Wyndham Towers | Page 5

bloom.
So unto him
Griselda's grace unclosed. Where lagged his wit
That
guessed not of the bud that slept in stem,
Nor hint had of the flower
within the bud?
If so much beauty had a tiger been,
'T had eaten
him! In all the wave-washed length
Of rocky Devon where was found
her like
For excellence of wedded red and white?
Here on that
smooth and sunny field, her cheek,
The hostile hues of Lancaster and
York
Did meet, and, blending, make a heavenly truce,
This were
indeed a rose a king might wear
Upon his bosom. By St. Dunstan,
now,
Himself would wear it. Then by seeming chance
Crossed he
her walks, and stayed her with discourse
Devised adroitly; spoke of
common things
At first--of days when his good mother lived,
If 't
were to live, to pass long dolorous hours
Before his father's effigy in
church;
Of one who then used often come to hall,
Ever at Yule-tide,
when the great log flamed
In chimney-place, and laugh and jest went
round,
And maidens strayed beneath the mistletoe,
Making believe
not see it, so got kissed--
Of one that joined not in the morrice-dance,

But in her sea-green kirtle stood at gaze,
A timid little creature that
was scared
By dead men's armor. Nought there suffered change,

Those empty shells of valor grew not old,
Though something rusty.
Would they fright her now
Looked she upon them? Held she in her
mind--
'T was Spring and loud the mavis piped outside--
The day
the Turkish helmet slipped from peg,
And clashing on the floor,
congealed her blood

And sent both hands to terror-smitten eyes,

She trembling, ready to yield up the ghost?
Right merry was it!
Finally he touched
On matters nearer, things she had foreboded

And this one time must needs lend hearing to,
And end so sorry
business ere woe came,
Like a true maid and honest, as she was.
So,
tutoring the tremble on her lip
And holding back hot tears, she gave
reply
With such discretion as straight tied his tongue,
Albeit he

lacked not boldness in discourse:
"Indeed, indeed, sir, you speak but in jest!
Lightly, not meaning it, in
courtier-way.
I have heard said that ladies at the Court--
I judge
them not!--have most forgiving ears,
And list right willingly to idle
words,
Listen and smile and never stain a cheek.
Yet not such
words your father's son should use
With me, my father's daughter.
You forget
What should most precious be to memory's heart,
Love
that dared death; and so, farewell." Farewell
It was in sooth; for after
that one time,
Though he had fain with passion-breathed vows

Besieged that marble citadel her breast,
He got no speech of her: she
chose her walks;
Let only moon and star look on the face
That
could well risk the candor of the sun;
Ran not to lattice at each sound
of hoof;
By stream or hedge-row plucked no pansies more,

Mistrusting Proserpina's cruel fate,
Herself up-gathered in Sicilian
fields;
At chapel--for one needs to chapel go
A-Sunday--glanced
not either right or left,
But with black eyelash wedded to white cheek

Knelt there impassive, like the marble girl
That at the foot-end of
his father's tomb,
Inside the chancel where the Wyndhams lay,

Through the long years her icy vigil kept.
As leaves turn into flame at the frost's touch,
So Richard's heart on
coldness fed its fire,
And burned with surfeit of indifference.
All
flavor and complexion of content
Went out of life; what served once
served no more.
His hound and falcon ceased to pleasure him;
He
read--some musty folios there were
On shelf--but even in brave
Froissart's page,
Where, God knows, there be wounds enough, no
herb
Nor potion found he to purge sadness with.
The gray dust
gathered on the leaf unturned,
And then the spider drew his thread
across.
Certain bright coins that he was used to count

With thrill at
fingers' ends uncounted lay,
Suddenly worthless, like the conjurer's
gold
That midst the jeers and laughter of the crowd
Turns into ashes
in the rustic's hand.
Soft idleness itself bore now a thorn


Two-pronged with meditation and desire.
The cold Griselda that
would none of him!
The fair Griselda! Not alone by day,
With this
most solid earth beneath his feet,
But in the weird and unsubstantial
sphere
Of slumber did her beauty hold him thrall.
Herself of late he
saw not; 't was a wraith
He worshipped, a vain shadow. Thus he
pined
From dawn to dusk, and then from dusk to dawn,
Of that
miraculous infection caught
From any-colored eyes, so they be sweet.

Strange that a man should let a maid's slim foot
Stamp on his
happiness and quench it quite!
With what snail-pace the traitor time creeps by
When one is out with
fortune and undone!
how tauntingly upon the dial's plate
The
shadow's finger points the dismal hour!
Thus Wyndham, with hands
clasped behind his back,
Watching the languid and reluctant sun

Fade from the metal disk beside the door.
The hours hung heavy up
there on the hill,
Where life was little various at best
And
merriment had long since ta'en its flight.
Sometimes he sat and
conned the flying clouds
Till on dusk's bosom nestled her one star,

And spoke no word, nor seemed alive at all,
But a mere shape and
counterfeit of life;
Or, urged by some swift hunger for green boughs,

Would bid