Poems (Greenwell)/God's Singer

by Dora Greenwell

GOD'S SINGER

He bore a harp within his hand,
 And on his breast outspread
The flower, that from the dawn to dusk,
 For love of one o'erhead.
Still follows on a look, till all
 Its golden leaves are shed;
Ye had not called him grave or gay,
 For old nor yet for young
Ye had not known him; so he seem'd
 To be them all in one;
And only in his smile ye knew
 The Singer ere he sung.

"A Name,a Name is in my heart,
 It bideth, hidden long,
Because my hand hath not a chord
 That would not do it wrong;
So pure is it, so sweet, unmeet
 For rounding of a song,
Yet in the cleft, its honey left
 Hath made my spirit strong.
"A thought, a thought is in my heart
 Though seldom on the string;
I keep it, round all other thoughts
 Its sweetnesses to fling:
Yea! were it not within my soul,
 Methinks I could not sing,
Nor ever raise my voice in praise
 Of any other thing."

So sang he sweet, so sang he clear, and lift his look above,
They said that listened, "Now he thinks of her, his ladye love;"
But through the wood, where in the calm of summer's noon hung still
And motionless each little leaf, there ran a sudden thrill.

He stood within a Castle's keep,
 A Castle that could wear—
Stern looming o'er its rocky steep—
 As dark a frown as Care.
Yet now it smiled, as one beguiled
 Of ruggedness through sleep,
So sweet a sunshine on from tower
 To tower did flash and leap,
And all the summer's noon did swoon
 About it, breathing deep.

On coigne and gurgoyle little heads
 In carven stone did seem
To wink and peep, as they did creep
 From out some evil dream;
And over each, on leaf and scroll,
 Strange words were writ, that seem'd to flit
Within each mask, and be to it
 Interpreter of soul:
"Sans Roi, sans Loi, sans Foi:" and there,
 Above the gate, a time-gnawed wreath
And legend mouldered half away.
 Spoke fair to passer underneath:
"Entres dans le Chateau des delices, et fais ce que boudray."

A fountain warbled, more it seemed
 In weariness than play;
The birds sang loud, but not as in
 The forest depths sing they;
Yet ringing clear above them all.
 Up rose the minstrel's lay,
As freshly shook as when the brook
 Sang with him on his way.

The soft air lifted it on high,
 Through pleasant bower and hall,
And ladies o'er the balcony
 Leant, holden in its thrall;
It floated in above the din
 That rose within the Court,—
The grey-beards paused above the cup,
 The gallants 'mid their sport;
"Ha!" spake the Baron, "bring him in,
 The merry Jongleur! to the strings
The wine will move, and dance within
 Our beakers while he sings."

As came the minstrel in the hall,
 He bore him high and free,
Yet lowly bowed, as one long vowed
 To gentle courtesy.
Then o'er his harp, with thought to claim
 A silence ere he sung,
He passed his hand, as if to tame
 Each bounding chord that sprung
Beneath it; as a loving heart,
 Now fretted, and now wrung.
Must rise and fall unto the thrall
 That over it is flung;
Then soft and low, as is the flow
 Of waters, to whose drip
A child hath danced, his finger fine
 From string to string did slip,
Till, gathered in a sudden shower,
 The spray-drops glanced and flew
As light as when, 'mid thick-wove boughs,
 The sunbeams trickle through.

And then, with firmer, bolder touch, he struck a deeper strain,
And high amid the cloven hills, by thunder rift in twain,
The swollen torrents leapt and sprang, and down the flashing rain

Poured in through ghastly rents, while swift, from giant hand to hand,
Like arrows torn from fiery sheaf, the lightning's jagged brand,
Flung careless on from peak to peak, lit up the startled land;

And then a swell, a rush as of broad rivers in their flow,
Ran through it, and the forest shook with rustlings light, and low
Smooth-sweeping winds, till underneath you heard the grasses grow.

And as the stormy waves withdrew,
 Disparting here and there
The flood rolled backward, and to view
 The mountain summits bare
Pierced upwards, till a world swept out
 Green, jubilant, and fair;
Then clear the singer's voice arose
 Upon the freshened air.

He sang an old and simple tale,
 A sad and earnest song,
Of things most frail that did prevail,
 Of weakest things made strong;
Of tender Truth, that did not fail
 For time or change, and long
Long suffered, rather than to give
 Content to suffer wrong;
A song that hath been oft-times sung,
 A tale that hath been told
Since first this world of ours was young,
 Nor with it groweth old;
While human eyes keep tears to weep,
 And hearts have love to hold
For friend or lover under sun,
 Or underneath the mould.

The matron on her Dais high,
 That held her place of pride,
Turned, with a trouble in her eye,
 Her stately head aside;
For through the music little feet
 Went moving, and the child
That One who loveth souls took back,
 Unaltered, unbeguiled,
With sweet voice small did seem to call
 Upon her name, and smiled.
The Gallant drew his plumèd cap
 Across his brow, and sighed;
A hand was clasped within his own,
 A step was by his side;
A soft low voice he seemed to meet,
 Each whispered tone he knew;
None since had ever been so sweet,
 Nor any since so true,
For like a child, unto the hill
 Whence springs the rainbow, driven.
His mind on many a glittering quest
 Since then had toiled and striven,
Yet never had he touched again
 The point where Earth meets Heaven.

The grey-haired Seneschal, that leant
 Upon his staff apart,
Felt somewhat trembling on his lip,
 And tightening round his heart,—
A ruined shrine, that had not seen
 Its angels all depart;
For now he felt his mother s kiss
 Upon his cheek, and heard—
Oh! sound approved from lips beloved—
 Her fond and praiseful word.
And as each aged fibre shook.
 And trembled to the strain.
He heard the cawing of the rook,—
 He was a boy again!
With glad feet plashing in the brook
 That wimpled onwards, fain
Its shining boundary to trace,
 And clip his little world within
Too small a space to leave a place
 For sorrow and for sin.
And through each heart a pang shot strong,
 And on it darkly bore
A sense of somewhat that had long
 Been lost, unmissed before;
But now, to reach a guiding Hand,
 The Spirit groped and felt
Across the void, and for the land
 It j^earned where once it dwelt;
It longed to knit some broken troth,
 And then, as if it knew
All good below is but the show
 And shadow of the true,
Each thirsted sore to claim once more
 His birthright, and renew
A higher 'legiance, whence the soul
 Had lapsed and fallen through.

And there was Silence, such as falls
 On one that, musing lone
At midnight on a city's walls,
 Sees moonlight round him thrown,
So heavenly fair, ere he is ware
 His inner sense hath grown
More pure, and may not well endure
 To think on Pain and Sin,
On all that shines so fair without
 That lurks so foul within
Our mortal state, and ill can wait
 Those clearer Heights to win,
Where never goodly thing goes out,
 Nor evil cometh in!

At length the Baron broke the spell:
 "Sir Minstrel! sorry cheer—
For all thou playest deft and well—
 Methinks thou bringest here;
So now, that ye have made us grave.
 Your penance I will choose
To troll us out a joyous stave,
 As merry Trouveurs use,—
A song of jest and gaillardise
 To wreathe about the cup,
That, while we drain it, ladies' eyes
 May glisten from it up."

"Fain is my harp," the minstrel spake,
 "To bring you joy and ease,
Yet would it break if I should take
 A strain on it like these:
Its only skill is such to wake
 As may my Master please."
"Thy Master!" then the Baron smiled
 A scornful smile and proud,
"I did not deem ye brethren free
 To other service vowed
Than flowing of the Malvoisie
 And largesse clinking loud."
"Yea," said the Minstrel, "I am free,
 And yet a Lord is mine—
A Service that is liberty,
 A Master who is Thine!"

Then sprang the Baron from his seat;
 "A priest without the frock!
Now bind him, varlets, hands and feet.
 And fling him down the rock;
For I have sworn, no hireling shorn
 Among their tribe should cross
My threshold, but have cause to mourn
 His boldness to his loss."

"They bar against Thy priest the gate.
 Thy Singer passeth free,
So hold me ever consecrate
 Thy Witness still to be."
Thus, looking up, the minstrel spake.
 And, turning, went his way
From out them all, and none did seek
 To hinder him or stay;—
And as he passed beneath the gate,
 A bird was singing free,
And from the chapel in the wood
 Rose vespers solemnly;
And as upon the air serene
 His song ascended calm,
Methought it filled the space between
 The Carol and the Psalm!