 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
26
THE “FRIAR AND THE ASS.”
[_]
The story is founded on an old Italian novel called “Novella di Gianni Andato al Bosco, a far legno.”
Io dirò cosa incredibile e vera.
—Dante.
Soft his low banks where sleepy Mincio laves,
Worn with the strife of Guarda's stormy waves;
And hills by poets loved, and many a town
Unfading beauty blend with old renown,
And still thine empire keep, oh Italy,
Which was, and is, and evermore shall be,
There dwelt, tradition thus preserves the tale,
A simple peasant in a quiet vale.
Worn with the strife of Guarda's stormy waves;
And hills by poets loved, and many a town
Unfading beauty blend with old renown,
And still thine empire keep, oh Italy,
Which was, and is, and evermore shall be,
There dwelt, tradition thus preserves the tale,
A simple peasant in a quiet vale.
He knew but one condition from his birth,
To toil, sole guerdon of the sons of earth;
And tilled his scanty fields with little care,
Want stood aloof, though plenty came not there;
Yet still for holytides he kept a hoard
To mark the day, and grace his frugal board,
For of the saints, and tales of saintly lore,
Great was his love, and growing still his store.
To toil, sole guerdon of the sons of earth;
And tilled his scanty fields with little care,
Want stood aloof, though plenty came not there;
34
To mark the day, and grace his frugal board,
For of the saints, and tales of saintly lore,
Great was his love, and growing still his store.
Hard by his home an ancient wood o'erspread
The vale, divided by a river's bed,
That through its depths with melancholy tone
Swept on, by curling mists at evening shewn,
Grateful its shade, when summer's noontide glare
Blent wave and mountain with the dazzling air,
When his white robes had winter stern arrayed,
Its shelter warm, and grateful still its shade,
There with his ass of much-enduring mood,
Faggots he cut, and logs for fuel hewed;
And cheered poor Sancho with a hearty thwack,
When he heaped up the billets on his back,
Yet still his path along the outskirts kept,
Or open dingles, where the sunbeams slept,
Nor ever had he wandered farther in
Through the thick brakes that looked as black as sin,
He feared each long and sombre avenue,
The haunt of goblin grim, or loup-garou,
For all around was nothing to be seen
But thick-set branches, clothed in dismal green,
Nor birds were there, but ravens dark and rooks,
And moping owls in solitary nooks,
Nor beasts, save wandering hogs, that sought for mast,
And oft he crossed himself if they came past,
For into swine he knew that devils once were cast.
The vale, divided by a river's bed,
That through its depths with melancholy tone
Swept on, by curling mists at evening shewn,
Grateful its shade, when summer's noontide glare
Blent wave and mountain with the dazzling air,
When his white robes had winter stern arrayed,
Its shelter warm, and grateful still its shade,
There with his ass of much-enduring mood,
Faggots he cut, and logs for fuel hewed;
And cheered poor Sancho with a hearty thwack,
When he heaped up the billets on his back,
Yet still his path along the outskirts kept,
Or open dingles, where the sunbeams slept,
Nor ever had he wandered farther in
Through the thick brakes that looked as black as sin,
He feared each long and sombre avenue,
The haunt of goblin grim, or loup-garou,
For all around was nothing to be seen
But thick-set branches, clothed in dismal green,
35
And moping owls in solitary nooks,
Nor beasts, save wandering hogs, that sought for mast,
And oft he crossed himself if they came past,
For into swine he knew that devils once were cast.
It chanced one morning as to work he hied,
A distant tower unseen before he spied;
For the wild winter's wind a gap had made,
And heavy snows on brittle pines that laid,
And a new vista to the sight displayed.
At first he paused, and thought of goblin tricks,
But plucked up courage at the crucifix
That glittered clearly in the frosty air,
And showed the house of holy men was there;
Then with adventurous spirit brave and bold,
He sung three aves, and his beads he told,
And set forth towards this new discovery,
But tied his trusty ass beneath a tree.
A distant tower unseen before he spied;
For the wild winter's wind a gap had made,
And heavy snows on brittle pines that laid,
And a new vista to the sight displayed.
At first he paused, and thought of goblin tricks,
But plucked up courage at the crucifix
That glittered clearly in the frosty air,
And showed the house of holy men was there;
Then with adventurous spirit brave and bold,
He sung three aves, and his beads he told,
And set forth towards this new discovery,
But tied his trusty ass beneath a tree.
Just then two friars came slowly up the road
With sturdy backs, that bowed beneath their load,
For mendicants they were, who all around,
Begged alms, with good St. Francis' girdle bound,
And fitting was it, so they preached and said,
That all the neighbourhood should give them bread,
Who for the sins of all, so sore their saint bestead;
So round they went, and took their tithe in kind,
Sure proof of godliness, and willing mind;
And still by all 'twas ready to be paid,
Whate'er they asked, by matron and by maid;
For them poor Chanticleer forsook his post,
His cheerful voice, the village clock, was lost;
But 'twas no matter, for the convent tower
Far o'er the hills, could still proclaim the hour;
For them the earliest salads of the year,
And ripest fruits the peasant strove to rear,
And maize from off the terraced mountain's brow,
And sweetest cheeses from his only cow;
And they with holy words repaid the gift,
And absolution gave, and pious shrift,
And built up many a chapel for their saint
By the road side, lest zeal and grace should faint.
Which oft they visited in long array,
As circling months brought round a solemn day.
With sturdy backs, that bowed beneath their load,
For mendicants they were, who all around,
Begged alms, with good St. Francis' girdle bound,
And fitting was it, so they preached and said,
That all the neighbourhood should give them bread,
Who for the sins of all, so sore their saint bestead;
36
Sure proof of godliness, and willing mind;
And still by all 'twas ready to be paid,
Whate'er they asked, by matron and by maid;
For them poor Chanticleer forsook his post,
His cheerful voice, the village clock, was lost;
But 'twas no matter, for the convent tower
Far o'er the hills, could still proclaim the hour;
For them the earliest salads of the year,
And ripest fruits the peasant strove to rear,
And maize from off the terraced mountain's brow,
And sweetest cheeses from his only cow;
And they with holy words repaid the gift,
And absolution gave, and pious shrift,
And built up many a chapel for their saint
By the road side, lest zeal and grace should faint.
Which oft they visited in long array,
As circling months brought round a solemn day.
Of these good brethren the quicker one
Espied the ass, his name was Friar John;
For gibes and jests, in convent walls renowned,
Abroad the readiest at invention found,
Short scraps of prayers he knew, and half the creed,
And stoutly chanted, though he ne'er could read;
But most he shone in 'suasive eloquence,
And thus appeased the Prior for light offence;
No geese or poultry could his suit resist,
Their owners gave them, or they soon were missed;
And loss and murrain, sure they justly bought,
Who gave not alms, or grudged St. Francis aught.
“Gramercy,” quoth he, “but our shoulders' load
On that pack-saddle were as well bestowed;
'Tis a plain sin to slight the saint's decree
Who sent the ass, and tied him to the tree,
Patient his servants' due approach to wait,
Then drive him burthened to the convent gate;
But first put on this halter round my head,
I'll remain here a little in his stead.”
Espied the ass, his name was Friar John;
For gibes and jests, in convent walls renowned,
Abroad the readiest at invention found,
Short scraps of prayers he knew, and half the creed,
And stoutly chanted, though he ne'er could read;
37
And thus appeased the Prior for light offence;
No geese or poultry could his suit resist,
Their owners gave them, or they soon were missed;
And loss and murrain, sure they justly bought,
Who gave not alms, or grudged St. Francis aught.
“Gramercy,” quoth he, “but our shoulders' load
On that pack-saddle were as well bestowed;
'Tis a plain sin to slight the saint's decree
Who sent the ass, and tied him to the tree,
Patient his servants' due approach to wait,
Then drive him burthened to the convent gate;
But first put on this halter round my head,
I'll remain here a little in his stead.”
His fellow stared, and wondered what came next,
So new the sermon, though so old the text,
And loitered: “Hence,” again he cried, “begone,
I too shall follow with to-morrow's sun;
But tell the Prior a fever in the plain
O'ertook me toiling for the convent's gain,
And the good peasant, in whose house I rest
Bade thee go on, and answer for his guest,
And gave, lest like again should come to pass,
And holy men o'er-laboured be, his ass,
So may he be remembered in the mass.”
So new the sermon, though so old the text,
And loitered: “Hence,” again he cried, “begone,
I too shall follow with to-morrow's sun;
But tell the Prior a fever in the plain
O'ertook me toiling for the convent's gain,
And the good peasant, in whose house I rest
Bade thee go on, and answer for his guest,
And gave, lest like again should come to pass,
And holy men o'er-laboured be, his ass,
So may he be remembered in the mass.”
38
Back came the woodman, and the monk was gone,
So was his ass, but there was Friar John,
Erect with saintly garb, and shaven brow,
In the same place, where he the beast but now
Had left, and tethered to the self same bough;
Backward he started with a chilling fear,
And thought some spirit of the wood was near!
Scarce could he stammer, Benedicite,
His tongue seemed shrivelled, and his sense to flee,
His trembling fingers strove to sign the cross,
But strove in vain, and wandered at a loss;
What still at starlit dawn, or twilight grey
He feared to meet with, on his lonely way;
What by his fire, when nights were drear and cold
He heard, long howling on the wint'ry wold;
That viewless presence, which the awful shade
Of the dim forest to his thought conveyed,
And every tree that murmured o'er his head
Its cadence, seemed to summon from the dead.
There stood the very fiend before his sight,—
Tall, dark, and silent in the fading light,
And froze his veins, and palsied e'en his flight:
Then thus the Friar:—“Cease your fear, my son,
Nor tremble holy things to look upon;
No ghost or goblin can this garb assume,
Nor restless spirit, from unsainted tomb,
Of flesh and blood am I, though just restored
To my old shape, for which be Heaven adored!
And you, who quiver there, were long my lord:
Behold the fruits of pride and gluttony,
And shun them both, or fear to follow me;
For I all this, who sinfully forgot,
To a vile ass was changed;—and 'twas my lot,
As well thou knowest,—many a blow to bear!
How hard my burdens, and what scanty fare,
As once, of all our house, the only one,
Dainties profane, my heart was set upon,
Nor vigils kept, nor fasts, but only tried,
With outward show, the rotten core to hide.
Down to a beast, I fell, but still prevailed
My guardian spirit, for so sharply hailed
Oft on my back that stick, which well I know,
So shrewd its summons, and so sharp its blow;
So coarse my thistles, and so galled my skin,
My legs so weary, and my sides so thin,
That the blest company of saints above,
Who wore this girdle, for St. Francis' love,
Joint intercession made, my sentence to remove.
So was his ass, but there was Friar John,
Erect with saintly garb, and shaven brow,
In the same place, where he the beast but now
Had left, and tethered to the self same bough;
Backward he started with a chilling fear,
And thought some spirit of the wood was near!
Scarce could he stammer, Benedicite,
His tongue seemed shrivelled, and his sense to flee,
His trembling fingers strove to sign the cross,
But strove in vain, and wandered at a loss;
What still at starlit dawn, or twilight grey
He feared to meet with, on his lonely way;
What by his fire, when nights were drear and cold
He heard, long howling on the wint'ry wold;
That viewless presence, which the awful shade
Of the dim forest to his thought conveyed,
And every tree that murmured o'er his head
Its cadence, seemed to summon from the dead.
There stood the very fiend before his sight,—
Tall, dark, and silent in the fading light,
And froze his veins, and palsied e'en his flight:
Then thus the Friar:—“Cease your fear, my son,
Nor tremble holy things to look upon;
39
Nor restless spirit, from unsainted tomb,
Of flesh and blood am I, though just restored
To my old shape, for which be Heaven adored!
And you, who quiver there, were long my lord:
Behold the fruits of pride and gluttony,
And shun them both, or fear to follow me;
For I all this, who sinfully forgot,
To a vile ass was changed;—and 'twas my lot,
As well thou knowest,—many a blow to bear!
How hard my burdens, and what scanty fare,
As once, of all our house, the only one,
Dainties profane, my heart was set upon,
Nor vigils kept, nor fasts, but only tried,
With outward show, the rotten core to hide.
Down to a beast, I fell, but still prevailed
My guardian spirit, for so sharply hailed
Oft on my back that stick, which well I know,
So shrewd its summons, and so sharp its blow;
So coarse my thistles, and so galled my skin,
My legs so weary, and my sides so thin,
That the blest company of saints above,
Who wore this girdle, for St. Francis' love,
Joint intercession made, my sentence to remove.
40
“Again I come, once more a man on earth
Absolved from sin, of grace though little worth;
And my long days of degradation seem
Like the dim shadows of a troublous dream,
That daylight strives to banish, yet remain
In memory fixed, and dog the weary brain:
And still this halter seems as 'twere a link
To drag me o'er the precipice's brink.
Untie me, then, for Christian charity,
And once, my master, set thy servant free!
Then a poor pilgrim, at our founder's shrine,
Refuge I'll seek, and bless the powers divine!
Henceforth may peaceful days, and holy thoughts be mine.”
Absolved from sin, of grace though little worth;
And my long days of degradation seem
Like the dim shadows of a troublous dream,
That daylight strives to banish, yet remain
In memory fixed, and dog the weary brain:
And still this halter seems as 'twere a link
To drag me o'er the precipice's brink.
Untie me, then, for Christian charity,
And once, my master, set thy servant free!
Then a poor pilgrim, at our founder's shrine,
Refuge I'll seek, and bless the powers divine!
Henceforth may peaceful days, and holy thoughts be mine.”
Long stood the peasant in a corner pent,
And heard the words, scarce knowing what they meant;
And then, with trembling hand, untied the rope,
And beating heart, that hardly dared to hope,
Till by degrees composed, and re-assured,
He 'gan to think of all his ass endured;
'Twere long to tell the apologies he made,—
What saints invoked, or to what martyrs prayed;
Or how besought the Friar, at least to deign
With him that night in shelter to remain;
And pass we, too, the frugal cottage feast,
How round the fire, each feared to grow a beast.
His wife and daughter, and his grandsire old,
That wond'rous story when their guest had told,
How restless memory raked up every sin,
And conscience pricked their simple souls within!
And he in turns awoke, and soothed their dread;
But to the cheer looked most, and hugely fed,
Till came the hour of rest with sudden pace,
And for repose each sought their destined place.
But oft in bed with sleepless eyes they turned,
And looked where yet the embers dimly burned,
And thrilled to hear the watch-dog's lazy howl,
And shrunk in terror from the whooping owl;
For darkness thus to wonder lent her aid,
And filled with awe the superstitious shade;
Discordant thoughts their fevered fancies bring,
The ass of Balaam, and the Assyrian king.
At last to dreams confused their terrors glide,
And kind oblivion comes, that dreary train to hide.
And heard the words, scarce knowing what they meant;
And then, with trembling hand, untied the rope,
And beating heart, that hardly dared to hope,
Till by degrees composed, and re-assured,
He 'gan to think of all his ass endured;
'Twere long to tell the apologies he made,—
What saints invoked, or to what martyrs prayed;
Or how besought the Friar, at least to deign
With him that night in shelter to remain;
41
How round the fire, each feared to grow a beast.
His wife and daughter, and his grandsire old,
That wond'rous story when their guest had told,
How restless memory raked up every sin,
And conscience pricked their simple souls within!
And he in turns awoke, and soothed their dread;
But to the cheer looked most, and hugely fed,
Till came the hour of rest with sudden pace,
And for repose each sought their destined place.
But oft in bed with sleepless eyes they turned,
And looked where yet the embers dimly burned,
And thrilled to hear the watch-dog's lazy howl,
And shrunk in terror from the whooping owl;
For darkness thus to wonder lent her aid,
And filled with awe the superstitious shade;
Discordant thoughts their fevered fancies bring,
The ass of Balaam, and the Assyrian king.
At last to dreams confused their terrors glide,
And kind oblivion comes, that dreary train to hide.
But now the night was past, the dappled dawn
Stole o'er the woods, and streaked with light the lawn.
At the pale moon, the mastiff ceased to bay;
The clamorous rooks went wheeling on their way;
Flown from their perch the cocks crew loud and shrill;
The dew shone brightly, and the wind was chill;
Already sought the Monk his convent-door,
But left his dreaming hosts an hour before.
Strange was his tale, and wild the mystery,
Long o'er their hearts its shadows dark shall be,
And the grey convent, with its portal tall,
And sombre towers, and solitary wall,
And the faint echo of its pealing choir
Heard through the gate, shall solemn fear inspire;
For there, thus busy rumour through the dale
Plies wondering peasants with her ghostly tale;
For there he daily pours his orisons
Who once was man, and beast of burden once;
There prays that saintly father in his cell,
Saint though he was, to Satan's jaws who fell!
Oh! there in sooth is Sancho hid beside,
To a low pillar, by the chapel, tied,
Hard by a quaint old alabaster pile
Throws its long shadows o'er the lonely aisle;
And he who sleeps beneath it with his sword,
Once of these towers was hailed the feudal lord;
And great the largess to the church he gave
On death-bed laid, his sinful soul to save!
Now by his tomb, long reft of all its brass,
One monk, at midnight, chants a sleepy mass;
But who the knight, for whom he prays repose,
Scant is his care, perchance the Prior knows,
Or tomes can tell, their statutes that enclose.
There Sancho waits, within the cloistered court,
And crops its weeds, of fate foredoomed the sport!
Hard fate, yet harder than the marble stones,
On which he rolls and turns his weary bones!
Stole o'er the woods, and streaked with light the lawn.
At the pale moon, the mastiff ceased to bay;
The clamorous rooks went wheeling on their way;
42
The dew shone brightly, and the wind was chill;
Already sought the Monk his convent-door,
But left his dreaming hosts an hour before.
Strange was his tale, and wild the mystery,
Long o'er their hearts its shadows dark shall be,
And the grey convent, with its portal tall,
And sombre towers, and solitary wall,
And the faint echo of its pealing choir
Heard through the gate, shall solemn fear inspire;
For there, thus busy rumour through the dale
Plies wondering peasants with her ghostly tale;
For there he daily pours his orisons
Who once was man, and beast of burden once;
There prays that saintly father in his cell,
Saint though he was, to Satan's jaws who fell!
Oh! there in sooth is Sancho hid beside,
To a low pillar, by the chapel, tied,
Hard by a quaint old alabaster pile
Throws its long shadows o'er the lonely aisle;
And he who sleeps beneath it with his sword,
Once of these towers was hailed the feudal lord;
And great the largess to the church he gave
On death-bed laid, his sinful soul to save!
43
One monk, at midnight, chants a sleepy mass;
But who the knight, for whom he prays repose,
Scant is his care, perchance the Prior knows,
Or tomes can tell, their statutes that enclose.
There Sancho waits, within the cloistered court,
And crops its weeds, of fate foredoomed the sport!
Hard fate, yet harder than the marble stones,
On which he rolls and turns his weary bones!
Fresh blow the breezes from the blue Tyrol,
Down many a grassy slope and flowery knoll,
And bright green vineyards, which the fisher sees
In Guarda's mirror twined with mulberry-trees,
When down from Riva's mountain-shadowed shore,
Or Scarca's streams he plies with sail or oar.
Fresh blow the breezes, with untiring wing,
From Alp to plain, and all their voices bring,
From the drear regions of storm-drifted snow,
And gloomy forests, murmuring far below,
From the deep valley, which the sturdy steer
Ploughs with slow step, or where the muleteer
By craggy paths descending, hails the vine
Promise of rest, and cheers his patient line,
The cloud born torrent's wild and ceaseless swell,
The wood's long whisper, and the tinkling bell
Far up among those solitudes, the note
Of roaming heifer, or of browsing goat,
The hunter's challenge, or the herdsman's horn
From crag to crag by bounding echo borne,
Or sullen accents of some castle clock
That warns the warder on embattled rock;
With mingling sounds float far the heavens through,
Where faint the old, the wild wind gathers new,
And now it eddies round a little town
Girt with green hills, and streamlets gushing down
From cleft and gully in the mountains high,
In rock strewn channels swiftly racing by,
And in the midst there stands a market-place,
No pompous building, yet Italian grace
Can simple forms for use alone refine,
And please each peasant with its pure design.
'Twas this that reared for shelter and for shade
The lengthening vista of that cool arcade,
And carved above the windows fair to see
With scroll-wreathed arch, and crowning Fleur-de-lis;
'Twas this that fount its classic air that gave
And scooped the marble for the sparkling wave,
And where the ample vase its jet receives
The margin twined with lotus-imaged leaves;
No sculptured figures deck yon modest gate,
Nor laureate lines imperial guests relate,
Nor yet that word by faction still profaned
In cities proud, though better there maintained;
Gigantic blocks its rough hewn front compose,
With quiet grandeur meeting friends or foes,
Open without a sentinel it stands
And a long line of level road commands.
Down many a grassy slope and flowery knoll,
And bright green vineyards, which the fisher sees
In Guarda's mirror twined with mulberry-trees,
When down from Riva's mountain-shadowed shore,
Or Scarca's streams he plies with sail or oar.
Fresh blow the breezes, with untiring wing,
From Alp to plain, and all their voices bring,
From the drear regions of storm-drifted snow,
And gloomy forests, murmuring far below,
From the deep valley, which the sturdy steer
Ploughs with slow step, or where the muleteer
44
Promise of rest, and cheers his patient line,
The cloud born torrent's wild and ceaseless swell,
The wood's long whisper, and the tinkling bell
Far up among those solitudes, the note
Of roaming heifer, or of browsing goat,
The hunter's challenge, or the herdsman's horn
From crag to crag by bounding echo borne,
Or sullen accents of some castle clock
That warns the warder on embattled rock;
With mingling sounds float far the heavens through,
Where faint the old, the wild wind gathers new,
And now it eddies round a little town
Girt with green hills, and streamlets gushing down
From cleft and gully in the mountains high,
In rock strewn channels swiftly racing by,
And in the midst there stands a market-place,
No pompous building, yet Italian grace
Can simple forms for use alone refine,
And please each peasant with its pure design.
'Twas this that reared for shelter and for shade
The lengthening vista of that cool arcade,
And carved above the windows fair to see
With scroll-wreathed arch, and crowning Fleur-de-lis;
45
And scooped the marble for the sparkling wave,
And where the ample vase its jet receives
The margin twined with lotus-imaged leaves;
No sculptured figures deck yon modest gate,
Nor laureate lines imperial guests relate,
Nor yet that word by faction still profaned
In cities proud, though better there maintained;
Gigantic blocks its rough hewn front compose,
With quiet grandeur meeting friends or foes,
Open without a sentinel it stands
And a long line of level road commands.
And now along that poplar shaded way
Come young and old, and rich and poor to-day,
For this the morrow of St. Julian's fair
When hither make the neighbourhood repair;
Glad time by wandering minstrel gaily sought,
For present joy, and food for future thought;
By many a maid anticipated long,
Then shall she join the revel and the song;
By thrifty burghers reckoned oft and well,
Then pence may turn, and crowns to ducats swell.
Together mixed they throng from every side,
Pour through the streets, and fill the market wide,
There gathering groups contentious struggles wage
To hear the Merry-Andrew on his stage,
There lowing cattle their green pastures mourn,
Unconscious victims, never to return;
And by that pillar stands a crop-eared ass,
And with sonorous jaws salutes the crowd who pass.
The silk-worm spinning on his mulberry tree,
Feasts on the leaves, in roses hums the bee;
The bright bird flutters in the summer fruit,
And trills glad carols, till the winds are mute,
As if they listed to a spirit nigh
Of sunshine born, some Ariel of the sky;
But the plain peasant who his profit sees
In silken produce from his wasted trees,
And reared those flowers to tempt the honey bees;
Who rests attentive in the evening air,
Nor stirs one step the wild bird's song to scare,
Well with that minstrel pleased his grapes to share
Sometimes but scantly gives, and grudges sore
The daily drone, still begging at his door,
And lest through this dissent and heresy
Should come to pass, as wont too oft to be,
And one bad sheep should poison all the plains,
Strict is the law St. Francis' rule ordains.
And fair without the convent needs must show,
And in poor guise its humble brethren go,
For men might think their tale a lazy farce
Who begging went with panniers, and an ass.
Thus Sancho came rejected to the fair,
Long his old master stood, and eyed him there,
And listened to his voice, and scanned him o'er,
And wondered, doubted, little, less, no more,
Then in a sudden passion thus he stormed,
“Oh, sordid wretch, a second time transformed,
Whom saints nor angels have from sin released,
Nor thy dark foretaste with thy fellow beasts,
Nor fasts nor vigils in yon holy fane,
Nor vows nor warning ever made in vain;
Who in thy cell so well hast used the time,
As now to bear a second load of crime,
From that vile purgatory scarcely free,
Sure 'tis thy fate that sends thee here to me,
And this same stick that served thee well of old,
Again must bring thee back to speech and human mould.
Nay, never shake thy head, nor yet deny,
The devil fails thee in so foul a lie,
Nor look with sidelong eyes, and backward ears,
For every kick thou shalt repay with tears.”
By this, around them grew the jeering crowd,
For strange their gestures, and their converse loud;
The affrighted ass, who all this lecture heard,
Still shook his head, nor understood a word;
The woodman stamped, and Sancho 'gan to bray,
He clutched his staff, but first was forced to pay;
Then having bought his own, he led him home,
And gave him earnest of the time to come;
And oft, and sore the shrinking beast must feel
How sharply fall thy blows, oh, soul-compelling zeal.
Come young and old, and rich and poor to-day,
For this the morrow of St. Julian's fair
When hither make the neighbourhood repair;
Glad time by wandering minstrel gaily sought,
For present joy, and food for future thought;
By many a maid anticipated long,
Then shall she join the revel and the song;
By thrifty burghers reckoned oft and well,
Then pence may turn, and crowns to ducats swell.
46
Pour through the streets, and fill the market wide,
There gathering groups contentious struggles wage
To hear the Merry-Andrew on his stage,
There lowing cattle their green pastures mourn,
Unconscious victims, never to return;
And by that pillar stands a crop-eared ass,
And with sonorous jaws salutes the crowd who pass.
The silk-worm spinning on his mulberry tree,
Feasts on the leaves, in roses hums the bee;
The bright bird flutters in the summer fruit,
And trills glad carols, till the winds are mute,
As if they listed to a spirit nigh
Of sunshine born, some Ariel of the sky;
But the plain peasant who his profit sees
In silken produce from his wasted trees,
And reared those flowers to tempt the honey bees;
Who rests attentive in the evening air,
Nor stirs one step the wild bird's song to scare,
Well with that minstrel pleased his grapes to share
Sometimes but scantly gives, and grudges sore
The daily drone, still begging at his door,
And lest through this dissent and heresy
Should come to pass, as wont too oft to be,
47
Strict is the law St. Francis' rule ordains.
And fair without the convent needs must show,
And in poor guise its humble brethren go,
For men might think their tale a lazy farce
Who begging went with panniers, and an ass.
Thus Sancho came rejected to the fair,
Long his old master stood, and eyed him there,
And listened to his voice, and scanned him o'er,
And wondered, doubted, little, less, no more,
Then in a sudden passion thus he stormed,
“Oh, sordid wretch, a second time transformed,
Whom saints nor angels have from sin released,
Nor thy dark foretaste with thy fellow beasts,
Nor fasts nor vigils in yon holy fane,
Nor vows nor warning ever made in vain;
Who in thy cell so well hast used the time,
As now to bear a second load of crime,
From that vile purgatory scarcely free,
Sure 'tis thy fate that sends thee here to me,
And this same stick that served thee well of old,
Again must bring thee back to speech and human mould.
Nay, never shake thy head, nor yet deny,
The devil fails thee in so foul a lie,
48
For every kick thou shalt repay with tears.”
By this, around them grew the jeering crowd,
For strange their gestures, and their converse loud;
The affrighted ass, who all this lecture heard,
Still shook his head, nor understood a word;
The woodman stamped, and Sancho 'gan to bray,
He clutched his staff, but first was forced to pay;
Then having bought his own, he led him home,
And gave him earnest of the time to come;
And oft, and sore the shrinking beast must feel
How sharply fall thy blows, oh, soul-compelling zeal.
No more the ass can into man sublime;
Vain as Medea's smoky crucible
Old Pelia's limbs to nerve, the cudgel fell,
As the fond wishes of that sister train
Who stood around, the peasant's hopes were vain,
Broken and poor, in pale October's sun,
He looked already as his race were run,
And still he knew nor respite nor repose,
His weal to work, redoubled were his blows;
49
One icy morn his master stood aghast,
For there lay Sancho 'neath his roofless shed,
Frozen, and stark, and famished, stiff and dead.
And he must mourn for ever, for the soul
Of sinful friar, past his mortal goal
In beastly form, by holy Church unshriven,
Outcast of earth, unchanged and unforgiven!
The friar in convent hidden safely bides,
And hapless Sancho's fate with subtle smile derides.
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |