Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/623

. 21, 1863.]

Suddenly!—since some one whispered How his friend was false and fair, And—but see, the thought has stung him, And, upspringing from his chair,

Down in heavy folds a curtain Draws he, thick and treacherous screen, O’er that window whence the stark oak With its dangling fruit was seen.

To the chamber of the Princess Takes he then his threatening way; Lords and pages, guards and menials Absent are this fatal day.

Through the woods and glens they’re chasing Savage wolf and antlered deer; Hunt and revel was his order, Though himself seeks other cheer.

No wood music more shall rouse him, Hound and horn have lost their tone,— Through the castle towers and courtyards, Lord and Lady move alone.

And his footsteps clang and echo Through the rooms and corridor,— As he leads her forth to look on Some one she has known before.

Loads her with his hand in gauntlet, (Not the glove of courtesy) While keen Words of scorn and anger Dagger-like between them fly.

Down the line of life-like trophies Where his dead sire’s arms are hung, Pointing each with rusted weapon Upwards where his banner swung.

And the Princess treads beside him, Startled, wondering, proud withal, Through his railing, through his charges, Scornfully retorting all;

Till they enter that dim chamber, Where Llewellyn sat alone:— Hark! was that the creak of armour Outside, through the wind’s low moan?

Towards the curtained window pointing, Spoke Llewellyn mockingly,— “Gentle lady, gentle lady. What would’st give thy love to see?”

Proud, defiant, past all patience, Answered she as mockingly,— “Wales and England and Llewellyn For my love I’d give the three.”

Hark! again the creak of armour Outside, through the wind’s low moan; Scarce the Princess’ troubled spirit Kept her from an answering groan.

From the window rolled the curtain Like a dragon to the floor, And the stark oak stood before her Dandling the great fruit it bore.

Bred in guilt, and nursed in pleasure, Hot with ease, but ripe with woe, There the great fruit on the stark oak Sways and gyrates to and fro,—

To and fro it sways and gyrates, Scorning blasts that make one reel; Sure that stem is tough as cordage, And that rind is strong as steel.

Starting eyes, arms upthrown wildly, A shriek, a fall, showed well she knew What was there, and whence was grafted, That fruit which to vengeance grew.

Cut it down, and at the tree-foot Hide it in a nameless hole;— If the core was once De Brâose, Heaven have mercy on his soul. C. H. W.

weeks ago I was travelling through Poland. I had made the journey from Berlin with some Polish ladies, dressed in what, I believe, would properly be described as half-mourning, the sort of dress that a widow might wear whose bereavement already sat lightly on her. Amongst other articles of attire, my friends wore pearl-grey gloves, which showed off with much precision the delicate smallness of their hands. On approaching Warsaw I saw that these gloves were removed, hidden in their reticules with a half-suppressed sigh, and replaced by sombre black gloves, which undoubtedly were not equally attractive. On my inquiring the cause of this change, I was told that it was not lawful to wear anything but black gloves in Warsaw, because “the government” had forbidden it. On inquiring further, I found that the government was not, as I supposed, the Russian one, but the secret conclave which rules Poland at the present hour, and has ruled it for the last year or more. The extent of their authority seemed to me revealed more clearly by this fact than by any other I had heard before, and during my short residence in Poland, I tried to make out as much as I could of the doings of this mysterious body. It was, of course, very little that I could learn. Such scraps, however, of information as I picked up on the subject may, perhaps, be interesting.

It so happened that in Berlin I had acquaintances, who probably were better informed about Poland, and had more communications with Polish patriots, than most of the inhabitants of that stolid, beer-drinking capital. My friends, in as far as Germans can sympathise with what they consider, rightly or wrongly, as an inferior race, were strongly in favour of the insurrection. Being Germans, of course they held the orthodox Teutonic doctrine, that it is the mission of the fatherland to improve the Sclavonic nations off the face of the globe, or, at any rate, of Western Europe. But, as between Poles and Russians, their sympathies went strongly with the former.

If I had listened to their advice I should, before starting on my journey to Poland, have