A Metrical History of England Or, Recollections, in Rhyme, Of some of the most prominent Features in our National Chronology, from the Landing of Julius Caesar to the Commencement of the Regency, in 1812. In Two Volumes ... By Thomas Dibdin |
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4. | PART THE FOURTH.
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A Metrical History of England | ||
4. PART THE FOURTH.
From the Conquest to the Signature of Magna Charta.
CONTENTS.
William the Conqueror—William Rufus—Henry the First. Stephen—The Empress Maud—Henry the Second, the First Plantagenet—St. Thomas a Becket—Fair Rosamond— Richard Cœur de Lion—John—Prince Arthur—Revolt of the Barons—Magna Charta.
THE NORMANS.
Voltaire.
Virgil.
Anon.
“Who yielded to no man,
“Came by water, he cou'dn't come by land;
“And Dane, Pict, and Saxon,
“Their homes turned their backs on,
“And all for the sake of our island.
“Call'd Billy the Norman,
“Cried, truly I never liked my land;
“And 'twou'd be much more handy,
“To leave this Normandy,
“And live on yon nice little island.”
Lockman.
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.
PARODY.
The British Chiefs their arms reluctant yield,
The soldiers homeward march their weary way,
And leave to William the disputed field!
And ev'ry Englishman is doom'd a slave,
Save those who nobly perish'd in the fight,
And sunk unconquer'd to a patriot grave.
Who shared with Harold that disastrous hour,
Save Morcar, Edwin, and a loyal few,
Who lived to combat oft the victor's power.
Where whitening bones in sad promiscuous heap,
Unseemly to the trav'ler's eye are laid,
The gallant victims of the battle sleep.
No more resounding thro' the tented shed,
The warlike clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Reward for loyalty and val'rous deed,
No lady fair awaits them in the bower,
To pay with beauty's smile the warrior's meed.
Their biting bills full many a helm have broke,
How loudly rang their anlace on the shield,
How bow'd the foe beneath their sturdy stroke!
Who, cased in iron, trod th' ensanguined plain,
Nor light-arm'd cavalry at heroes smile
Whose mail-clad steeds still answer'd to the reign.
The tube destructive, and the sabre brave,
Can only pay the same much honoured debt,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
No marble monument, with studied lays,
At Paul's or Peter's consecrates their fame,
While nasal organ'd vergers chaunt their praise.
Cou'd famed Pygmalyon, or Promethean lore,
Cou'd Roubilliac's or Bacon's art revive,
The daring chiefs who fell to rise no more?
Some head, once fraught with diplomatic fire,
Hands that Calcutta's sceptre might have sway'd,
And brought from India many a rich Jaghire.
Rich with a Nabob's spoil, did ne'er unroll,
No navy seconded advent'rous rage,
To barter wealth “from Indus to the Pole.”
Or politics, or trade, must think alone;
Full many a heart of valour's boldest form
Is doom'd to wither in the ranks unknown.
Aggressing Gaul had chaced from Egypt's shore;
Some Marlbro', Wolfe, Cornwallis, here may rest,
A Smith, a Stuart, Wellington, or Moore.
The threats of Gaul's Colossus to despise,
To fight for freedom in Iberia's land,
And raise our fame in Lusitania's eyes.
Their growing virtue's but their crimes confin'd,
Forbade to wade thro' blood to Gallia's throne,
And shut the gates of freedom on mankind.
To quench the useful ardor of the press,
To heap the shrine of self-created pride
With honours which but make the wearer less.
Such modern doctrines were by them denied,
They'd hands and hearts to combat for their own,
And for their sov'reign's rights they fought and died.
Nor sculptured arts, with letter'd graces vie,
Oft shall the feeling passer by reflect,
And pay their patriot virtue with a sigh.
But thinks on him whose patriotic mind
Can for his country cast his life away,
Tho' mindful of the friends he leaves behind.
Cou'd praise to equal their desert supply,
Who, scorning Norman William, dared refuse
To yield, and for that bold refusal die.
Few are the lines that may his tale relate,
A life of warfare in his reign he led,
His sons, and Harold's sons, still cross'd his fate.
And caus'd our laws the Norman tongue to speak,
And tax'd poor devils who were in his power,
And help'd the strong to triumph o'er the weak.
Next, to secure of hunting ground a stock,
New forest for his pleasure he laid waste,
And made folks go to bed at eight o'clock.
His horse took fright, Will pull'd him up in vain,
For certainly they buried him at Caen.
Were requiems and masses sung and said,
And little choristers oft warbled there,
As choristers will do when they are paid.
Where is an Epitaph inscribed most fair,
Whether the following, I dare not say,
Because I own, I never saw it there.
The EPITAPH.
A Prince to fame and fortune greatly known,
Of high ambition, tho' of doubtful birth,
Albion he saw, and mark'd her for his own.
Fate did commensurate success send down,
He gave to Harold a severe defeat,
He gain'd from victory, all he wish'd, a crown.
Or on a conqueror's faults too nicely look,
He'll find, when waking from the tomb's repose,
His sentence is inscribed in doomsday-book.
Battel Abbey, in Sussex, where bones are yet to be seen piled up, supposed to be those of the fallen in that memorable fight.
Doomsday-book, is a register now extant, of all landed possessions, introduced among the feudal regulations by the Conqueror.
“Through Boldrewood the chase he led,
“By his loved huntsman's arrow bled.”
Walter Scott.
Shakespeare.
WILLIAM RUFUS.
Was rather short, and very fat,
His eyes, we're told, were not a pair,
Yet who could blame the King for that?
To reign, which Bishop Odo aided,
But when they were both beat in fight,
One fled, and t'other was degraded.
Began, and much the muse it irks,
That Infidels like Christians bled,
And Christian soldiers fought like Turks.
When finish'd swore in princely huff,
The fabrick to his eyes appear'd
Not half-a-quarter large enough.
Respects nor wealth, nor rank, nor pow'r,
O'erflowed Earl Godwin's land, since known
As Goodwin Quicksands, to this hour.
For sport, was of his son the bane,
There by a shaft, which chance missent,
In prime of life was Rufus slain.
By darts dispatch'd from undiscovered hand,
Which folks around, as fearful judgments tell,
On those, who for the chace despoil'd the poor man's land.
Whose people were in most reduced condition;
His Ministers had tax'd each sort of thing,
For there were then no Whigs in opposition.
As you shall learn from ancient lines annex'd,
Robert of Glo'ster scripsit what you'll read,
Tho' Camden rather modernized the text.
The author hopes he has not exceeded the reported character of William's coarseness and vulgarity.—When ten Englishmen had been cleared by the ordeal of fire, for the charge of killing dear, Rufus exclaimed, “Pretty justice above, indeed, to let “ten such scoundrels escape!”
J.P. Andrews.
Yet William exhibited a mixture of firmness and naivete, when a pilot was fearful of embarking with him on an expedition in tempestuous weather; the Monarch asked, “whether he had ever heard of a King being drowned.”
Poetry of the Year 1098.
[“His Chamberlain him brought, as he rose on a day]
“His Chamberlain him brought, as he rose on a day,“A morrow for to wear, a pair of hose of say;
“He ask'd what they costen'd? “Three shillings,” he said,
“Fie a dible,” quoth the King, “to say so vile a deed,
“King's to wear so vile a cloths, that costened no more!
“Buy a pair for a marke, or thou shall reu it sore.”
“A worse pair, sure enough, the other him brought,
“And said they costened a marke—Unneath he then bought;
“Aye!—Bel-ami,” quoth the King, “these are well bought;
“In this manner serve me, otherwise serve me not.”
“A sound of the romantic strain
“Whose Anglo-Norman tones while're
“Cou'd win the royal Henry's ear.
“Famed Beauclere call'd, for that he loved,
“The minstrel, and his lay approved.”
Walter Scott.
School Boy's Poetry.
HENRY BEAUCLERC.
He in the royal houshold made,—nay more,
Abolish'd nightly curfew bells that rung
Throughout the land of Albion, and deranged
At early hour the interesting chat
Of lovers just affianc'd—or of friends,
Who, brought to council by the hope of gain
On trade, were speculating hundreds deep;
Or learned clerks, in disquisition grave,
By classic lamps; or poets, poor as we,
Sing, muse historic—Widows too, we learn,
By his command have jointures, and are free
To marry as they list, and marry did,
Merely to shew the loyal reverence
They bore the King's behest.—The laws 'erst made
By the Confessor Edward were restored
By Henry, who, to please the English, wed
With Maud, descendant of the Scottish King,
And Edgar Ath'ling's sister. —At this time
And from the Holy Land return'd with troops
His fancied right to aid—subdued, forgiven,
And set at liberty, again he fights
Against his brother; captive ta'en, and sent
To Cardiff, whence, in vain, he tries escape,
And, first deprived of sight, soon finds a grave;
Glo'ster Cathedral holds the Duke's remains,
Encag'd in trellis'd iron. Heart of Oak
Supplies a figure, armed cap-a-pie,
But such as modern warriors would disdain,
And ladies' ridicule on gay parade.
Lewis, of France, invades the Norman lands,
Him Henry meets, and quells th' invading King.
But when returning, mournful is the tale,
Prince William, Beauclerc's son, a splendid train
Of Knights and Nobles, with the Princess Maud,
And many worthies perish'd in the waves!
And when to Normandy the King return'd,
By (not habitual) intemp'rance, he
Met also with his death. He was interred
At Reading Abbey, which his zeal endow'd.
Of Godfrey, of Loraine. In time of dearth
(From April till the harvest time,) he fed
Ten thousand of his Norman subjects,—built,
In Oxfordshire, famed Woodstock Palace, which
Still bears the stamp of his munificence.
That, having ta'en in war a hapless bard,
Who in some paltry measures (like to mine,)
Had ridiculed his greatness, his revenge,
(Tho' Sov'reigns for the poet pleaded hard,)
Depriv'd the wretched captive of his eyes,
Whose agony ensuing caus'd his death.
Henry Beauclerc, of all our British Kings,
Shou'd have respected the proud name he bore,
Nor by inordinate and mean revenge,
Have own'd the poet's satyre had its force.
The Dunmow Charter, which entitles those
Who live in wedlock, sans debate, one year
To a fine flitch of bacon—one blest pair
Ask'd and obtained it; and about that time,
Thames water fail'd, the river bed was dry,
Men, women, children, walked across where now
Stands London Bridge—This and the happy two
Who gain'd the Dunmow Flitch, astonish'd much
The gaping vulgar, and we hav'nt heard
That either prodigy occur'd again.
By way of Elegy, thus chose to sing.
Queen Maud, or Matilda, was the delight of the English, both on account of her descent and goodness of heart. To her we owe the first stone arched bridges England ever possessed:— she built two at Stratford, in Essex, (thence called De Arcubus, or Le Bow,) where she had nearly been drowned for want of such a convenience. What follows is part of an eulogy on her, preserved by Camden:
Prospera terror ei, aspera risus erant,
Non decor efficit fragilem non sceptra superbam
Sola potens humilis, sola Pudica decens.
Imitated.
By woes her mind was near cast down,Nor by success beguiled,
She met good fortune with a frown,
At fortune's frowns she smiled:
Where shall we find a Queen with this to pair,
Tho' sceptred, humble—chaste, tho' great and fair?
J.P. Andrews.
“No, no,” said the irritated King to a great foreign Prince who interceded for the wretched poet, “for this man being forsooth a Wit, a Bard, and a Minstrel, hath composed many indecent songs against me, and moreover hath sung them openly to the great entertainment of my enemies. Now, since it hath pleased God to deliver him into my hands, he shall be punished to deter others from the like petulance.” So the sentence took place, and the imprudent poet died of the wounds he receiv'd in struggling with the executioner. Ordericus Vitelis.—Vide Andrews.
Poetry of the Year 1135.
[King Henry is ded! bewty of the world]
For whom is grete dole;
The Goddes now maken room for their kind brother,
For he is Sole.
Mercurius in speech, Marce in battayle,
In hest strong Appollo;
Jupiter in hest, egall with Saturn,
And enemie to Cupido;
King he was a right,
And man of most myght,
And glorious in rayninge.
Then fell honour down,
For misse of such a King;
Normandy then gan Lowre,
For loss of their flowre,
And sange wel-a-way!
Englond made mone,
And Scotland did grone,
For to see that day!
Old Ballads.
Shakespeare.
STEPHEN.
Yet his possession of Old England's Throne,
Was a faux pas, since reasons strong there be,
To prove the property was not his own.
(Matilda, ladies, sounds more sweet, I ween,)
Was heiress—and King Stephen, to his shame,
Had sworn allegiance to her as his Queen.
'Twas merely common honesty to take it,
But every gentleman should be right loath
Having an affidavit made to break it.
Whose reasons were so back'd with horse and foot,
That tho', while axe and sword were good, he fought,
He lost his liberty and crown to boot.
Stephen was freed, and Maud forced to be off in
(Conveyance for a living Queen most strange,)
Not coach or chariot, but a screw'd up coffin.
How “Scotland's dauntless King and Heir,
“(Although with them they led
“Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale,
“And Lodon's Knights, all sheath'd in mail,
“Before his standard fled.”
To make essay for what his mother won;
But England's Monarch kept the youth at bay,
Till Eustace, Stephen's hope and heir,
(Death shews for princes little care,)
Was from the scene of warfare snatch'd away.
King Stephen, to conclude the strife,
With his opponent made this compromise,
He was to wear the crown while he had life,
Mean time young Henry swore to keep the peace,
And take the sceptre at the King's decease.
But little in this reign appears,
Often in law's despite,
To build strong castles, and bereave,
By force and arms, the poor man of his right.
The Canon law, cotemporaries say,
First in this reign, to England found its way.
Remain'd until, disgrace upon their names,
Reformers, who dug up, pull'd down, and burn'd,
Threw the once valiant Sov'reign in the Thames;
With sacrilegious hands profaned the dead,
For paltry plunder of his coffin'd lead.
Maud, or Matilda, first married the Emperor Henry IV. and afterwards Geoffry Plantagenet, Earl of Anjou, by whom she had King Henry II. of England.
Several historians represent a coffin as the vehicle in which the Empress was reduced to make her escape.
This was attributed by the superstition of the times (when David I. with his son Henry, invaded Northumberland, in 1136,) to the holy banner of St. Cuthbert, under which the English marched, and owed to its efficacy the great victory they obtained in the bloody battle of Northallerton, or Arton Moor. Vide Margerion, Notes to Canto II.
LINE OF PLANTAGENET;
OR THE HOUSE OF ANJOU.
“The land awhile respired, and all was peace.
“Then Becket rose, and impotent of mind,
“Bid murd'rous priests the sov'reign frown contemn,
“And, with unhallow'd crosier, bruised the crown.
“Yet yielded not supinely tame a prince
“Of Henry's virtues, learn'd, courageous, wise,
“Of fair ambition.”
Shenstone.
“And still thy priestly pride provoke thy King;
“For this are ‘foreign oracles’ explored,
“To teach the land to murmur at its lord.”
Vide Pope's Homer.
(FAIR ROSAMOND.)
“A maid unmatch'd in manners as in face,“Skill'd in each art, and crown'd with ev'ry grace;
“Not half so dear were wedded ‘Ellen's’ charms,
“When first her blooming beauties met my arms.”
Ibidem.
“Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
“Save what beats there.—Filial ingratitude!”
Shakespeare.
HENRY THE SECOND.
Cross'd in his pow'r by those whom most he lov'd;
By sons fomented, who disgraced their birth;
His Queen too, (tho' tis said much cause was hers
To doubt his faith, yet story often errs),
Join'd to oppose her husband and her lord,
And lift against his crown rebellion's sword!
Adds to the foes he found in sons and wife;
Becket, the kingdom's bane, the popedom's glory,
With temper scarcely I relate the story,
A proof, since told ye in most homely fashion,
We can do nothing well, when in a passion.
A NEW LEGEND OF ST. THOMAS A BECKET.
St. Dunstan being dead and gone,
Some evil genius sent his sprite,
In Becket's form, to curb the throne.
Than I can say in these brief rhymes,
He gain'd all Dunstan gain'd before,
All Wolsey got in after times.
This upstart, who deserv'd a rope?
Of dignity he form'd a trade,
And sold his master to the Pope!
The meddling Monk, who yet return'd
More honour'd, tho' much less content,
While treason in his heart still burn'd.
Some hint to drop in angry mood,
Which caus'd, who heard their zeal to prove,
Unhappily, in Becket's blood.
And public ignominious pain,
Submitted! ne'er was Prince before
So humble, nor is like to be again.
For which too oft he'd given cause,
Struck Becket with a legal hand,
Instead of shame the King had gain'd applause.
Their homage to the King, whose prosp'rous day,
And most unnatural wars,
In unenjoy'd possession, dies away.
As England's King, an early death he found.
Jeffery and William too, the latter died
A child,—the former fell in martial pride.
Richard and John succeeded to the throne
In turn,—with shame the Muse makes known,
That Richard, who with Gallia's King took part,
His sire subduing, broke a parent's heart.
I might be deem'd neglectful did I miss,
Whether correct, or but by fancy penn'd,
My humble tale your leisure doth attend.
“Is there not one of the crew of lazy, cowardly knights, whom I maintain, that will rid me of this turbulent priest, who came to court but t'other day on a lame horse, with nothing but his wallet behind him?” These words unfortunately animated to action Reginal Fitz-urse, William de Tracey, Hugh de Morvil, and Richard Brito.
Berington's Life of St. Thomas a Becket.
The vulgar of Glocestershire have proverbially assigned a whimsical punishment for one of the families concerned in the assassination, thus:
“Have always the wind in their faces.”
James Petit Andrews sportively adds, “No very severe judgment on a summer's day.”
His ill-bred haughtiness was such, that when the English prelates, in one body, represented to him the consequences which must inevitably attend his turbulent obstinacy, he answered only, “I hear you.” Nothing could exceed his pride, or the splendor of his household. Before his advancement to the primacy he had been used to travel attended by two hundred knights and other gay domestics: eight waggons were in his suite, two of those bore his ale, three the furniture of his chapel, of his bed-chamber, and of his kitchen, and the other three carried provisions and necessaries. Twelve pack-horses bore his money, plate, &c. to each waggon was chained a fierce mastiff, and on each pack-horse there sat a baboon.
The following Epitaph, among others, was made on Becket:
Quando? Natali. Quis locus? Ara dei.
Imitated by J. P. Andrews.
Why? For his flock. When? On his natal day.
Say where? 'Twas where we kneel to heaven and pray.
At this coronation, young Henry, on his father's humility being pointed out, arrogantly replied, “A great honour truly, for the son of a King to be waited on by the son of an Earl!” At other times too, he requited his father's tenderness with most unfilial ingratitude, a sense of which, is said, at length to have broken his own heart. His body was carried towards Roan, but the clergy and citizens of Mans took it by force and interred it in their cathedral, near the Old Geoffry Plantagenet, whence it was ultimately taken and re-interred at Roan. King Henry, in allusion to the ingratitude of his sons, had an allegorical picture painted for his palace at Windsor, representing an old eagle, his young ones fighting with him, and one scarcely fledged striving to peck out his eyes; the last he used to say was John, whom he loved best of all. Giraldus Cambrensis.
ROSAMOND's BOWER.
A PARODY.
THE ARGUMENT.
“Lord Cliffor'ds daughter, Rosamond the faire;
“And whilst his sonnes do Normandy invade
“He, forced to France, with wond'rous cost hath made
“A labyrinthe in Woodstocke, where unseene
“His love might lodge safe from his iealous queene.”
I
Embow'r'd sat a lover and lady so gay,Where jas'mine with lilies were curl'd,
They gaz'd on each other with tender delight;
The warrior was Harry Plantagenet hight,
And the lady the Rose of the World.
II
Said the fair, “when you follow the drum and the fife,“I shall wish by my side you had tarried,
“For as soon as you leave me your termagant wife,
“Will be certain to frighten me out of my life,”
For, I'm sorry to say, he was married.
III
“Oh, hush these suspicions,” Plantagenet said,“Offensive to Ellen and me,
“For if she, by anger or jealousy led,
“Should alarm you, while I am abroad, by my head,
“Who's at home, I shall soon let her see.”
IV
“Besides” cried the King, “can my beautiful rose“Fear surprize in this intricate place?
“Where it answers no purpose to follow one's nose,
“Unless a silk clue, that you know of, disclose
“A road none could ever yet trace.”
V
They parted in sorrow; poor girl, she turn'd cold,She ne'er felt so nervous before;
Nor yet many days had elaps'd, when, behold!
The Queen, with a reg'ment of troopers, so bold,
'Gan thunder at Rosamond's door.
VI
Their swords on the porter the Grenadiers drew,The poor man was sadly distrest;
The Queen tried a bribe, soon discover'd the clue,
And of poison so sable, or steel polish'd blue,
Ask'd Rosamond “which she liked best?”
VII
The “Flow'r of the World” changed her “redolent” hueTo white, while she sank on her knee;
The tear on her cheek look'd like heaven-dropp'd dew,
When she said “If, dear ma'am, it's the same thing to you,
“Not either, I thank you, for me.”
VIII
Her majesty threaten'd, her victim complied,She drank, and Plantagenet's power
The death of his mistress reveng'd on his bride,
Up three pair of stairs in a tow'r.
IX
Should couples take warning from “Rosamond's Bow'r,”Not vainly the Muse has harangued;
And, ladies, if rivals shou'd fall in your pow'r,
The Commons consult, or instead of the tow'r,
If you kill them, you're sure to be hang'd.
The phrase of letting a person know “Who's at home,” has (unless the oustom is very much out,) since obtained considerably in domestic circles.
Rosamond was buried at Godstow, and the following quaint Epitaph inscribed on her tomb.
Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet.
Thus imitated by J. P. Andrews. Here lies, not Rose the Chaste, but Rose the Fair,
Her scents no more perfume but taint the air.
“The awless lion could not wage the fight,
“Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.”
Shakespeare.
“Which means a lion's heart.”
Swift.
“Richard's joys are blows and scars,
“Conquer'd Pagans fly before him,
“Christian warriors all adore him.”
Opera of Richard.
“Urg'd the Crusade:—
“Of ten fair suns that roll'd their annual race
“Not one beheld him on his vacant throne:
“While haughty Longchamp 'mid his livery'd files
“Of wanton vassals spoil'd his faithful realm.
“Battling in foreign fields; collecting wide
“A laurel harvest for a pillaged land.”
Shenstone.
RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.
O, gallant Prince! who loved to roam,When you had better stay'd at home;
Whose subjects at thy crowning slew
Many an unoffending Jew.
A lodging to yourself and bride,
(For on his road to Holy Land,
He stopp'd to win a lady's hand,)
Who 'gainst the Turks flew in a passion,
Because just then it was the fashion.
With Saladin the sword wou'd try,
Without once ever asking why;
Who in each battle did the work,
Of cleaving Saracen and Turk,
And kept the Infidels at bay,
While jealous Philip walk'd away!
Who, (for he was impertinent,)
Kick'd Austria from the royal tent,
(For so the tale appears to us, it
Being set down “pede percussit,”)
The mem'ry of that kick not lost,
And was by Austria's lads surrounded,
And 'till great ransom paid, impounded.
Or, as your Troubadour folks tell,
Was fiddled out by one Blondel,
Critics) Old England paid the piper.
Who made with Saladin a truce,
(As was the war) of little use.
Whose brother John took arms, and then
You made him lay 'em down again.
Who beat King Philip out of measure,
And lost your life while seeking treasure.
Once, during this campaign, Richard was dangerously sick, and his disorder required fresh fruit and snow to render it cool: the generous Saladin sent both in profusion, and thus preserved the life of the only foe he dreaded. Vita Saladini.
The Saracens so dreaded his name they would say to their restive horses, “What do you start at, do you think you see King “Richard?”
To encourage the soldiers in repairing the ruined wall of Acre, (a spot which has since acquired such additional celebrity from the distinguished gallantry of Sir Sidney Smith and his brave associates,) Cœur de Lion not only laboured in person, but appointed hours for other leaders to work at the head of their men. All chearfully obeyed, except the Duke of Austria, who sent word that his father having been neither bricklayer nor mason, he had not learned either business. The English King hearing this insolent speech repeated to his face by the haughty Duke, “cum pede percussit” Anglice kicked him out of his tent, and ordered his banner to be disgraced. Brompton.
King Richard was a passionate lover of poetry, and bears a rank among the Provencal Poets or Troubadours, who were the first of the modern Europeans that distinguished themselves by attempts of that nature.
Hume.Crescimbini, in his Commentary on the Lives of the Provencal Poets, says that Richard composed a sonnet which he sent to Princess Stephanetta, wife of Hugh de Baux, and other sonnets, while a prisoner, which he sent to Beatrix, Count of Provence; the whole of one the latter productions is given in the Catalogue of Royal Authors, one or two verses will be sufficient here to give an idea of the supposed softness of the Provencal dialect.
Adreitamout se com hom dolent non,
Mas per conort pot il faire chanson,
Pro adamis, mas povre son li don,
Onta j avron, se por ma Reezon,
Soi fai dos yver pris.
Or sachon ben mi hom e mi baron,
Engles, Norman, Pettavin & Gascon,
Que ge navoie si' povre compagnon,
Que laissasse por aver en preison,
Ge nol di pas, por nulla retraison,
Mas anquar soise pris.
While besieging the Castle of Chalons, or Choley, where it was supposed a treasure lay concealed, which Richard claimed, and where “an Arbalaster standing upon the wall, and seeing his time, charged his steel bow with a square arrow, making first his prayer to God that he would direct that shot and deliver the innocency of the besieged from oppression, mortally wounded the King in the left shoulder: the anguish and peril whereof was extremely increased by the unskilfulness of the chirurgeon.” Medulla Historiæ Anglicanæ.
To tell, my pen must mending needs,
Therefore I only, valiant King,
Have set down what I wish'd to sing;
Found it a subject keen and hard,
And much was forced his brain to tax,
Even to sing thy battle axe,
With all its murd'rous hews and hacks.
This version shall conclude my page,
And shew the genius of thy age.
SPECIMEN of POETRY,
IN THE YEAR 1190.
[King Richard, I understonde]
King Richard, I understonde,When he went out of En-ge-londe;
Let make an axe, for the nones,
To break therewith the Sarasyns bones.
The head thereof was wrought full weel,
Therein was twenty pounds of steele;
And when he came to Cyprus londe,
This axe taketh he in honde,
The Griffons fast away they rapp'd
All that he hit, he also frapp'd.
And the prison when he came to,
With his axe he smote right thro'
Dores, barres, and iron chaynes!
“And stern with conquest from their tyrant King
“(Now render'd tame) did challenge and secure
“The charter of thy freedom.”
Akenside.
“What ample tyranny! Six tedious years
“Our helpless fathers in despair obey'd
“The Papal interdict; and who obey'd
“The Sov'reign plunder'd.”
Shenstone.
“On yon young boy.—I'll tell thee what, my friend,
“He is a very serpent in my way,
“And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread
“He lies before me.”
Shakespeare.
“Shall tithe or toll in our dominions;
“But, as we, under heav'n are supreme head,
“So under him, that great supremacy,
“Where we do reign, we will alone uphold.
“So tell the Pope; all reverence set apart
“To him, and his usurp'd authority.”
Ibidem.
“Thus have I yielded up into your hands
“The circle of my glory.”
Pandulph.
“Take again,
“From this my hand, as holding of the Pope
“Your sovereign greatness and authority.”
Shakespeare.
JOHN.
The gloomy horizon! and Lackland's reign,
With privilege for which our fathers fought,
Knee-deep in slaughter; and, to which their sons,
True to each other, ever will adhere.
In days when strength and skill too frequent won
The regal circle; else had Arthur's name,
With supercession legal, graced the roll
Where John's is now recorded—but what is,
We're told is right.—Had Arthur, haply, reign'd
His milder sway had fail'd create the cause
Which did the glorious great effects produce,
Of England's freedom, and of England's rights.
As if too conscious of his tottering claim,
And, that his crown sat lightly on his head,
Four times inaugurated was the King.
The warlike mind of Richard, now declares
Against the title of his brother John,
And in behalf of Arthur, claims the throne.
By an ambitious uncle, and thy right
Made, by pretended friendship, but a plea,
To sanctify it's interested views!
Their aid to John, who yet o'ercomes his foes;
And Arthur, captive, youthful, innocent,
Nor author of the war that Phillip wag'd,
Dies in imprisonment.—By some we read,
And our great Bard, with magic minstrelsy,
Has sung the tale, that from his prison walls,
Attempting hopeless egress, he was dash'd
Against the earth below, and found, alas!
The spirit of his uncle “in those flints
With which 'twas bedded.” Other stories tell
That murder, (that so frequent blot upon
Our English reigns, related, and to come,)
The Prince of life.
Philip of France, on this pretext, proclaim'd
King John a traitor and a murderer;
Seiz'd on his French possessions, while the Pope
In all concurring, and, pretending right
To chuse our Church Directors, John defies
(The sole good deed he did) the pow'r of Rome;
The Vatican, with thunder loud, replies;
And England excommunicate, cut off
From ev'ry human privilege, cou'd still,
Firm in herself, have scorn'd th' unblest decree,
Which dared to arrogate an awful right
By heaven's almighty power alone possess'd.
For pride and meanness are concomitant,
The land, the people, King, the crown itself,
Are pros trate thrown beneath the Pontiff's fect;
The Barons feel just anger, and disdain
To serve a Prince who owns himself a slave.
And other grievances, most justly drawn,
Was Magna Charta woven, and the King
After subscription tried too oft to break
The golden compact, which has since upheld
Our legal title as a People Free.
Of subterranean chambers yet is seen,
Where first, in secresy, the Barons met
To frame the code of Freedom.—Short the space
From hence to where my humble cot is hid,
By wild sequester'd scenery, and oft,
Bending my footsteps downwards, do I seek
The rock-hewn seats that round the cave remain,
And muse with awfully-delighted mind,
While witchery of fancy brings to view
Majestic forms, and men of other times;
Those aged peers whose venerable locks
A crested helm, the terror oft of France,
Concealed in iron bands,—those youthful lords,
Which, back reflecting ev'ry torch's blaze,
With double light the sacred vault illumed.
Clare, Albermarle, and Gloster, Hereford,
Mowbray, and Oxford, Delaval, and Say,
Norfolk, De Ros, and bands of heroes more,
Retired to fan the patriotic fire,
Which bursting into day at Runnimede,
With rays of glory lighten'd all the land.
And Lewis, son of France, call'd in, was own'd
As England's master: but the patriot lords,
Ill brooking Gallic rule, to John restored
His regal state, short time by him enjoy'd.
At Newark Castle (not at Swinestead, where
Our legendaries tell a fearful tale
Of monks and poison,) John respired his last.
Argentre, in his “Histoire de Bretagne,” says that, John came late one evening, and took his nephew out of prison; that he rode with him to a cliff that overhung the sea; that there he stabb'd him, and drawing his body by the heels to the brink of the precipice, threw it into the ocean.
“The cause of love, the cause of justice own,
“Matchless thy charms, and was no life resign'd,
“To see them sparkle on their native throne?
“Oh, shame of Britons! in one sullen tow'r
“She wet with royal tears her daily cell,
“She found keen anguish ev'ry rose devour,
“They sprung, they rose, they faded, and they fell.
Shenstone.
Eleanor, of Bretagne, the lawful heiress of the English Crown upon the death of Arthur,—esteem'd the beauty of her time, she died in Bristol Castle, after suffering forty years imprisonment.
The following short sketch of what the people gained by Magna Charta, is an abridgement from Hume, by the ingenious James Petit Andrews.
“Immunities granted to Barons, are extended to their vassals.”
“No Baron to levy money from his vassals, except for attending the King to war, repairing his castles, and the highways and bridges.”
“Measures to be equal through the realm.”
“Merchants not to be illegally taxed.”
“Free egress, and regress to Freemen.”
“Cities to preserve their privileges, and only to be taxed by Parliament.”
“Bridges to be equitably built or supported.”
“Freemen to dispose of goods by will, or, if intestate, their next heir to succeed.”
“The King's Purveyor not to sieze goods, &c.”
“Courts of Justice not to follow the King, but to be stationary, open, and equal to all men.”
“Justice not to be paid for, nor refused to any one, (this was a necessary proviso in a realm where bribes were received by the King to a great amount, and shamelessly set down in books kept for that purpose,) Sheriffs not to put any one on trial without good cause and lawful witnesses.”
“No Freeman to be in any way injured in person or goods, except by the law of the land. [Query,—would that be an injury, D.] Redress to be given to those who have suffered illegally. No extravagant fines to be levied on Freemen. No villain, i. e. rustic, to be deprived of his cart or other instruments of husbandry by fine.”
The story of John's being poisoned at Swinestead Abbey is of a late date, and deserves no credit. Anderson.
A Metrical History of England | ||