Читать книгу The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun - Verlyn Flieger - Страница 11

as published in The Welsh Review

In Britain’s land beyond the seas

the wind blows ever through the trees;

in Britain’s land beyond the waves

are stony shores and stony caves.

There stands a ruined toft³ now green

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where lords and ladies once were seen,

where towers were piled above the trees

and watchmen scanned the sailing seas.

Of old a lord in archéd hall

with standing stones yet grey and tall

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there dwelt, till dark his doom befell,

as still the Briton harpers tell.

No child he had his house to cheer,

to fill his courts with laughter clear;

though wife he wooed and wed with ring,

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who love to board and bed did bring,

his pride was empty, vain his hoard,

without an heir to land and sword.

Thus pondering oft at night awake

his darkened mind would visions make

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of lonely age and death; his tomb

unkept, while strangers in his room

with other names and other shields

were masters of his halls and fields.

Thus counsel cold he took at last;

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his hope from light to darkness passed.

A witch there was, who webs could weave

to snare the heart and wits to reave,⁴

who span dark spells with spider-craft,

and as she span she softly laughed;

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a drink she brewed of strength and dread

to bind the quick and stir the dead.

In a cave she housed where winging bats

their harbour sought, and owls and cats

from hunting came with mournful cries,

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night-stalking near with needle eyes.

In the homeless hills was her hollow dale,

black was its bowl, its brink was pale;

there silent on a seat of stone

before her cave she sat alone.

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Dark was her door, and few there came,

whether man, or beast that man doth tame.

In Britain’s land beyond the waves

are stony hills and stony caves;

the wind blows ever over hills

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and hollow caves with wailing fills.

The sun was fallen low and red,

behind the hills the day was dead,

and in the valley formless lay

the misty shadows long and grey.

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Alone between the dark and light

there rode into the mouth of night

the Briton lord, and creeping fear

about him closed. Dismounting near

he slowly then with lagging feet

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went halting to the stony seat.

His words came faltering on the wind,

while silent sat the crone and grinned.

Few words he needed; for her eyes

were dark and piercing, filled with lies,

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yet needle-keen all lies to probe.

He shuddered in his sable robe.

His name she knew, his need, his thought,

the hunger that thither him had brought;

while yet he spoke she laughed aloud,

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and rose and nodded; head she bowed,

and stooped into her darkening cave,

like ghost returning to the grave.

Thence swift she came. In his hand she laid

a phial⁵ of glass so fairly made

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’twas wonder in that houseless place

to see its cold and gleaming grace;

and therewithin a philter⁶ lay

as pale as water thin and grey

that spills from stony fountains frore⁷

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in hollow pools in caverns hoar.⁸

He thanked her, trembling, offering gold

to withered fingers shrunk and old.

The thanks she took not, nor the fee,

but laughing croaked: ‘Nay, we shall see!

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Let thanks abide till thanks be earned!

Such potions oft, men say, have burned

the heart and brain, or else are nought,

only cold water dearly bought.

Such lies you shall not tell of me;

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Till it is earned I’ll have no fee.

But we shall meet again one day,

and rich reward then you shall pay,

what e’er I ask: it may be gold,

it may be other wealth you hold.’

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In Britain ways are wild and long,

and woods are dark with danger strong;

and sound of seas is in the leaves,

and wonder walks the forest-eaves.

The way was long, the woods were dark;

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at last the lord beheld the spark

of living light from window high,

and knew his halls and towers were nigh.

At last he slept in weary sleep

beside his wife, and dreaming deep,

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he walked with children yet unborn

in gardens fair, until the morn

came slowly through the windows tall,

and shadows moved across the wall.

Then sprang the day with weather fair,

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for windy rain had washed the air,

and blue and cloudless, clean and high,

above the hills was arched the sky,

and foaming in the northern breeze

beneath the sky there shone the seas.

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Arising then to greet the sun,

and day with a new thought begun,

that lord in guise of joy him clad,

and masked his mind in manner glad;

his mouth unwonted laughter used

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and words of mirth. He oft had mused,

walking alone with furrowed brow;

a feast he bade prepare him now.

And ‘Itroun mine,’ he said, ‘my life,

’tis long that thou hast been my wife.

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Too swiftly by in love do slip

our gentle years, and as a ship

returns to port, we soon shall find

once more that day of spring we mind,

when we were wed, and bells were rung.

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But still we love, and still are young:

A merry feast we’ll make this year,

and there shall come no sigh nor tear;

and we will feign our love begun

in joy anew, anew to run

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down happy paths – and yet, maybe,

we’ll pray that this year we may see

our heart’s desire more quick draw nigh

than yet we have seen it, thou and I;

for virtue is in hope and prayer.’

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So spake he gravely, seeming-fair.

In Britain’s land across the seas

the spring is merry in the trees;

the birds in Britain’s woodlands pair

when leaves are long and flowers are fair.

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A merry feast that year they made,

when blossom white on bush was laid;

there minstrels sang and wine was poured,

as it were the marriage of a lord.

A cup of silver wrought he raised

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and smiling on the lady gazed:

‘I drink to thee for health and bliss,

fair love,’ he said, ‘and with this kiss

the pledge I pass. Come, drink it deep!

The wine is sweet, the cup is steep!’

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The wine was red, the cup was grey;

but blended there a potion lay

as pale as water thin and frore

in hollow pools of caverns hoar.

She drank it, laughing with her eyes.

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‘Aotrou, lord and love,’ she cries,

‘all hail and life both long and sweet,

wherein desire at last to meet!’

Now days ran on in great delight

with hope at morn and mirth at night;

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and in the garden of his dream

the lord would walk, and there would deem

he saw two children, boy and maid,

that fair as flowers danced and played

on lawns of sunlight without hedge

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save a dark shadow at their edge.

Though spring and summer wear and fade,

though flowers fall and leaves are laid,

and winter winds his trumpet loud,

and snows both fell and forest shroud,

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though roaring seas upon the shore

go long and white, and neath the door

the wind cries with houseless voice,

in fire and song yet men rejoice,

till as a ship returns to port

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the spring comes back to field and court.

A song now falls from windows high,

like silver dropping from the sky,

soft in the early eve of spring.

‘Why do they play? Why do they sing?’

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‘Light may she lie, our lady fair!

Too long hath been her cradle bare.

Yestreve there came as I passed by

the cry of babes from windows high.

Twin children, I am told there be.

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Light may they lie and sleep, all three!’

‘Would every prayer were answered twice!

The half or nought must oft suffice

for humbler men, who wear their knees

more bare than lords, as oft one sees.’

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‘Not every lord wins such fair grace.

Come wish them speed with kinder face!

Light may she lie, my lady fair;

long live her lord her joy to share!’

A manchild and an infant maid

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as fair as flowers in bed were laid.

Her joy was come, her pain was passed;

in mirth and ease Itroun at last

in her fair chamber softly lay

singing to her babes lullay.

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Glad was her lord, as grave he stood

beside her bed of carven wood.

‘Now full,’ he said, ‘is granted me

both hope and prayer, and what of thee?

Is ’t not, fair love, most passing sweet

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the heart’s desire at last to meet?

Yet if thy heart still longing hold,

or lightest wish remain untold,

that will I find and bring to thee,

though I should ride both land and sea!’

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‘Aotrou mine,’ she said, ‘’tis sweet

at last the heart’s desire to meet,

thus after waiting, after prayer,

thus after hope and nigh despair.

I would not have thee run nor ride

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to-day nor ever from my side;

yet after sickness, after pain,

oft cometh hunger sharp again.’

‘Nay, love, if thirst or hunger strange

for bird or beast on earth that range,

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for wine, or water from what well

in any secret fount or dell,

vex thee,’ he smiled, ‘now swift declare!

If more than gold or jewel rare,

from greenwood, haply, fallow deer,

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or fowl that swims the shallow mere

thou cravest, I will bring it thee,

though I should hunt o’er land and lea.

No gold nor silk nor jewel bright

can match my gladness and delight,

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the boy and maiden lily-fair

that here do lie and thou did’st bear.’

‘Aotrou, lord,’ she said, ‘’tis true,

a longing strong and sharp I knew

in dream for water cool and clear,

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and venison of the greenwood deer,

for waters crystal-clear and cold

and deer no earthly forests hold;

and still in waking comes unsought

the foolish wish to vex my thought.

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But I would not have thee run nor ride

to-day nor ever from my side.’

In Brittany beyond the seas

the wind blows ever through the trees;

in Brittany the forest pale