Sir James Stanfield

Sir James has to the greenwood gone, And he has gone alone; Sir James will walk the live-long day, And tell his mind to none.

He has not ta’en his dappled steed, Nor yet his spotted hound; But wildly, with his grey head bare, He treads the dewy ground.

Now books and board have ceased to charm, He walks like one deranged, Or troubled ghost, at dead of night, From earth and Heaven estranged.

The kimmer sat behind the thorn, Bleaching her linens clean, When she beheld a leal old man, Come pacing o’er the green.

“O woes me! on my wicked son,” She heard the old man say; “O woes me! on my wicked son, “That kills me day by day.

“He spends his days in folly’s haunts, “His nights in courts obscene; “And, oh! ere life’s meridian day, “A begging he’ll be seen.

“O woes me! on my lady proud, “She’s leagured with my son; “They wish my head in a clay-cold bed— “I feel their curse begun.

“O woman’s love is light and vain, “It’s easy aye to bear; “It blossoms like the flower in June, “To fade at the fall o’ the year.

“Time was, with heart elate with joy, “Cheer’d by my sov’reign’s smile, “When self-applause and honour’s meed “Did all my cares beguile;

“But as some pine, that braves the storm “And rears on high its head, “Of all its vernal worth is shorn “By reptiles which it fed:

“So by the inmates of my house “I’m wearied and undone; “My wife’s unfaithful to my bed, “I’m hated by my son.

“His crimes, conspicuous as yon orb, “Are blazing far abroad, “Denouncing wrath, he strikes the priest “Even in the house of God.

“He curses church—he curses king— “His curses fall on me! “But, Heaven! hear a father’s prayer; “For vengeance dwells with thee!”

The kimmer sobb’d,—then straight arose To comfort the lorn knight; She loosed her loud loquacious tongue, But he was out of sight.

“O leeze me on this warld’s care, “’Tis true as tongue can tell, “The great anes o’ the earth,” quo’ she, “They just are like oursel.

“O whither has the auld man gane? “I trow he’s no himsel’; “And much I dread he’s ta’en the road “Down bie the haunted well!

“From yonder bush a voice of wo “Comes mournful on the breeze, “The accents, as they meet my ear, “My very soul doth freeze.”

‘O spare a father’s life!’ it says, ‘Avert the fatal blow; ‘O let these hoary hairs repose ‘Till time shall lay them low!’

As springs a tiger from the brake, Two ruffians fiercely sprung, And with a ’kerchief close comprest, Soon gagg’d the old man’s tongue.

They tied his throat with hempen cord, Then foot and arm they wheel, Till crash’d his windpipe like the ice Beneath the courser’s heel.

The kimmer thrice assay’d to speak; She thrice assay’d to fly; But kimmer’s blood forsook her heart, Her palsied veins ran dry.

Sunk, motionless, upon the turf, She lay like marble stone; A mortal image but remain’d, With all sensation gone.

Sir James comes not at breakfast hour, He does not come to dine; For him they search both house and bower Upon the verdant Tyne.

There is a gloom on every face, And every heart is sore; There is a sadness on the earth, And rural mirth is o’er.

Now all is silent in the hall, Where all was noise before; The menials tremble as they list Each grating, opening door.

The lady to her chamber hied, And made her silent moan, And wonder’d much within herself Where her true knight had gone.

Her heart swell’d big with dread remorse; Her brain boil’d as with fire; And much she mourn’d that she took part With son against his sire.

“O wo betide the cruel youth! “And leman’s treach’rous smile, “That e’er seduced my foolish heart “To work my husband guile.”

She laid her head on pillow soft, But, ah! ’twas not to sleep; She paced her chamber o’er and o’er, And waken’d but to weep;

For when those aching eyes were closed, Unused to the salt tear, As oft the lady, starting, thought Tyne gurgled in her ear.

Why does the house-dog bay so loud? He’s growl’d since depth of noon, And now he hunts his own foot-sound, And shadow by the moon.

Why does the howlet whoop so bold At the lone hour of night? Why dances on the river’s marge The meteor’s blue dead-light?

Why do the grating hinges crash, The windows rise and fall? And that unearthly melody Come sighing from the hall?

Alas! ’tis wayward phantasy That’s working in the brain; For silent is that mansion now As death’s most drear domain.

When the cock clapp’d his speckled wing, And day began to shine, O there were nought but drowsy eyes Upon the banks of Tyne!

The woods and glens were peopled o’er With matron, youth, and maid, Who search’d from Linton’s rocky linn To Morham’s mossy shade.

Sir James’s steed stands by the pool, It thirsts—but will not drink; Nor bridle rein, nor gentle hand, Will urge him by the brink.

’Tis merry in the greenwood now, The bugles sound afar, The trees upwave their dark-green locks Above the sylvan war.

The beagles plunge into the pool, The horses shake their manes,— A corpse is dragg’d towards the shore, O God!—it is Sir James!

O why does vengeance sleep in Heaven! Or does it only fall On guiltless heads, that daring crime Still rules this earthly ball?

Or does it smoulder but to strike, Like Etna’s bowels to burst, And with a tenfold vengeance hurl Her bolts on the accurst?