The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems

Front matter

C. C. Pyne del. | E. J. Portbury sculp. And beneath was piled up mound of stones Whence a rude grey cross arose 'And lo' said the ancient servitor 'It is here thy father is laid.' Ballad of Sir Walter Manny p.230 | Published by Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown & Green, Dec. 11 1826

THE GOLDEN VIOLET, WITH ITS TALES OF ROMANCE AND CHIVALRY: AND OTHER POEMS.

By L. E. L.

The Golden Violet

THE GOLDEN VIOLET.

To-morrow, to-morrow, thou loveliest May, To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day; Bride of the summer, child of the spring, To-morrow the year will its favourite bring: The roses will know thee, and fling back their vest, While the nightingale sings him to sleep on their breast; The blossoms, in welcomes, will open to meet On the light boughs thy breath, in the soft grass thy feet. To-morrow the dew will have virtue to shed O'er the cheek of the maiden* its loveliest red;

To-morrow a glory will brighten the earth, While the spirit of beauty rejoicing has birth.

Farewell to thee, April, a gentle farewell, Thou hast saved the young rose in its emerald cell; Sweet nurse, thou hast mingled thy sunshine and showers, Like kisses and tears, on thy children the flowers. As a hope, when fulfilled, to sweet memory turns, We shall think of thy clouds as the odorous urns, Whence colour, and freshness, and fragrance were wept; We shall think of thy rainbows, their promise is kept. There is not a cloud on the morning's blue way, And the daylight is breaking, the first of the May.

And never yet hath morning light Lovelier vision brought to sight, Or lovelier driven away from dreams,— —And lovely that which only seems;— The garden, that beneath it lay, From flower and fountain sent the ray Reflected, till all round seem'd blent Into one sunny element.

There in the midst rose marble halls, Wreathed pillars upheld the walls; A fairy castle, not of those Made for storm, and made for foes, But telling of a gentler time, A lady's rule, a summer clime. And all spoke joyousness, for there Thronged the gay, the young, the fair,—

It was now their meeting hour,— They scattered round through grove and bower. Many a high-born beauty made Her seat beneath the chestnut shade; While, like her shadow hovering near, Came her dark-eyed cavalier. Bidding the rose fade by her cheek, To hint of what he dared not speak. And others wander'd with the lute, In such a scene could it be mute? While from its winged sweetness came, The echo of some treasured name. And many a grot with laughter rung, As gathered there, these gay and young Flung airy jests like arrows round, That hit the mark but to rebound.

With graceful welcome smiled on all, The lady of the festival Wander'd amid her guests; at last, Many a courtly greeting past, She stray'd into a little grove, With cypress branches roofed above; Beneath the path was scarcely seen,— Alike the walk and margent green. So dim it was, each precious stone The countess wore a meteor shone. Yet on she went, for nought her heart In the glad revellings took part: Too tender and too sad to share In sportive mirth, in pageant glare; Dearer to her was the first breath, When morning shakes her early wreath,

And joys in the young smiles of day, Albeit they steal her pearls away: Dearer to her the last pale light That lingers on the brow of night, As if unwilling to begone, And abdicate its lovely throne: Dearer to her were these than all That ever shone in lighted hall.

The young, the gay, be they allow'd One moment's pleasaunce in the crowd; The dance, the odours, song, and bloom, Those soft spells of the banquet-room: They last not, but the ear, the eye, Catch the check'd frown—the hidden sigh, Which pierce too soon the shining mask, And prove delight may be a task.

Alas! when once the heart shall learn To gaze on the glad scene, then turn To its own depths, and sadly say,— "Oh, what am I, and what are they? Masquers but striving to deceive Themselves and others; and believe It is enough, if none shall know The covered mass of care below." Sad lesson for the heart to bear, Seeing how pass the young, the fair; Forgot, as if they had not been The spirit of the stirring scene: Or sadder still to watch the bands, With kindly looks and fast-link'd hands; And know how that a word could move The fierce extreme of hate from love,—

That, sweep but o'er a fleeting year, Of all the many gather'd here, Now claiming friend's or lover's name, Not one may be in aught the same.

But not like this is Nature's face, Though even she must bear the trace Of the great curse that clings to all; Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall: There hides no darker doom behind, Like workings in the human mind, And the buds yield but to make way For leaves or fruits upon the spray;— Not thus man's pleasures, which depart And leave the sear’d or breaking heart.

On fair Clemenza went, her mood Deepening with the deep solitude; That gentle sadness which is wrought With more of tenderness, than thought, When memory like the moonlight flings A softness o'er its wanderings,— When hope, a holiday to keep Folds up its rainbow wings for sleep, And the heart, like a bark at rest, Scarce heaves within the tranquil breast,— When thoughts and dreams, that moment's birth Take hues which are not of the earth.

But she was waken'd from her dream By sudden flashing of the wave; The cypress first conceal'd the stream, Then oped, as if a spirit gave,

With one touch of his radiant wand, Birth to a scene in fairy land. 'T was a small lake, the honey bee Cross'd, laden, in security; From it an elfin island rose, A green spot made for the repose Of the blue halcyon, when an hour Of storm is passing o’er its bower. One lonely tree upon it stood, A willow sweeping to the flood, With darkling boughs and lorn decline, As though even here was sorrow's sign. 'Twas even a haunted place; one part, Like that which is in every heart. Beyond, the gloom was laugh'd away By sparkling wave and dancing spray;—

One of those glowing spots that take The sunbeams prisoners, and make A glory of their own delight, Below all clear, above all bright. And every bank was fair; but one Most sheltered from the wind and sun Seem'd like a favourite: the rest Bared to the open sky their breast; But this was resting in the shade By two old patriarch chestnuts made, Whose aged trunks peep'd grey and bare Spite of the clustering ivy's care, Which had spread over all its wreath, The boughs above, the ground beneath;— Oft told and true similitude For moralist in pensive mood,

To mark the green leaves' glad outside, Then search what wither'd boughs they hide. And here the countess took her seat Beneath the chestnut, shelter meet For one whose presence might beseem The spirit of the shade and stream; As now she lean'd with upraised head, And white veil o'er her bosom spread, Hiding the gems and chains of gold Which too much of rank's baubles told; Leaving her only with the power Of nature in its loveliest hour, When to its musing look is given The influence of its native heaven. Her cheek was pale, the hue of thought, Like image by the sculptor sought

For some sweet saint, some muse on whom Beauty has shed all but her bloom, As if it would have nought declare The strife and stain of clay were there. Braided Madonna-like, the wave Of the black hair a lustre gave To the clear forehead, whose pure snow Was even as an angel's brow: While there was in her gentler eye The touch of human sympathy,— That mournful tenderness which still In grief and joy, in good and ill, Lingers with woman through life's void, Sadden'd, subdued, but not destroy'd.

And gazed the countess on the lake, Loving it for its beauty's sake;

Wander'd her look round, till its sight Became itself blent with the light; Till, as it sought for rest, her eye Now fell upon a green mound nigh. With ivy hung and moss o'ergrown, Beside it stood a broken stone, And on it was a single flower, The orphan growth of some chance shower, Which brought it there, and then forgot All care of the frail nursling's lot,— A lily with its silver bells Perfum'd like the spring's treasure cells; Yet drooping, pale, as if too late Mourning for their neglected state. It was the fittest flower to grow Over the conscious clay below.

Bethought the countess of a tale Connected with the lonely vale; Some bard, who died before his fame; Whose songs remain'd, but not his name: It told his tomb was by the wave, In life his haunt, in death his grave. Sadly she mused upon the fate That still too often must await The gifted hand which shall awake The poet's lute, and for its sake All but its own sweet self resign,— Thou loved lute! to be only thine. For what is genius, but deep feeling Waken'd by passion to revealing? And what is feeling, but to be Alive to every misery,

While the heart too fond, too weak, Lies open for the vulture's beak? Alas! for him possess'd of all That wins and keeps a world in thrall, Of all that makes the soul aspire, Yet vow'd to a neglected lyre; Who finds, the first, a golden mine, Sees the veins yield, the treasures shine, Gazes until his eye grows dim, Then learns that it is not for him; One who, albeit his wayward mood Pines for and clings to solitude, Has too much humanness of heart To dwell from all his kind apart; But seeks communion for the dreams With which his vision'd spirit teems;

Would fain in other cups infuse His own delights, and fondly woos The world, without that worldliness Which wanting, there is no success; Hears his song sink unmark'd away,— Swanlike his soul sinks with its lay,— Lifts to his native heaven his eyes, Turns to the earth, despairs and dies; Leaving a memory whose reward Might lesson many a future bard, Or, harder still, a song whose fame Has long outlived its minstrel's name. "Oh, must this be!" Clemenza said, "Thus perish quite the gifted dead! How many a wild and touching song To my own native vales belong,

Whose lyrist's name will disappear Like his who sleeps forgotten here! Not so; it shall be mine to give The praise that bids the poet live. There is a flower, a glorious flower, The very fairest of my bower, With shining leaf, aroma breath, Befitting well a victor wreath; The Golden Violet shall be The prize of Provence minstrelsy. Open I'll fling my castle hall To throng of harps and festival, Bidding the bards from wide and far Bring song of love or tale of war, And it shall be mine own to set The victor's crown of Violet."

The First Day

THE FIRST DAY.

'T is May again, another May, Looking as if it meant to stay; So many are its thousand flowers, So glorious are its sunny hours, So green its earth, so blue its sky, As made for hope's eternity.

By night with starlike tapers gleaming, And music like an odour streaming; By day with portals open flung, While bugle note and trumpet rung; Rose Isaure's towers: and gather'd there, Again, the gifted, young and fair Have at Clemenza’s summons met, In contest for the Violet.

Her heralds had been to distant lands To call together the joyeuse bands, And they had hasten'd. England had sent Her harp across the blue element; The Spaniard had come from the land of romance; And the flower of her minstrels had gather'd in France, From far and from near; it was strange to see The bards of Erin and Italy Mingle together with those that came From the highland home they so loved to name.

Hark to the sound of yon silver horn, And the sweep of the harp to the distance borne; ‘T is the hour of meeting, and welcome now To the gifted hand and the laurel'd brow.

Young knight, think not of hawk or hound; Fair maiden, fling not thy smiles around; Warrior, regard not the sword at thy side; Baron, relax thou thy brow of pride; Let worldly coldness and care depart, And yield to the spell of the minstrel's art.

‘T was a spacious hall, and around it rose Carved pillars as white as the snows; Between, the purple tapestry swept, Where, work'd in myriad shades, were kept Memories of many an ancient tale, And of many a blooming cheek now pale. The dome above like a glory shone, Or a cloud which the sunset lingers upon, While the tinted pane seem'd the bright resort, Where Iris' self held her minstrel court;

And beautiful was the coloured fall Of the floating hues round the stately hall.

In groups around mix'd the gay throng, Knight, noble, lady, child of song. At one end was upraised a throne, On which the countess sat alone; Not with droop'd eye and bow'd-down head, And simple white veil round her spread, As lean'd she o'er the lonely wave, Dreaming of the dead minstrel's grave; But purple robe and golden band Bespoke the ladye of the land; Rich gems upon her arm were placed, And lit the zone around her waist; But none were in her braided hair, One only Violet was there,

The golden flower, which won all eyes, Destined to be the minstrel prize.

The Broken Spell

They pass'd around the silver urn Whose lot must fix the poet's turn; To a young Provence bard it came,— He drew, and drew Clemenza’s name. And forth at once young Vidal sprung, His light lute o'er his shoulder flung, Then paused,—for over cheek and brow, Like lightning, rush'd the crimson glow; A low sound trembled from that lute, His lip turn'd pale, his voice was mute; He sent a hurried glance around, As if in search; at last he found The eyes without whose light to him The very heaven above was dim:

At once his hand awoke the chords, At once his lip pour'd tuneful words, And gazing on his lady's smile, Bade his soft notes arise the while.

THE BROKEN SPELL:

THE FIRST PROVENÇAL MINSTREL'S LAY. A FAIRY TALE.

Where on earth is the truth that may vie With woman's lone and long constancy? Lovers there have been who have died For the love that they made a warrior's pride;

And a lover once, when a world was the prize, Threw away his chance for a lady's eyes: But not his the love that changes not Mid the trials and griefs of an ill-starr'd lot; Not like the rainbow, that shines on high Brighter and purer as darker the sky. But woman's creed of suffering bears All that the health and the spirit wears; Absence but makes her love the more, For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet store; And is not hers the heart alone That has pleasure and pride in a prize when won? Her eye may grow dim, her cheek may grow pale, But tell they not both the same fond tale? Love's lights have fled from her eye and cheek, To burn and die on the heart which they seek.

Alas! that so often the grave should be The seal of woman's fidelity!

On the horizon is a star, Its earliest, loveliest one by far; A blush is yet upon the sky, As if too beautiful to die,— A last gleam of the setting sun, Like hope when love has just begun; The hour when the maiden's lute, And minstrel's song, and lover's suit, Seem as that their sweet spells had made This mystery of light and shade.

That last rich sigh is on the gale Which tells when summer's day is over,

The sigh which closing flowers exhale After the bee, their honey lover, As to remind him in his flight Of what will be next noon's delight

'T is a fair garden, almond trees Throw silver gifts upon the breeze: Lilies, each a white-robed bride, With treasures of pure gold inside, Like marble towers a king has made;— And of its own sweet self afraid, A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping, Lovelier from its timid drooping:— But in the midst is a rose stem, The wind's beloved, the garden's gem. No wonder that it blooms so well: Thy tears have been on every leaf;

And, Mirzala, thy heart can tell How lasting that which feeds on grief.

'Twas a branch of roses her lover gave Amid her raven curls to wave, When they bade farewell, with that gentle sorrow Of the parting that sighs, "we meet to-morrow;" Yet the maiden knows not if her tears are shed Over the faithless or over the dead. She has not seen his face since that night When she watch'd his shadow by pale moonlight, And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was left To remind her of love and of hope bereft.

She was one summer evening laid Beneath the tulip tree's green shade,

When from her favourite rose a cloud Floated like those at break of day;— She mark'd its silvery folds unshroud, And there a radiant figure lay. And in murmurs soft as those Which sweep the sea at evening close, Spoke the Spirit of the Rose:— "Mirzala, thy lover sleeps While his mistress for him weeps. He is bound by magic spell, Of force which woman's love may quell; I will guide thee to the hall Where thy faith may break his thrall. Think thou if thy heart can dare All that thou must look on there. Turn not thou for hope nor fear, Till the marble hall appear.

There thou wilt thy lover see Dead to life, and love, and thee. Only truth so pure as thine Could approach the charmed shrine. Press thy lips to the cold stone, He will wake,—the spell be done! Hast thou courage like thy love? Follow thou the snow-white dove."

And Mirzala rose up, and there Was a fair dove on that rose tree, With white wings glittering on the air, Like foam upon a summer sea. She follow 'd it until she stood By where a little boat lay moor'd To the green willow, from the flood But by a water flag secured.

She enter'd, and it cut the tide; Odours and music fill'd the sail, As if a rose and lute had sigh'd A mingled breath upon the gale. It was at first a lovely scene: Leaves and branches wreathed a screen, Sunbeams there might wander through; Glimpses of a sky of blue, Like the hopes that smile to cheer The earthliness of sorrow here; And like summer queens, beside, Roses gazed upon the tide, Each one longing to caress Her own mirror'd loveliness; And the purple orchis shone Rich, as shines an Indian stone;

And the honeysuckle's flower Crimson, as a sunset hour; But too soon the blooms are past,— When did ever beauty last? And there came a dreary shade, Of the yew and cypress made, Moaning in the sullen breeze; And at length not even these, But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd, Relics of a ruin'd world. Wide, more wide, the river grew, Blacker changed its dreary hue, Till, oppress'd, the wearied eye Only gazed on sea and sky— Sea of death, and sky of night, Where a storm had been like light.

Mirzala was pale, yet still Shrank she not for dread of ill. She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore; But little it recks to number o'er The wearying days, and the heavy fears, When hope could only smile through tears, The perils, the pains, through which she pass'd, Till she came to a castle's gate at last.

'T was evening; but the glorious sky, With its purple light and Tyrian dye, Was contrast strange to the drear heath Which bleak and desolate lay beneath. Trees, but leafless all, stood there, For the lightning flash had left them bare; The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind Of the Siroc had mark’d its red course; behind

The bright cloud shone on the river's face, But the death-black waters had not a trace Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd: It seem'd as if a curse were laid On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower, And shut them out from the sunbeam's power; And with the last ray which the sunbeam threw, The dove flew up, and vanished too. And Mirzala knew she had reach'd that hall Where her lover lay sleeping in magic thrall; And she sat her down by a blasted tree, To watch for what her fate might be. But at midnight the gates roll'd apart with a sound Like the groan sent forth from the yawning ground. On she went with scarce light to show That gulf and darkness were below,—

Light like the wan blue flames that wave Their death-torch o'er the murderer's grave; And flickering shapes beset the way, Watching in gloom to seize their prey, Most terrible, for that the eye Wander'd in dim uncertainty; But Mirzala pressed fearless on, Till every dreary shade was gone.

At once bursting into day There a radiant garden lay. There were tall and stately trees With green boughs, in canopies For the rose beneath, that smiled Like a young and favourite child; With its purple wealth the vine, Mix'd with silver jessamine,

Stretch'd around from tree to tree, Like a royal tapestry; Sweet sounds floated on the air, Lutes and voices mingled there, And a thousand flowers blent Into one delicious scent; Singing birds, and azure skies, Made a spot like Paradise. Mirzala paused not to lave Her pale forehead in the wave, Though each fountain was as bright As if form'd of dew and light. Paused she not for the sweet song, On the rich air borne along. Fair forms throng'd around with flowers Breathing of spring's earliest hours;

Others from their baskets roll'd Fruits of ruby and of gold. Vainly! nothing could delay, Nothing win the maiden's stay. And the magic scene again Changed to a white marble fane And as Mirzala drew near, Saw she two bright forms appear. The first wore gorgeous coronet, With topaz, pearl, and sapphire set, And a diamond zone embraced The rich robe around her waist; And as conscious of her power In her great and royal dower, With a smile that seem'd to say Only gold can clear thy way,

She her casket show'd, where shone Precious ore and Indian stone. "Oh! if gold could win his heart, I would from the search depart; All my offering must be True and spotless constancy." Then to the other shape she turn'd, Whose check with crimson blushes burn'd But to think love could be sold For a heartless gift of gold. From her lily-braided hair Took the spirit bud as fair As if to summer suns unknown, Gave it the maiden, and was gone.

Then Mirzala stood by a portal barr'd Where held the Lion King his guard;

But touch'd by that bud the lion grew tame, And the chain'd portals asunder came. It was darkness all in that magic room, But a sweet light stream'd from the lily's bloom. And Mirzala look'd on her lover's face, And he woke at the touch of her soft embrace. Joy, joy for the maiden, her task is done,— The spell is broken, her love is won.

The Falcon

The next who rose had that martial air, Such as stately warrior wont to wear; Haughty his step, and sun and toil Had left on his check their darker soil, And on his brow of pride was the scar, The soldier's sign of glorious war; And the notes came forth like the bearing bold Of the knightly deeds which their numbers told.

THE FALCON:

THE LAY OF THE NORMAN KNIGHT.

I hear a sound o'er hill and plain, It doth not pass away. Is it the valleys that ring forth Their welcome to the day? Or is it that the lofty woods, Touch'd by the morn, rejoice? No, 'tis another sound than these,— It is the battle's voice. I see the martial ranks, I see Their banners floating there, And plume and spear rise meteor like Upon the reddening air. One mark'd I most of all,—he was Mine own familiar friend;

A blessing after him was all My distant lip could send. Curse on the feeble arm that hung Then useless by my side! I lay before my tent and watch'd Onwards the warriors ride. De Valance he was first of all, Upon his foam-white steed; Never knight curb'd more gallantly A fiery courser's speed. His silver armour shone like light, In the young morning's ray; And around his helm the snowy plume Danced like the ocean spray. Sudden a bird burst through the air,— I knew his falcon's flight;

He perch’d beside his master's hand,— Loud shouts rose at the sight. For many there deem'd the brave bird Augur'd a glorious day; To my dark thoughts, his fond caress Seem'd a farewell to say. One moment and he spread his wings, The bird was seen no more; Like the sea waves, the armed ranks Swept onwards as before. The height whereon I lay look'd down On a thick-wooded land, And soon amid the forest shade I lost the noble band. The snow-white steed, the silver shield, Amid the foliage shone;

But thicker closed the heavy boughs, And even these were gone. Yet still I heard the ringing steps Of soldiers clad in mail, And heard the stirring trumpet send Defiance on the gale. Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell When foes meet hand to hand,— The shout, the yell, the iron clang Of meeting spear and brand. I have stood when my own life-blood Pour'd down like winter rain; But rather would I shed its last Than live that day again. Squire, page, and leech my feverish haste To seek me tidings sent;

And day was closing as I paced Alone beside my tent; When suddenly upon my hand A bird sank down to rest,— The falcon,—but its head was droop'd, And soil'd and stain'd its breast A light glanced through the trees: I knew His courser's snowy hide,— But that was dash'd with blood; one bound, And at my feet it died. I rush'd towards my sword,—alas, My arm hung in its sling; But, as to lead my venture, The falcon spread its wing. I met its large beseeching eye Turn'd to mine, as in prayer;

I follow'd, such was its strange power, Its circuit through the air. It led me on,—before my path The tangled branches yield; It led me on till we had gain'd The morning's battle-field. The fallen confused, and numberless! "O grief! it is in vain, My own beloved friend, to seek For thee amid the slain." Yet paused the falcon, where heap'd dead Spoke thickest of the fray; There, compass'd by a hostile ring, Its noble master lay. None of his band were near, around Were only foes o'erthrown;

It seem'd as desperate he rush'd, And fought, and fell alone. The helm, with its white plumes, was off; The silver shield blood-stain'd; But yet within the red right hand The broken sword remain'd. That night I watch'd beside, and kept The hungry wolves away, And twice the falcon's beak was dipp'd In blood of birds of prey. The morning rose, another step With mine was on the plain; A hermit, who with pious aid Sought where life might remain. We made De Valence there a grave, The spot which now he prest;

For shroud, he had his blood-stain'd mail,— Such suits the soldier best. A chestnut tree grew on the spot; It was as if he sought, From the press of surrounding foes, Its shelter while he fought. The grave was dug, a cross was raised, The prayers were duly said, While perch'd upon a low-hung bough The bird moan'd overhead. We laid the last sod on the grave,— The falcon dropp'd like lead; I placed it in my breast in vain, Its gallant life was fled. We bade the faithful creature share Its master's place of rest;

I took two feathers from its wing, They are my only crest. Spring leaves were green upon the trees What time De Valance fell; Let autumn's yellow forests say If I avenged him well. And then I laid aside my sword, And took my lute to thee, And vow'd for my sworn brother's sake I would a wanderer be. Till for a year I had proclaim'd In distant lands his fame, And taught to many a foreign court De Valence’s brave name. Never was heart more kind and true, Never was hand more bold;

Never was there more loyal knight.— Gentles, my tale is told.

The Dream

Strange contrast to each gorgeous vest, His rough plaid cross’d upon his breast, And looking worn, and wild, and rude, As just from mountain solitude; Though weary brow and drooping eye Told wanderer 'neath a distant sky. Heedless of all, with absent look, The key of his clairshach he took; But the first breath, oh! it was sweet, As river gliding at your feet, And leaving, as it murmurs by, Your pleasant dream, half thought, half sigh.

THE DREAM:

THE LAY OF THE SCOTTISH MINSTREL.

There are no sounds in the wanderer's ear, To breathe of the home that he holds so dear; Your gales pass by on the breath of the rose, The vines on your sunny hills repose; And your river is clear as its silver tide Had no task save to mirror the flowers beside. Thou art fair, Provence, but not fair to me As the land which my spirit is pining to see, Where the pine rises darkly, the lord of the wood, Or stands lone in the pass, where the warrior has stood; Where the torrent is rushing like youth in its might, And the cavern is black as the slumber of night;