A ROMAUNT OF NORMANDY. THE "Long" had passed, with all its toils and joys Not such our present care; our sole essay Far spread with plenteous crops; we came at noon Set on the swelling bosom of a hill That faced the west, the snowy walls of Vire. Then spoke my friend :-"You asked me for the tale At Avranches: listen now; for here's the place Athwart the forest; till the topmost leaves, Of melody, which soon the charmed woods That read, I know not, but it pleased me well: FYTTE YE FYRSTE. THE nighte it was chill and dreare, The raine fell fast, and loud the winde But the mayden recked nor wind nor raine, Her weedes were sadde, but never in hall And never had high-born damosel Fierce flashed the levin; the thunder roared; But never a prayer said she; And a name she named, and a vowe she vowed, But not to our Deare Ladye. She hung her heade, she bent her browe, As one in doleful tene, And shuddering ever and agayne, She sterte the brake within. The waie it is rough, and there shyneth not But on she goes, till the levin shows That a cottage-doore is nigh. She knocketh once, she knocketh twice, She tirleth at the pinne; And she hears the raine, and the wayling winde, But never a sound within. With doulorous plaine she knocks again, When an eldritch dame unopes the doore, "Now saye thy hest at this houre of reste; Hath made thy wearie feet to rome "Oh mother!" quoth she, "I come to crave For my love he has grat me sore to weepe, "He spake me soft and he spake me swete, And so he has left his own true love, Now rede me a spelle of muckle might, To till my love to me, And my mother's chayne of good red gold I'll presentlie bringe to thee." But the eerie beldam's glowering eyne And stour she looked in the mayden's face, "Do off that kirtle of russet hue, For I know thee, damosel; Such sorrie weedes beseeme thee not, "No carlish hind hath wonne thy love, But a knighte of high degree: Ne nobler childe than bold Sir Hugh "Thy landes are wide and fayre; and thou Hast broad bezantes in store; And bold Sir Hugh hath passing few, But he loves thee never the more. "Yet here I bringe thee, an thou liste, A spell of muckle might; A carkanet of the rubies red Shall till to thee thy knyghte. "Now claspe it round thy snowy necke, "Ne yet unto her Blessed Sonne Or on thy head a banne shall light, By my eldritche grammarye." Fayre Elsie she raised her hande to take, But then she thought on bold Sir Hugh, And she took the eerie carkanette FYTTE YE SECONDE. Merrie is the lavrock's carol, On the dewie greenwood spraies; Merriely the wanton mavis Chanteth shrill his roundelaies. Merriely the broade sunne shyneth Over Vire and Tancreville; Merriely the bells are ringing In our Ladye's faire chapelle. From north and sowth and east and weste, For the fayrest flowr in Normandie It is her weddynge daie. Oh the bridegroom's looke it is gladde and high, But there sitteth a smyle on Elsie's face And now the lordlie companye And at the holy altar-grece Sir Hugh and his bryde knele down. The prieste he readeth the hallowed rite, They knele as two; for wele or wo But ever as ofte as the holy manne And he wepeth sore for shame. And ever as ofte as the mayden quier Fayre Elsie shudders and bends her lowe, And ever as ofte as she looketh on FYTTE YE THYRDE. Burd Elsie she sittes in her bower so fayre, For a yere and a daie have past away, But ever he greeteth piteouslie, And eke he maketh mone, Would draw the teires from a salvage manne, And his little bodie it wrytheth sore In soothe it was a sadde sadde syghte "Deare Ladye, pitty me," then she cried, She hadde not spoken a worde of prayer, When a payne that brente like an arowe keene Eache gemme in that eerie carkanette Did scorche her lyke a fierie glede, She shrieked alowde; she didde it offe; The reek arose around the gemmes, And she saw it never more. |