I. THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE.
[_]
The incidents in this, and the other ballad of St. George
and the Dragon, are chiefly taken from the old story-book
of the Seven Champions of Christendome; which, tho' now
the play-thing of children, was once in high repute. Bp.
Hall in his satires, published in 1597, ranks
“St. George's sorell, and his cross of blood”
among the most popular stories of his time: and an ingenious
critic thinks that Spencer himself did not disdain to borrow
hints from it
; tho' I much doubt whether this popular romance
were written so early as the Faery Queen.
The author of this book of the Seven Champions was
one Richard Johnson, who lived in the reigns of Elizabeth
and James, as we collect from his other publications: viz.—“The
nine worthies of London: 1592. 4to.—“The pleasant
walks of Moor-fields: 1607. 4to.—“A crown garland of
Goulden Roses, gathered, &c. 1612. 8vo.—“The life and
death of Rob. Cecill, E. of Salisbury: 1612. 4to.—“The hist.
of Tom of Lincoln, 4to.” is also by R. J. who likewise reprinted
“Don Flores of Greece, 4to.”
The Seven Champions, tho' written in a wild inflated style,
contains some strong Gothic painting; which seems, for the most
art, copied from the metrical romances of former ages. At least
the story of St. George and the fair Sabra, is taken almost verbatim
from the old poetical legend of “Syr Bevis of Hampton.”
This very antique poem was in great fame in Chaucer's
time, [see above pag. 100.] and so continued till the introduction
of printing, when it ran thro' several editions; two
of which are in black letter, 4to, “imprinted by Wyllyam
“Copland” without date; containing great variations.
As a specimen of the poetic powers of this very old rhimist,
and as a proof how closely the author of the Seven Champions
has followed him, take a description of the dragon slain by sir Bevis.
“—Whan the dragon, that foule is,
“Had a syght of syr Bevis,
“He cast up a loude cry,
“As it had thondred in the sky;
“He turned his bely towarde the son;
“It was greater than any tonne:
“His scales was bryghter then the glas,
“And harder they were than any bras:
“Betwene his shulder and his tayle,
“Was forty fote withoute fayle.
“He waltred out of his denne,
“And Bevis pricked his stede then,
“And to hym a spere he thraste
“That all to shyvers he it braste:
“The dragon then gan Bevis assayle,
“And smote syr Bevis with his tayle;
“Then downe went horse and man,
“And two rybbes of Bevis brused than.
After a long fight, at length, as the dragon was preparing to fly, sir Bevis
“Hit him under the wynge
“As he was in his flyenge,
“There he was tender without scale,
“And Bevis thought to be his bale.
“He smote after, as I you saye,
“With his good sword Morglaye.
“Up to the hiltes Morglay yode
“Through harte, lyver, bone, and bloude:
“To the ground fell the dragon,
“Great joye syr Bevis begon.
“Under the scales al on hight
“He smote off his head forth right,
“And put it on a spere: &c.
Sign. K. iv.
Sir Bevis's dragon is evidently the parent of that in the
Seven Champions, see Chap. III. viz. “The dragon no
sooner had a sight of him [St. George] but he gave such
a terrible peal, as though it had thundered in the elements.
. . . . Betwixt his shoulders and his tail were fifty feet in
distance, his scales glistering as bright as silver, but far
more hard than brass; his belly of the colour of gold, but
bigger than a tun. Thus weltered he from his den, &c.
. . . . The champion . . . gave the dragon such a thrust with
his spear, that it shivered in a thousand pieces: whereat
the furious dragon so fiercely smote him with his venomous
tail, that down fell man and horse; in which fall two
of St. Georges ribs were sore bruised, &c.—At length
. . . St. George smote the dragon under the wing where
it was tender without scale, whereby his good sword Ascalon
with an easie passage went to the very hilt through
both the dragon's heart, liver, bone and blood—Then St.
George—cut off the dragon's head and pitcht it upon the
truncheon of a spear, &c.”
The History of the Seven Champions being written just before
the decline of books of chivalry was never, I believe,
translated into any foreign language: But “Le Roman de
Beuves of Hantonne,” was published at Paris in 1502, 4to. Let. Gothique.
The learned Selden tells us that about the time of the
Norman invasion was Bevis famous with the title of Earl of
Southampton, whose residence was at Dunction in Wiltshire;
but observes that the monkish enlargements of his story, have
made his very existence doubted. See Notes on Poly-Olbion, Song III.
As for the martial History of St. George, it is given up
as entirely apocryphal. The equestrian figure, worn by the
knights of the garter, has been understood to be an emblem of
the christian warrior, in his spiritual armour, vanquishing
the old serpent. But a learned writer has lately shewn that
it is neither more nor less, than a charm or amulet borrowed
from some eastern heretics; which having been originally
worn as a protection from the malignity of the air, at length
was considered as a preservative from wounds, and a means
to insure victory in battle. For it seems the ancient orientals
represented the sun by a man on horseback; the sun's rays by a spear; and any noxious exhalation by a serpent.
See Petingall's dissertation. 4to.
It cannot be denied, but that a great part of the following
ballad is modern: for which reason it would have been
thrown to the end of the volume, had not its subject procured it a place here.
Listen, lords, in bower and hall,
I sing the wonderous birth
Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm
Rid monsters from the earth:
Distressed ladies to relieve
He travell'd many a day;
In honour of the christian faith,
Which shall endure for aye.
In Coventry sometime did dwell
A knight of worthy fame,
High steward of this noble realme;
Lord Albret was his name.
He had to wife a princelye dame,
Whose beauty did excell.
This virtuous lady, being with child,
In sudden sadness fell:
For thirty nights no sooner sleepe
Had clos'd her wakeful eyes,
But, lo! a foul and fearful dreame
Her fancy did surprize:
She dreamt a dragon fierce and fell
Conceiv'd within her womb;
Whose mortal fangs her body rent
Ere he to life could come.
All woe-begone, and sad was she;
She nourisht constant woe:
Yet strove to hide it from her lord,
Lest he should sorrow know.
In vain she strove, her tender lord,
Who watch'd her slightest look,
Discover'd soon her secret paine,
And soon that paine partook.
And when to him the fearful cause
She weeping did impart,
With kindest speech he strove to heal
The anguish of her heart.
Be comforted, my lady deare,
Those pearly drops refraine;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll try to ease thy paine.
And for this foul and fearful dreame,
That causeth all thy woe,
Trust me I'll travel far away
But I'll the meaning knowe.
Then giving many a fond embrace,
And shedding many a teare,
To the weïrd lady of the woods
He purpos'd to repaire.
To the weïrd lady of the woods,
Full long and many a daye,
Thro' lonely shades, and thickets rough
He winds his weary waye.
At length he reach'd a dreary dell
With dismal yews o'erhung;
Where cypress spred it's mournful boughes,
And pois'nous nightshade sprung.
No chearful gleams here pierc'd the gloome,
He hears no chearful sound;
But shrill night-ravens yelling screame,
And serpents hiss around.
The shriek of fiends, and damned ghosts
Ran howling thro' his eare:
A chilling horror froze his heart,
Tho' all unus'd to feare.
Three times he strives to win his waye,
And pierce those sickly dewes:
Three times to bear his trembling corse
His knocking knees refuse.
At length upon his beating breast
He signs the holy crosse;
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th'unhallow'd mosse.
Beneath a pendent craggy cliffe,
All vaulted like a grave,
And opening in the solid rocke,
He found the inchanted cave.
An iron grate clos'd up the mouthe,
All hideous and forlorne;
And, fasten'd by a silver chaine,
Near hung a brazen horne.
Then offering up a ‘secret prayer,’
Three times he blowes amaine:
Three times a deepe and hollow sound
Did answer him againe.
“Sir knight, thy lady beares a son,
“Who, like a dragon bright,
“Shall prove most dreadful to his foes,
“And terrible in fight.
“His name advanc'd in future times
“On banners shall be worne:
“But lo! thy lady's life must passe
“Before he can be borne.”
All sore opprest with feare and doubt
Long time lord Albret stood;
At length he winds his doubtful waye
Back thro' the dreary wood.
Eager to clasp his lovelye dame
Then fast he travels backe:
But when he reach'd his castle gate,
His gate was hung with blacke.
In every court and hall he found
A sullen silence reigne;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maidens' plaine;
And bitterly lament and weepe,
With many a grievous grone:
Then sore his bleeding heart misgave,
His lady's life was gone.
With faultering step he enters in,
Yet half affraid to goe;
With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.
“Three times the sun hath rose and set;
They said, then stopt to weepe:
“Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare
“In death's eternal sleepe.
“For, ah! in travel sore she fell,
“So sore that she must dye;
“Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
“Could ease her presentlye.
“But when a cunning leech was fet,
“Too soon declared hee,
“She, or her babe must lose its life;
“Both saved could not bee.
“Now take my life, thy lady said,
“My little infant save:
“And O commend me to my lord,
“When I am laid in grave.
“O tell him how that precious babe
“Cost him a tender wife:
“And teach my son to lisp her name,
“Who died to save his life.
“Then calling still upon thy name,
“And praying still for thee;
“Without repining or complaint,
“Her gentle soul did flee.”
What tongue can paint lord Albret's woe,
The bitter tears he shed,
The bitter pangs that wrung his heart,
To find his lady dead?
He beat his breast: he tore his hair:
And shedding many a teare,
At length he askt to see his son;
The son that cost so deare.
New sorrowe seiz'd the damsells all:
At length they faultering saye;
“Alas! my lord, how shall we tell?
“Thy son is stoln awaye.
“Faire as the sweetest flower of spring,
“Such was his infant mien:
“And on his little body stampt
“Three wonderous marks were seen:
“A blood-red cross was on his arme;
“A dragon on his breast:
“A little garter all of gold
“Was round his leg exprest.
“Three carefull nurses we provide
“Our little lord to keepe:
“One gave him sucke, one gave him food,
“And one did lull to sleepe.
“But lo! all in the dead of night,
“We heard a fearful sound:
“Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook;
“And lightning flasht around.
“Dead with affright at first we lay;
“But rousing up anon,
“We ran to see our little lord:
“Our little lord was gone!
“But how or where we could not tell;
“For lying on the ground,
“In deep and magic slumbers laid,
“The nurses there we found.”
O grief on grief! lord Albret said:
No more his tongue cou'd say,
When falling in a deadly swoone,
Long time he lifeless lay.
At length restor'd to life and sense
He nourisht endless woe,
No future joy his heart could taste,
No future comfort knowe.
So withers on the mountain top
A fair and stately oake,
Whose vigorous arms are torne away,
By some rude thunder-stroke.
At length his castle irksome grew,
He loathes his wonted home;
His native country he forsakes
In foreign lands to roame.
There up and downe he wandered far,
Clad in a palmer's gowne;
Till his brown locks grew white as wool,
His beard as thistle downe.
At length, all wearied, down in death
He laid his reverend head.
Meantime amid the lonely wilds
His little son was bred.
There the weïrd lady of the woods
Had borne him far away,
And train'd him up in feates of armes,
And every martial play.
