Collected Poems Volume II Part 90

VII

THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN

'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn --Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host-- Heard and took part in its most eerie tale.

It was a bitter night, and master Ben, --His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still fired His deep and ageless eyes,--in the old oak-chair, Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe; A little sad, as often I found him now Remembering vanished faces. Yet the years Brought others round him. Wreaths of Heliochrise Gleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin, Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel.

Chapman and Browne, Herrick,--a name like thyme Crushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maid Milking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,-- These three came late, and sat in a little room Aside, supping together, on one great pie, Whereof both crust and coffin were prepared By master Herrick's receipt, and all washed down With mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben, John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof, Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden.

Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a sound Of iron that grated on the flags. A spade And pick came edging through the door.

"O, room!

Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford, And grey old s.e.xton Scarlet hobbled in.

He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots, --On my clean rushes!--brushed it from his cloak Of Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees, Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail, Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall, Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms, And called for ale.

"Come to the fire," said Lodge.

"Room for the wisest counsellor of kings, The kindly sage that puts us all to bed, And tucks us up beneath the gra.s.s-green quilt."

"Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben.

"Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare,"

Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup, While Ben said softly--"Pity you could not spare, You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden lads That I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn!"

Then, with a quiet smile he shook his head And turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden.

"Well, songs are good; but flesh and blood are better.

The grey old tomb of Horace glows for me Across the centuries, with one little fire Lit by a girl's light hand." Then, under breath, Yet with some pa.s.sion, he murmured this brief rhyme:--

I

_Dulce ridentem_, laughing through the ages, _Dulce loquentem_, O, fairer far to me, Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pages Floats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage.

II

_Dulce loquentem_,--we hear it and we know it.

_Dulce ridentem_,--so musical and low.

"Mightier than marble is my song!" Ah, did the poet Know why little Lalage was mightier even so?

III

_Dulce ridentem_,--through all the years that sever, Clear as o'er yon hawthorn hedge we heard her pa.s.sing by,-- _Lalagen amabo_,--a song may live for ever _Dulce loquentem_,--but Lalage must die.

"I'd like to learn that rhyme," the s.e.xton said.

"I've a fine memory too. You start me now, I'd keep it up all night with ancient ballads."

And then--a strange thing happened. I saw John Ford "With folded arms and melancholy hat"

(As in our Mermaid jest he still would sit) Watching old Scarlet like a man in trance.

The s.e.xton gulped his ale and smacked his lips, Then croaked again--"O, ay, there's work to spare, We fills 'em faster than the spades can dig,"

And, all at once, the lights burned low and blue.

Ford leaned right forward, with his grim black eyes Widening.

"Why, that's a marvellous ring!" he said, And pointed to the s.e.xton's gnarled old hand Spread on the black oak-table like the claw Of some great bird of prey. "A ruby worth The ransom of a queen!" The fire leapt up!

The s.e.xton stared at him; Then stretched his hand out, with its blue-black nails, Full in the light, a grim earth-coloured hand, But bare as it was born.

"There was a ring!

I could have sworn it! Red as blood!" cried Ford.

And Ben and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden All stared at him. For such a silent soul Was master Ford that, when he suddenly spake, It struck the rest as dumb as if the Sphinx Had opened its cold stone lips. He would sit mute Brooding, aloof, for hours, his cloak around him, A staff between his knees, as if prepared For a long journey, a lonely pilgrimage To some dark tomb; a strange and sorrowful soul, Yet not--as many thought him--harsh or hard, But of a most kind patience. Though he wrote In blood, they say, the blood came from his heart; And all the sufferings of this world he took To his own soul, and bade them pasture there: Till out of his compa.s.sion, he became A monument of bitterness. He rebelled; And so fell short of that celestial height Whereto the greatest only climb, who stand By Shakespeare, and accept the Eternal Law.

These find, in law, firm footing for the soul, The strength that binds the stars, and reins the sea, The base of being, the pillars of the world, The pledge of honour, the pure cord of love, The form of truth, the golden floors of heaven.

These men discern a height beyond all heights, A depth below all depths, and never an end Without a pang beyond it, and a hope; Without a heaven beyond it, and a h.e.l.l.

For these, despair is like a bubble p.r.i.c.ked, An old romance to make young lovers weep.

For these, the law becomes a fiery road, A Jacob's ladder through that vast abyss Lacking no rung from realm to loftier realm, Nor wanting one degree from dust to wings.

These, at the last, radiant with victory, Lay their strong hands upon the winged steeds And fiery chariots, and exult to hold, Themselves, the throbbing reins, whereby they steer The stormy splendours.

He, being less, rebelled, Cried out for unreined steeds, and unruled stars, An unprohibited ocean and a truth Untrue; and the equal thunder of the law Hurled him to night and chaos, who was born To shine upon the forehead of the day.

And yet--the voice of darkness and despair May speak for heaven where heaven would not be heard, May fight for heaven where heaven would not prevail, And the consummate splendour of that strife, Swallowing up all discords, all defeat, In one huge victory, harmonising all, Make Lucifer, at last, at one with G.o.d.

There,--on that All Souls' Eve, you might have thought A dead man spoke, to see how Drayton stared, And Drummond started.

"You saw no ruby ring,"

The old s.e.xton muttered sullenly. "If you did, The worse for me, by all accounts. The lights Burned low. You caught the firelight on my fist.

What was it like, this ring?"

"A band of gold, And a great ruby, heart-shaped, fit to burn Between the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of Las. Am I awake Or dreaming?"

"Well,--that makes the second time!

There's many have said they saw it, out of jest, To scare me. For the astrologer did say The third time I should die. Now, did you see it?

Most likely someone's told you that old tale!

You hadn't heard it, now?"

Ford shook his head.

"What tale?" said Ben.

"O, you could make a book About my life. I've talked with quick and dead, And neither ghost nor flesh can fright me now!

I wish it was a ring, so's I could catch him, And sell him; but I've never seen him yet.

A white witch told me, if I did, I'd go Clink, just like that, to heaven or t'other place, Whirled in a fiery chariot with ten steeds The way Elijah went. For I have seen So many mighty things that I must die Mightily.

Well,--I came, sirs, to my craft The day mine uncle Robert dug the grave For good Queen Katharine, she whose heart was broke By old King Harry, a very great while ago.

Maybe you've heard about my uncle, sirs?

He was far-famous for his grave-digging.

In depth, in speed, in neatness, he'd no match!

They've put a fine slab to his memory In Peterborough Cathedral--_Robert Scarlet, s.e.xton for half a century_, it says, _In Peterborough Cathedral, where he built The last sad habitation for two queens, And many hundreds of the common sort.

And now himself, who for so many built Eternal habitations, others have buried._ _Obiit anno aetatis, ninety-eight, July the second, fifteen ninety-four._ We should do well, sir, with a slab like that, Shouldn't we?" And the s.e.xton leered at Lodge.

"Not many boasts a finer slab than that.

There's many a king done worse. Ah, well, you see, He'd a fine record. Living to ninety-eight, He buried generations of the poor, A countless host, and thought no more of it Than digging potatoes. He'd a lofty mind That found no satisfaction in small deeds.

But from his burying of two queens he drew A lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third, It would indeed have crowned his old white hairs.

But he was famous, and he thought, perchance, A third were mere vain-glory. So he died.

I helped him with the second."

The old man leered To see the shaft go home.

Ben filled the stoup With ale. "So that," quoth he, "began the tale About this ruby ring?" "But who," said Lodge, "Who was the second queen?"

"A famous queen, And a great lover! When you hear her name, Your hearts will leap. Her beauty pa.s.sed the bounds Of modesty, men say, yet--she died young!

We buried her at midnight. There were few That knew it; for the high State Funeral Was held upon the morrow, Lammas morn.

Anon you shall hear why. A strange thing that,-- To see the mourners weeping round a hea.r.s.e That held a dummy coffin. Stranger still To see us lowering the true coffin down By torchlight, with some few of her true friends, In Peterborough Cathedral, all alone."

"Old as the world," said Ford. "It is the way Of princes. Their true tears and smiles are seen At dead of night, like ghosts raised from the grave!

And all the luxury of their brief, bright noon, Cloaks but a dummy throne, a mask of life; And, at the last, drapes a false catafalque, Holding a vacant urn, a mask of death.

But tell, tell on!"

The s.e.xton took a draught Of ale and smacked his lips.

"Mine uncle lived A mile or more from Peterborough, then.

And, past his cottage, in the dead of night, Her royal coach came creeping through the lanes, With scutcheons round it and no crowd to see, And heralds carrying torches in their hands, And none to admire, but him and me, and one, A pedlar-poet, who lodged with us that week And paid his lodging with a bunch of rhymes.

By these, he said, my uncle Robert's fame Should live, as in a picture, till the crack Of doom. My uncle thought that he should pay Four-pence beside; but, when the man declared The thought unworthy of these august events, My uncle was abashed.

And, truth to tell, The rhymes were mellow, though here and there he swerved From truth to make them so. Nor would he change 'June' to 'July' for all that we could say.

'I never said the month was June,' he cried, 'And if I did, Shakespeare hath jumped an age!

G.o.ds, will you hedge me round with thirty nights?

"June" rhymes with "moon"!' With that, he flung them down And strode away like Lucifer, and was gone, Before old Scarlet could approach again The matter of that four-pence.