Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/105

 19, 1862.] Green vale that lay below,

Where thro’ wild banks of bush and brake

The river like a silver snake

Drew glistening coils,—and lo!

Just underneath him in the plain,

The cottage of Maid Avoraine.

With music in her ears, that crept

Into her blood and then outleapt

In joyful blushes bright,

Just at the threshold sat the maid,

Singing and spinning in the shade,

And in her eyes was light;

For like a gem she wore the fair

Forget-me-not in her yellow hair.

Whereat the knight rode on, grown less

Proud of the meanness of his dress,

Half doubtful, half in shame,—

Saying, “She honoured me of old,

But I am poorer twentyfold

And have a meaner name;

Perchance she will not know me now

Mine honours fall from off my brow.” 



But as he rode Maid Avoraine

Ran out to meet him on the plain,

Full of soft joys and fears;

Then, starting back, she looked in dread

On his mean dress and helmless head,

And her eyes filled with tears;

And shrinking from his kiss she gazed

Upon him, trembling and amazed.

Then Gawain thought, “She loves me not;”

Adding aloud, “Hast thou forgot

The man, no longer knight,

Whom thou didst swear to love?—Behold,

Stript of my sword and coat of gold,

In miserable plight,

I come unto thee seeking rest!”

She brightened, blushed, was on his breast.

Nay, Avoraine,” Sir Gawain cried,

And thrust her roughly from his side,

“Say, dost thou love me still?”

Ay.” “Art thou willing, sweet, to prove

That thou dost very truly love?”

“With God’s good help, I will;

Say, Gawain, say, what shall I do

To prove my maiden love is true?”

Sir Gawain hung the head awhile,

And gnawed his beard with crafty smile,

Then moodily he cried:

Two summer days beneath the sun

In page’s dress I’d have thee run

At my swift horse’s side,

Thro’ bush, thro’ brake, thro’ thorny woods,

And swimming over swollen floods.

The ladies of the court I leave

Are false and fair,—their smiles deceive

The foolish and the mad;

But I would have thee prove thyself

Above that lust of pomp or pelf

Which makes the proud dames glad.”

Maid Avoraine to the soul was stirred;

She blushed consent and spake no word.

Then, blushing in her page’s dress

For shame of her own loveliness,

Across the tangled plain,

O’er bush, thro’ briar, thro’ thorny woods,

And swimming over swollen floods,

Sped sweet Maid Avoraine,

Panting and falling in her speed,

Splashed by the hoofs of Gawain’s steed.

They rested in the silent night,

Then bounded on at morning light

O’er wood and field and flood;

The sharp thorns made her rich veins flow

Like wine that drops in cups of snow,

And her white limbs ran blood;

And evermore, with face like fire,

She blushed for shame of her attire.

Two summer days the mounted man

Rode dumbly, while the maiden ran

Panting behind his horse;

Thro’ thickest woods his way he took,

Thro’ many a deep and chilly brook,

And foamy water-course,

Two summer days; then on the plain

He halted with Maid Avoraine.

When at the cottage door they stopt,

Down at his feet the maiden dropt,

Worn with the weary race;

But Gawain leapt to earth in bliss,

And caught her to him with a kiss

That burned the tearful face,—

Saying aloud, “At last ’tis plain

Thou lovest me well, Maid Avoraine.

Yet, listen. From the court I fled,

Casting mine honours from my head,

The mail from off my breast,

I broke my sword, I broke my spear,

And, sore with doubt, I journeyed here

To put thee to the test,

And prove if utter love for me

Would vindicate thy low degree.

Truth dwells not in the court, nor love;

But, by yon stainless heaven above,

I swear that thou art true!

Thy beauty warms my blood like wine—

Lo, with this kiss I make thee mine!”

But the white maiden drew

Aside, and hid her face in woe,

And slowly murmured “Nay, not so.”

Dost thou not love me as before?”

Then she, “I love thee more and more

Because thou art unkind.”

Nay, by mine honour”—but she cried,

Swear not by that thou hast denied

With heart as weak as wind,

And touch me not, for thus I tear

The blue forget-me-not from my hair.

I am a woman lowly born,

A thing they trample on and scorn,

But Love is blind as sleep;

And had you truly deemed me dear,

And loved with holy love, you ne’er

Would hold my love so cheap,