Poem by Anne Bannerman

The Murcian Cavalier

'TWAS the Pentecost time of tournament
At the court of high Castile,
And the first, among the Spanish knights,
Was the prince of proud Seville.
And 'tis all to win Castile's fair Queen
That they meet to break the spear;
The last, to day, on the list of fight,
Are Seville's fam'd prince and a stranger knight,
The Murcian Cavalier.

But the trumpets scarce had sounded clear,
'Twas still but morning dawn,
When the Queen was far from gay Castile,
At the lone towers of Castellan.
The hours, till even, she spent in pray'r
At the Holy Virgin's feet,
And when the night's ungentle breeze
Blew hollow thro' the orange trees,
She stood to hear the torrent beat.

And to the courts of high Castile
She turn'd her eyes, and sigh'd!
Far, far remote were revelry,
And feast, and pomp, and pride.
Who is the fairest of that circle?
Who was there fair but one?
And she, upon a distant tow'r,
By her heart-pulse counts the pausing hour,
Untended and alone ....

"'Tis a horse's hoof from the tournament,
Dost hear the tramp on the plain?
'Ladie ! 'tis but the waterfall
On the rocks of Castellan!'
"Inez ! Inez ! thou hearest nought
But the tumbling waterfall!
My ear has caught the faintest sound;
When the winds on the waters were loud around,
And I heard them not at all."

'O Ladie, leave the battlement,
For the night is drawing near,
And the sighing of the forest trees
'Tis sorrowful to hear!'
"I would, Inez! 'twere sorrowful,
But it is nought to me!
I would that my crush'd heart had room
For these unpainful fears that come
From the rustling of a tree!"

The Queen bent down her death-like cheek
On the marble pillar-stone:
And she wav'd her hand to Inez,
That she would be alone.
Like a flame the moon was in the sky,
As thro' the mist it shone;
In the Tagus' wave, as in a glass,
Its face was red as burning brass,
Or the sun agoing down.

Whether it had been hope, or nought
But the water's overflow;
The sound had pass'd away, that came
From the deep dell below.
...The fairest face in Spain is wet
With the filling dews of air:
That heart, for which so many pine,
Is watching for a distant sign,
As if life were treasur'd there!

...'Tis the trampling now of horse's hoofs,
For the river wave is still,
That scarce beyond the forest's edge
Is gaining on the hill :...
"Yester-morn, said that Ladie,
I was Queen of high Castile:
But the hour is come that I must leave
These princely towers, a fugitive,
And a wanderer at will."

The Queen has left the battlement
Without a sigh or tear!
That horseman fleet, that kneels at her feet,
Is the Murcian Cavalier:
But to his vows of love and truth
She spoke not once again;
For her heart was swelling in her breast,
With grief subdu'd and fear supprest,
As it would rend in twain.

They have journey'd on by day, by night,
Till, behind them many a mile,
They left the wand'ring Tagus' course,
And the plains of fair Castile:
...Soft and cool the eventide fell
On the heats of the high day-noon;
The fiery sun's descending blaze
Had cover'd, with a purple haze,
The woods of dark Leon.

These woods, so deep, so lone, and wild,
The Queen survey'd, and sigh'd!
She turn'd to catch a distant gleam
Of the Douro's yellow tide:
With intermingling tops, the trees
An awful cov'ring made:
And then that sky, of dusky red,
The dead of night had been less dread
Than that uncertain shade.

Far to the westward she had seen
The winding Douro part;
And she paus'd, amid that solitude,
To still her throbbing heart!
The Murcian Knight was by her side,
But he spoke not now at all...
Her anxious thoughts he seem'd to guess,
And, with mute and mournful steadiness,
He watch'd the dim night-fall.

It came! among these forests deep,
As the darkest midnight gloom!
It came !...and nature seem'd to be
But one unfathom'd tomb!
Many a rugged, trackless path,
Amid that gloom, they pass'd,
Till, close above a tree decay'd,
A turret threw its spiral shade,
Dim, desolate, and vast!

Between and the open'd gleam, was plain
That lonely castle's height.
The Queen's quick eye was traversing
The home of the Murcian Knight.
All silently she gave her hand,
To mount the marble stair;
A massy door he open'd wide,
But the lofty halls, on either side,
Were tenantless and bare!

Save the dull echoes of their feet,
All other sounds were dumb!
And she felt the hand that grasped hers
Was stiff, and damp, and numb!
A strange and nameless terror ran
Along her shiv'ring brain;
Something like this her heart had known,
When, alas! she heard no voice but one,
At the towers of Castellan.

They paus'd! where, from an inner hall,
A lamp was burning bright!
It stream'd, with full and steady glare,
On the face of the Murcian Knight.
O'er ev'ry feature clear she saw
Unearthly beauty wave!
The purest white, the softest red,
The eye alone was glaz'd and dead,
As the sleeper's in the grave!

Around and round her gaz'd the Queen,
By the lamp's unshaken light;
On the roof, like a spirit's swathed form,
Was the shadow of the Knight.
On that thin shape her eyes were fix'd,
That she could not turn again,
When it rais'd, with faint, unsteady strength,
One stiffen'd arm's unmeasur'd length,
As it had mov'd in pain.

Then with a crash, that ran along,
Till it rock'd beneath her tread,
That arm fell down upon the stone,
And her stunned senses fled!
...The morning sun, with ruby tinge,
O'er the woods began to peer,
When the Queen was at the window tow'r;
But no more was seen, from that dread hour,
The Murcian Cavalier!

And still, upon the battlement,
She walks at shut of even:
Her face is pale, her air is wild,
And her looks are towards heaven!
And ever, when a deeper shade
Hangs on these forests rude;
The Spanish shepherd girls will tell
How they hear, far off, in a distant dell,
The Ladie of the Wood!

1. The Fisherman of Lapland
2. The Perjured Nun
3. The Penitent's Confession
4. Prologue
5. The Festival of St. Magnus the Martyr

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