I.

'TWAS all in the leafy month o' June,
When the wild white roses blow,
Sir Rupert rode out in the merrie green.
A-hawking he would goe. [wood:

Rode many a gallant youth in his train,

Both proper young knights and tall, But Rupert de Vere of Hedingham Tower

Was the knightliest of them all.

O, black as the sloe were his laughing

eyes,

His teeth they were like to pearls, And his plumèd hat was saucily set O'er his bonnie bright raven curls. His hawking suit was of Lincoln green, Bedizen'd like to the spring, And he strode a milk-white charger rare, Was the gift of Harry the King. Of Harry the King at Agincourt, On good St. Crispin his day, When Rupert he won his knightly spurs In the thick o' the bloodsome fray. For Rupert hath foughten in many a He is known in chivalrie; [fight, In the tiltyard gay, or the tented field, Are few more fear'd than he.

[now,

But 'tis peace in our Merrie England
The voice of her foes is mute,
And Rupert he leaves the warrior's sword
To toy with the lover's lute.
His only weapons are whispers and sighs
As he loiters in ladye's bower,
And ever he flitteth like the bee

From beautiful flower to flower.

And 'tis whisper'd there's many a fair young maid

Rueth the luckless day [mood, When he won her heart in an idlesse Then laughingly turn'd away.

His days are spent in sport, and his In ribald and reckless cheer; [nights There are people who cross themselves and sigh

At the name of Rupert de Vere.

And so it comes in the leafy June,

When the wild white roses blow,

Sir Rupert rides out in the merrie greenA-hawking he would goe.

[wood:

And he dreamily thinks 'twere pleasant
A simple forester bold,
[to be
And what a brave life was Robin Hood's
In the merrie days of old,

When he sees in his path a maiden fair
In simple country guise :

Her startled eyes are soft as the fawn's,
And blue as the summer skies.

The rose and the lily softly blend
In her dainty cheek so fair,
And bonnie to see are her cherry lips
And ripple o' golden hair.

She has gather'd a posy o' wild flowers sweet,

Where the roses and violets blow, But the sweetest flower in the wood toIs her bonnie self, I trow. [day 'Now where are you going to, my pretty maid?

Now what is your name, I pray? Are you queen o' the fairies or woodland sprite?'

Sir Rupert he question'd gay.

'No queen o' the fairies am I, Sir Knight,
No spirit nor woodland fay,
But only a simple forester's child,
And my name it is Mabel May.'

'Hast ever a sweetheart, Mabel fair? Ah! you blush and you shake your head.

Why, where are the rustics' hearts and

Sir Rupert he laughing said. [eyes?'

'Let me be your sweetheart, Mabel May!

'Twere pleasant, I trow, for both : One dainty kiss from these rosy lips

Be the pledge of our plighted troth.'

'Nay, touch me not, Sir Knight !' she said;

'Nay, touch me not, I pray! Our Lady forbid that a simple maid Should trifle with gallants gay.

Go back to your true love, Mistress Grace,

Your high-born lover and dear : My kisses I keep for homelier lips Than those of Rupert de Vere !'

Sir Rupert he bit his lip and he frown'd: 'Grace Hawkwood is naught to me; Though I walk and whisper with her at 'Tis only in courtesie. [times,

Full many a bonnie young maid I've

seen

Whose beauty was passing rare, But I swear by my knighthood, Mabel May,

You are fairest of all the fair!

Love levels all ranks, sweet Mabel May,
Love that is tender and true;

And if ever I marry a maid in my life
It shall be only you.

Then wear this ring for your own sweet sake,

And give me a rose for mine;

The wild white rose you have in your hand,

For a lover's token and sign!'

'Nay, keep your ring, Sir Rupert,' she said;

'Such tokens are not for me, But gin you care for a wild white rose, Here is one I will give to thee.

But little care I for their monkish

As my lordly father knows: [rhymes, Come Yorkist, or devil, or what you will, Here's "Hey for the bonnie white rose!" He mounts his steed, and his hand he

waves

To that simple maiden dear. Ah, Mabel May, 'twas a luckless day You met with Rupert de Vere.

III.

Mabel May, the forester's child,
Was a winsome lassie and fair;
For a bonnie face and a blythesome
heart

Few mote with her compare.

The light and the joy of her father's heart,

Her mother's darling and stay, Never was sweeter or daintier lass Than bonnie Mabel May.

All gave her pleasant greeting, and fair

The foresters blythe and brown; The abbey monks, and the trades folk kind

Who lived in Hedingham town. And the black-veil'd Benedictine nuns, In their convent old and gray, Had ever a kindly word and smile For their little Mabel May.

For this fresh, sweet, innocent, hopeful girl,

With her sunny smile and glance, Seem'd to flush into their faded lives A touch of their old romance :

The old romance of their early days

When they'd dream of whisper and

Vow,

And life was as sunny and sweet to them As to bonnie Mabel now.

But why is Mabel so pale of late?

Why so silent and wistful grown? She carols no longer about the place, But sitteth brooding alone: Brooding over a secret rare

Rich gift of our God above

So new to her, yet old as the hills,
And mortals call it love.

Ever she thinks of a gay young knight,
The gallant Rupert de Vere,
Who's won her at last to hear his vows
And plight him her troth so dear.

For Rupert has waited and watch'd forsooth,

He has thrown himself in her way, And has vow'd that the only maid he Is bonnie Mabel May. [loves

EE

And she listens and loves, and loving believes,

And longs for the happy hour When Mabel May, the forester's child, Shall be Lady of Hedingham Tower. For Rupert has pledged his knightly 'Lord Oxford is old and gray, [oath: And when he has pass'd to his rest, dear heart,

There be none to say me nay.

There be none who may dare to say

me nay,

When my father is laid to rest;
Then I shall be free to choose for wife
The maiden I love the best.

Full many a baron and belted knight
Of lofty and high degree
Has chosen a wee sweet woodland lass
His own true lover to be.

And, Mabel May, gin I play you false,
Be ruin and death my dole;
If ever I marry a maid but you,
May I perish, body and soul !

But keep our secret a while, sweetheart,
From every eye and ear,

Or my father will part you, Mabel mine,
From your own true lover and dear.'

And Mabel she keeps the secret well;
She thinks it were death to part;
For she loves him with all the passionate
love

Of her fresh young innocent heart. They meet by stealth in the summer woods

Under the sun-touch'd boughs; And linger oft in the twilights sweet To whisper their tender vows. But Mabel is pale and wistful still; For it troubles her gentle mind To harbour a thought she may not tell To her mother so leal and kind. And ever she longs for the happy time When her parents proud shall hear How Mabel May is to be the wife Of the gallant Rupert de Vere.

IV.

The summer days, with their radiant
Have faded and paled away; [tints,
And the later autumn is stealing on,
With its twilights weird and gray.
And Mabel May, she is fading too;
She sits apart and sighs,
And gone is the glow of her dainty check
And the light of her laughing eyes.
They watch her with tender pitiful love,
As she paleth day by day;
But little they think of the secret shame
That is eating her life away.

Little they think that her cheek is palud
By a burden heavy and sore;
That her eyes are dim with watching in
vain

For a lover who comes no more. She shrinks from her mother's tender love

With a boding, passionate dread;
And when the good Sisters praise her now,
She shudders and hangs her head.
No more in the sunny Sabbath morns
She warbles some old hymn rare,
As she tires herself before her glass
In her own wee chamber fair.

But sadly she thinks o' the innocent time,
With its spotless virgin fame;
And her midnight. pillow is wet with
Of bitter, remorseful shame. [tears

Till there comes a time when her brain, poor child,

Reels in its sick despair;

And the burden of all she is and was
Is greater than she can bear.

One morn they call'd and sought her in vain,

With wondering faces and wild : Empty and smooth was the wee white bed

Where she'd slept from a little child. They sought her here, and they sought her there,

Weeping and anguish-tost; Swiftly there spread the sorrowful news How Mabel May was lost.

They sought her here, and they sought her there,

All day until near the dark, When some tiny children were gathering flowers

By the pool in the Little Park, And O, sweet Jesu, merciful Lord,

What a pitiful sight was there!
The water-lilies were tangled and twined
With tresses of bright-brown hair.

Ghostly and dank in her watery shroud
A dead girl-woman lay;
And the still white face was turn'd to
the sky,

Was the face of Mabel May.

V.

There's feasting at Heron Hall, I wot, And in Hedingham Tower brave cheer; For bonnie Maud Tyrrel weds to-day

With the gallant Rupert de Vere. There be joust and tourney at Heron Revel and feasting gay; [Hall, And the poorest hind in Horndon vill Shall be jolly and blythe to-day.

Never was braver wedding train

Than that glittering cavalcade, As it windeth its way to Horndon church By woodland thicket and glade; By woodland thicket and open glade, And many a sunny lawn, Where the daisies bloom and the wild birds sing,

[goe

As fitteth a marriage morn. There be knights and ladies many a score, Of lofty lineage and race; And barefoot monks, who sing as they A hymn of our Lady's grace. Page and yeoman and jester gay, And foresters frank and free, Trooper and bowman and village folk, A motley companie.

They bear in her litter the dark-hair'd Maud,

In her wedding robes bedight; And there tends her a bevy of bridesmaids fair,

Apparell'd in virgin white.

And there rideth with Rupert threescore friends,

Both proper young knights and tall; But Rupert de Vere of Hedingham Tower Is the knightliest of them all. His wedding suit is of cloth-of-gold, Bedizen'd like to the spring; And he rides his milk-white charger rare, Was the gift of Harry the King. O, black as the sloe are his merry eyes, And his laugh it is loud and clear; Never was blyther or bonnier groom Than the gallant Rupert de Vere.

VI.

Before the high altar in Horndon church
They are standing side by side:
The gallant groom in his manly bloom,
The blushing and lovely bride.
Around them are gather'd a glittering
throng

Of knights and of ladyes fair;
And the mitred Abbot of Barking is here
To marry the winsome pair.

Sir Rupert has taken her hand, to place
On her dainty finger the ring,
When he starteth back with a bitter cry,
Like a stricken guilty thing.

His face is blanch'd to a deathly white,
Was wont so ruddy to be;
And his twitching mouth and his start-
ing eyes

Are an awesome sight to see.

'O, why is her hand so wet and cold? O, why does she clutch me so? See, her hair is changed to a golden brown,

Was now as black as the sloe !

To a golden brown, all dripping and dank.

Look, she beckons me hence away! And her face-O Heaven, that deadwhite face

Is the face of Mabel May!'

They gather about him with wond'ring looks,

And hearts that quiver for fear: 'Sir Rupert, your brain must be distraught,

There is no Mabel here.

Here's only your true love, Mistress Maud, [sore; Whom you've frighted and startled Then take you her hand again, dear heart, And all will be well once more.' 'Nay, keep her from me!' Sir Rupert he cries;

'O, her eyes are stony and fell! And there's that in her dank and deathly clasp

Would drag me down to hell!

O God, was it true, our olden rhyme : "Beware, De Vere, the love That would plant the white where the red should be,

And the eagle beside the dove"? What would you here? In the name of God,

What would you, Mabel May? Hark! she speaks! What horrible Are these I hear her say? [words "Mabel May, gin I play you false, Be ruin and death my dole; If ever I marry a maid but you, May I perish body and soul !" My own words! God, how I gasp! reel!

See, she beckons me stern and dumb And those horrible eyes are drawing me Mabel, I come! I come!' [on:

He staggers forward a little space,
Then falls by the altar-rail.
Ah, well may the fair bride wring her
hands!

Ah, well may she moan and wail! For when his brothers have lifted his head,

With faces that blanch for fear,
There is no such man in all the world
As their kinsman, Rupert de Vere.
Maud Tyrrel's heart was broken, they
In her gloomy convent-cell [say:
Ever she pray'd for his guilty soul
Whom she loved so well, so well!
And 'tis said that still in the Little Park
There'walks' in the twilight gray

A weeping figure in ghostly white
That once was Mabel May.

EDWIN COLLER.