Poems (Cary)/A Norland Ballad
A NORLAND BALLAD.
The train of the Norse king Still winds the descents,Leading down where the waste ridge Is white with his tents;The eve star is climbing Above where they lie,Like hills at the harvest-time, White with the rye.
Who comes through the red light Of bivouac and torch,With footsteps unslackened By fasting or march?—Majestic in sorrow, No white hand, I trow,Can take from that forehead Its pale seal of woe:
Past grooms that are merrily Combing the steeds,To the tent of the Norse king He hurriedly speeds; A right noble chieftain,— That gloved hand I know,Has swooped the ger-falcon And bended the bow.
Outspeaks he the counsel He comes to afford:"As loves this engloved hand The hilt of my sword—As loves the pale martyr The sacrament seal—My heart loves my liege lord And prays for his weal.
"I once wooed a maiden, As fair to my sightAs the bride of the Norse king I plead for to-night;As thou dost, I tarried, Her fond faith to prove,And the wall of the convent Grew up 'twixt our love.
"Hold we to our marching Three leagues from this ridge,And we compass our rear-guard With moat and with bridge:Give one heart such shriving As priest can afford,And a sweet loving lady The arms of her lord!
"Oh felt you sweet pity For half I have borne,The scourgings, the fastings, The lip never shorn;You fain would not linger For wassail's wild sway,But leaping to saddle, Would hold on the way."
Outspoke then, the Norse king, Half pity, half scorn,"Go back to thy fasting And keep thee unshorn;No tale of a woman Pause I to divine;"And from the full goblet He quaffed the red wine.
Then fell sire and liegeman To feasting and song;I ween to such masquers The night was not long:And but one little trembler Stood pale in the arch,When gave the king signal To take up the march.
If danger forewarn him, The omen he hides,And mounting right gaily, He sings as he rides: "Now, bird of the border, Look forth for thy chief;By the bones of St. Peter, Thy watch shall be brief!"
"Stand forth, wretched prophet," He cries in his wrath,As his foam-covered charger Has struck on the pathLeading down to his castle: "Stand forth! here is moat,Here is drawbridge—we charge Back the lie in thy throat!"
"Pause, son of the mighty, My bode is not lostTill the step of the master The lintel has crossed;And then if my counsel Prove ghostly or vain"—The king smiled in triumph And flung down the rein.
Lo! passed is the threshold, None answer his call;Why starts he and trembles? There 's blood in the hall!His step through the corridor Hurriedly dies,'T is only an echo That answers his cries.
One soft golden ringlet That kissed the white cheekOf the beautiful lady They find as they seekThere was mounting of heralds In hot haste, I ween,But the bride of the Norse king Was never more seen.