A little past the village The Inn stood,low and white;Green shady trees behind it,And an orchard on the right;Where over the green paling The red-cheeked apples hung,As if to watch how wearily The sign-board creaked and swung.
The heavy-laden branches,Over the road hung low,Reflected fruit or blossom From the wayside well below;Where children,drawing water,Looked up and paused to see,Amid the apple-branches,A purple Judas Tree.
The road stretched winding onward For many a weary mile -So dusty foot-sore wanderers Would pause and rest awhile;And panting horses halted,And travellers loved to tell The quiet of the wayside inn,The orchard,and the well.
Here Maurice dwelt;and often The sunburnt boy would stand Gazing upon the distance,And shading with his hand His eyes,while watching vainly For travellers,who might need His aid to loose the bridle,And tend the weary steed.
And once (the boy remembered That morning,many a day -The dew lay on the hawthorn,The bird sang on the spray)A train of horsemen,nobler Than he had seen before,Up from the distance galloped,And halted at the door.
Upon a milk-white pony,Fit for a faery queen,Was the loveliest little damsel His eyes had ever seen:
A serving-man was holding The leading rein,to guide The pony and its mistress,Who cantered by his side.
Her sunny ringlets round her A golden cloud had made,While her large hat was keeping Her calm blue eyes in shade;One hand held fast the silken reins To keep her steed in check,The other pulled his tangled mane,Or stroked his glossy neck.
And as the boy brought water,And loosed the rein,he heard The sweetest voice that thanked him In one low gentle word;She turned her blue eyes from him,Looked up,and smiled to see The hanging purple blossoms Upon the Judas Tree;And showed it with a gesture,Half pleading,half command,Till he broke the fairest blossom,And laid it in her hand;And she tied it to her saddle With a ribbon from her hair,While her happy laugh rang gaily,Like silver on the air.
But the champing steeds were rested -
The horsemen now spurred on,And down the dusty highway They vanished and were gone.
Years passed,and many a traveller Paused at the old inn-door,But the little milk-white pony And the child returned no more.
Years passed,the apple-branches A deeper shadow shed;And many a time the Judas Tree,Blossom and leaf,lay dead;When on the loitering western breeze Came the bells'merry sound,And flowery arches rose,and flags And banners waved around.
Maurice stood there expectant:
The bridal train would stay Some moments at the inn-door,The eager watchers say;They come--the cloud of dust draws near -
'Mid all the state and pride,He only sees the golden hair And blue eyes of the bride.
The same,yet,ah,still fairer;
He knew the face once more That bent above the pony's neck Years past at that inn-door:
Her shy and smiling eyes looked round,Unconscious of the place,Unconscious of the eager gaze He fixed upon her face.
He plucked a blossom from the tree -
The Judas Tree--and cast Its purple fragrance towards the Bride,A message from the Past.
The signal came,the horses plunged -
Once more she smiled around:
The purple blossom in the dust Lay trampled on the ground.
Again the slow years fleeted,Their passage only known By the height the Passion-flower Around the porch had grown;And many a passing traveller Paused at the old inn-door,But the bride,so fair and blooming,The bride returned no more.
One winter morning,Maurice,Watching the branches bare,Rustling and waving dimly In the grey and misty air,Saw blazoned on a carriage Once more the well-known shield,The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Upon a silver field.
He looked--was that pale woman,So grave,so worn,so sad,The child,once young and smiling,The bride,once fair and glad?
What grief had dimmed that glory,And brought that dark eclipse Upon her blue eyes'radiance,And paled those trembling lips?
What memory of past sorrow,What stab of present pain,Brought that deep look of anguish,That watched the dismal rain,That watched (with the absent spirit That looks,yet does not see)The dead and leafless branches Upon the Judas Tree.
The slow dark months crept onward Upon their icy way,'Till April broke in showers And Spring smiled forth in May;Upon the apple-blossoms The sun shone bright again,When slowly up the highway Came a long funeral train.
The bells toiled slowly,sadly,For a noble spirit fled;Slowly,in pomp and honour,They bore the quiet dead.
Upon a black-plumed charger One rode,who held a shield,Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Shone on a silver field.
'Mid all that homage given To a fluttering heart at rest,Perhaps an honest sorrow Dwelt only in one breast.
One by the inn-door standing Watched with fast-dropping tears The long procession passing,And thought of bygone years,The boyish,silent homage To child and bride unknown,The pitying tender sorrow Kept in his heart alone,Now laid upon the coffin With a purple flower,might be Told to the cold dead sleeper;The rest could only see A fragrant purple blossom,Plucked from a Judas Tree.
