THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS En los nidos de antaño No hay pájaros hogaño. -SPANISH PROVERB. EA, I am passed away, I think, from this; Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here, But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss, And witness ye, I go without a fear. Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see, As once I dreamed, the show of shield and crest, Gone southward to the fighting by the sea;— Yea, with me now all dreams are done, I ween, Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall; And all things swim-as when the charger stands Quivering between the knees, and East and West Are filled with flash of scarves and waving hands; There is no bird in any last year's nest! Is she a dream I left in Aquitaine ? My wife Giselle,-who never spoke a word, Although I knew her mouth was drawn with pain, Her eyelids hung with tears; and though I heard The strong sob shake her throat, and saw the cord Her necklace made about it ;-she that prest To watch me trotting till I reached the ford ;There is no bird in any last year's nest! Ah! I had hoped, God wot,-had longed that she Should watch me from the little-lit tourelle, Me, coming back again to her, Giselle; But how, my Masters, ye are wrapt in gloom! This Death will come, and whom he loves he cleaves Sheer through the steel and leather; hating whom He smites in shameful wise behind the greaves. 'Tis a fair time with Dennis and the Saints, And weary work to age, and want for rest, When harness groweth heavy, and one faints, With no bird left in any last year's nest! Give ye good hap, then, all. For me, I lie Broken in Christ's sweet hand, with whom shall rest To keep me living, now that I must die ;— PALOMYDES HIM best in all the dim Arthuriad, Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,--. The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad But, unloved ever, still must love the same, So I, who strove to You I may not earn, Methinks, am come unto so high a place, That though from hence I can but vainly yearn For that averted favour of your face, I shall not turn. No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide, To find the doubtful thing that fights with me, Towards the mountain tops I still shall ride, And cry your name in my extremity, As Palomyde, |