Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
The Baron de Jauioz
By AnonymousAnd heard the mournful death-bird
‘Tina, know’st thou, ’t is no dream,
Thou art bought and sold to-day?’
What the death-bird said he knew?
Am I, for the love of gold,
To the aged Baron sold?”
Ask thy father for the truth.”
“Father, is it fixed to sell
To old age thy daughter’s youth?”
Ask thy brother,—he can say.”
“Lannik!—brother!—speak the word,
Am I sold to Jauioz’s lord?”
For thy price was brought to-day;
Let no tears bedim thine eyes,
Let thy gear be brave and gay.
Fifty crowns of silver white,
Fifty more of gold so bright,
Jauioz’s lord for thee has paid,
Be thy fortune marred or made!”
In the white robe, or the red?
Which would suit a bride the best?
Or will black be well instead,
That my sister Helen sewed?”
“Daughter, ask me not. The road
Will be rough, and dark the way;
Dress thee quickly, for thy steed,
Yon black courser, trapped so gay,
Waits to bear thee hence with speed.”
On the air came sounds she knew;
’T was the bells that rang so proud,
Then she wept: “St. Anne, adieu!
All my native bells, farewell!
Ye have tolled my funeral knell!”
There she saw a ghastly band;
White their garments, and the blast
Drove their shadowy barks to land.
Souls who seek in vain for rest;
Hard her struggling breath she drew,
And her head sunk on her breast.
All that ghastly band, with speed,
Following in pursuit appeared
Close behind her coal-black steed!
Hideous forms and sights of fear
Press her nearer and more near.
Full of horror and dismay,
Motionless and pale as snow,
At the Baron’s gate she lay.
Seat thee by the blazing hearth;
See, they spread the festal board,
Hark the minstrels and the mirth!”
Black his raven locks as night,
Eyes that glow like flaming brands,
Hair and beard all hoary white.
She is mine, at last!” he said.
“Come, fair girl, and view my store,
Count my riches o’er and o’er,
Come with me from room to room.”
“Baron Jauioz, take me home!
Rather, by my mother’s side,
Counting billets for our fire,
Would I all my life abide;
And no riches I desire.”
“See, my caves are filled with wine,
Drink,—’t is sweet, a cure for care.”
“Brighter does the streamlet shine
Where my father’s flocks repair!”
“Come and choose throughout the town
Broidered robes all rich and grand.”
“Better is a woollen gown
Made me by my mother’s hand.”
“Come, behold this cincture bright
Dazzling all whene’er you move.”
“Better is the girdle white
Which my sister Helen wove!”
“Girl! thy words are harsh and cold,
Hatred in each look is told!
Curses on my gold that bought thee!
Curses on my heart that sought thee!
Idiot that I was,—my gain
Is but tears, reproach, and pain.”
Hear my voice, and list to me.
You can to my village hie,
I, alas! am captive here;
I am sunk in misery,
You are full of joyous cheer.
To my village when ye rove
All my friends your eyes may view.
To my mother bear my love,
To my father bear it, too.
Bless my mother day by day,
To our priest my greetings tell,
To my brother whispering say,
I have pardoned him,—farewell!”
All was hushed in silent sleep;
Not a footstep pressed the floor,
Nothing stirred, above, around,
When a soft voice at the door
Murmured words of mournful sound:
“Father, mother, wake and pray,
And your mourning weeds prepare,
For my soul a requiem say,
Comfort me with many a prayer,
Heave the sigh, and shed the tear,
For your child lies on her bier.”