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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339851" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Fauconshawe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">[A Ballad]<br> <br>To fetch clear water out of the spring<br>The little maid Margaret ran,<br>From the stream to the castle's western wing<br>It was but a bowshot span ;<br>On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling<br>Lay a dead man, pallid and wan.<br> <br>The lady Mabel rose from her bed,<br>And walked in the castle hall,<br>Where the porch through the western turret led<br>She met with her handmaid small.<br>'What aileth thee, Margaret ?' the lady said,<br>'Hast let thy pitcher fall ?<br> <br>'Say, what hast thou seen by the streamlet side—<br>A nymph or a water sprite—<br>That thou comest with eyes so wild and wide,<br>And with cheeks so ghostly white ?'<br>'Nor nymph nor sprite,' the maiden cried,<br>'But the corpse of a slaughtered knight.'<br> <br>The lady Mabel summon'd straight<br>To her presence Sir Hugh de Vere,<br>Of the guests who tarried within the gate<br>Of Fauconshawe, most dear<br>Was he to that lady ; betrothed in state<br>They had been since many a year.<br> <br>'Little Margaret sayeth a dead man lies<br>By the western spring, Sir Hugh ;<br>I can scarce believe that the maiden lies—<br>Yet scarce can believe her true.'<br>And the knight replies, 'Till we test her eyes<br>Let her words gain credence due.'<br> <br>Down the rocky path knight and lady led,<br>While guests and retainers bold<br>Followed in haste, for like wildfire spread<br>The news by the maiden told.<br>They found 'twas even as she had said—<br>The corpse had some while been cold.<br> <br>How the spirit had pass'd in the moments last<br>There was little trace to reveal ;<br>On the still, calm face lay no imprint ghast,<br>Save the angel's solemn seal,<br>Yet the hands were clench'd in a death-grip fast,<br>And the sods stamp'd down by the heel.<br> <br>Sir Hugh by the side of the dead man knelt,<br>Said, 'Full well these features I know,<br>We have faced each other where blows were dealt,<br>And he was a stalwart foe ;<br>I had rather met him hilt to hilt,<br>Than have found him lying low.'<br> <br>He turned the body up on its face,<br>And never a word was spoken,<br>While he ripp'd the doublet, and tore the lace,<br>And tugg'd—by the self-same token,—<br>And strain'd, till he wrench'd it out of its place,<br>The dagger-blade that was broken.<br> <br>Then he turned the body over again,<br>And said, while he rose upright,<br>'May the brand of Cain, with its withering stain,<br>On the murderer's forehead light,<br>For he never was slain on the open plain,<br>Nor yet in the open fight.'<br> <br>Solemn and stern were the words he spoke,<br>And he look'd at his lady's men,<br>But his speech no answering echoes woke,<br>All were silent there and then,<br>Till a clear, cold voice the silence broke :—<br>Lady Mabel cried, 'Amen.'<br> <br>His glance met hers, the twain stood hush'd,<br>With the dead between them there ;<br>But the blood to her snowy temples rush'd<br>Till it tinged the roots of her hair,<br>Then paled, but a thin red streak still flush'd<br>In the midst of her forehead fair.<br> <br>Four yeomen raised the corpse from the ground,<br>At a sign from Sir Hugh de Vere,<br>It was borne to the western turret round,<br>And laid on a knightly bier,<br>With never a sob nor a mourning sound,—<br>No friend to the dead was near.<br> <br>Yet that night was neither revel nor dance<br>In the halls of Fauconshawe ;<br>Men looked askance with a doubtful glance<br>At Sir Hugh, for they stood in awe<br>Of his prowess, but he, like one in a trance,<br>Regarded naught that he saw.<br> <br>. . . . . . .<br> <br>Night black and chill, wind gathering still,<br>With its wail in the turret tall,<br>And its headlong blast like a catapult cast<br>On the crest of the outer wall,<br>And its hail and rain on the crashing pane,<br>Till the glassy splinters fall.<br> <br>A moody knight by the fitful light<br>Of the great hall fire below ;<br>A corpse upstairs, and a woman at prayers,<br>Will they profit her, aye or no ?<br>By'r lady fain, an she comfort gain,<br>There is comfort for us also.<br> <br>The guests were gone, save Sir Hugh alone,<br>And he watched the gleams that broke<br>On the pale hearth-stone, and flickered and shone<br>On the panels of polish'd oak ;<br>He was 'ware of no presence except his own,<br>Till the voice of young Margaret spoke :<br> <br>'I've risen, Sir Hugh, at the mirk midnight,<br>I cannot sleep in my bed,<br>Now, unless my tale can be told aright,<br>I wot it were best unsaid ;<br>It lies, the blood of yon northern knight,<br>On my lady's hand and head.'<br> <br>'Oh ! the wild wind raves and rushes along,<br>But thy ravings seem more wild—<br>She never could do so foul a wrong—<br>Yet I blame thee not, my child,<br>For the fever'd dreams on thy rest that throng !'—<br>He frown'd through his speech was mild.<br> <br>'Let storm winds eddy, and scream, and hurl<br>Their wrath, they disturb me naught ;<br>The daughter she of a high-born earl,<br>No secret of hers I've sought ;<br>I am but the child of a peasant churl,<br>Yet look to the proofs I've brought ;<br> <br>'This dagger snapp'd so close to the hilt—<br>Dost remember thy token well ?<br>Will it match with the broken blade that spilt<br>His life in the western dell ?<br>Nay ! read her handwriting, an thou wilt,<br>From her paramour's breast it fell.'<br> <br>The knight in silence the letter read,<br>Oh ! the characters well he knew !<br>And his face might have match'd the face of the dead,<br>So ashen white was its hue !<br>Then he tore the parchment shred by shred,<br>And the strips in the flames he threw.<br> <br>And he muttered, 'Densely those shadows fall<br>In the copse where the alders thicken ;<br>There she bade him come to her, once for all,—<br>Now, I well may shudder and sicken ;—<br>Gramercy ! that hand so white and small,<br>How strongly it must have stricken.'<br> <br>. . . . . . .<br> <br>At midnight hour, in the western tower,<br>Alone with the dead man there,<br>Lady Mabel kneels, nor heeds nor feels<br>The shock of the rushing air,<br>Though the gusts that pass through the riven glass<br>Have scattered her raven hair.<br> <br>Across the floor, through the open door,<br>Where standeth a stately knight,<br>The lamplight streams, and flickers and gleams,<br>On his features stern and white—<br>'Tis Sir Hugh de Vere, and he cometh more near,<br>And the lady standeth upright.<br> <br>' 'Tis little,' he said, 'that I know or care<br>Of the guilt (if guilt there be)<br>That lies 'twixt thee and yon dead man there,<br>Nor matters it now to me ;<br>I thought thee pure, thou art only fair,<br>And to-morrow I cross the sea.<br> <br>'He perish'd ! I ask not why or how :<br>I come to recall my troth ;<br>Take back, my lady, thy broken vow,<br>Give back my allegiance oath ;<br>Let the past be buried between us now<br>For ever—'tis best for both.<br> <br>'Yet, Mabel, I could ask, dost thou dare<br>Lay hand on that corpse's heart,<br>And call on thy Maker, and boldly swear<br>That thou hadst in his death no part ?<br>I ask not, while threescore proofs I share<br>With one doubt—uncondemn'd thou art.'<br> <br>Oh ! cold and bleak upon Mabel's cheek<br>Came the blast of the storm-wind keen,<br>And her tresses black as the glossy back<br>Of the raven, glanced between<br>Her fingers slight, like the ivory white,<br>As she parted their sable sheen.<br> <br>Yet with steady lip, and with fearless eye,<br>And with cheek like the flush of dawn,<br>Unflinchingly she spoke in reply—<br>'Go hence with the break of morn,<br>I will neither confess, nor yet deny,<br>I will return thee scorn for scorn.'<br> <br>The knight bow'd low as he turn'd to go ;<br>He travell'd by land and sea,<br>But naught of his future fate I know,<br>And naught of his fair ladye ;—<br>My story is told as, long ago,<br>My story was told to me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339851" data-title="Fauconshawe de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="[A Ballad]
 
To fetch clear water out of the spring
The little maid Margaret ran,
From the stream to the castle's western wing
It was but a bowshot span ;
On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling
Lay a dead man, pallid and wan.
 
The lady Mabel r..."></div>
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