Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Maude Clare
MAUDE CLARE.
The fields were white with lily-buds,
White gleamed the lilied beck;
Each mated pigeon plumed the pomp
Of his metallic neck.
She follow'd his bride into the church,
With a lofty step and mien:
His bride was like a village maid,
Maude Clare was like a queen.
The minstrels made loud marriage din;
Each guest sat in his place,
To eat and drink, and wish good luck,
To do the wedding grace;
To eat and drink, and wish good luck,
To sing, and laugh, and jest:
One only neither ate nor drank,
Nor clapp'd her hands, nor bless'd.
"Son Thomas," his lady mother said,
With smiles, almost with tears,
"May Nell and you but live as true
As we have done for years;
"Your father, thirty years ago,
Had just your tale to tell;
But he was not so pale as you,
Nor I so pale as Nell."
My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;
My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
Or ever he kiss'd the bride.
No eyes were fix'd upon the bride,
Or on the bridegroom more,
All eyes were fix'd on grand Maude Clare,
While she look'd straight before.
"Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,
Have brought my gift," she said—
To bless the hearth, to bless the board,
To bless the marriage-bed.
"Here's my half of the golden chain
You wore about your neck,
That day we waded ancle-deep
For lilies in the beck:
"Here's my half of the faded leaves
We pluck'd from budding bough,
With feet amongst the lily-leaves,—
The lilies are budding now."
He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
He falter'd in his place:
"Lady," he said,—"Maude Clare," he said,
"Maude Clare,"—and hid his face.
She turn'd to Nell: "My Lady Nell,
I have a gift for you,
Tho', were it fruit, the bloom were gone,
Or, were it flowers, the dew.
"Take my share of a fickle heart,
Mine of a paltry love:
Take it, or leave it, as you will,
I wash my hands thereof."
"And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take,
And what you spurn I'll wear,
For he's my lord for better and worse,
And him I love, Maude Clare.
"Yea, though you're taller by the head,
More wise, and much more fair;
I'll love him till he loves me best—
Me best of all, Maude Clare!"
.png)