Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
The Heiress of Kéroulaz
By AnonymousNor other thought in life she knew,
Than play and gambol free as air,
As great lords’ daughters wont to do.
An orphan, she laments in vain,
Her father left her wondrous store,—
’T were well her kindred’s word to gain.
No love have I from kindred known,
My death were news they fain would tell,
And then my wealth were all their own!”
Should be as happy as the day,
For flowers of gold are round her brow,
She wears rich gowns embroidered gay;
But stockings all of silk so bright,
Such as an heiress well may choose,
And little shoes of satin white.
She looked as bravely as a bride;
The Marquis led her through the hall,
His wily mother at his side.
There, where I might my ear incline,
As in her chamber secretly
His wily mother speaks to mine.
Some deep design their steps have led;
They come not idly wandering here,
And know an heiress is to wed!
He may have wealth, perchance, in store,
But Kerthomaz is dear to me,
And will be loved forevermore.”
As guests came trooping far and near;
He loved that gentle maid the best,
As he to her alone was dear.
That on the rose-tree sings so fair,
To see her when she comes all bright
To gather roses for her hair!
Where maidens lave the robes she wears,
My thirst in that dear wave to slake,
And swell the waters with my tears.”
Another youth who loved her too,
Young Salaün yon halls has sought,
As he had long been fond to do.
And at the castle gate he stood;
The heiress came herself with speed
To give an aged woman food.
Where are the gallant nobles gone?”
“They all have sought the chase to-day,
Why linger you behind alone?”
I came to Kéroulaz for you,
I came to look upon your face,
And tell you that I love you true!”
The heiress to her mother cried;
“’T is since the Marquis hither came,—
O mother! make me not his bride!
Let Pennanrum decide my lot,
Or Salaün my troth receive,
I care not, so De Mesle ’t is not!
One you have not denied is he,
O, if a boon I dared to claim,
Kerthomaz should my bridegroom be.”
And let the truth dwell on your tongue;
Say, have you been to Kastelgall,
And saw you aught of vile or wrong?”
With broken casements flapping round;
I saw the doors all black and broke,
But ne’er a page nor groom I found.
No corn her master would afford;
Nor better is the feast each day
That crowns De Mesle the miser’s board!”
The Marquis dwells in pomp and state,
His castle shines with costly pride,
And menials at his bidding wait.
Whom he shall ask his bride to be—”
“O mother, since I seek it not,
Such honor is not grace to me!”
I seek for you a happy home,
My word is given, your tears are rain,
You must the Marquis’ bride become.”
For jealousy lurked in her heart;
Kerthomaz secretly she loved,
And wished the heiress should depart.
“He gave me pledges oft of yore,
O, blithe was I those gifts to take,
O, sadly I those gifts restore!
Your ring, your seal, I now resign;
I dare not any pledge retain,
Since I, alas! may not be thine!”
To see what looks the heiress cast,
How sadly at her gates she knelt,
And kissed the threshold as she passed:
And all the scenes I prized of yore,
My friends, my love, I greet ye well,
I shall behold you nevermore!”
“O, mourn not thus,” the heiress cried,
“Come to me straight at Kastelgall,
And all your wants shall be supplied;
And wheat and oats and barley fine,
Three times a week ye shall receive,—
I will not spare the wealth that ’s mine.”
“You shall not squander thus my store,
What means this idle boast?” he cried,
“I ’ll have no beggars swarm my door!”
Yet shall my alms each day be given,
That through the prayers we thus shall have,
Our souls may find some grace in heaven.”
That dares my messenger to be,
And make it to my mother known
What luckless fate has chanced to me!”
“Dear lady, write a letter straight,
And I my truth and faith engage
To leave it at thy mother’s gate.”
The page to Kéroulaz has hied,
Where in the hall, with knights so gay,
Her mother sat in pomp and pride.
But when the letter they unfold,
Sad fears are in the mother’s breast,
Kerthomaz’ cheek is pale and cold.
To saddle straight our swiftest steeds,
We must to-night to Kastelgall,
My daughter much our presence needs!”
The mother said, “What means this cheer?
Why is the door with mourning hung,
What heavy chance has fallen here?”
The Lord de Mesle went hence to wed,
Is cause of all these marks of woe,
That gentle dame to-night is dead.”
The mother cried in accents wild,
“’T is I who crushed that lovely flower,
’T is I have killed my only child!
She would not be the Marquis’ bride,
But said, ‘Kerthomaz is my love,
And I can love no man beside!’”
You abbey walls conceal his care;
The mother, to all comfort dead,
Devotes her life to God in prayer.