— World of our world, the sun's compeer, That bears and buries the toiling year. With shuddering light 'twas stirred and strewn Like the cloud-nest of the wading moon: Freaked it was as the bubble's ball, Rainbow-hued through a misty pall, Like the middle light of the waterfall. Shadows dwelt in its teeming girth Of the known and unknown things of earth; The cloud above and the wave around,— The central fire at the sphere's heart bound, Like doomsday prisoned underground. A thousand years it lay in the sea With a treasure wrecked from Thessaly; Deep it lay 'mid the coiled sea-wrack, But the ocean-spirits found the track; A soul was lost to win it back. The lady upheld the wondrous thing:— “Ill fare”(she said) “with a fiend's-fairing: But Moslem blood poured forth like wine Can hallow Hell, 'neath the Sacred Sign; And my lord brought this from Palestine. A misprinting gap in the word “such” (line 59) is mared for correction. “Spirits who fear the Blessed Rood Drove forth the accursed multitude That heathen worship housed herein,— Never again such home to win, Save only by a Christian's sin. “All last night at an altar fair I burnt strange fires and strove with prayer; Till the flame paled to the red sunrise, All rites I then did solemnize; And the spell lacks nothing but your eyes.” Low spake maiden Rose Mary:— “O mother mine, if I should not see!” “Nay, daughter, cover your face no more, But bend love's heart to the hidden lore, And you shall see now as heretofore.” Paler yet were the pale cheeks grown As the grey eyes sought the Beryl-stone: Then over her mother's lap leaned she, And stretched her thrilled throat passionately, And sighed from her soul, and said, “I see.” Even as she spoke, they two were 'ware Of music-notes that fell through the air; A chiming shower of strange device, Drop echoing drop, once twice and thrice, As rain may fall in Paradise. An instant come, in an instant gone, No time there was to think thereon. The mother held the sphere on her knee:— “Lean this way and speak low to me, And take no note but of what you see.” “I see a man with a besom grey That sweeps the flying dust away.” “Ay, that comes first in the mystic sphere; But now that the way is swept and clear, Heed well what next you look on there.” “Stretched aloft and adown I see Two roads that part in waste-country: The glen lies deep and the ridge stands tall; What's great below is above seen small, And the hill-side is the valley-wall.” “Stream-bank, daughter, or moor and moss, Both roads will take to Holy Cross. The hills are a weary waste to wage; But what of the valley-road's presage? That way must tend his pilgrimage.” X Printer's mark beside line 105 indicates placement of correction. “As 'twere the turning leaves of a book, The road runs past me as I look; Or it is even as though mine eye Should watch calm waters filled with sky While lights and clouds and wings went by.” “In every covert seek a spear; They'll scarce lie close till he draws near.” “The stream has spread to a river now; The stiff blue sedge is deep in the slough, But the banks are bare of shrub or bough.” “Is there any roof that near at hand Might shelter yield to a hidden band?” “On the further bank I see but one, And a herdsman now in the sinking sun Unyokes his team at the threshold-stone.” X Printer's mark below line 125 indicating a needed correction, which is made here. “Keep heedful watch by the water's edge,— Some boat might lurk 'neath the shadowed sedge.” “One slid but now 'twixt the winding shores, But a peasant woman bent to the oars And only a young child steered its course. “Mother, something flashed to my sight— Nay, it is but the lapwing's flight.— What glints there like a lance that flees?— Nay, the flags are stirred in the breeze, And the water's bright through the dart-rushes. “Ah! vainly I search from side to side:— Woe's me! and where do the foemen hide? Woe's me! and perchance I pass them by, And under the new dawn's blood-red sky Even where I gaze the dead shall lie.” Said the mother: “For dear love's sake, Speak more low, lest the spell should break.” Said the daughter: “By love's control, My eyes, my words, are strained to the goal; But oh! the voice that cries in my soul!” “Hush, sweet, hush! be calm and behold.” “I see two floodgates broken and old: The grasses wave o'er the ruined weir, But the bridge still leads to the breakwater; And—mother, mother, O mother dear!” The damsel clung to her mother's knee, And dared not let the shriek go free; Low she crouched by the lady's chair, And shrank blindfold in her fallen hair, And whispering said, “The spears are there!” The lady stooped aghast from her place, And cleared the locks from her daughter's face. “More's to see, and she swoons, alas! Look, look again, 'ere the moment pass! One shadow comes but once to the glass. “See you there what you saw but now?” “I see eight men 'neath the willow bough. All over the weir a wild growth's spread: Ah me! it will hide a living head As well as the water hides the dead. “They lie by the broken water-gate As men who have a while to wait. The chief's high lance has a blazoned scroll,— He seems some lord of tithe and toll With seven squires to his bannerole. “The little pennon quakes in the air, I cannot trace the blazon there:— Ah! now I can see the field of blue, The spurs and the merlins two and two;— It is the Warden of Holycleugh!” “God be thanked for the thing we know! You have named your good knight's mortal foe. Last Shrovetide in the tourney-game He sought his life by treasonous shame; And this way now doth he seek the same. “So, fair lord, such a thing you are! But we too watch till the morning star. Well, June is kind and the moon is clear: Saint Judas send you a merry cheer For the night you lie in Warisweir! “Now, sweet daughter, but one more sight, And you may lie soft and sleep to-night. We know in the vale what perils be: Now look once more in the glass, and see If over the hills the road lies free.” Rose Mary pressed to her mother's cheek, And almost smiled but did not speak; Then turned again to the saving spell, With eyes to search and with lips to tell The heart of things invisible. “Again the shape with the besom grey Comes back to sweep the clouds away. Again I stand where the roads divide; But now all's near on the steep hillside, And a thread far down is the rivertide.” “Ay, child, your road is o'er moor and moss, Past Holycleugh to Holy Cross. Our hunters lurk in the valley's wake, As they knew which way the chase would take: Yet search the hills for your true love's sake.” “Swift and swifter the waste runs by, And nought I see but the heath and the sky; No brake is there that could hide a spear, And the gaps to a horseman's sight lie clear; Still past it goes, and there's nought to fear.” “Fear no trap that you cannot see,— They'd not lurk yet too warily. Below by the weir they lie in sight, And take no heed how they pass the night Till close they crouch with the morning light.” 4 Printer's proof-sequence number in upper left corner. [Charles Whittingham and Chiswick Press Printer's Stamp, dated 22 Apr. 81] Stamped at upper left. C “The road shifts ever and brings in view Now first the heights of Holycleugh: Dark they stand o'er the vale below, And hide that heaven which yet shall show The thing their master's heart doth know. “Where the road looks to the castle steep, There are seven hill-clefts wide and deep: Six mine eyes can search as they list, But the seventh hollow is brimmed with mist; If aught were there, it might not be wist.” “Small hope, my girl, for a helm to hide In mists that cling to a wild moorside: Soon they melt with the wind and sun, And scarce would wait such deeds to be done: God send their snares be the worst to shun.” “Still the road winds ever anew As it hastens on towards Holycleugh; And ever the great walls loom more near, Till the castle-shadow, steep and sheer, Drifts like a cloud, and the sky is clear.” “Enough, my daughter,” the mother said, And took to her breast the bending head; “Rest, poor head, with my heart below, While love still lulls you as long ago: For all is learnt that we need to know. “Long the miles and many the hours From the castle-height to the abbey-towers; But here the journey has no more dread; Too thick with life is the whole road spread For murder's trembling foot to tread.” She gazed on the Beryl-stone full fain Ere she wrapped it close in her robe again: The flickering shades were dusk and dun, And the lights throbbed faint in unison, Like a high heart when a race is run. As the globe slid to its silken gloom, Once more a music rained through the room; Low it splashed like a sweet star-spray, And sobbed like tears at the heart of May, And died as laughter dies away. The lady held her breath for a space, And then she looked in her daughter's face: But wan Rose Mary had never heard; Deep asleep like a sheltered bird She lay with the long spell minister'd. “Ah! and yet I must leave you, dear, For what you have seen your knight must hear. Within four days, by the help of God, He comes back safe to his heart's abode: Be sure he shall shun the valley-road.” Rose Mary sank with a broken moan, And lay in the chair and slept alone, Weary, lifeless, heavy as lead: Long it was ere she raised her head And rose up all discomforted. She searched her brain for a vanished thing, And clasped her brows, remembering; Then knelt and lifted her eyes in awe, And sighed with a long sigh sweet to draw:— “Thank God, thank God, thank God I saw!” The lady had left her as she lay, To seek the Knight of Heronhaye. But first she clomb by a secret stair, And knelt at a carven altar fair, And laid the precious Beryl there. Its girth was graved with a mystic rune In a tongue long dead 'neath sun and moon: A priest of the Holy Sepulchre Read that writing and did not err; And her lord had told its sense to her. She breathed the words in an undertone:— “None sees here but the pure alone.” “And oh!” she said, “what rose may be In Mary's bower more pure to see Than my own sweet maiden Rose Mary?” <hi rend="sc">Beryl-Song</hi>. We whose home is the Beryl, Fire-spirits of dread desire, Who entered in By a secret sin, Gainst whom all powers that strive with ours are sterile,— We cry, Woe to thee, mother! What hast thou taught her, the girl thy daughter, That she and none other Should this dark morrow to her deadly sorrow imperil? What were her eyes But the fiend's own spies, O mother, And shall We not fee her, our proper prophet and seër? Go to her, mother, Even thou, yea thou and none other, Thou, from the Beryl: Her fee must thou take her, Her fee that We send, and make her, Even in this hour, her sin's unsheltered avower. Whose steed did neigh, Riderless, bridle-less, At her gate before it was day? Lo! where doth hover The soul of her lover? She sealed his doom, she, she was the sworn approver,— Whose eyes were so wondrous wise, Yet blind, ah! blind to his peril! For stole not We in Through a love-linked sin, 'Gainst whom all powers at war with ours are sterile,— Fire-spirits of dread desire, We whose home is the Beryl? <hi rend="c">PART II.</hi> “Pale Rose Mary, what shall be done With a rose that Mary weeps upon?” “Mother, let it fall from the tree, And never walk where the strewn leaves be Till winds have passed and the path is free.” “Sad Rose Mary, what shall be done With a cankered flower beneath the sun?” “Mother, let it wait for the night; Be sure its shame shall be out of sight Ere the moon pale or the east grow light.” “Lost Rose Mary, what shall be done With a heart that is but a broken one?” “Mother, let it lie where it must; The blood was drained with the bitter thrust, And dust is all that sinks in the dust.” “Poor Rose Mary, what shall I do,— I, your mother, that lovèd you?” “O my mother, and is love gone? Then seek you another love anon: Who cares what shame shall lean upon?” Low drooped trembling Rose Mary, Then up as though in a dream stood she. “Come, my heart, it is time to go; This is the hour that has whispered low When thy pulse quailed in the nights we know. “Yet O my heart, thy shame has a mate Who will not leave thee desolate. Shame for shame, yea and sin for sin: Yet peace at length may our poor souls win If love for love be found therein. “O thou who seek'st our shrift to-day,” She cried, “O James of Heronhaye— Thy sin and mine was for love alone; And oh! in the sight of God 'tis known How the heart has since made heavy moan. “Three days yet!” she said to her heart; “But then he comes, and we will not part. God, God be thanked that I still could see! Oh! he shall come back assuredly, But where, alas! must he seek for me? “O my heart, what road shall we roam Till my wedding-music fetch me home? For love's shut from us and bides afar, And scorn leans over the bitter bar And knows us now for the thing we are.” Tall she stood with a cheek flushed high And a gaze to burn the heart-strings by. 'Twas the lightning-flash o'er sky and plain Ere labouring thunders heave the chain From the floodgates of the drowning rain. The mother looked on the daughter still As on a hurt thing that's yet to kill. Then wildly at length the pent tears came; The love swelled high with the swollen shame, And their hearts' tempest burst on them. Closely locked, they clung without speech, And the mirrored souls shook each to each, As the cloud-moon and the water-moon Shake face to face when the dim stars swoon In stormy bowers of the night's mid-noon. They swayed together, shuddering sore, Till the mother's heart could bear no more. 'Twas death to feel her own breast shake Even to the very throb and ache Of the burdened heart she still must break. All her sobs ceased suddenly, And she sat straight up but scarce could see. “O daughter, where should my speech begin? Your heart held fast its secret sin: How think you, child, that I read therein?” “Ah me! but I thought not how it came When your words showed that you knew my shame: And now that you call me still your own, I half forget you have ever known. Did you read my heart in the Beryl-stone?” The lady answered her mournfully:— “The Beryl-stone has no voice for me: But when you charged its power to show The truth which none but the pure may know, Did naught speak once of a coming woe?” Her hand was close to her daughter's heart, And it felt the life-blood's sudden start: A quick deep breath did the damsel draw, Like the struck fawn in the oakenshaw: “O mother,” she cried, “but still I saw!” Printer marks first line for correction of impression. “O child, my child, why held you apart From my great love your hidden heart? Said I not that all sin must chase From the spell's sphere the spirits of grace, And yield their rule to the evil race? “Ah! would to God I had clearly told How strong those powers, accurst of old: Their heart is the ruined house of lies; O girl, they can seal the sinful eyes, Or show the truth by contraries!” The daughter sat as cold as a stone, And spoke no word but gazed alone, Nor moved, though her mother strove a space To clasp her round in a close embrace, Because she dared not see her face. “Oh!” at last did the mother cry, “Be sure, as he loved you, so will I! Ah! still and dumb is the bride, I trow; But cold and stark as the winter snow Is the bridegroom's heart, laid dead below! “Daughter, daughter, remember you That cloud in the hills by Holycleugh? 'Twas a Hell-screen hiding truth away: There, not i' the vale, the ambush lay, And thence was the dead borne home to-day.” Deep the flood and heavy the shock When sea meets sea in the riven rock: But calm is the pulse that shakes the sea To the prisoned tide of doom set free In the breaking heart of Rose Mary. 3 Printer's proof-sequence number in upper left corner. X Printer's mark at top right.. [Charles Whittingham and Chiswick Press Printer's Stamp, dated 13 Apr. 81] Stamped at upper left. D Once she sprang as the heifer springs With the wolf's teeth at its red heart-strings: First 'twas fire in her breast and brain, And then scarce hers but the whole world's pain, As she gave one shriek and sank again. In the hair dark-waved the face lay white As the moon lies in the lap of night; And as night through which no moon may dart Lies on a pool in the woods apart, So lay the swoon on the weary heart. The lady felt for the bosom's stir, And wildly kissed and called on her; Then turned away with a quick footfall, And slid the secret door in the wall, And clomb the strait stair's interval. There above in the altar-cell A little fountain rose and fell: She set a flask to the water's flow, And, backward hurrying, sprinkled now The still cold breast and the pallid brow. Scarce cheek that warmed or breath on the air, Yet something told that life was there. “Ah! not with the heart the body dies!” The lady moaned in a bitter wise; Then wrung her hands and hid her eyes. “Alas! and how may I meet again In the same poor eyes the self-same pain? What help can I seek, such grief to guide? Ah! one alone might avail,” she cried,— “The priest who prays at the dead man's side.” The lady arose, and sped down all The winding stairs to the castle-hall. Long-known valley and wood and stream, As the loopholes passed, naught else did seem Than the torn threads of a broken dream. The hall was full of the castle-folk; The women wept, but the men scarce spoke. As the lady crossed the rush-strewn floor, The throng fell backward, murmuring sore, And pressed outside round the open door. A stranger shadow hung on the hall Than the dark pomp of a funeral. 'Mid common sights that were there alway, As 'twere a chance of the passing day, On the ingle-bench the dead man lay. A priest who passed by Holycleugh The tidings brought when the day was new. He guided them who had fetched the dead; And since that hour, unwearièd, He knelt in prayer at the low bier's head. Word had gone to his own domain That in evil wise the knight was slain: Soon the spears must gather apace And the hunt be hard on the hunters' trace; But all things yet lay still for a space. As the lady's hurried step drew near, The kneeling priest looked up to her. “Father, death is a grievous thing; But oh! the woe has a sharper sting That craves by me your ministering. “Alas for the child that should have wed This noble knight here lying dead! Dead in hope, with all blessed boon Of love thus rent from her heart ere noon, I left her laid in a heavy swoon. “O haste to the open bower-chamber That's topmost as you mount the stair: Seek her, father, ere yet she wake; Your words, not mine, be the first to slake This poor heart's fire, for Christ's sweet sake! “God speed!” she said as the priest passed through, “And I ere long will be with you.” Then low on the hearth her knees sank prone; She signed all folk from the threshold-stone, And gazed in the dead man's face alone. The fight for life found record yet In the clenched lips and the teeth hard-set; The wrath from the bent brow was not gone, And stark in the eyes the hate still shone Of that they last had looked upon. The blazoned coat was rent on his breast Where the golden field was goodliest; But the shivered sword, close-gripped, could tell That the blood shed round him where he fell Was not all his in the distant dell. The lady recked of the corpse no whit, But saw the soul and spoke to it: A light there was in her steadfast eyes,— The fire of mortal tears and sighs That pity and love immortalize. “By thy death have I learnt to-day Thy deed, O James of Heronhaye! Great wrong thou hast done to me and mine; And haply God hath wrought for a sign By our blind deed this doom of thine. “Thy shrift, alas! thou wast not to win; But may death shrive thy soul herein! Full well do I know thy love should be Even yet—had life but stayed with thee— Our honour's strong security.” She stooped, and said with a sob's low stir,— “Peace be thine,—but what peace for her?” But ere to the brow her lips were press'd, She marked, half-hid in the riven vest, A packet close to the dead man's breast. 'Neath surcoat pierced and broken mail It lay on the blood-stained bosom pale. The clot clung round it, dull and dense, And a faintness seized her mortal sense As she reached her hand and drew it thence. 'Twas steeped in the heart's flood welling high From the heart it there had rested by: 'Twas glued to a broidered fragment gay,— A shred by spear-thrust rent away From the heron-wings of Heronhaye. She gazed on the thing with piteous eyne:— “Alas, poor child, some pledge of thine! Ah me! in this troth the hearts were twain, And one hath ebbed to this crimson stain, And when shall the other throb again?” She read it twice, with a brain in thrall, And then its echo told her all. O'er brows low-fall'n her hands she drew:— “O God!” she said, as her hands fell too,— “The Warden's sister of Holycleugh!” She rose upright with a long low moan, And stared in the dead man's face new-known. Had it lived indeed? She scarce could tell: 'Twas a cloud where fiends had come to dwell,— A mask that hung on the gate of Hell. She lifted the lock of gleaming hair And smote the lips and left it there. “Here's gold that Hell shall take for thy toll! Full well hath thy treason found its goal, O thou dead body and damnèd soul!” She turned, sore dazed, for a voice was near, And she knew that some one called to her. On many a column fair and tall A high court ran round the castle-hall; And thence it was that the priest did call. “I sought your child where you bade me go, And in rooms around and rooms below; But where, alas! may the maiden be? Fear nought,—we shall find her speedily,— But come, come hither, and seek with me.” She reached the stair like a lifelorn thing, But hastened upward murmuring:— “Yea, Death's is a face that's fell to see; But bitterer pang Life hoards for thee, Thou broken heart of Rose Mary!” <hi rend="c">BERYL-SONG</hi>. We whose throne is the Beryl, Dire-gifted spirits of fire, Who for a twin Leash Sorrow to Sin, Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— We cry,—O desolate daughter! Thou and thy mother share newer shame with each other Than last night's slaughter. Awake and tremble, for our curses assemble! What more, that thou know'st not yet,— That life nor death shall forget? No help from Heaven,—thy woes heart-riven are sterile! O, once a maiden, With yet worse sorrow can any morrow be laden? It waits for thee, It looms, it must be, O lost among women,— It comes and thou canst not flee. Amen to the omen, Says the voice of the Beryl. Thou sleep'st? Awake,— What dar'st thou yet for his sake, Who each for other did God's own Future imperil? Dost dare to live 'Mid the pangs each hour must give? Nay, rather die,— With him thy lover 'neath Hell's cloud-cover to fly,— Hopeless, yet not apart, Cling heart to heart, I shd always write mayst—no one says mayest WMR's note to line 32 in right margin. And beat through the nether storm-eddying winds together? Shall this be so? There thou shalt meet him, but may'st thou greet him? ah no! He loves, but thee he hoped never more to see,— He sighed as he died, But with never a thought for thee. Alone! Alone, for ever alone,— Whose eyes were such wondrous spies for the fate foreshown! Lo! have not We leashed the twin Of endless Sorrow to Sin,— Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— Dire-gifted spirits of fire, We whose throne is the Beryl? PART III. A Swoon that breaks is the whelming wave When help comes late but still can save. With all blind throes is the instant rife,— Hurtling clangour and clouds at strife,— The breath of death, but the kiss of life. The night lay deep on Rose Mary's heart, For her swoon was death's kind counterpart: The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul,— No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal. H 4 Proof number added by printer. X Proof mark by printer at upper right. [Charles Whittingham's printer date stamp, 3 May 81] <hi rend="c">THE KING'S TRAGEDY.</hi> H <hi rend="c">THE KING'S TRAGEDY.</hi> I believe Quhair is the spelling—& that thismarks a characteristic of old Scotch. WMR's note.

NOTE.

Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honour of herheroic act when she barred the door with her arm againstthe murderers of James the First of Scots, received popu-larly the name of “Barlass.” This name remains to herdescendants, the Barlas family, in Scotland, who bear fortheir crest a broken arm. She married Alexander Lovell ofBolunnie.

A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem known as The King's Quair , are quoted in the course of this ballad.The writer must express regret for the necessity which hascompelled him to shorten the ten-syllabled lines to eightsyllables, in order that they might harmonize with the balladmetre.

 <hi rend="c">THE KING'S TRAGEDY</hi>.<lb/> <hi rend="sc">James I. of Scots.—20th February, 1437.</hi> I Catherine am a Douglas born, A name to all Scots dear; And Kate Barlass they've called me now Through many a waning year. This old arm's withered now. 'Twas once Most deft 'mong maidens all To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, To smite the palm-play ball. In hall adown the close-linked dance It has shone most white and fair; It has been the rest for a true lord's head, And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed, And the bar to a King's chambère. Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, And hark with bated breath How good King James, King Robert's son, Was foully done to death. Through all the days of his gallant youth The princely James was pent, By his friends at first and then by his foes, In long imprisonment. For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, By treason's murderous brood Was slain; and the father quaked for the child With the royal mortal blood. I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care, Was his childhood's life assured; And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke His youth for long years immured. Yet in all things meet for a kingly man Himself did he approve; And the nightingale through his prison-wall Taught him both lore and love. I infer from p. 103 youprefer Scotish WMR's note to line 47 For once, when the bird's song drew him close To the opened window-pane, In her bowers beneath a lady stood, A light of life to his sorrowful mood, Like a lily amid the rain. And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note, He framed a sweeter Song, More sweet than ever a poet's heart Gave yet to the English tongue. She was a lady of royal blood; And when, past sorrow and teen, He stood where still through his crownless years His Sco t tish realm had been, At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, A heart-wed King and Queen. But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, And song be turned to moan, And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate, When the tempest-waves of a troubled State Are beating against a throne. Yet well they loved; and the god of Love, Whom well the King had sung, Might find on the earth no truer hearts His lowliest swains among. From the days when first she rode abroad With Scotish maids in her train, I Catherine Douglas won the trust Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane. And oft she sighed, “To be born a King!” And oft along the way When she saw the homely lovers pass She has said, “Alack the day!” Years waned,—the loving and toiling years: Till England's wrong renewed Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown, To the open field of feud. 'Twas when the King and his host were met At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold, The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp With a tale of dread to be told. And she showed him a secret letter writ That spoke of treasonous strife, And how a band of his noblest lords Were sworn to take his life. “And it may be here or it may be there, In the camp or the court,” she said: “But for my sake come to your people's arms And guard your royal head.” Quoth he, “'Tis the fifteenth day of the siege, And the castle's nigh to yield.” “O face your foes on your throne,” she cried, “And show the power you wield; And under your Scotish people's love You shall sit as under your shield.” At the fair Queen's side I stood that day When he bade them raise the siege, And back to his Court he sped to know How the lords would meet their Liege. But when he summoned his Parliament, The louring brows hung round, Like clouds that circle the mountain-head Ere the first low thunders sound. For he had tamed the nobles' lust And curbed their power and pride, And reached out an arm to right the poor Through Scotland far and wide; And many a lordly wrong-doer By the headsman's axe had died. Is this correct? meaning (I suppose) Lords, Clergy, &Commons— I think in England the 3 Estates are 1 King—2 Lords spiritual Spiritual & Temporal— 3 Commons— Am not certain WMR's note on “Three Estates” in line 105. 'Twas then upspoke Sir Robert Græme, The bold o'ermastering man:— “O King, in the name of your Three Estates I set you under their ban! “For, as your lords made oath to you Of service and fealty, Even in like wise you pledged your oath Their faithful sire to be:— “Yet all we here that are nobly sprung Have mourned dear kith and kin Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse Did your bloody rule begin.” With that he laid his hands on his King:— “Is this not so, my lords?” But of all who had sworn to league with him Not one spake back to his words. Quoth the King:—“Thou speak'st but for one Estate, Nor doth it avow thy gage. Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence!” The Græme fired dark with rage:— “Who works for lesser men than himself, He earns but a witless wage!” But soon from the dungeon where he lay He won by privy plots, And forth he fled with a price on his head To the country of the Wild Scots. And word there came from Sir Robert Græme To the King at Edinbro':— “No Liege of mine thou art; but I see From this day forth alone in thee God's creature, my mortal foe. “Through thee are my wife and children lost, My heritage and lands; And when my God shall show me a way, Thyself my mortal foe will I slay With these my proper hands.” Against the coming of Christmastide That year the King bade call I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth A solemn festival. And we of his household rode with him In a close-ranked company; But not till the sun had sunk from his throne Did we reach the Scotish Sea. That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 'Neath a toilsome moon half seen; The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high; And where there was a line of the sky, Wild wings loomed dark between. And on a rock of the black beach-side, By the veiled moon dimly lit, There was something seemed to heave with life As the King drew nigh to it. I think ferns is English, & perhaps modern—TheScotch always (I fancy) say bracken WMR's note on “ferns” in line 156. And was it only the tossing ferns Or brake of the waste sea-wold? Or was it an eagle bent to the blast? When near we came, we knew it at last For a woman tattered and old. But it seemed as though by a fire within Her writhen limbs were wrung; And as soon as the King was close to her, She stood up gaunt and strong. 'Twas then the moon sailed clear of the rack On high in her hollow dome; And still as aloft with hoary crest Each clamorous wave rang home, Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed Amid the champing foam. And the woman held his eyes with her eyes:— “O King, thou art come at last; But thy wraith has haunted the Scotish Sea To my sight for four years past. “Four years it is since first I met, 'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu, A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud, And that shape for thine I knew. “A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle I saw thee pass in the breeze, With the cerecloth risen above thy feet And wound about thy knees. I 1 Proof number added by printer. [Charles Whittingham's printer date stamp, 14 Apr. 81] “And yet a year, in the Links of Forth, As a wanderer without rest, Thou cam'st with both thine arms i' the shroud That clung high up thy breast. “And in this hour I find thee here, And well mine eyes may note That the winding-sheet hath passed thy breast And risen around thy throat. “And when I meet thee again, O King, That of death hast such sore drouth,— Except thou turn again on this shore,— The winding-sheet shall have moved once more And covered thine eyes and mouth. : “O King, whom poor men bless for their King, Of thy fate be not so fain, ; But these my words for God's message take, And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake Who rides beside thy rein!” While the woman spoke, the King's horse reared As if it would breast the sea, And the Queen turned pale as she heard on the gale The voice die dolorously. When the woman ceased, the steed was still, But the King gazed on her yet, And in silence save for the wail of the sea His eyes and her eyes met. The typo in the running head is corrected, perhaps by DGR. At last he said:—“God's ways are His own; Man is but shadow and dust. Last night I prayed by His altar-stone; To-night I wend to the Feast of His Son; And in Him I set my trust. “I have held my people in sacred charge, And have not feared the sting Of proud men's hate,—to His will resign'd Who has but one same death for a hind And one same death for a King. “And if God in His wisdom have brought close The day when I must die, That day by water or fire or air My feet shall fall in the destined snare Wherever my road may lie. The typo in the running head is corrected, perhaps by DGR. “What man can say but the Fiend hath set Thy sorcery on my path, My heart with the fear of death to fill, And turn me against God's very will To sink in His burning wrath?” The woman stood as the train rode past, And moved nor limb nor eye; And when we were shipped, we saw her there Still standing against the sky. As the ship made way, the moon once more Sank slow in her rising pall; And I thought of the shrouded wraith of the King, And I said, “The Heavens know all.” The typo in the running head is corrected, perhaps by DGR. And now, ye lasses, must ye hear How my name is Kate Barlass:— But a little thing, when all the tale Is told of the weary mass Of crime and woe which in Scotland's realm God's will let come to pass. 'Twas in the Charterhouse of Perth That the King and all his Court Were met, the Christmas Feast being done, For solace and disport. 'Twas a wind-wild eve in February, And against the casement-pane The branches smote like summoning hands And muttered the driving rain. The typo in the running head is corrected, perhaps by DGR. And when the wind swooped over the lift And made the whole heaven frown, It seemed a grip was laid on the walls To tug the housetop down. And the Queen was there, more stately fair Than a lily in garden set; And the King was loth to stir from her side; For as on the day when she was his bride, Even so he loved her yet. And the Earl of Athole, the King's false friend, Sat with him at the board; And Robert Stuart the chamberlain Who had sold his sovereign Lord. The typo in the running head is corrected, perhaprs by DGR. Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber there Would fain have told him all, And vainly four times that night he strove To reach the King through the hall. But the wine is bright at the goblet's brim Though the poison lurk beneath; And the apples still are red on the tree Within whose shade may the adder be That shall turn thy life to death. There was a knight of the King's fast friends Whom he called the King of Love; And to such bright cheer and courtesy That name might best behove. The typo in the running head is corrected, perhaps by DGR. And the King and Queen both loved him well For his gentle knightliness; And with him the King, as that eve wore on, Was playing at the chess. And the King said, (for he thought to jest And soothe the Queen thereby;)— “In a book 'tis writ that this same year A King shall in Scotland die. “And I have pondered the matter o'er, And this have I found, Sir Hugh,— There are but two Kings on Scotish ground, And those Kings are I and you. “And I have a wife and a newborn heir, And you are yourself alone, ; So stand you stark at my side with me To guard our double throne. “For here sit I and my wife and child, As well your heart shall approve, In full surrender and soothfastness, Beneath your Kingdom of Love.” And the Knight laughed, and the Queen too smiled; But I knew her heavy thought, And I strove to find in the good King's jest What cheer might thence be wrought. No verse should be broken DGR's (smeared) note to the printer at the top of the page. And I said, “My Liege, for the Queen's dear love Now sing the song that of old You made, when a captive Prince you lay, And the nightingale sang sweet on the spray, In Windsor's castle-hold.” Then he smiled the smile I knew so well When he thought to please the Queen; The smile which under all bitter frowns Of fate that rose between, For ever dwelt at the poet's heart; Like the bird of love unseen. And he kissed her hand and took his harp, And the music sweetly rang; And when the song burst forth, it seemed 'Twas the nightingale that sang. “Worship, ye lovers, on this May: Of bliss your K kalends are begun: Sing with us, Away, Winter, away! Come, Summer, the sweet season and sun! Awake for shame,—your heaven is won,— And amorously your heads lift all: Thank Love, that you to his grace doth call!” But when he bent to the Queen, and sang The speech whose praise was hers, It seemed his voice was the voice of the Spring And the voice of the bygone years. “The fairest and the freshest flower That ever I saw before that hour, The which o' the sudden made to start The blood of my body to my heart. No verse should be broken DGR's note to the printer at the top of the page. This shd be gotinpreviouspage DGR's note in left margin beside lines 331-332. not possible Circled note in left margin beside lines 333-335, in response to DGR's note to lines 331-332. * * * * * Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creature Or heavenly thing in form of nature?” And the song was long, and richly stored With wonder and beauteous things; And the harp was tuned to every change Of minstrel ministerings; But when he spoke of the Queen at the last, Its strings were his own heart-strings. “Unworthy but only of her grace, Upon Love's rock that's easy and sure, In guerdon of all my lovè's space Printer corrects spacing of the apostrophe in the running head and marks line 347 for type improvement.. Thisonpreviouspage DGR's note in left margin beside lines 342-345. She took me her humble creäture. Thus fell my blissful aventure In youth of love that from day to day Flowereth aye new, and further I say. “To reckon all the circumstance As it happed when lessen gan my sore, Of my rancour and woful chance, It were too long,—I have done therefor. And of this flower I say no more But unto my help her heart hath tended And even from death her man defended.” “Aye, even from death,” to myself I said; For I thought of the day when she Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' siege, Of the fell confederacy. But Death even then took aim as he sang With an arrow deadly bright; And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof, And the wings were spread far over the roof More dark than the winter night. Yet truly along the amorous song Of Love's high pomp and state, There were words of Fortune's trackless doom And the dreadful face of Fate. And oft have I heard again in dreams The voice of dire appeal In which the King then sang of the pit That is under Fortune's wheel. “And under the wheel beheld I there An ugly p Pit as deep as hell, That to behold I quaked for fear: And this I heard, that who therein fell Came no more up, tidings to tell: Whereat, astound of the fearful sight, I wist not what to do for fright.” And oft has my thought called up again These words of the changeful song:— “Wist thou thy pain and thy travàil To come, well might'st thou weep and wail!” And our wail, O God! is long. But the song's end was all of his love; And well his heart was grac'd With her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyes As his arm went round her waist. And on the swell of her long fair throat Close clung the necklet-chain As he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside, And in the warmth of his love and pride He kissed her lips full fain. And her true face was a rosy red, The very red of the rose That, couched on the happy garden-bed, In the summer sunlight glows. And all the wondrous things of love That sang so sweet through the song Were in the look that met in their eyes, And the look was deep and long. K [Charles Whittingham's printer date stamp, 31 May 81] And the King said: “The hour is late; To-morrow will serve, I ween.” Then he charged the usher strictly, and said: “No word of this to the Queen.” But the usher came again to the King. “Shall I call her back?” quoth he: “For as she went on her way, she cried, ‘Woe! Woe! then the thing must be!‘” And the King paused, but he did not speak. Then he called for the Voidee-cup: And as we heard the twelfth hour strike, There by true lips and false lips alike Was the draught of trust drained up. So with reverence meet to King and Queen, To bed went all from the board; And the last to leave of the courtly train Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain Who had sold his sovereign lord. And all the locks of the chamber-door Had the traitor riven and brast; And that Fate might win sure way from afar, He had drawn out every bolt and bar That made the entrance fast. And now at midnight he stole his way To the moat of the outer wall, And laid strong hurdles closely across Where the traitors' tread should fall. But we that were the Queen's bower-maids Alone were left behind; And with heed we drew the curtains close Against the winter wind. And now that all was still through the hall, More clearly we heard the rain That clamoured ever against the glass And the boughs that beat on the pane. But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, And through empty space around The shadows cast on the arras'd wall 'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall Like spectres sprung from the ground. And the bed was dight in a deep alcove; And as he stood by the fire The King was still in talk with the Queen While he doffed his goodly attire. And the song had brought the image back Of many a bygone year; And many a loving word they said With hand in hand and head laid to head; And none of us went anear. But Love was weeping outside the house, A child in the piteous rain; And as he watched the arrow of Death, He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath That never should fly again. And now beneath the window arose A wild voice suddenly: And the King reared straight, but the Queen fell back As for bitter dule to dree; And all of us knew the woman's voice Who spoke by the Scotish Sea. “O King,” she cried, “in an evil hour They drove me from thy gate; And yet my voice must rise to thine ears; But alas! it comes too late! “Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour, When the moon was dead in the skies, O King, in a death-light of thine own I saw thy shape arise. “And in full season, as erst I said, The doom had gained its growth; And the shroud had risen above thy neck And covered thine eyes and mouth. “And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke, And still thy soul stood there; And I thought its silence cried to my soul As the first rays crowned its hair. “Since then have I journeyed fast and fain In very despite of Fate, Lest Hope might still be found in God's will: But they drove me from thy gate. “For every man on God's ground, O King, His death grows up from his birth In a shadow-plant perpetually; And thine towers high, a black yew-tree, O'er the Charterhouse of Perth!” That room was built far out from the house; And none but we in the room Might hear the voice that rose beneath, Nor the tread of the coming doom. For now there came a torchlight-glare, And a clang of arms there came; And not a soul in that space but thought Of the foe Sir Robert Græme. Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots, O'er mountain, valley, and glen, He had brought with him in murderous league Three hundred armèd men. The King knew all in an instant's flash; And like a King did he stand; But there was no armour in all the room, Nor weapon lay to his hand. And all we women flew to the door And thought to have made it fast; But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone And the locks were riven and brast. And he caught the pale pale Queen in his arms As the iron footsteps fell,— Then loosed her, standing alone, and said, “Our bliss was our farewell!” And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer, And he crossed his brow and breast; And proudly in royal hardihood Even so with folded arms he stood,— The prize of the bloody quest. Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer:— “O Catherine, help!” she cried. And low at his feet we clasped his knees Together side by side. “Oh! even a King, for his people's sake, From treasonous death must hide!” “For her sake most!” I cried, and I marked The pang that my words could wring. And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook I snatched and held to the King:— “Wrench up the plank! and the vault beneath Shall yield safe harbouring.” With brows low-bent, from my outstretched eager hand The heavy heft did he take; And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore; And as he frowned through the open floor, Again I said, “For her sake!” Then he cried to the Queen, “God's will be done!” For her hands were clasped in prayer. And down he sprang to the inner crypt; And straight we closed the plank he had ripp'd And toiled to smoothe it fair. (Alas! in that vault a gap once was Wherethro' the King might have fled: But three days since close-walled had it been By his will; for the ball would roll therein When without at the palm he play'd.) Then the Queen cried, “Catherine, keep the door, And I to this will suffice!” At her word I rose all dazed to my feet, And my heart was fire and ice. And louder ever the voices grew, And the tramp of men in mail; Until to my brain it seemed to be As though I tossed on a ship at sea In the teeth of a crashing gale. Then back I flew to the rest; and hard We strove with sinews knit To force the table against the door; But we might not compass it. And Then my wild gaze sped far down the hall To the place of the hearthstone-sill; And the Queen bent ever above the floor, For the plank was rising still. And now the rush was heard on the stair, And “God, what help?” was our cry. And was I frenzied or was I bold? I looked at each empty stanchion-hold, And no bar but my arm had I! Like iron felt my arm, as through The staple I made it pass:— Alack! it was flesh and bone—no more! 'Twas Catherine Douglas sprang to the door, But I fell back Kate Barlass. With that they all thronged into the hall, Half dim to my failing ken; And the space that was but a void before Was a crowd of wrathful men. Behind the door I had fall'n and lay, Yet my sense was wildly aware, And for all the pain of my shattered arm I never fainted there. Even as I fell, my eyes were cast Where the King leaped down to the pit; And lo! the plank was smooth in its place, And the Queen stood far from it. And under the litters and through the bed And within the presses all The traitors sought for the King, and pierced The arras around the wall. And through the chamber they ramped and stormed Like lions loose in the lair, And scarce could trust to their very eyes,— For behold! no King was there. Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried,— “Now tell us, where is thy lord?” And he held the sharp point over her heart: She drooped not her eyes nor did she start, But she answered never a word. Then the sword half pierced the true true breast: But it was the Græme's own son Cried, “This is a woman,—we seek a man!” And away from her girdle-zone He struck the point of the murderous steel; And that foul deed was not done. And forth flowed all the throng like a sea, And 'twas empty space once more; And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen As I lay behind the door. And I said: “Dear Lady, leave me here, For I cannot help you now; But fly while you may, and none shall reck Of my place here lying low.” And she said, “My Catherine, God help thee!” Then she looked to the distant floor, And clasping her hands, “O God help him,” She sobbed, “for we can no more!” But God He knows what help may mean, If it mean to live or to die; And what sore sorrow and mighty moan On earth it may cost ere yet a throne Be filled in His house on high. L [Charles Whittingham's printer date stamp, 31 May 81] And now the ladies fled with the Queen; And thorough the open door The night-wind wailed round the empty room And the rushes shook on the floor. And the bed drooped low in the dark recess Whence the arras was rent away; And the firelight still shone over the space Where our hidden secret lay. And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit The window high in the wall,— Bright beams that on the plank that I knew Through the painted pane did fall And gleamed with the splendour of Scotland's crown And shield armorial. But then a great wind swept up the skies, And the climbing moon fell back; And the royal blazon fled from the floor, And nought remained on its track; And high in the darkened window-pane The shield and the crown were black. And what I say next I partly saw And partly I heard in sooth, And partly since from the murderers' lips The torture wrung the truth. For now again came the armèd tread, And fast through the hall it fell; But the throng was less; and ere I saw, By the voice without I could tell That Robert Stuart had come with them Who knew that chamber well. And over the space the Græme strode dark With his mantle round him flung; And in his eye was a flaming light But not a word on his tongue. And Stuart held a torch to the floor, And he found the thing he sought; And they slashed the plank away with their swords; And O God! I fainted not! And the traitor held his torch in the gap, All smoking and smouldering; And through the vapour and fire, beneath In the dark crypt's narrow ring, With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof They saw their naked King. Half naked he stood, but stood as one Who yet could do and dare: With the crown, the King was stript away,— The Knight was reft of his battle-array,— But still the Man was there. From the rout then stepped a villain forth,— Sir John Hall was his name; With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault Beneath the torchlight-flame. Of his person and stature was the King A man right manly strong, And mightily by the shoulder-blades His foe to his feet he flung. Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall, Sprang down to work his worst; And the King caught the second man by the neck And flung him above the first. And he smote and trampled them under him; And a long month thence they bare All black their throats with the grip of his hands When the hangman's hand came there. And sore he strove to have had their knives, But the sharp blades gashed his hands. Oh James! so armed, thou hadst battled there Till help had come of thy bands; And oh! once more thou hadst held our throne And ruled thy Scotish lands! But while the King o'er his foes still raged With a heart that nought could tame, Another man sprang down to the crypt; And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'd, There stood Sir Robert Græme. (Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart Who durst not face his King Till the body unarmed was wearied out With two-fold combating! Ah! well might the people sing and say, As oft ye have heard aright:— “O Robert Græme, O Robert Græme, Who slew our King, God give thee shame!” For he slew him not as a knight.) And the naked King turned round at bay, But his strength had passed the goal, And he could but gasp:—“Mine hour is come; But oh! to succour thine own soul's doom, Let a priest now shrive my soul!” And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength, And said:—“Have I kept my word?— Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave? No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have, But the shrift of this red sword!” With that he smote his King through the breast; And all they three in that pen Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there Like merciless murderous men. Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Græme, Ere the King's last breath was o'er, Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight And would have done no more. But a cry came from the troop above:— “If him thou do not slay, The price of his life that thou dost spare Thy forfeit life shall pay!” O God! what more did I hear or see, Or how should I tell the rest? But there at length our King lay slain With sixteen wounds in his breast. O God! and now did a bell boom forth, And the murderers turned and fled;— And, girls, 'twas a sweet sad thing to see How the curling golden hair, As in the day of the poet's youth, From the King's crown clustered there. And if all had come to pass in the brain That throbbed beneath those curls, Then Scots had said in the days to come That this their soil was a different home And a different Scotland, girls! And the Queen sat by him night and day, And oft she knelt in prayer, All wan and pale in the widow's veil That shrouded her shining hair. And I had got good help of my hurt: And only to me some sign She made; and save the priests that were there, No face would she see but mine. And the month of March wore on apace; And now fresh couriers fared Still from the country of the Wild Scots With news of the traitors snared. And still as I told her day by day, Her pallor changed to sight, And the frost grew to a furnace-flame That burnt her visage white. And evermore as I brought her word, She bent to her dead King James, And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath She spoke the traitors' names. But when the name of Sir Robert Græme Was the one she had to give, I ran to hold her up from the floor; For the froth was on her lips, and sore I feared that she could not live. And the month of March wore nigh to its end, And still was the death-pall spread; For she would not bury her slaughtered lord Till his slayers all were dead. And now of their dooms dread tidings came, And of torments fierce and dire; And nought she spake,—she had ceased to speak,— But her eyes were a soul on fire. But when I told her the bitter end Of the stern and just award, She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times She kissed the lips of her lord. And then she said,—“My King, they are dead!” And she knelt on the chapel-floor, And whispered low with a strange proud smile,— “James, James, they suffered more!” Last she stood up to her queenly height, But she shook like an autumn leaf, As though the fire wherein she burned Then left her body, and all were turned To winter of life-long grief. And “O James!” she said,—“My James!” she said,— “Alas for the woful thing, That a poet true and a friend of man, In desperate days of bale and ban, Should needs be born a King!” blank page H This is an uncorrected duplicate of the earlier copy of Signature H in these proofs. <hi rend="c">THE KING'S TRAGEDY.</hi>

NOTE.

Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honour of herheroic act when she barred the door with her arm againstthe murderers of James the First of Scots, received popu-larly the name of “Barlass.” This name remains to herdescendants, the Barlas family, in Scotland, who bear fortheir crest a broken arm. She married Alexander Lovell ofBolunnie.

A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem known as The King's Quair , are quoted in the course of this ballad.The writer must express regret for the necessity which hascompelled him to shorten the ten-syllabled lines to eightsyllables, in order that they might harmonize with the balladmetre.

 <hi rend="c">THE KING'S TRAGEDY</hi>.<lb/> <hi rend="sc">James I. of Scots.—20th February, 1437.</hi> I Catherine am a Douglas born, A name to all Scots dear; And Kate Barlass they've called me now Through many a waning year. This old arm's withered now. 'Twas once Most deft 'mong maidens all To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, To smite the palm-play ball. In hall adown the close-linked dance It has shone most white and fair; It has been the rest for a true lord's head, And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed, And the bar to a King's chambère. Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, And hark with bated breath How good King James, King Robert's son, Was foully done to death. Through all the days of his gallant youth The princely James was pent, By his friends at first and then by his foes, In long imprisonment. For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, By treason's murderous brood Was slain; and the father quaked for the child With the royal mortal blood. I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care, Was his childhood's life assured; And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke His youth for long years immured. Yet in all things meet for a kingly man Himself did he approve; And the nightingale through his prison-wall Taught him both lore and love. For once, when the bird's song drew him close To the opened window-pane, In her bowers beneath a lady stood, A light of life to his sorrowful mood, Like a lily amid the rain. And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note, He framed a sweeter Song, More sweet than ever a poet's heart Gave yet to the English tongue. She was a lady of royal blood; And when, past sorrow and teen, He stood where still through his crownless years His Scotish realm had been, At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, A heart-wed King and Queen. But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, And song be turned to moan, And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate, When the tempest-waves of a troubled State Are beating against a throne. Yet well they loved; and the god of Love, Whom well the King had sung, Might find on the earth no truer hearts His lowliest swains among. From the days when first she rode abroad With Scotish maids in her train, I Catherine Douglas won the trust Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane. And oft she sighed, “To be born a King!” And oft along the way When she saw the homely lovers pass She has said, “Alack the day!” Years waned,—the loving and toiling years: Till England's wrong renewed Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown, To the open field of feud. 'Twas when the King and his host were met At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold, The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp With a tale of dread to be told. And she showed him a secret letter writ That spoke of treasonous strife, And how a band of his noblest lords Were sworn to take his life. “And it may be here or it may be there, In the camp or the court,” she said: “But for my sake come to your people's arms And guard your royal head.” Quoth he, “'Tis the fifteenth day of the siege, And the castle's nigh to yield.” “O face your foes on your throne,” she cried, “And show the power you wield; And under your Scotish people's love You shall sit as under your shield.” At the fair Queen's side I stood that day When he bade them raise the siege, And back to his Court he sped to know How the lords would meet their Liege. But when he summoned his Parliament, The louring brows hung round, Like clouds that circle the mountain-head Ere the first low thunders sound. For he had tamed the nobles' lust And curbed their power and pride, And reached out an arm to right the poor Through Scotland far and wide; And many a lordly wrong-doer By the headsman's axe had died. 'Twas then upspoke Sir Robert Græme, The bold o'ermastering man:— “O King, in the name of your Three Estates I set you under their ban! “For, as your lords made oath to you Of service and fealty, Even in like wise you pledged your oath Their faithful sire to be:— “Yet all we here that are nobly sprung Have mourned dear kith and kin Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse Did your bloody rule begin.” With that he laid his hands on his King:— “Is this not so, my lords?” But of all who had sworn to league with him Not one spake back to his words. Quoth the King:—“Thou speak'st but for one Estate, Nor doth it avow thy gage. Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence!” The Græme fired dark with rage:— “Who works for lesser men than himself, He earns but a witless wage!” But soon from the dungeon where he lay He won by privy plots, And forth he fled with a price on his head To the country of the Wild Scots. And word there came from Sir Robert Græme To the King at Edinbro':— “No Liege of mine thou art; but I see From this day forth alone in thee God's creature, my mortal foe. “Through thee are my wife and children lost, My heritage and lands; And when my God shall show me a way, Thyself my mortal foe will I slay With these my proper hands.” Against the coming of Christmastide That year the King bade call I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth A solemn festival. And we of his household rode with him In a close-ranked company; But not till the sun had sunk from his throne Did we reach the Scotish Sea. That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 'Neath a toilsome moon half seen; The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high; And where there was a line of the sky, Wild wings loomed dark between. And on a rock of the black beach-side, By the veiled moon dimly lit, There was something seemed to heave with life As the King drew nigh to it. And was it only the tossing ferns Or brake of the waste sea-wold? Or was it an eagle bent to the blast? When near we came, we knew it at last For a woman tattered and old. But it seemed as though by a fire within Her writhen limbs were wrung; And as soon as the King was close to her, She stood up gaunt and strong. 'Twas then the moon sailed clear of the rack On high in her hollow dome; And still as aloft with hoary crest Each clamorous wave rang home, Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed Amid the champing foam. And the woman held his eyes with her eyes:— “O King, thou art come at last; But thy wraith has haunted the Scotish Sea To my sight for four years past. “Four years it is since first I met, 'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu, A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud, And that shape for thine I knew. “A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle I saw thee pass in the breeze, With the cerecloth risen above thy feet And wound about thy knees. K And the King said: “The hour is late; To-morrow will serve, I ween.” Then he charged the usher strictly, and said: “No word of this to the Queen.” But the usher came again to the King. “Shall I call her back?” quoth he: “For as she went on her way, she cried, ‘Woe! Woe! then the thing must be!‘” And the King paused, but he did not speak. Then he called for the Voidee-cup: And as we heard the twelfth hour strike, There by true lips and false lips alike Was the draught of trust drained up. So with reverence meet to King and Queen, To bed went all from the board; And the last to leave of the courtly train Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain Who had sold his sovereign lord. And all the locks of the chamber-door Had the traitor riven and brast; And that Fate might win sure way from afar, He had drawn out every bolt and bar That made the entrance fast. And now at midnight he stole his way To the moat of the outer wall, And laid strong hurdles closely across Where the traitors' tread should fall. But we that were the Queen's bower-maids Alone were left behind; And with heed we drew the curtains close Against the winter wind. And now that all was still through the hall, More clearly we heard the rain That clamoured ever against the glass And the boughs that beat on the pane. But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, And through empty space around The shadows cast on the arras'd wall 'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall Like spectres sprung from the ground. And the bed was dight in a deep alcove; And as he stood by the fire The King was still in talk with the Queen While he doffed his goodly attire. And the song had brought the image back Of many a bygone year; And many a loving word they said With hand in hand and head laid to head; And none of us went anear. But Love was weeping outside the house, A child in the piteous rain; And as he watched the arrow of Death, He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath That never should fly again. And now beneath the window arose A wild voice suddenly: And the King reared straight, but the Queen fell back As for bitter dule to dree; And all of us knew the woman's voice Who spoke by the Scotish Sea. “O King,” she cried, “in an evil hour They drove me from thy gate; And yet my voice must rise to thine ears; But alas! it comes too late! “Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour, When the moon was dead in the skies, O King, in a death-light of thine own I saw thy shape arise. “And in full season, as erst I said, The doom had gained its growth; And the shroud had risen above thy neck And covered thine eyes and mouth. “And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke, And still thy soul stood there; And I thought its silence cried to my soul As the first rays crowned its hair. “Since then have I journeyed fast and fain In very despite of Fate, Lest Hope might still be found in God's will: But they drove me from thy gate. “For every man on God's ground, O King, His death grows up from his birth In a shadow-plant perpetually; And thine towers high, a black yew-tree, O'er the Charterhouse of Perth!” That room was built far out from the house; And none but we in the room Might hear the voice that rose beneath, Nor the tread of the coming doom. For now there came a torchlight-glare, And a clang of arms there came; And not a soul in that space but thought Of the foe Sir Robert Græme. Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots, O'er mountain, valley, and glen, He had brought with him in murderous league Three hundred armèd men. The King knew all in an instant's flash; And like a King did he stand; But there was no armour in all the room, Nor weapon lay to his hand. And all we women flew to the door And thought to have made it fast; But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone And the locks were riven and brast. And he caught the pale pale Queen in his arms As the iron footsteps fell,— Then loosed her, standing alone, and said, “Our bliss was our farewell!” And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer, And he crossed his brow and breast; And proudly in royal hardihood Even so with folded arms he stood,— The prize of the bloody quest. Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer:— “O Catherine, help!” she cried. And I felt the strength of a mighty man As wildly across the room I ran And reached her husband's side. And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook I snatched, nor my hand did shake, But the plank at my feet I wrenched and tore, And pointed down through the open floor, And said, “My Liege, for her sake!” And he looked to the Queen, and then he came, For her hands were clasped in prayer. And down he sprang to the inner crypt; And straight I closed the plank I had ripp'd And spread the rushes there. (Alas! in that vault a gap once was Wherethro' the King might have fled: But three days since close-walled had it been By his will; for the ball would roll therein When without at the palm he play'd.) And louder ever the voices grew, And the tramp of men in mail; Until to my brain it seemed to be As though I tossed on a ship at sea In the teeth of a crashing gale. Then back I flew to the rest; and hard We strove with sinews knit To force the table against the door; But we might not compass it. And now the rush was heard on the stair, And “God, what help?” was our cry. And was I frenzied or was I bold?— I looked at each empty stanchion-hold, And no bar but my arm had I! Like iron felt my arm, as through The staple I made it pass:— Alack! it was flesh and bone—no more! 'Twas Catherine Douglas sprang to the door, But I fell back Kate Barlass. With that they all thronged into the hall, Half dim to my failing ken; And the space that was but a void before Was a crowd of raging men. Behind the door I had fall'n and lay, Yet my sense was wildly aware, And for all the pain of my shattered arm I never fainted there. And under the litters and through the bed And within the presses all They sought in vain for the King, and pierced The arras around the wall. And through the chamber they stamped and stormed Like lions loose in the lair, And scarce could trust to their very eyes,— For behold! no King was there. Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried,— “Now tell us, where is thy lord?” And he held the sharp point over her heart: She dropped not her eyes nor did she start, But she answered never a word. Then the sword half pierced the true true breast: But it was the Græme's own son Cried, “This is a woman,—we seek a man!” And away from her girdle-zone He struck the point of the murderous steel; And that foul deed was not done. And forth flowed all the throng like a sea, And 'twas empty space once more; And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen As I lay behind the door. And I said: “Dear Lady, leave me here, For I cannot help you now; But fly while you may, and none shall reck Of my place here lying low.” And she said, “My Catherine, God help thee!” Then she looked to the distant floor, And clasping her hands, “O God help him,” She sobbed, “for we can no more!” But God He knows what help may mean, If it mean to live or to die; And what sore sorrow and mighty moan On earth it may cost ere yet a throne Be filled in His house on high. And now the ladies fled with the Queen; And thorough the open door The night-wind wailed round the empty room And the rushes shook on the floor. And the bed drooped low in the dark recess Whence the arras was rent away; And the firelight still shone over the space Where our hidden secret lay. And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit The window high in the wall,— Bright beams that on the plank that I knew Through the painted pane did fall And gleamed with the splendour of Scotland's crown And shield armorial. But then a great wind swept up the skies, And the climbing moon fell back; And the royal blazon fled from the floor, And nought remained on its track; And high in the darkened window-pane The shield and the crown were black. And what I say next I partly saw And partly I heard in sooth, And partly since from the murderers' lips The torture wrung the truth. For now again came the armèd tread, And fast through the hall it fell; But the throng was less; and ere I saw, By the voice without I could tell That Robert Stuart had come with them Who knew that chamber well. And over the space the Græme strode dark With his mantle round him flung; And in his eye was a flaming light But not a word on his tongue. And Stuart held a torch to the floor, And he found the thing he sought; And they slashed the plank away with their swords; And O God! I fainted not! And the traitor held his torch in the gap, All smoking and smouldering; And through the vapour and fire, beneath In the dark crypt's narrow ring, With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof They saw their naked King. Half naked he stood, but stood as one Who yet could do and dare: With the crown, the King was stript away,— The Knight was reft of his battle-array,— But still the Man was there. From the rout then stepped a villain forth,— Sir John Hall was his name; With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault Beneath the torchlight-flame. Of his person and stature was the King A man right manly strong, And mightily by the shoulder-blades His foe to his feet he flung. Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall, Sprang down to work his worst; And the King caught the second man by the neck And flung him above the first. And he smote and trampled them under him; And a long month thence they bare All black their throats with the grip of his hands When the hangman's hand came there. And sore he strove to have had their knives, But the sharp blades gashed his hands. Oh James! so armed, thou hadst battled there Till help had come of thy bands; And oh! once more thou hadst held our throne And ruled thy Scotish lands! But while the King o'er his foes still raged With a heart that nought could tame, Another man sprang down to the crypt; And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'd, There stood Sir Robert Græme. (Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart Who durst not face his King Till the body unarmed was wearied out With two-fold combating! Ah! well might the people sing and say, As oft ye have heard aright:— “O Robert Græme, O Robert Græme, Who slew our King, God give thee shame!” For he slew him not as a knight.) And the naked King turned round at bay, But his strength had passed the goal, And he could but gasp:—“Mine hour is come; But oh! to succour thine own soul's doom, Let a priest now shrive my soul!” And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength, And said:—“Have I kept my word?— Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave? No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have, But the shrift of this red sword!” With that he smote his King through the breast; And all they three in that pen Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there Like merciless murderous men. Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Græme, Ere the King's last breath was o'er, Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight And would have done no more. But a cry came from the troop above:— “If him thou do not slay, The price of his life that thou dost spare Thy forfeit life shall pay!” O God! what more did I hear or see, Or how should I tell the rest? But there at length our King lay slain With sixteen wounds in his breast. O God! and now did a bell boom forth, And the murderers turned and fled;— Too late, too late, O God, did it sound!— And I heard the true men mustering round, And the cries and the coming tread. But ere they came, to the black death-gap Somewise did I creep and steal; And lo! or ever I swooned away, Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel. --------------------------- And now, ye Scotish maids who have heard Dread things of the days grown old,— Even at the last, of true Queen Jane May somewhat yet be told, And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake Dire vengeance manifold. 'Twas in the Charterhouse of Perth, In the fair-lit Death-chapelle, That the slain King's corpse on bier was laid With chaunt and requiem-knell. And all with royal wealth of balm Was the body purified; And none could trace on the brow and lips The death that he had died. In his robes of state he lay asleep With orb and sceptre in hand; And by the crown he wore on his throne Was his kingly forehead spann'd. And, girls, 'twas a sweet sad thing to see How the curling golden hair, As in the day of the poet's youth, From the King's crown clustered there. And if all had come to pass in the brain That throbbed beneath those curls, Then Scots had said in the days to come That this their soil was a different home And a different Scotland, girls! And the Queen sat by him night and day, And oft she knelt in prayer, All wan and pale in the widow's veil That shrouded her shining hair. And I had got good help of my hurt: And only to me some sign She made; and save the priests that were there, No face would she see but mine. And the month of March wore on apace; And now fresh couriers fared Still from the country of the Wild Scots With news of the traitors snared. And still as I told her day by day, Her pallor changed to sight, And the frost grew to a furnace-flame That burnt her visage white. And evermore as I brought her word, She bent to her dead King James, And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath She spoke the traitors' names. But when the name of Sir Robert Græme Was the one she had to give, I ran to hold her up from the floor; For the froth was on her lips, and sore I feared that she could not live. And the month of March wore nigh to its end, And still was the death-pall spread; For she would not bury her slaughtered lord Till his slayers all were dead. And now of their dooms dread tidings came, And of torments fierce and dire; And nought she spake,—she had ceased to speak,— But her eyes were a soul on fire. But when I told her the bitter end Of the stern and just award, She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times She kissed the lips of her lord. And then she said,—“My King, they are dead!” And she knelt on the chapel-floor, And whispered low with a strange proud smile,— “James, James, they suffered more!” Last she stood up to her queenly height, But she shook like an autumn leaf, As though the fire wherein she burned Then left her body, and all were turned To winter of life-long grief. And “O James!” she said,—“My James!” she said,— “Alas for the woful thing, That a poet true and a friend of man, In desperate days of bale and ban, Should needs be born a King!” <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">THE HOUSE OF LIFE:</hi> </hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">A SONNET-SEQUENCE.</hi> </hi> <lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="sc"> <hi rend="center">Part I.</hi> </hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">YOUTH AND CHANGE</hi> </hi>.<lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="sc"> <hi rend="center">Part II.</hi> </hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">CHANGE AND FATE</hi> </hi>.

(The present full series of The House of Life consists ofsonnets only. It will be evident that many among thosenow first added are still the work of earlier years.

To speak in the first person is often to speak most vividly : but these emotional poems are in no sense “occasional.” The “Life” involved is life representative, as associated with love and death, with aspiration and foreboding, or with ideal art and beauty. )