The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

The main circumstance of this story—a knight fighting against three, with no other coat of mail than the delicatest garment of his mistress —is taken from one of the Fabliaux that were versified by the late Mr. Way. The lady's appearance in the garment, after the battle, is from the same poem. The turn given to these incidents, the colouring, and the sentiment, are the work of the present writer. The original is a curious specimen of the license of old times. A married woman, who has a good-humoured craven for her husband, is made love to by three knights; to each of whom, as a trial of his affection, and by way of proving the tenderness of her deserts, she proposes that he shall mix in the fight of a tournament, with no other covering to his body than the one just mentioned. Two of them decline the experiment; the third accepts it, is victorious, and, in order to be on a par with her in delicacy of sentiment, requests that she will make her appearance at her husband's table in the triumphant investment. She does so; the guests are struck with admiration;

“While the good spouse (not bold, 'twas lately sung)
Cast down his honest eyes, and held his tongue.

“Speak, guileless damsels! Dames, in love well read!
Speak, Sirs! in chivalry and honour bred;
Who best deserves—the lady or the knight?
He death who braved, or she, censorious spite?”

Allowance is to be made for the opinions of a different age; and we see, even here, right and wrong principles struggling in the perplexities of custom. But the cultivation of brute force is uppermost; and nothing can reconcile us to the disposition of the woman who could speculate upon such a tribute to her vanity. It is hoped that the heroine of the following version of the story, without being wanting in self-love, is a little better, and not unsuited to any age.

It has been thought by some persons (and I am ashamed for their sakes, not for my own, to say it) that the leading subject of the poem, a shift, is unfit for relation! In the name of common sense and modesty, on what ground? I confess I should think very ill of any mind, not perverted in its ideas by the worst kind of town life, that could entertain so unworthy a fancy. Most assuredly I wrote for no such persons, but for the innocent, the noble, and the wise. I certainly, especially after such warning, would not read the poem to everybody. I would not have read it, for instance, had I lived in their days, to the club-rooms of Tom Brown and Tom D'Urfey; and I might have had doubts of the audiences of Mrs. Behn and Mrs. Centlivre; but I could have read it with pleasure (literary modesty apart) to Addison and Steele, to Atterbury and Berkeley, to their wives and to their daughters. I would have said nothing about the story in the circles of King Charles the Second, male or female; nothing to the Buckinghams and Rochesters, or the Duchesses of Cleveland and Portsmouth; but I would have repeated it without hesitation to Cowley, to Evelyn, to Andrew Marvel, to Milton himself, and to every woman whom they respected;—to Lady Fanshawe, and to Lucy Hutchinson. “No thought infirm,” I would be sworn, would have “altered their cheek.” They would have thought of nothing but the sentiment, and virtues, and nobleness of the story. With those only would cheeks like theirs have glowed.

Of some imaginable living readers, equally refined, it does not become me to speak; but I may add, that “those poor, noble, wounded, and sick men,” who are suffering for us in the East, would find the achievements, and probably the affections of the story, too much like some of their own to disrespect them: nor do I believe it would be despised even by the divine women who have gone to pour balm into their wounds.

CANTO I.

A lady's gift I sing, which meant in blame,
His glorious hauberk to a knight became,
And in the field such dire belabouring bore,
As gentle armour never stood before;
A song of love, fit for the purest ears,
With smiles begun and clos'd, and manhood in the tears.

There liv'd a knight, when knighthood was in flow'r,
Who charm'd alike the tilt-yard and the bow'r;
Young, handsome, blythe, loyal and brave of course,
He stuck as firmly to his friend as horse;
And only show'd, for so complete a youth,
Somewhat too perfect a regard for truth.
He own'd 'twas inconvenient; sometimes felt
A wish 'twere buckled in another's belt;
Doubted its modesty, its use, its right,
Yet after all remain'd the same true knight:
So potent is a custom early taught;
And to such straits may honest men be brought.

'Tis true, to be believ'd was held a claim
Of gentle blood, and not to be, a shame:—
A liar, notorious as the noonday sun,
Was bound to fight you, if you call'd him one:—
But yet to be so nice, and stand, profess'd,
All truth, was held a pedantry at best;
Invidious by the men; and by the fair
A thing at once to dote on and beware.
What bliss to meet his flatteries, eye to eye!
But could he not, then, tell one little lie?

At length, our hero found, to take his part,
A lovely girl, a quick and virgin heart,
One that believ'd what any friend averr'd,
Much more the whisp'rer of earth's sweetest word.
He lov'd her for her cordial, trusting ways,
Her love of love, and readiness to praise;
And she lov'd him because he told her so,
And truth makes true love doubly sweet to know.

It chanc'd this lady in relation stood
To one as beautiful, but not so good,
Who had been blaz'd, for what indeed she was,
By a young lord, over his hippocras,
Her lover once, but now so far from tender,
He swore he'd kick her very least defender.

The world look'd hard for some one of her kin
To teach this spark to look to his own skin;
But no one came: the lady wept for spite:
At length her cousin ask'd it of the knight.

The knight look'd troubled to the last degree,
Turn'd pale, then red, but said it could not be.
With many sighs he said it, many pray'rs
To be well construed—nay, at last with tears:
And own'd a knight might possibly be better,
Who read the truth less nicely to the letter;
But 'twas his weakness—'twas his education,—
A dying priest had taught him, his relation,
A kind of saint, who meant him for the church,
And thus had left his breeding in the lurch;
The good old man! he lov'd him, and took blame
(He own'd it) thus to mix his love with shame:
“But oh reflect, my sweet one,” cried the youth,
“How you yourself have lov'd me for my truth;
How I love you for loving it, and how
Secure it makes us of our mutual vow.
To feel this hand, to look into those eyes,—
It makes me feel as sure as of the earth and skies.”

“I did love, and I do,” the lady cried,
With hand but half allow'd, and cheek aside;
“But then I thought you took me at my word,
And would have scorn'd what I pronounc'd absurd.
My cousin's wrong'd; I'm sure of it; do you
Be sure as well, and show what you can do:
Let but one mind be seen betwixt us two.”

In vain our hero, while his aspect glow'd
To hear these lovely words, the difference show'd
'Twixt her kind wishes and an ill desert:
The more he talk'd, the more her pride was hurt,
Till rais'd from glow to glow, and tear to tear,
And pique to injury, she spoke of fear.

“Fear!” cried the knight, blushing because he blush'd,
While sorrow through his gaze in wonder rush'd;

“Had I been present when this lord was heard,
I might perhaps have stopp'd him with a word;
One word (had I suspected it) to show
How ignorant you were of what all know;
And with what passion you could take the part
Of one, unworthy of your loving heart:
But when I know the truth, and know that he
Knew not, nor thought, of either you or me,
And when I'm call'd on, and in open day,
To swear that true is false, and yea is nay,
And know I'm in a lie, and yet go through it,
By all that's blest I own I cannot do it.
Let me but feel me buckled for the right,
And come a world in arms, I'm still a knight:
But give my foe the truth, and me the fraud,
And the pale scholar of the priest is awed.”

“Say not the word,” the hasty fair one cried:
“I see it all, and wish I might have died.
Go, Sir, oh go! a soldier and afraid!
Was it for this you lov'd a trusting maid?
Your presence kills me, Sir, with shame and grief.”—
She said; and sunk in tears and handkerchief.

“Ah, Mabel,” said the knight, as with a kiss
He bow'd on her dropp'd head, “you'll mourn for this.”
He look'd upon her glossy locks, admir'd
Their gentleness for once, and with a sigh retir'd.

From day to day Sir Hugh has paced his floor,
Look'd out of window, listen'd at the door,
Wrote twice; wrote thrice; learnt of her health; took up
His lute, his book; fill'd, and forgot, a cup;
Tried all but pride, and found no comfort still:
Lov'd him she had, but more had loved her will.

It chanc'd a short time after, that the king
Proclaim'd a joust at the return of spring:
The suburb was all hammers, boards, and crowd;
The knights and tailors pleas'd, the ladies proud;
All but our hero, and the cousins twain,
Who nurs'd their several sullenness of pain,

And tore in secret much their mental hair;
The ladies that they had no lovers there,
The gentle knight in amorous despair.
The lord who had denounc'd the light one's name,
Seeing no step to vindicate her fame,
And hearing of her cousin's broken vow,
Would laugh, and lift his shoulders and his brow,
And talk of tricks that run in families;
And then he'd lift his glass, and looking wise,
Drink to the health of “Truth betwixt two Lies.”
Two fluster'd fools, though brave, and men of birth,
There were, who join'd in this unseemly mirth;
Fellows who knew, and knew it to their shame,
The worth of one, and chaff of t'other dame.
These clubb'd their jealousies, revenge, and spite,
Till broad the scandal grew, and reach'd the knight.

Our lover heard with mingled rage and joy,
Then rose from out his grief, and call'd his boy,
(A pretty page with letter-bearing face,)
And wrote his mistress to implore her grace;
Her grace and pardon to implore, and some
Small favour for the battle, now to come,—
A glove, a string, aught but a cruel No,
To plume his next day's pounce upon the foe.
The page returns with doubt upon his eyes,
And brings a packet which his lord unties.
“My lady wrote not, saw me not,” he said,
“But sends that answer to the note instead.”
“This string,” exclaims the knight,—“Cut it.” They lift
A lid of pasteboard, and behold—a shift!

CANTO II.

“Now whether shame she means me, or my bliss,”
The knight he cries, “thank her for this, for this!”
And as he spoke, he smother'd up a kiss:—
“To-morrow sees me panoplied indeed,
And blessed be the thought shall clasp me while I bleed!”

Next day the lists are set, the trumpets blown,
And grace requested for a knight unknown.
Who summons, and to mortal fight defies,
Three lordly knights for most unlordly calumnies.
What calumnies they are, he need not tell;
Their names and consciences will serve as well.
The names are then resounded through the place,
And tow'rds the entrance turns the universal face.

With scorn and rage the sturdy gallants hear,
And ask what madman wants a sepulchre;
But when the stranger, with his face unshown,
Rides in, accoutred in a shift alone,
(For on his trunk at least was naught beside)
The doubtful laughter in amazement died.
'Twas clear the champion would be drench'd with wounds,
Yet see how calm he rides the accustom'd rounds.
His mould is manly as the lawn is frail,
A shield is on his arm, his legs and thighs in mail;—
The herald's laws forbid a wounded steed;—
All strain their eyes, and on the shift they read,
Written in black, and answering to the part
The motto spoke of, “It has touch'd her heart.”

To admiration deep th' amazement turns,
The dumbness to discourse, which deeply burns;
Till the four parties to their posts fall in,
And soft eyes dazzle, ere the blows begin.

No stint or measure in his gallantry
The stranger knew; but took at once all three:
The trumpets blew their blast of bloody weather,
The swords are out, the warriors rush together,
And with such bulk and tempest comes the knight,
One of the three is overborne outright,
Saddle and man, and snaps his wrist. The wretch
Proclaims his rage and torture in a screech.
The three had thought to save the shift, and bring
The wearer down, for laughter to the king:
But seeing what they see, and both on fire
To reach him first, they turn and charge in ire,

And mix the fight; and such a storm succeeds
Of clatt'ring shields, and helms, and hurtling steeds,
With such a toil pell-mell, now that, now this,
Above, beneath, and rage of hit and miss,
And horses half on ground, or staring high,
And crouching skill, and trampling sov'reignty,
That never was beheld a sight so fit
To baffle and turn pale the gazer's wit.
Nathless such skill the marv'llous knight display'd,
The shift some time was spotless as the maid;
Till a great gush proclaiming blood was drawn,
Redder and redder grew the dainty lawn,
And drench'd and dripping, not a thread there stood,
But what was bath'd in his benignant blood.
Sudden he turn'd; and whirling like a wheel,
In both their teeth sent round the whistling steel;
Then with a jovial wrist, he flash'd it down,
And cleft the right man's shoulder to the bone;
Who fell, and like the first was borne aside:
“Is it a devil, or a saint?” they cried:
A tenderer murmur midst the ladies ran:
With tears they bless'd “the angel of a man.”

The gallant lord was now the only foe,
And fresh he seem'd: the knight could not be so;
In that last blow his strength must have been summ'd;
His arm appears unhing'd, his brain benumb'd;
And as the sword seems carving him to death,
At ev'ry gash the crowd draw in their breath.
Sudden the blades are snapp'd; the clubs of steel
Are call'd; the stranger is observ'd to reel;
Then grasps with both his hands the saddle-bow,
And bends for breath; the people cry “No! No!”
And all the court unconsciously arise:
The ladies on the king turn weeping eyes,
And manly pray'rs are mix'd with sobs and cries.
The monarch was about to part the fight,
When, his club brought, sore passion seized the knight,
Who grasp'd it, rais'd it like an iron frown,
And rising in his stirrups, sent it down:

It met the other's, taking heavier pains,
And dash'd it, club and helmet, in his brains.
A stifled shriek is heard, the victim falls,
The victor too: “Help! Help!” the monarch calls;
A shout, half terror, shakes the suburb walls.

His helm unloos'd, they recognize the face
Of the best knight that ever bore disgrace,
Now seeming dead, and gone to his long rest
In comfort cold of that hard-hearted vest.
The loveliest ladies kiss him as he lay,
Then watch the leech, who cuts his vest away,
And clears his wounds. The weeping dames prepare
Linen and balms, and part his forlorn hair,
And let upon his face the blessed air.

Meanwhile the tidings to his mistress come,
Who clasps her hands and for a while is dumb;
Then owns the secret why the shift was sent,
But said he far exceeded what she meant.
Pale and despairing to the spot she flies,
Where in his death-like rest her lover lies,
And prays to be let in:—they let her in:
She sees his hands laid straight, and his pale chin,
Nor dares advance to look upon his face,
Till round her come the ladies in the place,
Who comfort her, and say she must complete
The cure, and set her in the nurse's seat.

All day she watch'd, all night, and all next day,
And scarcely turn'd her face, except to pray,
Till the third morn; when, breathing with a moan,
And feeling the soft hand that clasp'd his own,
He woke, and saw the face that had not ceas'd
To haunt his thoughts, in forest or at feast,
Visibly present, sweet with begging fears,
And eyes that lov'd him through remorseful tears.
Ah! love is a soft thing; and strongest eyes
Might answer, as his did, with wells of balmy rise.

What need I say? a loitering cure is his,
But full of sweets, and precious memories,
And whispers, laden from the land of bliss.
Sir Hugo with the lark has left his bed;
'Tis June; 'tis lover's month; in short, they wed.
But how? like other people, you suppose,
In silks and state, as all good story goes.
The bridegroom did, and never look'd so well,
Not e'en when in the shift he fought pell-mell;
But the fair bride, instead of things that bless
Wedding-day eyes, display'd a marvellous dress,—
Marvellous, and homely, and in open sight;
The people were so mov'd, they wept outright.

For lo! with hair let loose about her ears,
And taper in her hand the fair appears,
And naked feet, a rosy saint at shrift,
And round her bosom hangs the ruddy shift:
Tatter'd it hangs, all cut and carv'd to rags;
Not fairer droop, when the great organ drags
Its thunders forth, a church's hundred flags.
With glimmering tears she hastens to his feet,
And kneels to kiss them in the public street,
Then takes his hand, and ere she will arise,
Entreats for pardon at his gracious eyes;
And hopes he will not scorn her love for life,
As his most humble and most honour'd wife.

Awhile her lord, with manly deference stood
Wrapt in the sweetness of that angel mood;
Then stoop'd, and on her brow his soul impress'd,
And at the altar thus the bride was dress'd.