Excerpt
SANPEUR.
The great King Constantine is at the hunt;The brilliant cavalcade of knights and dames,On palfreys and on chargers trapped in goldAnd silver and red purple, ride in mirthAlong the winding way, by hill and tarnAnd violet-sprinkled dell. Impatient houndsSniff the keen morning air, and startled birdsRustle the foliage redolent with spring.
From time to time some courtier reins his steedBeside the love-enkindling Gwendolaine,Whose wayward moods do vary as the winds,—Now wooing with her soft, seductive grace;Now fascinating with her stately pride;Anon, bewitching by her recklessnessOf wilful daring in some wild capriceWhich no one could anticipate or stay.How fair she is to-day! How beautiful!Her hunting-robe is bluer than the sky,—Matching one phase of her great, changeful eyes,—Clasped with twin falcons of unburnished gold,The colour of her brown hair in the sun.The white plumes, drooping from her hunting-cap,Leave her alluring lips in tempting sight,But hide the growing shadow in her eyes.For she marks none of all the court to-daySave Sir Sanpeur, the passing noble knightWhose bearing doth bespeak heroic deeds,There where he rides with the sweet maid Ettonne.
Sir Torm, the husband of fair Gwendolaine,Is all unconscious of aught else besideThe outward seeming, 'tis enough for himThat she is gay and beautiful, and smiles.He has a nature small and limitedBy sight, and sense, and self, and his desires;A heart as open as the day to allThat touches his quick impulse, when it costsHim naught of sacrifice. The needy poorFlock to his castle for the careless giftOf falling dole, but his esquire is faintFrom his exacting service, night and dayHis Lady Gwendolaine is satiateWith costly gems, palfreys, and samite thickWith threads of gold and silver, but the sweetHeart subtleties and fair observancesAre lost in the of course of married life.He sees, too quickly, does she fail to smile,But never sees the shadow in her eyesHis hounds are beaten till they scarce draw breath,And then caressed beyond the worth of hounds.His vassals know not if, from day to day,He will approve, or strike them with a curse.His humours are the byword of the court,And, were it not for his good-heartedness,His prowess, and undaunted strength at arms,Men would speak lightly of him in disdain;He is so often in a stormy rage,Or supplicating humour to atone,—Too petty to repent in very truth,Too light and yielding in repentance, whenHis temper's force is spent, for dignityOf truest knighthood. No one feels his faultsSo quickly, with such flushing of regretAnd shame, as Gwendolaine. But she is wife,His honour is her own, and she would hideFrom all the world, and even from herself,His pettiness and narrowness of soul.So she forgets, or doth pretend forget,Where he has failed, save when he passes bounds;Then her swift scorn—a piercing force he dreads—Flashes upon him like a probing lance,To silence merriment if it be coarse,To hush his wrath when it is violent....