 | The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber |  |
Ycy commence le II Chant du Bon Roy Pantagruelle.
Lysten Lordynges to the tale
Of Pantagruelle and hys travayle.
He through many a lande has gone,
Pantagruelle hymself alone;
Many a hyll most hyghe has clome,
Many a broade rivere has swome.
He paste through Cathaye and Picardie,
Babylon, Scotland, and Italie;
And asked of alle as yt befelle,
But of no adventure herde he telle,
Tyl after manie a wearie daye,
Lyghtly he came to a foreste graye:
Manie an auncient oke dyd growe,
Doddered and frynged with mysletoe;
Manie an ashe of paly hue
Whyspered yn every breeze that blewe.
Pantagruelle hath sworne by Mahoune,
Bye Termagaunt and by Abadoune,
Bye Venus, thatte was soe sterne and stronge,
And Apollin with hornes longe,
And other fiendes of Maumetrye,
That the ende of that foreste he would see.
Of Pantagruelle and hys travayle.
He through many a lande has gone,
Pantagruelle hymself alone;
Many a hyll most hyghe has clome,
Many a broade rivere has swome.
348
Babylon, Scotland, and Italie;
And asked of alle as yt befelle,
But of no adventure herde he telle,
Tyl after manie a wearie daye,
Lyghtly he came to a foreste graye:
Manie an auncient oke dyd growe,
Doddered and frynged with mysletoe;
Manie an ashe of paly hue
Whyspered yn every breeze that blewe.
Pantagruelle hath sworne by Mahoune,
Bye Termagaunt and by Abadoune,
Bye Venus, thatte was soe sterne and stronge,
And Apollin with hornes longe,
And other fiendes of Maumetrye,
That the ende of that foreste he would see.
Lysten Lordinges the soothe I tell:
Nothyng was true that here befelle,
But all the okes that flourished soe free,
Flourished only in grammarie;
In that same foreste nothing grewe
But broad and darke the boughes of yew.
Sothely I tell you and indede
There was many a wicked weede;
There was the wolf-bane greene and highe,
Whoso smelleth the same shall die,
And the long grasse wyth poyson mixed,
Adders coyled and hyssed betwixt.
Nothyng was true that here befelle,
But all the okes that flourished soe free,
Flourished only in grammarie;
In that same foreste nothing grewe
But broad and darke the boughes of yew.
349
There was many a wicked weede;
There was the wolf-bane greene and highe,
Whoso smelleth the same shall die,
And the long grasse wyth poyson mixed,
Adders coyled and hyssed betwixt.
Yn thatte same chace myghte noe man hear
Hunter or horn or hounde or deer;
Neyther dared yn thatte wood to goe
Coney or martin, or hare or doe.
Nor on the shawe the byrdes gay,
Starling, Cuckoo, or Popynjay;
But Gryphon fanged, and bristly boare,
Gnarred and fomed hys way before,
And the beeste who can falsely weepe,
Crocodilus, was here goode chepe;
Satyr, and Leopard, and Tygris,
Bloody Camelopardalys,
And every make of beastes bolde,
Nestled and roared in that their holde.
Dayes and nyghtes but only IV,
And Pantagruelle could ryde no more.
Hys shoulders were by hys helmet worne,
He was a wearye wyghte forlorne,
And hys cheeke thatte was soe redde,
Colde and darke as the beaten ledde.
Hys destriere might no further passe,
It lothed to taste that evyl grasse.
Heavy he clombe from offe hys steede,
Of hys lyfe he stoode in drede:
“Alacke, alacke, Cycelie,
Here I dye for love of thee!”
Forth through the thorny brake hee paste,
Tylle he came to a poole at laste;
And bye that poole of water clere
Satte a manne chylde of seven yere;
Clothed he was in scarlet and graine,
Cloth of silver and cordovaine;
As a field flower he was faire,
Seemed he was some Erle's heir,
And perchynge on hys wriste so free,
A purple Faucon there was to see.
Courteous hee turned hym to that Peere,
But Pantagruelle made sory cheare.
Highe and stately that boye hym bare,
And bade hym abyde hys Father there.
When the Father was there yn place,
Never had knyght so foul a face;
He was tusked as anie boare,
Brystly behind and eke before;
Lyons staring as they were wood,
Salvage bull that liveth on blood,
He was fylthy as any sowe,
Blacke and hairy as a black cowe;
All yn a holy priest's attyre,
Never was seene so fowle a syre.
Hunter or horn or hounde or deer;
Neyther dared yn thatte wood to goe
Coney or martin, or hare or doe.
Nor on the shawe the byrdes gay,
Starling, Cuckoo, or Popynjay;
But Gryphon fanged, and bristly boare,
Gnarred and fomed hys way before,
And the beeste who can falsely weepe,
Crocodilus, was here goode chepe;
Satyr, and Leopard, and Tygris,
Bloody Camelopardalys,
And every make of beastes bolde,
Nestled and roared in that their holde.
Dayes and nyghtes but only IV,
And Pantagruelle could ryde no more.
350
He was a wearye wyghte forlorne,
And hys cheeke thatte was soe redde,
Colde and darke as the beaten ledde.
Hys destriere might no further passe,
It lothed to taste that evyl grasse.
Heavy he clombe from offe hys steede,
Of hys lyfe he stoode in drede:
“Alacke, alacke, Cycelie,
Here I dye for love of thee!”
Forth through the thorny brake hee paste,
Tylle he came to a poole at laste;
And bye that poole of water clere
Satte a manne chylde of seven yere;
Clothed he was in scarlet and graine,
Cloth of silver and cordovaine;
As a field flower he was faire,
Seemed he was some Erle's heir,
And perchynge on hys wriste so free,
A purple Faucon there was to see.
Courteous hee turned hym to that Peere,
But Pantagruelle made sory cheare.
Highe and stately that boye hym bare,
And bade hym abyde hys Father there.
351
Never had knyght so foul a face;
He was tusked as anie boare,
Brystly behind and eke before;
Lyons staring as they were wood,
Salvage bull that liveth on blood,
He was fylthy as any sowe,
Blacke and hairy as a black cowe;
All yn a holy priest's attyre,
Never was seene so fowle a syre.
| The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber | |