Sir Evelynge: A Fragment

Doubt ye no more! there are those on high Who minister well to mortality; Angels of heaven and angels of earth, Some who have passed the death and the birth; Some who in heaven had rank and right When the night was day and the day was night, And they lighten the doubts, and lessen the cares And keep a count of the mourner's tears, With power to bless and with strength to save, Though it be at the brink of the lonely grave; And doubt ye not! in the world below For the givers of joy there are bringers of woe; Devils to tempt, as angels to aid, Whose joy is the sight of a soul betrayed; Spirits of ill, that have mightiest power Of the heart in its gay and unguarded hour; Or still if ye doubt-let the doubt be dumb, And the lips be locked ere the thought can come; Lest the soul be snared like a heedless thing, In the pride of its vain imagining, And ye die the dark death of Sir Evelynge! He came of a Lord, who crossed the sea With twice two hundred spears, When Normen left green Normandie For a fairer land than theirs; His mother taught him at her knee To read the book and pray; Alas! I wist that constantly His eyes would turn away. Small counsel took he of her love, Small comfort of her prayer; His mother is a saint above, She shall not see him there. Yet was he wise and learned well In a scholar's subtle lore; And yet at Oxenforde they tell How brave a name he bore; But his heart was full, and the books were dull, And he flung them aside with glee, For the heedless laughter of wassailers And the riotous revelrie. And ever the jest that he loved the best Was the jest of the tavern-board, And for worthless love of a wanton breast His goods and his gold he poured. It chanced he lay at the break of day At home, in the Eastern Chepe; His eyes were dull with the wassail bowl, But it seemed he might not sleep. Wearily gazed he upon the wall, Wearily on the floor; The rushes were stirred with a slow footfall, He looked to the opened door. Jesu Maria! what sight is there! A Lady surpassingly tall and fair! On her white forehead was the black hair braided, Above the black hair sat a blacker hood, Whose velvet folds fell sombrely, and shaded Her pale cheeks' sorrowful and solemn mood; She spake not, and she stirred not, and she breathed not, But eyed him earnestly still where she stood, And he wondered most at the glistering eye Gazing on him so steadfastly; For its gleam was the gleam of the planet's light Seen through the cypress at dead of night, Or the lurid glare of the furnace-light, Piercing and keen and clear: And over the orbs, like a bow drawn back, Was a double arch of the deepest black Spanning her forehead fair. . . .