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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A Metrical History of England | ||
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.
A Metrical History of England | ||