Poems (Elgee, 1907)/Thekla: a swedish saga

by Jane Francesca Agnes Elgee

THEKLA.

————
A SWEDISH SAGA.
————

TEMPTATION.

N the green sward Thekla's lying,
Summer winds are round her sighing,
 At her feet the ocean plays;
In that mirror idly gazing
She beholds, with inward praising,
 Her own beauty in amaze.

And with winds and waves attuning
Her low voice, in soft communing
 Said: "If truly I'm so fair,
Might the best in our Swedish land
Die all for love of my white hand,
 Azure eyes and golden hair"

And fair Thekla bent down gazing,
Light her golden curls upraising
 From her bosom fair to see,
Which, within the azure ocean,
Glittered hack in soft commotion,
 Like a lotus tremblingly.

Saying soft, with pleasure trembling,
"If so fair is the resembling,
 How much fairer I must be!
Rose-lipped shadow, smiling brightly,
Are we angels floating lightly
 Through the azure air and sea?

"Oh! that beauty never faded,
That years passing never shaded
 Youthful cheek with hues of age!
Oh! thou fairest crystal form,
Can we not time's hand disarm?"
 Hark! the winds begin to rage;

And with onward heaving motion
Rise the waves in wild commotion—
 Spirits mournfullest they seem
Round the crystal shadow plaining,
Shivered, shattered, fades it waning
 From the maiden like a dream.

And from midst the drooping oziers
Of the sunny banks' enclosures
 Rose a woman weird to see:
Strange her mein and antique vesture,
Yet with friendly look and gesture
 To the trembling girl spake she.

"As the cruel winds bereft thee
Of the shadow that hath left thee,
 Maiden, will thy children steal
One by one these treasures from thee,
Till all beauty hath foregone thee:
 Mother's woe is children's weal.

"For the beauty of the mother
Is the children's—sister, brother,
 As she fades away, will bloom.
Mother's eyes grow dim by weeping,
Wan her cheak, lone vigils keeping:
 Youthful virgin, 'ware your doom!

"Wifely name is sweet from lover,
Yet ere many years are over,
 From the fatal day you wed,
Sore you'll rue the holy altar,
And the salt sea will grow salter
 For the bitter tears you'll shed.

See the pallid cheek reflected,
Hollow, sunken eyes dejected,
 Look of weary, wasting pain;
All changed for thy beauty rarest:
Maiden, tell me, if thou darest
 Then come here, and look again.

"But should lovers' pleading gain thee,
Haste thee quick and I will sain thee
 Ere the marriage vows are said;
By the might of magic power,
I can save thee from the hour
 Of a mother's anguish dread."

Answered Thekla: "Save me! save me!
Witch or woman, then I crave thee,
 From a mother's fated doom!
So my beauty never fading
Thou canst make with magic aiding,
 Fatal Mother, I shall come."

————

THE SIN.

'Neath the casement stood a Ritter,
 Sings by night with sweetest tone
"Thekla, dearest Thekla, listen,
 Wilt thou be my bride, mine own?

"Castles have I, parks and forests,
 Mountains veined with the red gold:
And a heart that pineth for thee,
 With a wealth of love untold.

"I will deck my love in jewels,
 Gold and peril on brow and hand,
Broidered robes and costly girdles,
 From the far-off Paynim land.

"Here I hang upon the rose-tree,
 Love, a little golden ring;
Wilt thou take it? wilt thou wear it,
 Love?" Thus did the Ritter sing.

Then upon his black steed mounting,
 Kissed his hand and doffed his plume.
Lovely Thekla stole down gently,
 Sought the gold ring in the gloom.

"Little ring, wilt thou deceive me?
 Like the rose dost hide a thorn?"
As she takes it, close beside her
 Sounds a ringing laugh of scorn.

And the fatal Mother, mocking,
 Points her finger to the ring:
"What, my maiden! sold thy beauty
 For that paltry glittering thing?

"Plucked the bauble from a rose-tree?
 Ring and rose and doom in all;
Roses bright from cheek of beauty,
 Roses bright must fade and fall.

"Wilt thou follow me?" They glided
 Over heath, through moor and wood,
Till beside an ancient windmill,
 In the lone, dark night they stood.

All the mighty wheels were silent,
 All the giant arms lay still—
"Bride and wife, but never mother,
 Maiden, swear, is such thy will?

"Dost swear?" "I swear!" They glided
 Up the stairs and through the door,
With her wand the magic Mother
 Draws a circle on the floor.

Grains of yellow corn, seven,
 Takes she from a sack beside,
Draws the gold ring of her lover
 From the finger of the bride.—

"Seven children would have stolen
 Light and beauty from thine eyes,
But as I cast the yellow corn
 Through thy gold ring, each one dies.

Slowly creaked the mill, then faster
 Whirled the giant arms on high;
Shuddering, hears the trembling maiden
 Crushing bones, and infant's cry.

Now there is a deathlike silence,
 Thekla hears her heart alone—
Again the weird one flings the corn,
 Again that plantive infant's moan.

Two—three—four—the mill goes faster,
 Whirling, crushing.—Ah! those cries!
"Bride, thou'lt never be a mother;
 Thy beauty's saved—the seventh dies!"

Seven turns the mill hath taken,
 Seven moans hath Thekla heard;
Then all is still. The moon from Heaven
 Shines down calm upon the sward.

"Now take back thy ring in safety;
 Mother's joy or mother's woe,
Wasting pain or fading beauty,
 Maiden, thou shalt never know!

"Home, before the morning hour!"
 Home in terror Thekla flies,
Shuddering, she hears behind her
 Laugh of scorn, infants' cries.

THE BRIDAL.

The guests have met in the castle hall.
 Who rides through the castle gate,
With banner and plume? The young bridegroom
 And a hundred knights in state.

The guests have met in procession fair,
 Around the bride they stand;
The myrtle wreath on her golden hair,
 The bride ring on her hand.

So bright her beauty she dazed men's eyes,
 Like the blinding, glorious sun.
"Never knight," they murmured, "gained such prize
 Since ever the world begun."

Seven maidens held up her train of white,
 Inwrought with the precious gold,
And over it flowed in a stream of light
 Her long, bright hair unrolled.

Seven pages, each with a lighted torch,
 Precede her as she moves
With the long array to the ancient church
 Within the beechen groves.

The priest stood mute with the holy book,
 And scarce could utter a prayer,
As that lovely vision of light and youth
 Knelt down before him there.

She vows the vows. Erick bends to place.
 The gold ring on her hand,
Prouder then, as he gazed on her face,
 Than if King of the Swedish land.

The lights were bright in the hall that night,
 But brighter Thekla's glance,
As in wedded pride, by Erick's side,
 She led the bridal dance.

"Drink! and wave high the flaming pines;
 God bless the bride so fair!
May a goodly race, like clustering vines,
 Twine round the wedded pair!"

The "vivas" rung for the noble race,
 Till they stirred the banners of gold,
And the bridegroom bow'd with a stately grace;
 But the bride sat mute and cold—

For the air seemed heavy as that of graves,
 And the lights burned lurid and chill;
And she hears the dash of the far-off waves,
 And the creak of the mighty mill.

The "vivas" sound like an infant's wail,
 Or a demon's laugh of scorn.
"Oh! would to God," she murmured, all pale,
 "That I had never been born!"

————

THE PUNISHMENT.

Full seven years have passed and flown—
 But years o'er Thekla lightly pass,
As rose leaves, falling one by one,
 From roses on the summer grass.

"It is our bridal day," she said;
 "We're bidden to a christ'ning feast
I'll wear the robe I had when wed,
 The robe I love of all the best.

"I'll wear my crown of jewels rare:
 On brow and bosom let them shine;
Yet diamonds in my golden hair
 Were dull beside these eyes of mine!"

She laughed aloud before the glass.
 "Some women's hair would turn to grey
With cares, ere half the years did pass
 I've numbered since my wedding day.

"But they were mothers—fools, I trow.
 Life's current all too quickly runs;
I would not give my beauty now
 For all their goodly race of sons."

She sprang upon her palfrey white,
 While Erick held the broiderd rein,
And showered down her veil of light
 Upon the flowing, silky mane.

The guests rose up in wonderment—
 Such beauty never had been seen—
And bowed before her as she went,
 As if she were a crowned queen.

The knights pressed round with words of praise,
 And murmured homage in her ear,
And swore to serve her all their days,
 E'en die for her—would she but hear.

But vainly, all in vain they sought
 One answering smile of love to win.
Upon her soul there lieth nought
 Save that one only, deadly sin.

"I pray you now I fain would have
 So fair an angel hold my child,"
The mother said; and smilling, gave
 To Thekla's arms her infant mild.

Advancing slow, with stately air,
 Beside the font she took her place,
The infant, like a rosebud fair,
 Nestling amid her bosom's lace.

She lays it on the bishop's arm,
 The while he makes the blessed sign,
And sains it safe from ghostly harm
 By Father, Spirit, Son Divine.

Then reaches out her hands again
 To take it—but with moaning sound,
Like one distraught with sudden pain,
 Falls pale and fainting to the ground.

"She has no children," Erick said,
 As pleading for the strange mischance;
"This only grief since we were wed
 Has saddened sore her life, perchance."

"She has no children!" murmured low
 The happy mothers, gathered near;
"No child to love her—bitter woe;
 No child to kiss her on her bier!"

But graver matrons shook the head:
 "That witchlike beauty bodes no good;
Witch hands can never hold, 'tis said,
 A child just blessed by holy rood."

They raised her up; she spake no word,
 But slowly drooped her tearful eyes;
The rushing wave was all she heard,
 The whirling wheels, the infants' cries.

And Erick said, with bitter smile:
 "You play the mother all too ill;
Madonnas do not suit your style."
 Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.

They set her on her palfrey white;
 She heeds not all their taunting sneers,
But showers down her veil of light,
 To hide the conscious, guilty tears.

They rode through all his vast estate
 But rode in silence—he behind,
Sore pondering on his childless fate,
 With ruffled brow and moody mind.

They rode through shadowy forest glades,
 By meadows filled with lowing kine,
By streams that ran like silver threads
 Down from the dark-fringed hills of pine.

"Alas!" he thought, "no child of mine
 When I am dead shall take my place;
Must all the wealth of all my line
 Pass to a hated kinsman's race?

"Now, by my sword, I'd give up all,
 Wealth, fame, and glory, all I've won,
So that within my father's hall
 Beside me stood a noble son!"

He saw her white veil floating back
 Along the twilight gray and still,
Like ghostly shadows on her track—
 Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.

And now they neared the ancient church,
 The ancient church where they were wed!
The moonlight full upon the porch
 Shone bright, and Erick raised his head.

O Heaven! There upon the lawn
 The palfrey's shadow stands out clear
Out Thekla's shadow—it is gone!
 Nor form nor floating veil is there.

He spurred his steed with bitter cry:
 "Could she have fallen in deathly swoon!"
But no, there, slowly riding by,
 He sees her by the bright full moon.

With gesture fierce he seized her rein:
 Woman or fiend! Look, if you dare,
The palfrey casts a shadow plain,
 But yours—O horror!—is not there!"

She gathered close her silken veil,
 And wrung her hands, and prayed for grace,
While down from Heaven the calm moon pale
 Looked like God's own accusing face.

He flung aside the broidered rein:
 "O woe the day that we were wed!
A witch bride to my arms I've ta'en,
 Branded by God's own finger dread."

She followed, weeping, step by step,
 Led by the unseen hand of Fate,
Still keeping in the shadows deep,
 Until they reached the castle gate.

He strode across the corridor,
 And rolling back upon its ring
The curtan of her chamber door,
 He motioned her to enter in.

She laid aside her silken veil,
 The golden circlet from her head,
And waited, motionless and pale,
 Like one uprisen from the dead.

Could she deny, e'en if she would?
 The moonlight wrapped her like a sheet,
And in the accusing light she stood,
 As if before God's judgment-seat.

Brief were his questions, stern his wrath;
 A doom seemed laid on her to tell,
How, with the ring of plighted troth,
 Her hand had wrought the murd'rous spell.

How she had marred his ancient line,
 And broke the life-chord that should bless,
And sent the seven fair souls to pine
 Back to the shades of nothingness—

That so her beauty might not wane,
 Her glorious beauty—fatal good;
Yet one she would not lose to gain
 The rights of sacred motherhood.

And still she told the tale as cold—
 The witch-fire burning in her eyes—
As if it were some legend old,
 Drawn from a poet's memories.

He cursed her in his bitter wrath,
 He cursed her by her children dead,
He cursed the ring of plighted troth,
 He cursed the day when they were wed.

Fierce and more fierce his accents rose:
 "Away!" he cried, "false hag of sin:
I see through all this painted gloze
 The black and hideous soul within.

"Oh! false and foul, thou art to me
 A devil—not a woman fair!
Like coiling snakes I seem to see
 Each twisted tress of golden hair.

"I hate thee, as I hate God's foe.
 Forth from my castle halls this night:
I could not breathe the air, if so
 Thy poison breath were here to blight."

She cowered, shivered, spake no word,
 But fell before him at his feet,
As if an angel of the Lord
 Had smote her at the judgment-seat.

And on her heart there came at last
 The dread, deep consciousness of sin,
That ghastly spectre which had cast
 Upon her life this suffering.

And from her hand the gold ring fell—
 Her wedding ring—and broke in twain;
The fatal ring that wrought the spell,
 The accursed ring of love and pain.

The spell seemed broken then: the word.
 Came, softly breath'd: "Oh, pardon! grace!"
And pleadingly to her dread lord
 She lifted up her angel face—

With golden tresses all unbound,
 Still lovely through her shame and loss,
Around his feet her arms she wound,
 As sinner might around the cross.

He dashed her twining hands aside,
 He spurned her from him as she knelt.
"O hateful beauty!" Erick cried,
 "The source of all thy hellish guilt.

"Pray for a cloud that can eclipse
 That long, white streak of moonlight pale.
No word of grace from mortal lips
 Can bring a ruined soul from Hell.

"Away! I would not pardon, not
 (I swear it by the holy rood)
Unless upon that hated spot
 An angel with a lily stood!"

She shuddered in the moonlight pale,
 That doomed and banned her from his sight
Then rose up with a bitter wail,
 And fled away into the night!

————

THE EXPIATION.

Full seven times the summer sun
 Had waked the dreaming summer flowers,
And seven times they slept again
 Beneath the winter snow and showers;
And still, through summer's parching heat,
 Through winter's storm, and rain, and snow,
Had Thekla dragged her weary feet
 In one long pilgrimage of woe.

The beasts fled back at her approach,
 The shunshine ceased to flicker round,
The flowers withered at her touch,
 And fell like corpses to the ground.
Where'er she passed there lay a gloom,
 The young birds shivered in the nest,
All nature echoed back her doom,
 And spurned the sinner from her breast.

She flung her sighs out to the wind:
 The peasants heard that mournful wail,
And, crouching down by winter fires,
 Said: "'Tis the witch-fiend in the vale."
They laid down food beneath the trees,
 And waited, trembling, till she came,
Then fled away, for none would speak
 To one so bann'd by sin and shame.

She gathered autumn leaves and moss
 Within a cavern lone and deep,
And there she crept each night to rest,
 To rest, but never more to sleep.
No human voice came near to soothe,
 Her anguish dimm'd no human eye,
The bond of sisterhood was rent
 Between her and Humanity.

But ever when the moon was full,
 All in the moonlight weird and still
Came evermore upon her ear
 The moanings by the lonely mill;
And seven dread shadows entered in
 And gathered round her lowly bed,
The ghastly witnesses of sin,
 A silent freezing sight of dread.

All night they stayed, those phantoms pale,
 Those formless phantons dim and drear,
And looked at her with fixed cold eyes,
 That chilled her very blood with fear.
In vain she tried to hide her face;
 She felt their presence still around,
And well she knew no pitying grace
 From these dread beings could be found.

She could not weep, she dare not pray,
But lay like one in coffined clay,
 Till those weird phantoms, one by one,
 Melted away in the morning sun,
Which fell like the light of the judgement-day,
 When the doom of the Lord is done.

Oft wandering round the ancient church,
 The ruined church where they were wed,
She vainly tried to cross the porch,
 And lay therein her weary head;
And her weary load of shame and sin
Upon the altar steps within.

 But never, since the fatal night
 She fled away from Erick's sight,
 Curs'd with his ban of deepest hate,
 Had human hand unbarred the gate;
 Nor priest nor chorister was there,
 Nor sacred rite nor holy prayer:
 Foredoom'd and desolate it stood
 All in the lonely beechen wood.

God's curse it is a bitter thing
 To fall on a human soul,
Alone with its awful suffering,
 With its deadly sin and dole;
'Mid the ghastly wrecks of a human life,
 And memories of shame,
When thoughts of a past that would not sleep,
 Like barbèd arrows came.

————

GOD'S JUSTICE.

And Erick roamed in distant lands,
 But cannot fly his weary fate;
Before him in the lonely night,
Before him in the noonday bright,
His guilty wife for ever stands,
 A thing of loathing and of hate.
Alone, as under blight and ban,
He roams, a saddened, weary man.

Yet yearnings came to him at last,
 And, drawn as by a spirit hand,
He homeward turned, his wanderings past,
 To his own distant Swedish land;
And rose up with a spirit grace,
 As pleading to him for her life,
Before him, with her angel face,
 His beautiful, his sinning wife?

The ship sailed fast through storm and wrack,
 The ship sailed slow the Isles between,
And Erick, watching on the deck,
 Saw rise before him, low and green,
The Sweedish shores in level lines,
The fringèd shores of lordly pines:
 A spirit's touch, a spirit's power,
 Seemed on him at that magic hour.

******

He stood within his castle halls,
 The grass grew rank around the gate,
The weeds hung from the mouldering walls,
 And all around was desolate.
The bridal room was closed from sight,
 For none had dared to enter in,
Since by God's awful, searching light
 The sinner had confessed her sin.

Her golden ring of hellish ban
 Still lay upon the marble floor,
Her broken ring—the fatal sign
 Of love that could return no more.
And nought the purple curtains stirred
 Save the drear night-wind's mournful gust,
And golden crown and silken veil
 Lay mouldering in the silent dust.

A bitter cry, a mournful cry,
 Was wrung by grief from Erick's breast.
She sinned, he said, but suffered, too,
Could penitence the sin undo,
 Her sinning soul had rest.
If God can pity, why should I
Relentless doom a soul to die
 Unpardoned, and unblest?

Christ did not scorn the sinner's touch:
Shall man avenge sin overmuch,
 And crush the heart-woe riven?
Fain would I say one word of grace
Ere yet I meet her face to face,
 Before the throne in Heaven.

Then led as by a spirit's might,
He wandered forth into the night,
And rested not till he stood
By the lone Chapel in the wood.

And she that night in bitter woe,
 Low kneeling by the closed gate,
Poured out the grief those only know
 By God and man left desolate.
Nought but the scared owl heard her moan
 Of inarticulate agony,
As down upon the threshold stone
 She sank, and prayed that she might die.

O piteous sound of vain despair,
 That mournful wailing by the gate;
That wailing of a ruined soul,
Downfallen from its high estate!
She wrung her wasted hands the while,
 And pressed her forehead to the bar,
As if within that holy aisle
 God's pardon yet might come to her.

The cruel moon lit up the sward,
 And pierced the guilty soul within,
That blighted form, all seared and marred
 With deadly consciousness of sin;
The form that threw no shadow more
Besides God's holy temple door;
And the awful moon, sharp, cold, and clear,
Struck through her like the Avenger's spear.

O saddest sight beneath its light,
 That humbled, suffering creature!
For all too heavy lay the doom
 Upon her human nature
The curse of sin that none forego,
 The agony, the pain, the strife,
 The sullied soul, the wasted life
Sin's endless heritage of woe.

She prayed as only those can pray
 Who pray to be forgiven;
She wept as only those can weep
 Who fear to forfeit Heaven.
With outstretched hands and streaming eyes
 She pleads to Heaven, imploring,
As if her cries could pierce the skies,
 Where angels stand adoring.

O writhing hands! O wasted hands!
 Flung out with frenzied gesture,
As if they fain would touch the hem
 Of Christ's fair flowing vesture.
Bitter the dole of that sinning soul,
 Outcast of Earth and Heaven;
And her cry went up like a wail from Hell,
 Across the night-wind driven.

————

GOD'S MERCY.

A form stood by her in the night,
 A human presence near her
Spoke one low word of pitying grace,
A name once uttered face to face,
 When none was ever dearer—
Like oil upon the raging flame
That burned within her heart, it came,
 That word of soft approving;
The first soft word that struck her ears,
Through all the long and dreary years,
 Of human or of loving.

At once the barred gate opens wide,
They pass within it, side by side—
 The human hand still leading;
Up through the ruined aisle they go,
When from the altar, still and slow,
 Like angels onward treading,
Came seven fair spirits robed in white,
Each holding high a torch, whose light
 Lit all the dark with splendour;
And the heavy air around was stirred,
As if from an Æolian chord,
 With music low and tender.

"We come from God," they murmur low,
 "Thy unborn children, seven,
To break the bonds of thy bitter woe
 And lead thee back to Heaven.
Thy tears have washed away thy crime,
Thou hast repented while 'tis time.
 The sinner is forgiven!

"The bond is loosed, the doom is done,
We come to thee, thou sinning one,
 With words of peace and pardon;
And as a sign of mercy lay
Upon thee on thy dying day
 A lily as God's guerdon."

She sank before them on the ground,
With folded palms and hair unbound,
 And eyes upraised to Heaven.
Her pale lips moved as if to pray,
But one low murmured word they say—
 "Forgiven! oh, forgiven!

And lo! while yet the shadows speak,
A dove with lily in its beak,
A snow-white dove, came floating in,
 Along the silver line of light,
And laid upon that breast of sin
 A spotless lily, pure and white.

Then bending low at Erick's feet,
As if before the Mercy-seat,
"Pardon!" she said, "by God's own sign,
I claim from thee that word divine
 Before the Judgment-day;
Bend lower down, and yet more low,
That I may feel thy soft tears flow
 To wash my sin away."

He took her hand as an angel might,
 A dying soul to save,
And his tears fell fast as a holy chrism,
 Anointing her for the grave—
He kissed her brow to still her fears,
 Ere yet her eyes grew dim:
The curse is broken, she but hears
 His pardon—sees but him.

The damp of death is on her brow,
The last death-strain is over now,
 The suffering soul hath fled.
The solemn shadows slowly wane,
And nought within the church remain
 Save Erick and the dead.

******

They laid her 'neath the altar stair—
 Thus Erick gave command—
Wrapped in her shroud of golden hair,
 The lily in her hand.
And standing in the Holy place,
 With solemn voice he said:
I do recall the bitter curse
 I poured upon her head.

Let the dead bells toll for the sinning soul,
 Repentant, saved, forgiven;
By the dread remorse of that pallid corpse,
 We feel that her sin is shriven.
She stands before the Mercy-seat,
 If human prayers can waft her,
And by that angel sign 'tis meet
 We trust in God's Hereafter.

Moral.

God give us grace, each in his place,
 To keep from sin and sinning:
Our souls we sell for gifts from Hell,
 That are not worth the winning.
False smiles that lure but to betray,
 False gold some demon flashes,
False hopes that lead from Heaven astray,
 False fruit that turns to ashes.