# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Knight’s Tale

THE KNIGHT'S TALE.
Oh, there are evil moments in our life, When but a thought, a word, a look, has power To dash the cup of happiness aside, And stamp us wretched!
And there are bitter tears in Arnold's hall— A wail of passionate lament! The night Is on the towers, but night has not brought
Silence and sleep. A sound is in the courts, Of arms and armed men; the ring of spears, The tramp of iron feet, and voices, mixed In deep confusion. With the morning's rise, Lord Arnold leads these men to Palestine.  There were two figures on a terrace, raised
O'er all the rest. The moon was on its sweep, Lighting the landscape's midnight loveliness! Below it, first were gardens set with flowers, In beds of many shape and quaint device, So very sweet they filled the air with scents; Beyond, the ground was steep and rough; dwarf oak, Spring on the sides, but all the nobler growth Of those proud trees was seen in yon dark wood, Its world of leaves blent with the distant sky, And sheltering a green park, where the smooth grass Was fitting herbage for the gentle fawn, Which sported by its mother's spotted side, And stone so white that in the moon they shone Like silver. In the midst, a diamond sheet Of clear bright water spread, and on its breast Gathered a group of swans; and there was one,
Laid on a little island which the leaves Of the waterflag had made; and suddenly A sound of music rose, and leaf and flower Seemed hushed to hear the sweet and solemn hymn Sung by the dying swan. And then the two Upon the terrace, who as yet had looked But in each other's eyes, turned to the lake: It was to them, even as if their love Had made itself a voice to breathe Farewell!—  Ceased the unearthly song, and Adeline Threw her on Arnold's breast, and wept, and said It was her warrior's dirge and hers—for never Such sad sweet sounds had breathed on mortal ear, And yet no omen. But her Arnold kiss'd Her tears away; and whispered 'twas the song Of some kind Spirit, who would guard his love
While he was fighting for the Cross afar. Oh, who can tell the broken-heartedness Of parting moments!—the fond words that gush From the full heart, and yet die in the throat, Whose pulses are too choked for utterance; The lingering look of eyes half blind with tears; The yet more lingering kiss, as if it were The last long breath of life! Then the slow step, Changing anon to one of hurried speed, As that the heart doubted its own resolve! The fixed gaze of her, who, left behind, Watches till shadows grow reality! And then the sudden and sick consciousness— How desolate we are!—Oh, misery! Thy watchword is, Farewell!—And Arnold took A few sweet buds from off a myrtle tree,
And swore to Adeline, before the spring Had covered twice that plant with its white flowers He would return. With the next morning's sun Lord Arnold led his vassals to the war, And Adeline was left to solitude— The worst of solitude, of home and heart.  If I must part from those whom I have loved, Let me, too, part from where they were beloved! It wrings the heart to see each thing the same; Tread over the same steps; and then to find The difference in the heart. It is so sad— So very lonely—to be the sole one In whom there is a sign of change! - - -  There are two words to tell the warrior's course, Valour and Victory. But fortune changed, And Arnold was a prisoner at last.
And there he lay and pined, till hope grew tired, Even of its sweet self; and now despair Reached its last stage, for it was grown familiar. Change came, when there was not a thought of change But in his dreams. Thanks to a pitying Slave Whom he had spared in battle, he escaped! And over sea and land the pilgrim went.  It was a summer evening, when again He stood before his castle, and he paused In the excess of happiness. The sun Had set behind the towers, whose square heights Divided the red west; and on its verge, Just where the crimson faded, was a star— The twilight star—pale, like dew turned to light. Thro' the fair park he wandered on, and pass'd
The lake and its white swans: at length he came To his sweet garden and its thousand flowers. The roses were in blossom, and the air Oppressed him with its fragrance. On a walk, As if just fallen from some beauty's hair, There lay a branch of myrtle—Arnold caught Its leaves, and kiss'd them!—Sure, 'twas Adeline's! He stood now by a little alcove, made Of flowers and green boughs—Adeline is there— But, wo for Arnold, she is not alone!— So lovely, and so false!—There, there she sat, Her white arm round a stranger's neck, her fair brow Bowed on his shoulder, while her long black hair Streamed o'er his bosom—There they sat, so still, Like statues in that light; and Arnold thought How often he had leant with Adeline
In such sweet silence. But they rose to go; And then he marked how tenderly the youth Drew his cloak round her, lest the dew should fall Upon her fragile beauty. They were gone— And Arnold threw him on the turf, which still Retained the pressure of her fairy feet— Then started wildly from the ground, and fled As life and death were on his speed. His towers Were but a little distant from the sea;
And ere the morning broke, Arnold was tossed Far over the blue wave. He did not go, As the young warrior goes, with hope and pride, As he once went; but as a pilgrim, roamed O'er other countries, any but his own. At last his steps sought pleasant Italy. It was one autumn evening that he reached
A little valley in the Apennine: It lay amid the heights—a resting place Of quiet and deep beauty. On one side A forest of a thousand pines arose, Darkened with many winters; on the left Stood the steep-crags, where, even in July, The white snow lay, carved into curious shapes Of turret, pinnacle, and battlement; And in the front, the opening mountains showed The smiling plains of grape-clad Tuscany; And farther still was caught the sky-like sweep Of the blue ocean. Small white cottages And olive trees filled up the dell. But, hid By the sole group of cypresses, whose boughs, As the green weeping of the sea-weed, hung Like grief or care around, a temple stood
Of purest marble, with its carved dome And white Corinthian pillars strangely wreathed By the thick ivy leaves. In other days, Some nymph or goddess had been worshipped there, Whose name was gone, even from her own shrine. The cross stood on the altar, and above There hung the picture of Saint Valerie: Its pale calm beauty suited well the maid, Who left the idol pleasures of the world For solitude and heaven in early youth. And Arnold knelt to the sweet saint, and prayed For pity and for pardon; and his heart Clung to the place, and thought upon repose. He made himself a home in the same cave Where once St. Valerie had dwelt: a rill, That trickled from the rock above, his drink,
The mountain fruits his food: and there he lived: Peasants, and one or two tired pilgrims, all That e'er disturbed his hermit solitude. Long months had passed away, when one hot noon He sat beneath the cypresses, and saw A pilgrim slowly urging up the height: The sun was on her head, yet turned she not To seek the shade beside; the path was rough; Yet there she toiled, though the green turf was near. At last she reached the shrine—and Arnold knew His Adeline! Her slender frame was bent, And her small feet left a red trace behind— The blood flowed from them. And he saw her kneel, And heard her pray for him and his return. "Adeline! art thou true?"—One moment more Her head is on his bosom, and his lips
Feeding on her pale cheek!—He heard it all— How that youth was her brother, just returned From fighting with the Infidels in Spain; That he had gone to Palestine to seek Some tidings of her Arnold; and, meanwhile, Herself had vowed a barefoot pilgrimage To pray St. Valerie to bless the search!— And she indeed had blessed it!—  There is that English castle once again, With its green sweep of park and its clear lake; And there that bower; and in its shade is placed A statue of St. Valerie; and a shrine, Graven with names of those who placed it here, Record and tribute of their happiness— Arnold and Adeline!