A LEGEND OF BRITTANY

Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,

Such dream as in a poet's soul might start,

Musing of old loves while the moon doth set:

Her hair was not more sunny than her heart,

Though like a natural golden coronet

It circled her dear head with careless art,

Mocking the sunshine, that would fain have lent

To its frank grace a richer ornament.

His loved one's eyes could poet ever speak,

So kind, so dewy, and so deep were hers,—

But, while he strives, the choicest phrase, too weak,

Their glad reflection in his spirit blurs;

As one may see a dream dissolve and break

Out of his grasp when he to tell it stirs,

Like that sad Dryad doomed no more to bless

The mortal who revealed her loveliness.

She dwelt forever in a region bright,

Peopled with living fancies of her own,

Where naught could come but visions of delight,

Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan:

A summer cloud thrilled through with rosy light,

Floating beneath the blue sky all alone,

Her spirit wandered by itself, and won

A golden edge from some unsetting sun.

The heart grows richer that its lot is poor,

God blesses want with larger sympathies,

Love enters gladliest at the humble door,

And makes the cot a palace with his eyes;

So Margaret's heart a softer beauty wore,

And grew in gentleness and patience wise,

For she was but a simple herdsman's child,

A lily chance-sown in the rugged wild.

There was no beauty of the wood or field

But she its fragrant bosom-secret knew,

Nor any but to her would freely yield

Some grace that in her soul took root and grew;

Nature to her shone as but now revealed,

All rosy-fresh with innocent morning dew,

And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyes

That left it full of sylvan memories.

Oh, what a face was hers to brighten light,

And give back sunshine with an added glow,

To wile each moment with a fresh delight,

And part of memory's best contentment grow!

Oh, how her voice, as with an inmate's right,

Into the strangest heart would welcome go,

And make it sweet, and ready to become

Of white and gracious thoughts the chosen home!

None looked upon her but he straightway thought

Of all the greenest depths of country cheer,

And into each one's heart was freshly brought

What was to him the sweetest time of year,

So was her every look and motion fraught

With out-of-door delights and forest lere;

Not the first violet on a woodland lea

Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she.

Is love learned only out of poets’ books?

Is there not somewhat in the dropping flood,

And in the nunneries of silent nooks,

And in the murmured longing of the wood,

That could make Margaret dream of lovelorn looks,

And stir a thrilling mystery in her blood

More trembly secret than Aurora's tear

Shed in the bosom of an eglatere?

Full many a sweet forewarning hath the mind,

Full many a whispering of vague desire,

Ere comes the nature destined to unbind

Its virgin zone, and all its deeps inspire,—

Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind

Wake all the green strings of the forest lyre,

Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose

Its warm voluptuous breast doth all unclose.

Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit,

Wildered and dark, despairingly alone;

Though many a shape of beauty wander near it,

And many a wild and half-remembered tone

Tremble from the divine abyss to cheer it,

Yet still it knows that there is only one

Before whom it can kneel and tribute bring.

At once a happy vassal and a king.

To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is,

To seek one nature that is always new,

Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss,

Whom we can bare our inmost beauty to,

Nor feel deserted afterwards,— for this

But with our destined co-mate we can do,—

Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope

Of the young soul with one mysterious hope.

So Margaret's heart grew brimming with the lore

Of love's enticing secrets; and although

She had found none to cast it down before,

Yet oft to Fancy's chapel she would go

To pay her vows — and count the rosary o'er

Of her love's promised graces:— haply so

Miranda's hope had pictured Ferdinand

Long ere the gaunt wave tossed him on the strand.

A new-made star that swims the lonely gloom,

Unwedded yet and longing for the sun,

Whose beams, the bride-gifts of the lavish groom,

Blithely to crown the virgin planet run,

Her being was, watching to see the bloom

Of love's fresh sunrise roofing one by one

Its clouds with gold, a triumph-arch to be

For him who came to hold her heart in fee.

Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt a knight

Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate,

Whose heart in secret fed upon the light

And dew of her ripe beauty, through the grate

Of his close vow catching what gleams he might

Of the free heaven, and cursing all too late

The cruel faith whose black walls hemmed him in

And turned life's crowning bliss to deadly sin.

For he had met her in the wood by chance,

And, having drunk her beauty's wildering spell,

His heart shook like the pennon of a lance

That quivers in a breeze's sudden swell,

And thenceforth, in a close-infolded trance,

From mistily golden deep to deep he fell;

Till earth did waver and fade far away

Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay.

A dark, proud man he was, whose half-blown youth

Had shed its blossoms even in opening,

Leaving a few that with more winning ruth

Trembling around grave manhood's stem might cling,

More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth,

Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring:

A twilight nature, braided light and gloom,

A youth half-smiling by an open tomb.

Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore

A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall;

Who saw him alway wished to know him more,

As if he were some fate's defiant thrall

And nursed a dreaded secret at his core;

Little he loved, but power the most of all,

And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew

By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto.

He had been noble, but some great deceit

Had turned his better instinct to a vice:

He strove to think the world was all a cheat,

That power and fame were cheap at any price,

That the sure way of being shortly great

Was even to play life's game with loaded dice,

Since he had tried the honest play and found

That vice and virtue differed but in sound.

Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him for a space

From his own thraldom; man could never be

A hypocrite when first such maiden grace

Smiled in upon his heart; the agony

Of wearing all day long a lying face

Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free,

Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood

And scorned the weakness of his demon-mood.

Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought,

Which would not let the common air come near,

Till from its dim enchantment it had caught

A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear

With sweetness more ethereal than aught

Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere

Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp

To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp.

Deep in the forest was a little dell

High overarchèd with the leafy sweep

Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell

A slender rill that sung itself to sleep,

Where its continuous toil had scooped a well

To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep

The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook

From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook.

The wooded hills sloped upward all around

With gradual rise, and made an even rim,

So that it seemed a mighty casque unbound

From some huge Titan's brow to lighten him,

Ages ago, and left upon the ground.

Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim,

Till after countless centuries it grew

Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew.

Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green,

Wound through the thickset trunks on every side,

And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen

A Gothic window in its blazing pride,

When the low sun, two arching elms between,

Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed

With lavish hues, would into splendor start,

Shaming the labored panes of richest art.

Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk,

Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name,

Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk

From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame

Made him forget that he was vowed a monk,

And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame:

Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain,

As if a star had burst within his brain.

Such power hath beauty and frank innocence:

A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless,

Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense

Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less,

And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence,

Thronged round his heart with many an old caress,

Melting the frost there into pearly dew

That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue.

She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread,

Her purity, like adamantine mail.

Did so encircle her; and yet her head

She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil,

Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread,

Then faded, and anon she stood all pale,

As snow o'er which a blush of northern light

Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white.

She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot,

Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies’ might,

And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot,

Until there grew a mist before her sight.

And where the present was she half forgot,

Borne backward through the realms of old delight,—

Then, starting up awake, she would have gone,

Yet almost wished it might not be alone.

How they went home together through the wood,

And how all life seemed focussed into one

Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood,

What need to tell? Fit language there is none

For the heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed

As in his boyish hope he would have done?

For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue

Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung.

But all things carry the heart's messages

And know it not, nor doth the heart well know,

But Nature hath her will; even as the bees,

Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro

With the fruit-quickening pollen;— hard if these

Found not some all unthought-of way to show

Their secret each to each; and so they did,

And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid.

Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is

That turns them miserly and cold as stone,

And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss

Which but in giving truly is their own;—

She had no dreams of barter, asked not his,

But gave hers freely as she would have thrown

A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth

Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth.

Her summer nature felt a need to bless,

And a like longing to be blest again;

So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness

Dropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain,

And his beneath drank in the bright caress

As thirstily as would a parched plain,

That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray

For ever, ever, falling far away.

How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite

With sunshine, like the shepherd's-clock at noon,

Closes its leaves around its warm delight;

Whate'er in life is harsh or out of tune

Is all shut out, no boding shade of blight

Can pierce the opiate ether of its swoon:

Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is,

But naught can be so wanton-blind as bliss.

All beauty and all life he was to her;

She questioned not his love, she only knew

That she loved him, and not a pulse could stir

In her whole frame but quivered through and through

With this glad thought, and was a minister

To do him fealty and service true,

Like golden ripples hasting to the land

To wreck their freight of sunshine on the strand.

O dewy dawn of love! that are

Hung high, like the cliff-swallow's perilous nest,

Most like to fall when fullest, and that jar

With every heavier billow! O unrest

Than balmiest deeps of quiet sweeter far!

How did ye triumph now in Margaret's breast,

Making it readier to shrink and start

Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's heart!

Here let us pause: oh, would the soul might ever

Achieve its immortality in youth,

When nothing yet hath damped its high endeavor

After the starry energy of truth!

Here let us pause, and for a moment sever

This gleam of sunshine from the sad unruth

That sometime comes to all, for it is good

To lengthen to the last a sunny mood.