The Minstrel and the Maiden.

Dave Fawcett

In the style of the Victorian Gothic poets. (Byron, Wordsworth etc)

The land is dark, December glowers.
Here no green paths or leafy bowers,
but the gloomy dusk of winter glades
where stark trees stand in deepening shades.
Where granite walls stand moated, deep
and by the stream wild willows weep.
The ice-chilled lake enfolds its prey
of weed and fish and geese at bay.
The blackening tints of painted snow,
stained blood red in the moon’s dark glow.
Purple paint strokes streak the sky
and grey-red clouds go foaming by.

Through the dusk a minstrel comes,
a lilting song he softly hums.
A steed of white he rides; so gay.
A noble beast, no humble dray.
Passing near the granite tower
the minstrel stops and spies a flower.
He stoops to pluck the wondrous bloom
that thrives miraculous in the gloom,
but as he stoops a sound drifts down;
a fairy voice, soft, golden brown.
“Oh gallant minstrel touch it not.
t’is the only beauty I have got.
Its fiery glow doth warm my heart
and from it’s scent I will not part.”

Looking up the minstrel spies
a maiden fair with blue jewelled eyes.
“Oh lady” cries the minstrel low
“I would not seize your maiden glow
by plucking at this sweet flower’s stem;
this gilded cup, this marvellous gem.
But tell me why are you so sad?
Why is your heart not gay and glad?”

“Ah gentle bard. If I could tell
of all the terrors in this dell.
Suffice to say that in this spire
my heart is bound as though with wire.
A year ago a pledge I gave
to marry not until the grave.
I gave this pledge because my Lord;
my Prince to be was slain by sword.
He died because he would not yield
his cause upon the battlefield.
The victor slew my Lord’s whole band
and on the corpses then did stand
to claim my heart and tie my life
to his in wedlock; man to wife.
When he found that I had sworn
to stay a virgin till the morn
that I could join my prince of mould,
he swore that I would ne’er grow old
but stay for ever as a girl
while round about the heavens whirl.
Then magic arts he sought and found
to raise this tower from the ground.
Incantations uttered then
placed me in this granite den
to suffer here until the time
that I submit to make him mine.
Now though I spend my days in here
I do not age, but live in fear
of growing younger day by day
until at last I fade away.”

“Oh lady” cries the minstrel low.
“Your tale is sad and full of woe.
But I believe that I can lift
this evil spell; and that right swift.
For I too have some magic spells;
some potent charms that plumb the wells
of wisdom, chivalry and truth.
Of these words I will now give proof.”

The minstrel stoops and plucks the flower.
The maiden swoons within the tower.

Mysterious incantations then
begin to issue from the stem.
The broken stem; the gilded cup
begin to fade and wither up.
The landscape quakes; the moat runs dry.
The windows shake and clouds whip by.
And as the land begins to wilt
the tower shifts to crazy tilt.
The world goes mad and shifts in gear
to rotate faster through the year.
While from the flower a voice booms out.
“Slow down. Stop. Rotate about.”
The globe heeds not; the tower falls
with a mighty crash of splintered walls.
Then out of chaos comes the dawn,
with fresh-flush sun the world reborn.
There on sweet grass the maiden lays
while at her side the minstrel prays
to God and Christ and Holy Ghost.
The three in one; the mighty host.

At last the maiden stirs from sleep.
“My liege” she cries, “Please do not weep.
You have saved me from sure death.
Now this I swear. While I have breath
I will be faithful unto you.
I offer all; it is your due.”
With reverent bow and graceful air
the minstrel takes the maiden fair
and afterwards upon the sward
they speak of love with lilting word.

“Dear minstrel boy, I love thee well.”
“Replies he then “My breast doth swell
with pride and joy, for I am blessed
by your sweet presence, fresh dew dressed.
But I confess I am not true;
I am not what I seem to you.
You see I am no minstrel boy
but a wizard knight in dark employ.
I am the foe who slew your Prince
and I have sought you ever since.
How did you think I knew the spell
to free you from your gloomy cell,
except that I had placed you there
and hid the key you knew not where.”

The maiden cried “You traitorous man!
I comprehend your ghastly plan.
In that flower the key you hid
and when it died the lock undid.
“And yet” she sighs, this tower queen.
“I know not how things might have been.
For though I loved the prince who died
I love you more; though I have tried
to cut this feeling from my heart,
Yet from this love I cannot part.
Since from beyond you wandered here
and plucked that flower I held so dear,
my heart has raced and raced again.
To be near you my noble swain
is all that I desire from life;
to be with you, your humble wife.”

The minstrel stood and held her waist
and in his saddle gently placed.
Then himself he mounted on
and from that glade was quickly gone.