Poems (Taylor)/The Knights at Ringstead
THE KNIGHTS AT RINGSTEAD
I. regret
[Of a Knight whose Lady died before he knew hislove for her.]
How was I to know When you lived, long ago,The sorcery in you,—that you could be,Once dead, a white magician wasting meFrom flaming crucibles of weary spells?
And, was I to know I could be plaguèd soBy those tired hands, like lilies white and cold,That flowered from out your falling sleeves of gold?With a desire accurst for them I thirst.
Ah! Was I to know, Of all fantastic woe,Your russet hair was of the hue to stainFor ever the long night of dreams? What painThat constellation dyes through the pale skies!
Nay! And I did not know When, mid the tall flambeaux,On the great catafalque, sad state you kept,That round your brows, a flickering lustre, creptTo be your aureole,—my dying soul.
Alas! I did not know, Who lightly let you go,That Death would be a mirror to show clearThe miracle that blinded me too near.—With masque and madrigal I paid you all.
Therefore, now, now I know I should have loved you.—Oh!I lost with you all music, valour, lightOf things immortal. To the baffled knight"Rot on," God saith, "within the foss of Death."
II. The Knights to Chrysola.
We crazed for you, aspired and fell for you; Over us trod Desire, with feet of fire.Ah! the sad stories we would tell for you, Full of dark nights and sighing, While—you were dying, Chrysola!
Rondels and all rich rimes we rang for you; How from the plangent lyre pled our Desire!But the musicians vainly sang for you,— Though dear the music, crying That,—you were dying, Chrysola!
High on the golden throne Love wrought for you, With eyes enthralled of rest, tired of our best, You sat unheeding while we fought for you, Glaive unto glaive replying; For,—you were dying, Chrysola!
Frenzied from out the jousts we came to you, "Can we love more, Dream-fast? Crown, then, at last."But love and hate were one dim flame to you: Strange things you smiled us,—dying. Oh! You were dying, Chrysola!
Great spoils of frankincense we burned for you Round your death-chamber proud,—then cursed aloudChristian or Pagan god that yearned for you Till you were undenying.— O Dream undying, Chrysola!
III. Winter
[Of a Knight that wronged his Lady.]
Over the snow,A frozen barefoot penitent I go.For, as I soil this cloth-of-silver, soI left strange traces in her soul of snow.
Thorough the snow,A monk distraught with subtile dreams, I go.The falling flakes confuse me. Even soMy blinding love fell on her lids of snow.
Under the snow,The kindly snows of death are hid, I know,Her ruined lilies.—God, be mine the woe!My sins are scarlet. She was white as snow.
IV. The Knight Beauclerc to the Lady Gloria
I.
When that the Queen with all her maids came singing Across the daisies, through a dusk of May,Their spoils of fairy gold and silver bringing, You rang no chime in that sweet roundelay:— But held yourself a little way apart, Your hands above your heart,—A fair frail image robed in royal scarlet,Dreaming of splendours insolent and war-lit, Dreaming of crowns to wear,—Although your drooping head could hardly bear Its crown-imperial of yellow hair.
II.
Crowns, crowns of tournaments to lay before you! What was a wistful singer to your pride,A clerkly dreamer-Knight? Ah, to adore you, I gripped the lance, and threw the pen aside.— But oh! the crown of song is loveliest. Yea! I have loved you best,—Crowned you in dreams with faint white stars of glory,Kisses imagined from all antique story; —But you as bindweed holdMy rare dream-jasmine. You would circlets cold Of wounding laurel and of bruising gold.
III.
Therefore I lie here vanquished. Let the victor Carry the crown before your red-shod feet:Love is a cruel god,—hath many a lictor To scourge with briar who found the Rose too sweet. Yon ring of hard bright faces hems me in, Branding like bitter sin:Yours flashes like a jewel,—crowned, unsated,My shame your honour. Thus, then, was it fated, O cold unheeding breast!—And yet the crown of love is loveliest. Farewell! Farewell! But I have loved you best.