Phinnaeus and Marouelle (long story poem)

Gather ‘round now; I shall tell thee
now a story—gather near me—
of two lost and lonely lovers,
Phinnaeus and Marouelle!

We begin in High Anterrim,
city of the king, Lord Verremn,
who, though young, was still far wiser
than historians will tell.

There lived Phinnaeus, a soldier:
no man in the land was bolder
than he and his horse, Regala.
beautiful, she served him well.

One day as he roamed the city,
in his horseback travels did he
find a maiden, weeping, weeping:
in but tears she seemed to dwell.

on the pavement was she lying,
her cart askew as she lay crying:
she’d been trav’ling when two bandits
stole the matches she would sell.

“Maiden,” said he, “Thing of beauty,
let me help thee; ‘tis my duty.
What is your name, my fair lady?”
Said she to him, “Marouelle.”

Said the soldier to the lady:
“We shall hunt them; I shall aid thee.
Climb upon my horse, Regala.”
And so said she, “Very well.”

Then she climbed upon his fair steed
(of a saddle there was no need,
for Regala is quite gentle,
carrying fair Marouelle).

Followed they the bandit’s trail,
though at first to no avail,
until they found them selling matches
that they stole from Marouelle.

“Vandals!” Did Phinnaeus then cry,
“Return the maiden’s wares, lest ye die!
No men but cowards would steal from her.
Give them now, and ye do well.”

Scoff did they then at his strong words,
drawing then their frightful longswords,
and advance upon them did they.
Alas! such dealings can’t bode well!

Drawing his sword Phinnaeus then
fought and killed the vandalous men,
but a slash across the shoulder
he still could not all repel.

Gracefully the maid descended,
now with all the battle ended,
took his hand and covered his wound:
instantly, she made it well.

“Prophet!” cried he, then upstarting,
“What art thou to me imparting?
Some good magic to my shoulder,
that with haste has made it well?”

Smile only did she then give,
and said, “Be glad that you yet live;
my gift of healing cannot cure all.
In return, lord, pray don’t tell!”

Thence delivered to her homestead,
he helped her off his horse and then said:
“Maiden, when shall I next see you,
you, the fairest Marouelle?”

She looked away from him ‘fore saying,
while with her medallion playing,
as the evening’s sounds surrounded
those two youths in summer’s swell.

“’Tis not wise, I fear, that we meet;
we our meeting shouldn’t repeat.
I live in secret with my gift, sir.
Please pray not a soul do tell!”

“But I must meet thee again!”
Cried the soldier to her then.
“What crime is committed by our meeting
Once again, fair Marouelle?”

With a sigh she then said to him,
“We mustn’t meet in High Anterrim,
for I fear we shall be spotted.
Until then, good lord, farewell!”

Riding home, his whole mind sought her,
only for that lovely daughter.
Her name, like sweet music to him,
he repeated: “Marouelle…”

Meet they would when chance would grant them.
Songs, of such a lovely anthem,
followed in the wake of those two,
Phinnaeus and Marouelle.

Out beyond Anterrim’s limits
they would meet, though at first timid,
‘til they found a safe location
‘neath the trees of forest dell.

Her father wished to hide his daughter,
protecting her from witch’s slaughter,
and forbade her any romance
lest her lover’s tongue should tell.

Hence their love stayed safely hidden,
as of course it was forbidden.
Still, their secret love sustained them,
Phinnaeus and Marouelle.

Their love like tender rains did shower
down upon them every hour,
sparkling like the morning dewlight.
Deeper still in love they fell.

Then in fall some distant nation
struck the country: an invasion.
War was nigh on High Anterrim;
all soldiers were to serve it well.

Holding close to him his lover,
tearstained face by his helm covered,
Phinnaeus looked into her eyes,
and said, with all effort weeping quelled:

“Off to war, my love, I must go,
and if I should die, then just know
that I loved thee more than living,
my sweet, dearest Marouelle.”

Tears flowed down her smooth face as he
kissed her and then said, “I love thee,
higher than the silver moonbeams
gracing your face, Marouelle.”

As he turned to leave, she called him,
“Before you leave High Anterrim,
take this flower from the mountains.
Keep it safe; protect it well.

Then she handed him a flower,
dark blue as the midnight hour,
fragrant petals full of beauty,
just like the fair Marouelle.

He tipped his helm in thanks and then rode
off to war, Regala bestrode
as she watched him, weeping, weeping,
hoping that he would do well.

Months of war did pass and still she
waited for whatever will be,
watching, wanting, hoping, praying,
that someone some news could tell.

In the spring at last it ended:
to its end the war had wended.
Phinnaeus returned but she then saw
her love wasn’t faring well.

Down his side was bared a long gash,
one limp hand, it seemed, had been smashed,
a blood-red bandage o’er his forehead
as he croaked, “My Marouelle?”

“He’ll die within the hour!” someone said,
“Very soon this man shall be dead!
It shall not be long now ‘til
this man shall meet Heav’n or Hell!

Marouelle lamented, crying,
“I shall save my love from dying!”
Covering his wounds, she healed him,
fairest, bravest Marouelle.

“’Tis a witch!” the crowd then shouted.
“Kill her! Kill the witch!” they shouted.
Then they slit her throat so cruelly—
they killed there sweet Marouelle!

Phinnaeus awoke and saw her,
lovely Marouelle now slaughtered,
as her blood did trickle slowly
‘cross her neck and off her fell.

“Marouelle, my love!” then trilled he,
“Oh, what madness! They have killed thee!
What ill fate conspired against us?
Someone, please, I beg do tell!”

Years have passed, and still the flower
remains with him every hour,
reminding him forever always
of the fairest Marouelle.

Killed was she, though they ne’er knew her.
Without e’en a care they slew her.
Yes, Phinnaeus remembers.
Yes, he still remembers well…

Now this story, like all others
must end here, but still dear brothers,
do remember of those lovers,
Phinnaeus and Marouelle!



-D.B.