Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TROUBADOUR: THE HARPER'S STORY: 1. TRAGEDY MARGAIDA AND TROUBADOUR, by DORA SIGERSON SHORTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TROUBADOUR: THE HARPER'S STORY: 1. TRAGEDY MARGAIDA AND TROUBADOUR, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Sweet margarida, dreaming in her bower
Last Line: The hound's sleek head that on his knee did rest.
Alternate Author Name(s): Sigerson, Dora; Shorter, Mrs. Clement
Subject(s): Grief; Man-woman Relationships; Tragedy; Youth; Sorrow; Sadness; Male-female Relations


The Pitiful Tragedy of Margarida and the Troubadour

SWEET Margarida, dreaming in her bower
Through lonely days, lamented each long hour
That thrust her forth from her dream paradise
Of youthful years, that knew but summer skies.

'Alack!' quoth she, 'is love then but a theme
For maiden lips, and constancy a dream?
Here lone I sit who once Rossillon wooed.
Me, like some speeding doe, he fierce pursued.
And as swift hawks his wingèd words so came
That all my young reluctance soon was slain
And we were wed. No longer cheek to cheek,
Or heart to heart, he strives to make me speak
Those words of love that once so precious were.
He dreams me his, and so he hath no care.

Now goes he to the chase with hawk and hound,
To slay some beast that had not such a wound
As I have here.' On Margarida's breast
Her slender palm with outspread fingers pressed.

Then rapped her shoe upon the mossy ground,
The shoe that once with its silk latchets bound,
Full oft some heart so seeking thus to die,
Upon her pretty path was glad to lie.

She raised her hand,—oft had some knight in state
Rode for its pleasure to her father's gate—
There neath her tears hung loose her marriage ring.
She felt, once more, her lord's rough fingers cling
In their fierce joy to press the bauble there
That pledged her his. And sudden came aware
Of watching eyes. She checked the soothing tear
And bade th' intruding stranger draw him near.
Sharp on her tongue scorn's bitter arrows pressed
To pierce this rude intruder's curious breast.

But when she saw no laughter in that eye,
And his breast heave with many a piteous sigh
For her sad plight, her tears broke forth anew,
For here was one who guessed her sorrow too.
And since for her a cheek so pale he bore,
She felt her wrongs more bitter than before.
So wept she for herself, and he for her,
Till in that bower of rose and lavender,
A little storm did grow in sudden way,
With gentle moans, 'Ah me,' and 'Well-a-day.'
Their windy grief blew forth in gusty sighs,
And bitter tears rained from their downcast eyes.

Now, hear, ye gallants, who this love deride,
And find a moral ere you pause to chide.
Or if no lesson from this tale you seek,
Let Margarida's tragic story speak
Of one who left his treasure house unbarred,
And its most precious gem without a guard.

Oh, hearken then, to have is not to hold,
As ye will learn who hear my tale unfold.

Now, their strong sighing woke from his repose
A sleeping cupid cradled in a rose.

The wicked boy, attracted by their sighs,
Stole from his covert to attain his prize.
And while Rossillon hunted on the hill,
Within his home Dan Cupid worked his will.
That tender home a woman's faithful heart,
Whose chainéd portals here were burst apart.
Its sacred chambers he did penetrate,
Where once he went before in holy state.
'Alack,' quoth he, 'thieves entered me before,
A husband's love were lock upon this door.
But since 'tis wide, and hath no guardian here,
Grief comes unchidden, and the constant tear,
I do not love this sorrow in my place,
And with my bow I shall the shade efface.
Sweet mother, speed my arrow on its quest,
To pierce this chaste and most neglected breast;
So Margarida's heart doth not pursue
Her careless lord, while others stay to woo.'
Swift to its mark the reckless arrow sped;
More wild the tears the wounded mortals shed.
But Margarida, as a woman will,
Though tempest tossed, did hold possession still
Of all her senses, so that while she seemed
Blind in her grief, she also sat and dreamed
Of this strange youth, his modesty, his grace,
The tender beauty of his gentle face.
In truth she loved, and loving 'gan to find
This youth's shy looks more pleasing to her mind
Than were Rossillon's bold and savage ways.

And with her lord's downfall there came the praise
Of this sad boy, who was so passing fair.
So will the absent lover ill compare
With him, who by his lady's side will bide
To swear no joy could tempt him from her side.

While Margarida wept with sore heart-break,
The pitying stranger stood afraid to speak,
Till Cupid grew impatient at the sight,
And set their foolish tremors all to flight.
Amid the leaves he fluted like some bird
Who seeks his mate and sings, all passion stirred.
Then did the youth its tender message know,
And from his heart let its sweet rapture flow.
All that he dare not say he told in song,
Nor did his lady find the tale too long.
And when he ceased, she bade him draw anear,
Boldly to speak, and put aside his fear.

'Say what thou wilt, O voice of golden thrill,
To her whose tears are handmaid to thy will.'

'O gracious one,' the kneeling youth replied—
Then spoke his heart, nor would it be denied—
'Sweet eyes, sweet lips, sweet lady all so sweet,
Behold thy slave in torment at thy feet.
He must not love, yet loves thee all too well.
Here let him die who dares this tale to tell.
Oh, bring those tears, sweet tears that bade him spake,
To his lone grave some recompense to make
For all he lost in losing thy fair face.
Nor could high Heav'n this happiness replace.'

Thus having said, the youth in silence knelt,
His brow on hand, awaiting banishment.
Then came her voice sweet as an altar bell,
'I, too, could love'—a moment's stillness fell—
'So sweet a song. Hast thou then tuned this tale
From some bright lark or some sweet nightingale?'

'Nay, lady,' said the youth, 'my master dear
Is love himself, who tuned to please thine ear
My very heart, so that its chords will break
Should my bold words thy righteous anger wake.'

Then down he fell, low at her feet again,
As might her spaniel meriting disdain.
But her soft voice spoke comfort, saying slow,
'Thy words, like little bees that singing go
From some fair flower safe to the distant hive,
Bear honey to my heart, and sweet arrive
To fill the empty place, by hope forgot.
Rise, then, dear youth, and fear remember not.
Sing, golden voice that doth my heart content,
And change this world of tears to merriment.'

'Here at thy feet,' the kneeling youth replied,
'I consecrate my song, so far and wide.

It sings thy praise, O peerless one and dear,
That all for love of thee must pause and hear.
Heart of my song must be thy secret name.
I shall be great, who here so lowly came,
The humble servant at Rossillon's call:
Once did I stand to tend him in the hall,
To bear his weapons, and to hold his steed,
Robe him for state. Oh, slave were I indeed.
Thou raiseth me, so I supreme attained
Love's very throne, where once Rossillon reigned.'

Thus did they twitter, till from their day doze
The shadow children of the night arose,
Swift to elude her call they silent played,
And through the garden arbours peeping strayed.
Here 'mongst the leaves of dainty columbine
A little shadow crept to close entwine
With the long cypress shade. There on the grass,
From some rose-wreathed chain, her sisters pass,
Hand linked in hand, all tremulous to dance,
Till the nocturnal hours, in swift advance,
Rebuke their playing and their aid invite
To spread the spangled canopy of night.

While in the bower the lovers whispered still,
A bugle sounded from some distant hill.
And Margarida, with a sudden cry,
Sprang to her feet, 'Oh, hush, my lord is nigh.
Quick, get thee gone.' Her cheek grew cold and pale,
That had been happy rose with love's sweet tale.

'Must we then part?' Fear came on Guillem's brow.
'O Margarida, hast thou heard enough
Of my heart's story? 'Tis first love and young,
Has it then spoken with a faltering tongue?'
Then Margarida raised and softly pressed
His clinging hand upon her panting breast,
With 'Come again, sweet love, for I have heard
But half thy tale. So be the joy deferred
Of hearing all, in some not distant hour
Again to meet in this most lovely bower.'
So did she go in haste to meet her lord.
But Guillem stayed to kiss the velvet sward,
Where her small feet had passed in their swift flight.

And when, within the banquet-hall that night,
He stood behind Rossillon's chair, to fill
His cup with wine, he felt his pulses thrill
With tender joy, as though he were betroth
In secret now, so that his master's wrath,
Ta'en from the hunting-field of teasing spear,
Of lagging steed, and swift out-racing deer,
Thrust for his hurt on love's safe shield in vain;
Save Margarida, none could cause him pain.

And Margarida, never did there seem
So sweet a thing to make a poet's dream.
Her shining hair, her rich embroidered dress,
Made him a picture of fair loveliness.
'What likened she,' besought the love-sick boy,
'A golden vessel overful of joy,
A cagèd bird that now had learned to sing,
A drooping flower uplifted by the spring?
Ah, no, too sweet, and all beyond compare,
She Margarida was, and had no share
In earthly beauty, but a thing apart,
The dream-ideal of a poet's heart.'

Now, had Rossillon's thoughts but travelled home,
Which yet about the distant deer did roam,
To find excuse that still the beast had breath,
Which Count Rossillon's spear had pledged to death,
He else had seen his lady's eyes too bright
For his home-coming, and their secret light
Flash by him till it found a resting-place,
And fell abashed from Guillem's glowing face.
Her cheek too red, beneath his careless kiss,
Her laugh too quick, and all her wifely bliss
Too new, too sudden, from their wedded years,
That else were spent in pettiness and tears.
And he had seen the tender face, so young,
Pale from its bloom; and heard the rippling tongue
To faltering silence go, soon, when he bade
The youth retire. Had his fierce gaze once strayed
To Margarida's eyes, he sure had seen
How quenched the glow where once the flame had been,
As though young Guillem, in his passing, stole
The lamp that lit the windows of her soul.
But Count Rossillon, weary from the day,
Beside his hearth half slumbering soon lay,
And from his chair, with idle hand caressed
The slender hound, now with his fancy blessed;
And Margarida moved her robe aside,
That stayed the beast from favour her denied.

And thus thrust forth she lingered all forlorn
Till in the night, through open casement borne,
A lovely song came sighing on the air.
Pale Margarida trembled in her chair.
She thought, 'Love wakes within his cradling rose,
And with his breath a tender message blows
To one held dear.' Rossillon's heavy eyes
Lit for a moment to a pleased surprise.
'Who sings so sweet?' and Margarida said,
''Tis but young Guillem.' Then she drooped her head,
Lest he should see the flame upon her cheek.
But Count Rossillon did but slumber seek,
And ere she answered slept within his place.
Lone Margarida watched his sleeping face.
'O eyes,' she said, 'that find in me no joy,
Chill lips that speak my dreams to e'er destroy,
Cold heart wherein I wake no passion beat,
Deaf ears that find my coming never sweet,
Strong hands that hold my pulsing body bound
To share their chance caresses with the hound,
Sleep on, sleep on,' and then she softly wept,
Till to her ears the gentle singing crept.

'O Margarida, sweet beyond compare,
My eyes close not because they found thee fair,
My ears attuned but for thy step alone,
My poor heart slain, that calls thee not its own.
Come, Margarida,' then the whisper left
A sigh of one whose hope was all bereft.
Alack! who would not two such loves contrast,
Quick Margarida through the window passed,
While Count Rossillon in his sleep caressed
The hound's sleek head that on his knee did rest.





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