Sir Hugh the Palmer

    I

    He kneeled among a waste of sands
        Before the Mother-Maid,
    But on the far green forest-lands
        His steadfast eyes were stayed,
    And like a knight of stone his hands
        He straightened while he prayed.

    "Lady, beyond all women fair,
        Beyond all saints benign,
    Whose living heart through life I bear
        In mystery divine,
    Hear thou and grant me this my prayer,
        Or grant no prayer of mine.

    "The fever of my spirit's pain
        Heal thou with heavenly scorn;
    The dust that but of dust is fain
        Leave thou in dust forlorn;
    Yea! bury love to rise again
        Meet for eternal morn.

    "So by thy grace my inward eyes
        Thy beauty still shall see,
    And while our life in shadow lies
        High dawn shall image thee,
    Till with thy soul in Paradise
        Thy servant's soul shall be."

    Before the immortal Mother-Maid
        Low on the sands he kneeled;
    But even while the words he prayed
        His lips to patience sealed,
    Joy in his eyes a radiance made
        Like stars in dusk revealed.


    II

    It was an idle company--
        Ladies and lordings fine--
    Idly under the wild-wood tree
        Their laughter ran like wine.
    Yet as they laughed a voice they heard--
        A voice where none was seen,--
    Singing blithe as a hidden bird
        Among the forest green.

    "Mark ye, mark ye, a lonely knight
        Riding the green forest:
    Pardì! for one so poorly dight
        He lifts a haughty crest!

    Azure and white is all his wear,
        He hath no gold, I trow!
    Wanderer, thou in the wild-wood there,
        Tell us why sing ye so!"

    "Noble ladies and lordings gay,
        God have you all in guard:
    Since ye are pleased with me to play,
        My riddle it is not hard.
    I sing because, of all that ride,
        I am the least of worth:
    I sing because, to match my pride,
        Never was pride on earth.

    "But, an ye ask what that may mean,
        Thus do I answer then:
    I bear with me the heart of a Queen--
        I that am least of men:--
    I bear her heart till the end of all,
        Yea! by her own command
    I bear the heart of a Queen royal
        Unto the Holy Land."

    Humbly there his crest he bent,--
        Azure it waved and white,--
    Haughtily there he turned and went
        Singing, out of their sight.
    Long, long but his voice they heard,--
        A voice where none was seen,--
    Singing blithe as a hidden bird,
        Among the forest green.

Henry John Newbolt

Sir Henry John Newbolt was an English poet and author, famous for his ballads such as 'Vitaï Lampada'. He graduated from Oxford and was called to the bar, but he is better remembered for his literary contributions than his legal career. Newbolt served as a government advisor on military and naval literature during World War I. He was knighted in 1915 for his services to literature. Newbolt's work often reflected themes of patriotism and duty.

Henry John Newbolt

Sacramentum Supremum

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

In July

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Fond Counsel

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The Viking's Song

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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The Harp Of Hoel.[1]

    It was a high and holy sight,
    When Baldwin^[2] and his train,
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William Lisle Bowles

The Flower Of Wensleydale

She leaned o'er her latticed casement,
    The Flower of Wensleydale;
'Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,
    Through the mist the stars burnt pale.

In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,
    Plucked in her garden at noon;
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    The spell of a mystic rune.

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    To whom should fall the prize.

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    At each stroke of the midnight hour;
Then should the knight of her father's choice
Obey the summons of her voice,
    And appear 'neath her oriel'd bowwer.

To the holy virgin-martyr
    She lifted her hands in prayer;
Then she watched the rooks that perched asleep

Frederic William Moorman

The Outlaw

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen:
And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.'

'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down:
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed
As blithe as Queen of May.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
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I'd rather rove with E...

Walter Scott

The Cicalas: An Idyll

Scene: AN ENGLISH GARDEN BY STARLIGHT

Persons: A LADY AND A POET


    THE POET

    Dimly I see your face: I hear your breath
    Sigh faintly, as a flower might sigh in death
    And when you whisper, you but stir the air
    With a soft hush like summer's own despair.


    THE LADY (aloud)

    O Night divine, O Darkness ever blest,
    Give to our old sad Earth eternal rest.
    Since from her heart all beauty ebbs away,
    Let her no more endure the shame of day.


    THE POET

    A thousand ages have not made less bright
    The stars that in this fountain shine to-night:
    Your eyes in shadow still betray the gleam
    That every son of man desires in dream.


 ...

Henry John Newbolt

The Troubadour

A troubadour he played
Without a castle wall,
Within, a hapless maid
Responded to his call.

"Oh, willow, woe is me!
Alack and well-a-day!
If I were only free
I'd hie me far away!"

Unknown her face and name,
But this he knew right well,
The maiden's wailing came
From out a dungeon cell.

A hapless woman lay
Within that dungeon grim
That fact, I've heard him say.
Was quite enough for him.

"I will not sit or lie,
Or eat or drink, I vow.
Till thou art free as I,
Or I as pent as thou."

Her tears then ceased to flow,
Her wails no longer rang,
And tuneful in her woe
The prisoned maiden sang:

"Oh, stranger, as you play
I recognize your touch;
And all that I can say
Is, thank you ...

William Schwenck Gilbert