Chapter IV: Part 4

The maid took the child her _mid_,[43]
And stole away in an even tide,
And passed over a wild heath;
Thorough field and thorough wood she _geth_,[44]
All the winter-long night.
The weather was clear, the moon was light,
So that she com by a forest side;
She wox all weary, and gan abide.
Soon after she gan heark,
Cockes crow, and dogs bark;
She arose, and thither wold;
Near and nearer, she gan behold,
Walls and houses fell the seigh,
A church, with steeple fair and high;
Then was there nother street no town,
But an house of religion;
An order of nuns, well y-dight,
To servy God both day and night.
The maiden abode no _lengore_;[45]
But yede her to the church door,
And on her knees she sate her down,
And said, weepand, her orisones.
"O Lord," she said, "Jesus Christ,
That sinful mannes _bedes_,[46]
_Underfong_[47] this present,
And help this seli innocent!
That it mote y-christen'd be,
For Marie love, thy mother free!"
She looked up, and by her seigh
An asche, by her, fair and high,
Well y-boughed, of mickle price;
The body was hollow, as many one is.
Therin she laid the child for cold,
In the _pel_,[48] as it was, _byfold_[49]
And blessed it with all her might.
With that it gan to dowe light.
The fowles up, and sung on bough,
And acre-men yede to the plough,
The maiden turned again anon,
And took the way she had ere gon.
The porter of the abbey arose,
And did his office in the close;
Rung the bells and tapers light,
Laid forth books, and all ready dight.
The church door be undid,
And seigh anon, in the _stede_,[50]
The pel liggen in the tree,
And thought well that it might be,
That thieves had y-robbed somewhere,
And gone there forth, and let it there.
Therto he yede, and it unwound,
And the maiden child therin he found.
He took it up between his honde,
And thanked Jesu Christes sonde,
And home to his house he it brought,
And took it to his daughter, and her besought
That she should keep it as she con,
For she was _melche, and couthe thon._[51]
She bade it suck, and it wold,
For it was nigh dead for cold.
Anon, fire she a-light,
And warmed it well _aplight_,[52]
She gave it suck upon her _barm_,[53]
And siththen, laid it to sleep warm.
And when the mass was y-done,
The porter to the abbesse com full soon.
"Madame, what rede ye of this thinge?
To-day, right in the morning,
Soon after the first _stound_,[54]
A little maiden child ich found
In hollow ash thin out
And a pel her about;
A ring of gold also was there;
How it came thither I wot ne'er."
The abbesse was a-wondered of this thing.
"Go," she said, "on _hying_[55]
And fetch it hither, I pray thee;
It is welcome to God and me.
Ich will it helpen as I can,
And segge it to my kinswoman."
The porter anon it gan forth bring,
With the pel, and with the ring.
The abbesse let clepe a priest anon,
And let it christen in function.
And for it was in an ash y-found,
She cleped it _Frain_ in that stound.
The name[56] of the ash is a frain,
After the language of Bretayn;
_Forthy_[57] Le Frain men clepeth this lay,
More than ash, in each country.
This Frain thriv'd from year to year;
The abbess niece men ween'd it were.
The abbess her gan teach, and _beld._[58]
By that she was twelve winter eld,
In all England there was none
A fairer maiden than she was one.
And when she couthe ought of _manhede,_[59]
She bade the abbesse her _wisse_[60] and rede,
Which were her kin, one or other,
Father or mother, sister or brother.
The abbesse her in council took,
To tellen her she nought forsook,
How she was founden in all thing;
And took her the cloth and the ring,
And bade her keep it in that stede;
And, therwhiles she lived, so she did.
Then was there, in that cuntré,
A rich knight of land and fee,
Proud, and young, and jollif,
And had not yet y-wedded wife.
He was stout, of great renown,
And was y-cleped Sir Guroun.
He heard praise that maiden free,
And said, he would her see.
He dight him in the way anon,
And jolliflich thither is gone,
And bode his man segge, verament,
He should toward a tournament.
The abbesse, and the nonnes all,
Fair him grette in the guest-hall;
And damsel Frain, so fair of mouth,
Grette him fair, as she well couth.
And swithe well he gan devise,
Her semblant, and her gentrise,
Her lovesome eyen, her _rode_[61] so bright.
And commenced to love her anon-right;
And thought how he might take on,
To have her for his lemon [Errata: leman].
He thought, "Gificcome her to
More than ich have y-do,
The abbesse will _souchy_[62] guile,
And _wide_[63] her away in a little while."
He compassed another _suchesoun;_[64]
To be brother of that religion.
"Madam," he said to the abbesse,
_"I-lovi_[65] well, in all goodness,
Ich will give one and other
Londes and rentes, to become your brother,[66]
That ye shall ever fare the _bet_[67]
When I come to have recet."[68]
At few wordes they ben _at one._
He graithes him[69], and forth is gone.
Oft he com, by day and night,
To speak with that maiden bright;
So that, with his fair _behest_,[70]
And with his glosing, at lest
She granted him to don his will,
When he will, loud and still.
"Leman," he said, "thou must let be
The abbesse _thy neice_,[71] and go with me;
For ich am riche, of swich powere,
Ye finde bet than thou hast here."
The maiden grant, and to him trist,
And stole away, that no man wist;
With her took she no thing
But her pel and her ring.
When the abbess gan aspy
That she was with the knight _owy_,[72]
She made mourning in her thought,
And her _bement_,[73] and gained nought.
So long she was in his castel,
That all his meynie loved her well.
To rich and poor she gan her 'dress,
That all her loved more and less;
And thus she led with him her life,
Right as she had been his wedded wife.
His knightes com, and to him speke,
And holy church commandeth eke,
Some lordis daughter for to take,
And his leman all forsake.
And said, him were well more fair
In wedlock to get him an heir,
Than lead his life with swiche one,
Of whose kin he knew none.
And said, "Here besides, is a knight
That hath a daughter fair and bright,
That shall bear his heritage,
Taketh her in marriage!"
Loth him was for that deed to do,
Oc, at last, he granted therto.
The _forward_[74] was y-marked aright,
And were at one, and troth plight.
Allas! that he no had y-wit,
Ere the forward were y-suit!
That she, and his leman also,
Sistren were, and twinnes two!
Of o father begeten they were,
Of o mother born _y-fere_:[75]
That _hi_[76] so were ne wist none,
Forsooth, I say, but God alone.
The new bride was graithed with oil,
And brought home to the lord is host,
Her father come with her also,
The levedi her mother, and other mo.
The bishop of the lond, withouten fail,
Come to do the spousail.

* * * * *

The young rival of Le Frain was distinguished like her sister, by a sylvan appellation; her name was _Le Codre_ (Corylus, the Hazel), and the knight's tenants had sagaciously drawn a most favourable prognostic of his future happiness, from the superiority of nuts to vile ash-keys; but neither he nor any of his household were disposed to augur favourably of a marriage which tended to deprive them of the amiable orphan. The feast was magnificent, but dull; and never were apparent rejoicings more completely marred by a general feeling of constraint and formality. Le Frain alone, concealing the grief which preyed on her heart, was all zeal and activity; and, by her unceasing attentions, conciliated the pity and esteem of the bride, and even of her mother, who had hitherto felt the utmost anxiety to procure her dismissal. At the conclusion of the banquet she employed herself in the decoration of the bridal chamber, and having observed that the covering of the bed was not sufficiently costly, spread over it the magnificent mantle she had received from the abbess, and had hitherto preserved with the utmost solicitude. She had scarcely left the room when the bride entered it accompanied by her mother, who casting her eyes on this splendid mantle, surveyed it with feelings of the most poignant remorse, and immediately recognized the testimony of her crime. She questioned the chamberlains, who were unable to explain the appearance of an ornament they had never before beheld; she then interrogated Le Frain, and, at the end of a short examination, fell into a swoon, exclaiming, "Fair child, thou art my daughter!" Her husband was then summoned, and she confessed to him with tears, and every expression of penitence, the sinful act she had committed, and the providential discovery of her daughter by means of the mantle and the ring, both of which were presents from himself. The knight embraced his child with the utmost tenderness, and prevailed on the bishop to dissolve the just solemnized marriage, and unite their son-in-law to the original object of his affections. The other sister was shortly after bestowed on a neighbouring lord, and the adventures of Le Frain and Le Codre were formed into a Lay, which received its name from the former.

FOOTNOTES:

[33] Jests.

[34] Perhaps a mistake in the MS. for ge, i.e. go.

[35] Gossip, godfather.

[36] Health, safety.

[37] Yesterday.

[38] Full of frowardness, each mis-saying or reviling.

[39] Each an end, i.e. in every quarter.

[40] A rich mantle, lined with fur.

[41] Constantinople.

[42] Plaited, twisted.

[43] With.

[44] Goeth.

[45] Longer.

[46] Prayers.

[47] Receive.

[48] Fur.

[49] Folded.

[50] Place.

[51] She had milk, and was able to suckle it.

[52] Certainly, I plight; I promise you.

[53] Lap.

[54] Hour.

[55] In haste.

[56] In the MS. it is "freyns," which maybe a mistake of the transcriber.

[57] Therefore.

[58] Protect, defend.

[59] Manhood, here used for the relation of consanguinity.

[60] Teach and advise her.

[61] Complexion.

[62] Suspect.

[63] Void, carry away.

[64] Excuse.

[65] Beloved.

[66] Of the same religious fraternity.

[67] Better.

[68] Lodging, abode.

[69] Agreed.

[70] Promise.

[71] It should be _thy aunt._

[72] Away.

[73] Bemoaned.

[74] Contract.

[75] Together.

[76] They, Sax.

* * * * *

No. IV.--BISCLAVERET.

This is the Breton name for an animal, which the Normans call Garwolf; into whose form men were often formerly metamorphosed; and during such times were the most ferocious and destructive inhabitants of the forest.

There lived formerly in Bretagne a baron, comely in his person, wise, courteous, adored by his neighbours, much beloved by his sovereign, and married to a noble and beautiful lady, for whom he felt the warmest affection, which she appeared to return. But she had observed, her husband was regularly absent during three days in the week; and, suspecting there must be something mysterious in this periodical disappearance, resolved, if possible, to extort the secret. She redoubled her expressions of tenderness, bitterly lamented her frequent intervals of solitude, and, affecting to be persuaded that they were spent with a mistress, conjured him to calm her apprehensions by a disclosure of the truth. The good baron in his turn begged her to desist from an enquiry which would only lead to their permanent separation, and the extinction of all her fondness; but her tears and blandishments prevailed, and he confessed that, during half the week, he became a Bisclaveret. The lady, though she felt a secret horror at finding herself the wife of a wolf, pursued her enquiry;--Were his clothes also transformed at the same time? the baron answered, that he was naked: where, then, did he leave his dress? To this question he endeavoured to avoid giving an answer; declaring, should that be discovered, he should be condemned to wear his brute form through life; and observing that, if she loved him, she could have no wish to learn a secret, useless to her, and in its disclosure fatal to himself. But obstinacy is always an over-match for rational argument: she still insisted; and the good-natured husband ultimately told that, "by the side of an old chapel, situated on the road to the thickest part of the forest, was a bush, which overhang and concealed an excavated stone, in which he constantly deposited his garments." The wife, now mistress of his fate, quickly sent for a gallant, whose love she had hitherto rejected; taught him the means of confirming the baron's metamorphosis; and, when their friends had renounced all hope of his return, married her new favourite, and conveyed to him a large inheritance, the fruit of their joint treachery. In about a year the king went to hunt in the forest, and after a chase which lasted the whole day, had nearly run down the unfortunate Bisclaveret, when the persecuted animal rushed from the thicket, and running straight up to him, seized his stirrup with his fore-paw, began to lick his feet, and with the most piteous whinings to implore his protection. The king was, at first dreadfully frightened, but his fear gave way to pity and admiration. He called his attendants to witness the miracle; ordered the dogs to be whipped off, solemnly took the brute under his royal protection; and returned to his palace, closely followed by his savage attendant. Bisclaveret became an universal favourite; he was fed with the greatest care, slept in the royal apartments, and though indefatigable in attentions to his master, returned the caresses of the courtiers, who admired and esteemed, without envying his superior intelligence and accomplishments. At length, the king having summoned a plenar at court, his barons flocked from all quarters, and, among the rest the husband of the false lady. No one had thought of paying the least attention to Bisclaveret, whose gentleness was even more remarkable than his sagacity; but no sooner did the knight make his appearance than the animal attacked him with the greatest fury, and was scarcely prevented, even by the interposition of the king himself, from tearing him to pieces. The same scene occurred a second time, and occasioned infinite surprise. Not long after this, the king went to hunt in the same forest, and the wicked wife, as lady of the manor, having sent before her a magnificent present, set forth to pay her court to her sovereign. Bisclaveret saw her approach, flew upon her, and instantly tore her nose from her face. This act of discourtesy to a lady excited universal indignation: even the king took part against his favourite, who would have been punished with instant death, but for the interference of an aged counsellor. "This lady, Sir," said he to the king, "is wife of that knight whom you so tenderly loved, and whose unaccountable disappearance you have so long regretted." The baron whom Bisclaveret first assaulted is her present husband. He becomes ferocious only on the appearance of these two; there is some mystery in this, which the lady, if imprisoned and interrogated would probably discover. Britany is the country of wonders--

Mainte marveille avuns veu
Qui en Bretaigne est avenu.

In compliance with this advice the lady was put in close confinement, the whole secret extorted, and the clothes of Bisclaveret duly restored. But when they were brought before him the animal appeared to survey them with listlessness and inattention; and the king had again recourse to his sapient counsellor, by whose advice they were transferred to the royal bed-chamber, where Bisclaveret was left, without witnesses, to effect, if possible, his metamorphosis. In due time the king, attended with two of his barons, repaired to the chamber, and found the knight in his natural form, asleep on the royal bed. His master immediately embraced him with the utmost affection, restored all his estates; added more, and banished the wicked wife, together with her paramour, from the country. It is remarkable that afterwards she had several children, all of whom were females, and distinguished by the disagreeable singularity of being born without noses. Be assured that this adventure is strictly true, and that the Lay of Bisclaveret was composed for the purpose of making it known to the latest posterity.

* * * * *

No. V.--_The Lay of SIR LANVAL_.

It was the time of Pentecost the bless'd,
When royal Arthur held the accustom'd feast,
When Carduel's walls contained the vast resort
That press'd from every land to grace his plenar court.
There did the sovereign's copious hand dispense
Large boons to all with free magnificence,
To all but one; from Bretany he came,
A goodly knight, Sir Lanval was his name.
Long had the king, by partial temper sway'd,
His loyal zeal with cold neglect repaid;
Yet from a throne Sir Lanval drew his birth,
Nor could all England boast more comeliness and worth.
Whate'er the cause, no gift the monarch gave,
The knight with honest pride forbore to crave,
Till at the last, his substance all forespent,
From his lord's court the hopeless liegeman went.
No leave he took, he told no mortal wight,
Scarce had he thought to guide his steps aright,
But all at random, reckless of his way,
He wander'd on the better half of day.
Ere evening fell he reached a pleasant mead,
And there he loos'd his beast, at will to rest or feed;
Then by a brook-side down his limbs he cast
And, pondering on the waters as they pass'd,
The while his cloak his bended arm sustain'd,
Sadly he sat, and much in thought complain'd.
So mus'd he long, till by the frequent tread
Of quickening feet constrain'd, he turn'd his head;
Close by his side there stood a female pair,
Both richly clad, and both enchanting fair;
With courteous guise the wondering knight they greet
With winning speech, with invitation sweet
From their kind mistress, where at ease she lay,
And in her tent beguil'd the lingering day.
Awhile Sir Lanval reft of sense appear'd;
Then up at once his mailed limbs he rear'd,
And with his guides impatient to proceed,
Though a true knight, for once forgot his steed.
And now with costliest silk superbly dight,
A gay pavilion greets the warrior's sight;
Its taper spire a towering eagle crown'd,
In substance gold, of workmanship renown'd.
Within, recumbent on a couch, was laid
A form more perfect than e'er man survey'd:
The new-blown rose, the lily's virgin prime,
In the fresh hour of fragrant summer-time,
Though of all flowers the fairest of the fair,
With this sweet paragon might ill compare;
And o'er her shoulders flow'd with graceful pride,
Though for the heat some little cast aside,
A crimson pall of Alexandria's dye,
With snowy ermine lin'd, befitting royalty;
Yet was her skin, where chance bewray'd the sight,
Far purer than the snowy ermine's white.
'Lanval!' she cried, as in amazed mood,
Of speech and motion void, the warrior stood,
'Lanval!' she cried, ''tis you I seek for here;
Your worth has won me: knight, I love thee dear;
And of my love such proof will soon impart,
Shall wing with envy thy proud sovereign's heart:
Then slighted merit shall be fully known,
And kings repine at wealth beyond their own.'
Words such as these arous'd the astonish'd knight,
He felt love's kindling flame inspire his spright,
And, 'O pure paragon,' he straight replied,
'Thy love is all! I hold no wish beside!
If bliss so rare thy favouring lips decree,
No deed shall foil thy champion's chivalry;
No toil shall wear, no danger shall dismay,
Let my queen will, and Lanval must obey:
So may I thrive as, from this moment bless'd,
One hope I cherish, one sole boon request,
Thy winning form, thy fostering smiles to see,
And never, never more to part from thee.'

So speaking ceas'd awhile the enraptur'd knight,
For now the two fair damsels met his sight;
Each on her arm resplendent vestments brought,
Fresh from the loom, magnificently wrought:
Enrob'd in them, with added grace he mov'd,
As one by nature form'd to be belov'd;
And, by the fairy to the banquet led,
And placed beside her on one genial bed,
Whiles the twain handmaids every want supplied,
Cates were his fare to mortal man denied:
Yet was there one, the foremost of the feast,
One food there was far sweeter than the rest,
One food there was did feed the warriors flame,
For from his lady's lovely lips it came.

What feeble wit of man might here suffice,
To point with colours dim Sir Lanval's extacies!
There lapt in bliss he lies, there fain would stay,
There dream the remnant of his life away:
But o'er their loves his dew still evening shed,
Night gathered on amain, and thus the fairy said;
'Rise, knight! I may not longer keep thee here;
Back to the court return and nothing fear,
There, in all princely cost, profusely free,
Maintain the honour of thyself and me;
There feed thy lavish fancies uncontroul'd,
And trust the exhaustless power of fairy gold.
'But should reflection thy soft bosom move,
And wake sad wishes for thy absent love;
(And sure such wishes thou canst never frame,
From any place where presence would be shame),
Whene'er thou call thy joyful eyes shall see
This form, invisible to all but thee.
One thing I warn thee; let the blessing rest
An unrevealed treasure in thy breast;
If here thou fail, that hour my favours end,
Nor wilt thou ever more behold thy friend:'--
Here, with a parting kiss, broke off the fay,
'Farewell!' she cried, and sudden pass'd away.
The knight look'd up, and just without the tent
Beheld his faithful steed, and forth he went;
Light on his back he leap'd with graceful mein,
And to the towers of Carduel turn'd the rein;
Yet ever and anon he look'd behind
With strange amaz'd uncertainty of mind,
As one who hop'd some further proofs to spy
If all were airy dream or just reality.

And now great Arthur's court beheld the knight
In sumptuous guise magnificently dight;
Large were his presents, cost was nothing spar'd,
And every former friend his bounty shar'd.
Now ransom'd thralls, now worthy knights supplied
With equipage their scanty means denied;
Now minstrels clad their patron's deeds proclaim,
And add just honour to Sir Lanval's name.
Nor did his kindness yield a sparing meed
To the poor pilgrim, in his lowly weed;
Nor less to those who erst, in fight renown'd,
Had borne the bloody cross, and warr'd on paynim ground:
Yet, as his best belov'd so lately told,
His unexhausted purse o'erflow'd with gold.
But what far dearer solace did impart,
And thrill'd with thankfulness his loyal heart,
Was the choice privilege, that, night or day,
Whene'er his whisper'd prayer invok'd the fay,
That loveliest form, surpassing mortal charms,
Bless'd his fond eyes, and fill'd his circling arms.

Now shall ye hear how these delights so pure
Chang'd all to trouble and discomfiture.

'Twas on the solemn feast of sainted John,
When knights past tale did in the castle won,
That, supper done, 'twas will'd they all should fare
Forth to the orchard green, awhile to ramble there.
The queen, who long had mark'd, with much delight,
The gallant graces of the Breton knight,
Soon, from the window of her lofty tower,
Mid the gay band espied him in a bower,
And turning to her dames with blythe intent,
'Hence, all!' she cried; 'we join the merriment!'
All took the word, to the gay band they hied,
The queen, besure, was close to Lanval's side,
Sprightly she seem'd, and sportfully did toy,
And caught his hand to dance, and led the general joy,

Lanval alone was dull where all was gay,
His thoughts were fixed on his lovely fay:
Soon as he deftly might, he fled the throng;
And her dear name nigh trembled on his tongue,
When the fond queen, who well had trac'd his flight,
Stepp'd forth, and cross'd his disappointed sight.
Much had she sought to meet the knight alone;
Now in these words she made her passion known:
'Lanval!' she said, 'thy worth, long season past,
'In my deserv'd esteem hath fix'd thee fast:
'Tis thine this prosperous presage to improve:--
Say, gentle knight, canst thou return my love?

The knight, ye wot, love's paragon ador'd,
And, had his heart been free, rever'd his word;
True to his king, the fealty of his soul
Abhorr'd all commerce with a thought so foul.
In fine, the sequel of my tale to tell,
From the shent queen such bitter slander fell,
That, with an honest indignation strong,
The fatal secret 'scap'd Sir Lanval's tongue:
'Yes!' he declar'd, 'he felt love's fullest power!
Yes!' he declar'd, 'he had a paramour!
But one, so perfect in all female grace,
Those charms might scarcely win her handmaid's place;
Those charms, were now one menial damsel near,
Would lose this little light, and disappear.'

Strong degradation sure the words implied;
The queen stood mute, she could not speak for pride;
But quick she turn'd, and to her chamber sped,
There prostrate lay, and wept upon her bed;
There vow'd the coming of her lord to wait,
Nor mov'd till promis'd vengeance seal'd her hate.

The king, that day devoted to the chace,
Ne'er till the close of evening sought the place;
Then at his feet the fair deceiver fell,
And gloss'd her artful tale of mischief well;
Told how a saucy knight his queen abus'd,
With prayer of proffer'd love, with scorn refus'd;
Thereat how rudely rail'd the ruffian shent,
With slanderous speech and foul disparagement,
And boastfully declar'd such charms array'd
The veriest menial where his vows were paid,
That, might one handmaid of that dame be seen,
All eyes would shun with scorn imperial Arthur's queen.
The weeping tale of her, his heart ador'd,
Wak'd the quick wrath of her deluded lord;
Sternly he menac'd some disastrous end
By fire or cord, should soon that wretch attend,
And straight dispatched three barons bold to bring
The culprit to the presence of his king.

Lanval! the while, the queen no longer near,
Home to his chamber hied with heavy cheer:
Much did he dread his luckless boast might prove
The eternal forfeit of his lady's love;
And, all impatient his dark doom to try,
And end the pangs of dire uncertainty,
His humble prayer he tremblingly preferr'd,
Wo worth the while! his prayer no more was heard.
O! how he wail'd! how curs'd the unhappy day!
Deaf still remained the unrelenting fay.
Him, thus dismay'd, the approaching barons found;
Outstretch'd he lay, and weeping, on the ground;
To reckless ears their summons they declar'd,
Lost was his fay, for nought beside he car'd;
So forth they led him, void of will or word,
Dead was his heart within, his wretched life abhorr'd.

They reach the presence; there he hears surpriz'd
The mortal charge of felony devis'd:
Stern did the monarch look, and sharp upbraid
For foul seducement of his queen assay'd:
The knight, whose loyal heart disdain'd the offence,
With generous warmth affirm'd his innocence;
He ne'er devis'd seduction:--for the rest,
His speech discourteous, frankly he confess'd;
Influenc'd with ire his lips forwent their guard;
He stood prepared to bide the court's award.
Straight from his peers were chosen judges nam'd:
Then fix the trial, with due forms proclaim'd;
By them 'tis order'd that the accus'd assign
Three men for pledge, or in a prison pine.

Lanval! 'tis told, had pass'd from foreign strand,
And kinsmen none there dwelt on English land;
And well he knew that in the hour of proof
Friends for the most part fail, and stand aloof:
Sue them he would not, but with manly pride
In silence turn'd, and toward his prison hied.
With generous grief the deed Sir Gawaine view'd;
Dear to the king was he, and nephew of his blood,
But liberal worth past nature's ties prevail'd,
And sympathy stood forth, if friendship fail'd;
Nor less good-will full many a knight inspir'd;
With general voice the prisoner all requir'd,
All pledg'd their fiefs he should not fail the day,
And homeward bore him from the court away.

His friends, for sure they well that title claim,
First thought the licence of his tongue to blame;
But, when they mark'd how deeply he was mov'd,
They sooth'd and cherish'd rather than reprov'd.
Each day, as mute he sat in desperate grief,
They spoke kind words of comfort and relief;
Each day, howe'er they sought, howe'er they sued,
Scarce might they win his lips to taste of food:
'Come, welcome death!' forever was his cry;
'Lo, here a wretch who wishes but to die!'
So still he wail'd, till woe such mastery wan
They trembled for his nobler powers of man;
They fear'd lest reason's tottering rule should end
And to a moping ideot sink their friend.

At length came on the day, long since decreed,
When the sad knight should suffer or be freed.
From every part the assembling barons meet:
Each judge, as fore-ordain'd, assumes his seat;
The king, too strongly sway'd by female pride,
O'er the grave council will himself preside,
And, while the presence of his queen inspires,
Goads on the judgment as her wrath requires.
There might be seen that honourable band
Late for the prisoner pledg'd in fief and land;
Slow they advance, then stand before the board,
Whiles all behold the entrusted thrall restor'd.
With many a question next the accus'd was prov'd;
Then, while the votes were given, awhile remov'd.
But those brave warriors, when they weigh'd the plight
And the fair promise of this hapless knight,
His youth, for yet he reach'd not manhood's prime;
His gallant mien, his life without a crime,
His helpless state by kindred unsustain'd,
In a strange court and in a foreign land,
All cried aloud, were Lanval doom'd to die,
It were a doom of shame and cruelty.

At first 'twas mov'd, that straight conducted thence,
Some meet confinement should chastise the offence;
When one grave peer, in honest hope to wave
The dire debasement of a youth so brave,
Produc'd this purpose, with such reasoning grac'd,
'Twas with the general plaudit soon embrac'd:
''Twas urg'd,' he said, 'and sure the offence he blam'd,
Their queen by base comparison was sham'd;
That he, the prisoner, with strange fury mov'd,
Had prais'd too proudly the fair dame he lov'd;
First, then, 'twere meet this mistress should be seen
There in full court, and plac'd beside the queen;
So might they judge of passion's mad pretence,
Or truth had wrought the ungrateful preference.'

So spoke the judge; Sir Lanval hears the doom,
And weens his hour of destiny is come;
Quench'd is the lore that erst, in happier day,
Won to his whisper'd prayer the willing fay;
And the last licence pitying laws devise,
Serves but to close the count of miseries!

When, lo! strange shouts of joy and clamourous cheers,
Rose from without, and stay'd the astonish'd peers:
At hand two damsels entering in were seen,
Lovely alike their look, and noble was their mien;
On a grey dappled steed each lady rode,
That pac'd for pride, as conscious of his load;
'Lo here!' 'twas murmured round with new delight,
'Lo here, the mistress of the Breton knight!'
The twain meanwhile pass'd onward undelay'd,
And to the king their graceful greetings paid,
Then told their lady's coming, and desir'd
Such harbourage as highest rank requir'd.

E'en as they spoke, twain others, lovelier fair,
Of stature loftier, of more royal air,
Came proudly on: of gold their purfled vest,
Well shap'd, each symmetry of limb confess'd:
On goodly mules from farthest Spain they brought,
This pair the presence of the sovereign sought.

The impatient king, ere well their lips had power,
To claim fit harbourage of board and bower,
Led on their way; and, court'sies scantly done,
Back to the peers be sped, and press'd the judgment on;
For much, meseems, his vengeful heart misgave
Some thwarting chance the Breton knight might save.

Just were his boding fears: new shouts ascend
Of loud acclaim; and wide the welkin rend.
A female form the wondering peers behold,
Too bright for mixture of earth's mortal mould:
The gridelin pall that down her shoulders flow'd
Half veil'd her snow-white courser as she rode;
On her fair hand a sparrow-hawk was plac'd,
Her steed's sure steps a following grey-hound trac'd
And, as she pass'd, still pressing to the right
Female and male, and citizen and knight,
What wight soe'er in Carduel's walls was found,
Swell'd the full quire, and spread the joy around.

Lanval, the while, apart from all the rest,
Sat sadly waiting for his doom unbless'd:
(Not that he fear'd to die: death rather sued;
For life was nought, despoil'd of all its good:)
To his dull ears his hastening friends proclaim
The fancied form and presence of his dame;
Feebly he rais'd his head: and, at the sight,
In a strange extacy of wild delight,
''Tis she! 'tis she!' was all his faultering cry,
'I see her once again now satisfied I die!'

Thus while he spake, the peers with seemly state.
Led by their king, the illustrious stranger wait;
Proud Carduel's palace hail'd its princely guest,
And thus the dame the assembled court address'd.
'List, king, and barons!--Arthur, I have lov'd
A knight most loyal in thy service prov'd;
Him, by thy foul neglect, reduc'd to need,
These hands did recompense; they did thy deed.
He disobey's me; I forbore to save;
I left him at the portal of the grave:
Firm loyalty hath well that breach repair'd--
He loves me still, nor shall he lack reward.
'Barons! your court its judgment did decree,
Quittance or death, your queen compar'd with me:
Behold the mistress of the knight is come,
Now judge between us? and pronounce the doom.'

All cry aloud, the words of love were right,
And one united voice acquits the knight.
Back from the palace turns the parting fay,
And with her beauteous damsels speeds away:
Her, as she pass'd the enraptur'd Lanval view'd;
High on the portal's marble steps he stood;
On his tall steed he sprang with vigorous bound;
Thenceforth their footsteps never wight hath found.

But 'tis the Breton tale, they both are gone
To the fair isle of fertile Avalon;
There, in the lap of love for ever laid,
By sorrow unassail'd, in bliss embay'd,
They make their won: for me, where'er they dwell,
No farther tale befalls me here to tell.

Thomas Chestre translated this tale in the reign of Henry 6, but the extracts published by Mr. Warton, differ in some particulars from the tale here given.

No. VI.--LES DEUX AMANTS.

In Neustria, now called Normandy is a single mountain of unusual height and verdure, railed the mountain "of the two lovers," in consequence of an adventure to which it gave rise, and of which the Bretons have formed a lay. Close to it are the remains of a city, now reduced to a few houses, but formerly opulent, founded by the king of the Pistreins, whence it was called Depistreins, and the neighbouring valley Val de Pistre. This king had one only daughter, whom he loved so much that he could not bear to be separated from her. With a view to check the pursuits of the lovers, whom her beauty and accomplishments attracted, he published a decree, that her hand should never be granted but to a suitor who should be able to carry her, without resting, from the bottom to the top of the adjoining mountain. Many attempted the enterprise, for presumption is common; none achieved it, because its execution was barely possible. The suitors disappeared, one by one, and the beautiful princess seemed doomed to eternal celibacy. There was one youth, the son of a neighbouring baron, who was a favourite with the king and the whole court, and whose assiduities, which were dictated by an unconquerable and sincere passion, ultimately gained the lady's warmest affections. It was long a secret to all the world: but this discretion became, at length, almost intolerable; and the youth, hopeless of fulfilling the condition which alone could obtain her hand, earnestly conjured her to fly from her father's court. To this she would not consent, but suggested a mode of accomplishing their wishes more compatible with her filial piety: "I have," said she, "a rich aunt, who resides, and has studied during thirty years, at Salerno. In that celebrated school she has so completely acquired the art of medicine; has learned so many _salves_ and drugs; has so studied _herbs_ and _roots_, that she will be enabled to compose for you _electuaries_ and _drinks_, capable of communicating the degree of vigour necessary to the accomplishment of the trial prescribed by my father. To her you shall bear a letter from me, and at your return shall demand me from the king, on the terms to which he has himself assented." The lover thanked her; went home, provided the necessary assortment of rich clothes, and other merchandize, of palfreys, beasts of burthen and attendants, and set off for Salerno. His mission was successful: the good aunt's electuaries rendered him much more athletic than before; and he brought back, in a small vial, an elixir capable of instantly restoring strength at the moment of complete exhaustion. He therefore was full of confidence, and claimed the trial. The king having summoned all his principal vassals to behold the ceremony, conducted his daughter into the great plain on the banks of the Seine, and found the youth already stationed at the foot of the mountain. The lovely princess had scarcely tasted food since the departure of her lover; she would gladly have wasted herself to the lightness of air for the purpose of diminishing his labour. She wore only a single robe which closely enveloped her. Her lover catching her up with one hand, and bearing the precious vial in the other, appeared perfectly unconscious of the burthen, and bore her, with the rapidity of lightning, more than half way up the mountain: but here she perceived his breath began to fail, and conjured him to have recourse to his medicine. He replied, that he was still full of vigour; was too much within sight of the multitude below, that their cries on seeing him stop, even for an instant, would annoy and dishearten him; and that, while able to proceed alone, he would not appeal to preternatural assistance. At two-thirds of the height she felt him totter under the weight, and again repeated her earnest entreaties. But he no longer heard or listened: exerting his whole remains of strength, he staggered with her to the top, still bearing the untasted vial in his hand, and dropped dead on the ground. His mistress, thinking he had only fainted, knelt down by his side, applied the elixir to his lips, but found that life had left him. She then dashed the vial on the ground, uttered a dreadful shriek, threw herself on the body, and instantly expired. The king and his attendants, much surprized at not seeing them return, ascended the mountain, and found the youth fast locked in the arms of the princess. By command of her father they were buried on the spot in a marble coffin, and the mountain still retains the name of "The Two Lovers." Around their tomb the ground exhibits an unceasing verdure; and hither the whole country resort for the most valuable herbs employed in medicine, which owe their origin to the contents of the marvellous vial.[77]

No. VII.--YWONEC.

There lived once in Britain a rich old knight, lord of Caerwent, a city situated on the river Duglas. He had married, when far advanced in years, a young wife of high birth, and transcendant beauty, in hopes of having an heir; but when, at the end of seven years, this hope was frustrated, he locked her up in his strong castle, under the care of his sister, an aged widow lady, of great devotion and asperity of temper. His own amusements were confined to the chace; those of his sister to thumbing the Psalter, and chanting its contents: the young lady had no solace but tears. One morning in April, when the birds began to sing the songs of love, the old gentleman had risen early, and awakened his sister, who carefully shut the doors after him, while he sallied forth for the woods, and his young wife began her usual lamentations. She execrated the hour when she was born, and the fatal avarice of her parents, for having united her to an old, jealous tyrant, afraid of his own shadow, who debarred her even from going to church. She had heard the country round her prison was once famed for adventures; that young and gallant knights used to meet, without censure or impediment, beautiful and affectionate mistresses; but her lot was endless misery (for her tyrant was certainly immortal), unless the supreme Disposer of events should, by some miracle, suspend the listlessness of her existence. She had scarcely finished this ejaculation, when the shadow of a bird, which nearly intercepted all the light proceeding from the narrow window of her room, arrested her attention, and a falcon of the largest size flew into the chamber, and perched at the foot of her bed. While she gazed, it gradually assumed the figure of a young and handsome knight. She started, changed colour, and drew a veil over her face, but still gazed and listened, with some fear, much astonishment, but more pleasure. The knight soon broke silence. He begged her not to be alarmed; confessed his mode of visiting was new, and rather mysterious; but that a falcon was a gentle and noble bird, whose figure ought not to create suspicion. He was a neighbouring prince, who had long loved her, and wished to dedicate the remainder of his days to her service. The lady, gradually removing her veil, ingenuously told him, he was much handsomer, and apparently more amiable, than any man she had ever seen; and she should be happy to accept him as a lover, if such a connection could be legitimate, and if he was orthodox. The prince entered at large into the articles of his creed; and concluded by advising that she should feign herself sick, send for his chaplain, and direct him to bring the host; "when," said he, "I will assume your appearance, and receive the Sacrament in your stead." The lady was satisfied with this proposal; and, when the old woman came in, and summoned her to rise, she professed to be at the point of death, and entreated the immediate assistance of the chaplain. Such a request, in the absence of her lord, could not be regularly granted; but a few screams, and a fainting fit, removed the old lady's doubts, and she hobbled off in search of the chaplain, who immediately brought the host; and Muldumaric (the falcon-prince) assuming the appearance of his mistress, went through the sacred ceremony with becoming devotion, which they both considered as a marriage contract. The lady's supposed illness enabled the prince to protract his visit; but at length the moment of separation came, and she expressed her wish for the frequent repetition of their interviews.--"Nothing is so easy," said Muldumaric; "whenever you express an ardent wish to see me, I will instantly come. But beware of that old woman: she will probably discover our secret, and betray it to her brother; and I announce to you, the moment of discovery will be that of my death." With these words he flew off. His mistress, with all her caution, was unable to conceal entirely the complete change in her sensations. Her solitude, formerly so irksome, became the source of her greatest delight; her person, so long neglected, again was an object of solicitude; and her artful and jealous husband, on his return from the chase, often discovered in her features the traces of a satisfaction his conscience told him he was not the author of. His vague suspicions were, after a time, communicated to his sister; but being, as she thought, the young lady's sole companion, and not able to reproach herself with any enlivening qualities, she could not account for this contented demeanour. At length she was commanded to conceal herself in his wife's apartments during his absence, to watch indefatigably, and report whatever she could discover. The result was a full confirmation of all his suspicions. He now exerted himself in devising means of vengeance: he secretly prepared and placed before the fatal window a trap, composed of sharpened steel arrows, and, rising long before day, set off on his usual occupation. The old lady, carefully shutting the doors after him, returned to her bed till day break; and his wife, awakened at this unusual hour, could not refrain from uttering an ardent wish for the company of her dear Muldumaric. He was instantly at her side; but had received his death wound, and she found herself sprinkled with his blood. Overpowered by fear and surprize, she could scarcely hear him say he died for her, and that his prophecy was accomplished. She fainted in his arms; but he conjured her to preserve her life, and announcing she would have a son, whom she must call Ywonec, and who was destined to be the avenger of both his parents. He then hastily departed through an open and unguarded window. His mistress, uttering a piteous scream, threw herself out of the same window, and pursued his flight by the trace of his blood, which the first beams of morning enabled her to distinguish. At length she arrived at a thick wood, where she was soon surrounded with darkness; but pursued the beaten track, and emerged into a meadow, where, recovering the trace of blood, she pursued it to a large city of unexampled magnificence, which she entered, and proceeded to the palace. No one was visible in the streets. In the first apartment she found a knight asleep. She knew him not, and passed on to the next, where she found a second equally unknown to her. She entered the third room; and on a bed, which almost dazzled her by the splendour of its ornaments, and which was surrounded by numerous torches blazing in golden candlesticks, she recognised her dear Muldumaric, and sunk almost lifeless with fatigue and terror by his side. Though very near his last moments, he was still able to comfort and instruct her. He adjured her to return instantly, while she could escape the notice of his subjects, to whom, as their story was known, she would be particularly obnoxious. He gave her a ring, in virtue of which he assured her she would in future escape the persecution, and even the jealousy of her husband. He then put into her hands his sword, with directions that it should never be touched by man till his son was dubbed a knight; when it must be delivered to him with due solemnity, near the tomb of his father, at the moment he should learn the secret of his birth, and the miseries produced by it. She would then see the first use to which her boy would put it. The prince had nearly spent his last breath in the service of his beloved mistress; he could only instruct her by signs to put on a magnificent robe which lay near him, and hasten her departure. She staggered through the town, arrived in the solitary fields, heard the distant knell announce her lover's death, and sunk exhausted to the ground. At length the air revived her; she slowly renewed her journey, and returned to her castle, which, by virtue of her ring, she entered undisturbed. Till the birth of her son, and from that time to the conclusion of his education, she lived in silent anguish, and in patient expectation of the day of vengeance. The young Ywonec, by his beauty and address, recalled to her mind the loved image of his father; and at length she beheld him, with a throbbing heart, invested, amidst the applause of all the spectators, with the dignity of knighthood. The hour of retribution was now fast approaching. At the feast of St. Aaron, in the same year, the baron was summoned with his family to Caerleon, where the festival was held with great solemnity. In the course of their journey they stopped for the night in a spacious abbey, where they were received with the greatest hospitality. The good abbot, for the purpose of detaining his guests another day, exhibited to them the whole of the apartments, the dormitory, the refectory, and the chapter-house, in which they beheld a vast sepulchral monument, covered with a superb pall, fringed with gold, and surrounded by twenty waxen tapers in golden candlesticks, while a vast silver censer, constantly burning, filled the air with fumes of incense. The guests naturally inquired concerning the name and quality of the person who reposed in that splendid tomb; and were told it was the late king of that country; the best, the handsomest, the wisest, the most courteous and liberal of mankind; that he was treacherously slain at Caerwent, for his love to the lady of that castle; that since his death his subjects had respected his dying injunctions, and reserved the crown for a son, whose arrival they still expected with much anxiety. On hearing this story the lady cried aloud to Ywonec, "Fair son, thou hast heard how Providence hath conducted us hither. Here lies thy father whom this old man slew with felony. I now put into thy hands the sword of thy sire; I have kept it long enough." She then proceeded to tell him the sad adventure of his birth, and, having with much difficulty concluded the recital, fell dead on the tomb of her husband. Ywonec, almost frantic with grief and horror, instantly sacrificed his hoary stepfather to the manes of his parents, and having caused his mother to be interred with suitable honours, accepted from his subjects the crown they had reserved for the representative of a long line of royal ancestors.

FOOTNOTES:

[77] The subject of this romance appears to have been taken from the ecclesiastical history of Normandy. There is still remaining, near Rouen, the priory of the Lovers, which tradition reports to have been founded by the father on the very same spot where they perished, and on the tomb which contained them. M. de la Mere's Dissertation.

No. 8.--LAUSTIC.

The author tells us, this lay is called, in the Breton tongue, Laustic,[78] and in "right English," the Nihtegale (Nightingale). It is very well written, and contains many picturesque descriptions; in the district of St. Malos is the town of Bon, which derives its name from the goodness of two knights who formerly dwelt in it. One was married; the other was in love with his neighbour's wife, who returned his affection. The houses were so near, being only separated by a wall, that they could easily, from the windows of their respective bed chambers, interchange glances, talk without being overheard, and toss to each other little presents and symbols of attachment. For the purpose of enjoying this amusement, the lady, during the warm nights of spring and summer, used to rise, and throwing a mantle over her, repair to the window, and stay there till near the dawn of day. Her husband, much annoyed by this practice, roughly asked what was the object which so constantly allured her from her bed, and was told that it was the sweet voice of the Nightingale. Having heard this he set all his servants to work, spread on every twig of his hazels and chesnut trees a quantity of bird-lime, and set throughout the orchard so many traps and springs, that the nightingale was shortly caught. Immediately running to his wife, and twisting the bird's neck, he tossed it into her bosom so hastily that she was sprinkled with the blood; adding that her enemy was now dead, and she might in future sleep in quiet. The lady, who, it seems, was not fertile in expedients, submitted to the loss of her nightly conversations, and was contented with exculpating herself towards her lover by sending him the dead bird inclosed in a bag of white satin, on which she embroidered the history of its fate; and her gallant paramour caused his mistress's present to be inclosed in a golden box, richly studded with gems, which he constantly carried about his person.[79]

FOOTNOTES:

[78] Laustic is still a Nightingale in the Breton language, and l'eaustic is the French manner of speaking.

No. IX.--MILUN.[80]