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15
GODIVA, — A TALE.
I
Whoe'er has been at Coventry must know(Unless he's quite devoid of curiosity,)
That once a year it has a sort of show,
Conducted with much splendor and pomposity.
I'll just describe it, if I can—but no,
It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett, I
Am a vile jester—though I once was vain
Of acting Fawcett's parts at Datchet-lane.
II
Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I,Dear Fred Golightly, trod those boards of yore;
I often grieve to think that they're past by,
As you must—on a rainy after-four:
Though, now it's fairly quash'd, you won't deny
That that same stage was frequently a bore;
It spoilt our cricket, which we're all so proud on,
Nor let us beat the Kingsmen—as we've now done.
III
Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear,When gently warbled by the lips he loves:
'Tis sweet one's exercise read o'er to hear,
(Especially the week before Removes);
But sweeter far, when actors first appear,
The loud collision of applauding gloves,
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Moments of triumph not to be surpass'd!
IV
Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing,Oh! doubts, and fears, and hopes of Eton all,
Ye are departed; but a lingering feeling
Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall.
My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling—
I feel my cheek flush—hear my inkstand fall;
My soul is wandering through the distant groves
Of that dear schoolboy-dwelling which it loves.
V
But to my tale—I'm somewhat given to prating,I can't but own it, but my theme was fine,
And all the feelings which I've been narrating
Are worth enjoying—and they've all been mine!
But I'll no longer keep the reader waiting,
So, without wasting now another line,
My Poem I'll begin, as Poets use,
With a short invocation to my Muse.
VI
Spirit which art within me, if in truthThou dost exist in my soul's depths, and I
Have not mistaken the hot pulse of youth,
And wandering thoughts, for dreams of poesy,
Rise from thy lone recesses, rise and soothe
Each meaner thought to aspirations high,
Whelm me in musings of deep joy, and roll
Thy radiant visions on my kindling soul.
VII
If, when at morn I view the bright blue Heaven,Thoughts are around me which not all have felt;
If, in the dim and fading light of Even,
A Poet's rapture on my soul hath dwelt;
17
Dreams that absorb, and phantasies that melt,
Sweet tears, and wild attachments—lend thy wings,
Spirit, to bear me in my wanderings.
VIII
But these are boyish dreams.—Away, away,Ye fond enchantments of my foolish brain;—
And yet, methinks, I would a while delay,
Ere my frail vessel tempt Life's dangerous main.
Still, dear delusions of my boyhood, stay,
Still let me pour my weak, but harmless strain!
In fancied draughts my thirst poetic slake,
And never, never from that dream awake!
IX
This is a very pretty invocation,Though scarce adapted to my present style;
I wrote it in a fit of inspiration,
The finest I've enjoy'd a monstrous while;
For most uncertain 's my imagination,
And 'tis but seldom that my Muse will smile.
Come, reader, we'll her present humour try;
Draw up the curtain—the scene's Coventry.
X
It is an ancient and a gallant town,Nor all unknown to loftier lays than mine;
It has of old seen deeds of high renown—
Its situation 's not extremely fine.
Its name it wishes to be handed down,
And still in England's annals longs to shine;
And Mr. Cobbett wants to represent
This self-same Coventry in Parliament.
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XI
But at the period when my tale commencesThere were no Cobbetts—'twas a barb'rous age;
The “Sovereign People” scarce were in their senses,
For Radical Reform was not the rage:
Though then Sir Francis might have found pretences
Just war against the Government to wage;
For King and Nobles thought it no great crime
To be confounded tyrants at that time.
XII
There was of yore an Earl of Coventry,Famous for wine and war—one Leofric;
A genuine Saxon—he'd a light blue eye,
His stature tall—his frame well-built and thick:
His flaxen locks fell down luxuriantly
On his fine shoulders—and his glance was quick.
But though he really was a handsome Earl,
He was at times a most uncommon churl.
XIII
He had fought well and often—miles aroundChieftain and vassal trembled at his name;
He held some thousand acres of good ground,
To which his weapon form'd his strongest claim:
His legal title was sometimes unsound—
And he was wedded to a matchless dame,
The fair and chaste Godiva—whom alone
He seem'd to love, of all that was his own.
XIV
Well might he love her;—in that shape of lightnessAll woman's choicest beauties were combined;
Her long dark locks set off her bosom's whiteness
In its calm heavings, warm, and chaste, and kind.
19
When through them flash'd the sunbeams of her mind;
When swiftly sparkled joys, or hopes, or fears,
Or sorrow bathed them in delicious tears.
XV
Hers was the face we look on once and love,Her voice was Music's echo—like the strain
Of our own land, heard, when afar we rove,
With a deep sense of pleasure mix'd with pain:
And those who once had heard it vainly strove
To lose its echoes lingering in the brain:
As for her figure—if you once had met it,
Believe me, Sirs, you never could forget it.
XVI
She was the idol of her native land,The comforter and friend of its distress;
Herself, unchasten'd by Affliction's hand,
Felt for the woes of others not the less.
The serfs, who trembled at her Lord's command,
Forbore to curse him for her loveliness.
They were a pair one often meets in life,—
A churlish husband with a charming wife.
XVII
It chanced, A.D. Eight Hundred and Eighteen,(I love to be correct in my chronology,
And all the tables which by chance I've seen
Concur in this date. When I was in College I
Conducted once the famous Magazine,
Th' Etonian's predecessor. This apology
Will serve, I hope, among all folks discerning,
For my correctness—both in taste and learning.)
XVIII
It chanced, A.D. Eight Hundred and Eighteen,'Twas a bad season: rain, and blight, and frost
20
Wheat—barley—oats—and turnips, all were crost.
The ruin'd peasants grew extremely lean,
There's no computing what that year they lost:
They look'd just like so many half-starved weasels,
The sheep all died—the pigs had got the measles.
XIX
Leofric's table suffer'd: he was ever(As Earls are sometimes) an enormous glutton;
Venison he loved, but, though a dainty liver,
He was a perfect Colleger at mutton.
He now discover'd that his table never
A decent leg or shoulder could be put on;
Dry was each wither'd joint, where fat was not,
And sometimes tasted strongly of the rot.
XX
There was a sad deficiency in greens;Parsnips and carrots nowhere could be found,
The very horses scorn'd to eat the beans,
The turnips were frost-bitten and unsound.
In fact the hungry peasants had no means
To pay their rents:—the Earl look'd grim and frown'd;
And wisely judged it would be saving trouble,
Like Harrow cricketers, to tax them double.
XXI
Whether this plan was likely to succeed,Is more than I can possibly divine;
Physicians seldom think it right to bleed
A patient dying of a deep decline.
The poor petition'd in this utmost need;
Alas! they found it was in vain to whine;
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(We know petitions are sometimes absurd.)
XXII
“He grieved,” he said, “but 't wasn't his look-out,If all his serfs and vassals starved together;
The year had been a rainy one, no doubt,
But what of that?—he didn't make the weather.
They should have minded what they were about,
And not have sent such mutton—'twas like leather.
In short, unless they paid in their arrears,
He'd beat their houses down about their ears.”
XXIII
Then fell despair upon them:—home they wentWith wild and gloomy aspects, and sat down
Each by his desolate hearth; some, weeping, leant
Their heads on their clasp'd hands; throughout the town
Went female shrieks and wailings; all content,
Domestic joy, and peace, and hope were flown;
And each look'd round upon his family,
And said that nought was left them—but to die.
XXIV
One had been lately wedded,—his young brideGazed, as he enter'd, on his frenzied eye,
And read her fate, yet she essay'd to hide
Her own forebodings of deep misery;
And strove to smile, and, seated by his side,
Used all her loved caresses cheeringly;
And said those sorrows soon would be forgot,
And fondly whisper'd hope—where hope was not.
XXV
And then she spoke of their long mutual love,Their youthful vows, and lately plighted troth,—
22
Who had protected—would protect them both.
Remorse might yet the Earl's stern nature move,—
“Herself,” she added, “to despair was loath.”
But when she found her arts were vain, she crept
Into his bosom—hid her face—and wept.
XXVI
It was a night of horror and despair!Mothers were shrieking in distraction wild,
And Fathers, with a fix'd unconscious glare,
Gazed on the wan cheeks of each starving child!
A few were kneeling, wrapt in fervent pray'r,
And these alone, in their devotion, smiled;
While he, the author of an earldom's woe—
Slept upon fair Godiva's breast of snow.
XXVII
Alas! Godiva, that a heart like thineShould by so stern a tyrant's head be press'd!—
Short were his dreams, he woke at half-past nine,
Feeling a strange oppression at his chest;
And yet that day he'd drank five quarts of wine,
Which one would fancy would have made him rest.
Whether 'twas conscience or an indigestion
Produced this nightmare, still remains a question.
XXVIII
Godiva was awake—she had not sleptFor sad reflections on her country's woes,
And bitter floods of anguish had she wept,
Her grief was far too burning for repose.
23
At last they trickled to her husband's nose,
Who in plain terms (he seldom used to flatter)
Demanded “What the Devil was the matter.”
XXIX
Her tears fell faster, but she answer'd not;In vain at first she strove her voice to find;
The courteous Saxon thought his wife had got
The tooth-ache, and grew wonderfully kind.
But when Godiva gently told him what
So much afflicted not her teeth—but mind,
He scratch'd his head, and stared like one confounded—
Never was man so perfectly astounded.
XXX
He could not form, for his part, the least notionOf what appear'd so singular a whim,
He'd always fancied that his wife's devotion,
Thoughts, passions, wishes, centred all in him.
Much was he puzzled by this strange emotion,—
How was it possible a dame so slim,
So elegant and tasty as his wife,
Could feel for wretches quite in humble life?
XXXI
It was a problem which he could not solve,'Twas just what mathematics are to me,
A science which the longer I revolve,
The surer am I we shall ne'er agree:
And so I very prudently resolve
To give it up, and stick to poetry,
Which is, in fact, extremely pretty sport,
And I'm inclined to fancy quite my forte.
XXXII
My Simpson's Euclid, you're a cursed bore,Although, no doubt, a treasure in your way,
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Your problems—with what appetite they may.
I have no head for mathematic lore,
Therefore, my Simpson's Euclid, I must say
(Though I'm desirous not to be uncivil)
I most devoutly wish you at the Devil.
XXXIII
But oh! the thousand joys of versifying!One writes, and blots, and reads 'em o'er and o'er,
And, every time one reads 'em, can't help spying
A thousand beauties unobserved before;
And then one fancies all the ladies crying—
Reviewers make some rhymesters rather sore;
I for my own part am a careless dog,
And love to hear mine criticised—incog.
XXIV
But poor Godiva—in her tears she lay,'Twas a sad pity that t'was in the night,
Because, had it but happen'd in the day,
Her weeping beauty had prevail'd outright:
E'en then she charm'd her husband's rage away,
And nearly gain'd her purpose—though not quite;
For, after all her eloquent persuasion,
He tried to cheat her by a mean evasion.
XXXV
“My dear,” said he, “you've argued wondrous well,I'm quite delighted with your long oration,
On all its beauties I forbear to dwell,
Enough that it hath met my approbation;
So much so, that to-morrow you may tell
Fair Coventry, it's free from all taxation,
If but these terms your approbation meet—
That you ride naked through the public street.”
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XXXVI
Godiva started—well indeed she might,She almost doubted her own ears' veracity;
My modest pen can scarce endure to write
A speech of such unparallel'd audacity.
Leofric thought he had perplex'd her quite,
And grinn'd immensely at his own sagacity;
For which I hold him a consummate beast,
Deserving of the pillory at least.
XXXVII
Shame on the heartless churl!—could he reposeOn that so lovely bosom, which, he knew,
For him, albeit the author of its woes,
Throbb'd with affection, warm, and chaste, and true?
And could he thus its holy charms expose
Unveil'd and blushing to the public view?
Ay, bid slaves gaze on beauties, which alone
(Though Kings had sigh'd for) he might call his own!
XXXVIII
And yet I can't but own that modern spousesIn his opinion seem to acquiesce;
I've seen, in many fashionable houses,
The ladies waltzing in complete undress;
A custom which no sort of feeling rouses
Amongst their husbands—and I must confess,
(Being unmarried) that I see no faults in
Ladies, young, lovely, and half-naked, waltzing.
XXXIX
I must say I enjoy it—'t is a pleasureGood-natured fair ones grant to amorous swains;
I like to whirl to that bewildering measure,
Which, “just like love”—or brandy, turns one's brains;
I like to view my partner's charms at leisure,
Till scarce a secret for the bride remains;
While round her waist each wanton finger strays,
And counts the whalebones in her panting stays.
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XL
Let jealous husbands (if such still there beIn this improving age) cry out “For shame!”
Let Quakers say our manners are too free,
And gouty folks quadrilles and waltzes blame;
I here protest I never will agree
In such reproaches—till I'm blind and lame.
Let maids of fifty prate of immorality,
I'm for the sexes' rational equality.
XLI
These are new doctrines: in Godiva's ageHusbands alone were privileged to kiss;
I said before, Reform was not the rage,
So that such nonsense was not then amiss;
And, though I've ransack'd many an ancient page,
I find but one case similar to this,—
That of Candaules—handed down to us
By Barry Cornwall, and Herodotus.
XLII
Oh! matrimonial love, which I so longHave fondly painted to my fancy's eye,
In vain would I embody now in song
My young conceptions of thy purity.
Thou should'st be chaste, tho' ardent; mild, tho' strong;
Thou should'st be—hang it, it's in vain to try,—
Thou should'st be—all that in my heart's recess
I long have worshipp'd, but can ne'er express.
XLIII
And thou, fair image, whatsoe'er thou art,The loved creation of my boyish brain,
The destined partner of my cares and heart,
To share my pleasures, and to soothe my pain;
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In many a midnight dream appear again;
Still let me clasp thee to my glowing breast,
Enjoy thy converse, and in sleep be blest.
XLIV
And if not all a phantom of my thought,And thou indeed hast being, may thy young
And sinless years be happy, and may nought
That tastes of sorrow in thy path be flung:
May purest lessons thy young heart be taught,
And each expanding thought to virtue strung;
May'st thou have some accomplishments—much grace,
And lovely as thy spirit be—thy face.
XLV
I shall be quite enraptured if you sing,So but your taste is pure as was the Attics';
I only beg you'll take care not to fling
Your time away in learning mathematics;
Nor to my arms a heavy portion bring
Of chemistry—and Greek—and hydrostatics;
You may nurse pinks and tulips, if you've got any,
But be no florist, love,—nor deal in botany.
XLVI
I mention this, because I know some ladiesWhose conversation is almost a bore;
But I should laud them, as the Poet's trade is,
So won't pursue this topic any more.
Return we to our tale, which, I'm afraid is
Too long in telling—but it's nearly o'er:
Godiva turn'd at last, with looks imploring,
And found her husband (like my reader) snoring.
XLVII
Too well she knew to wake him would be vain;She thought 'twas best to let him slumber on,
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And all she had effected be undone.
She lay, and communed with her heart and brain,—
Her thoughts I know not, but when morning shone,
She told her husband, with a steadfast eye,
She had revolved the matter—and would try.
XLVIII
Her speech on this occasion I'd recordedIn my foul copy, and we all agreed
That it was most astonishingly worded,
For one who never learnt to write or read;
Yet scope for mirth it might have well afforded
To modern misses of our British breed;
And grave blue-stockings would, no dould, have said
“Godiva's heart was better than her head.”
XLIX
Had she at some snug boarding-school been placedOf modern growth for female education,
She would have had a most uncommon taste,
And I might now have printed her oration.
Her native genius she would then have graced
With stores of every sort of information,
And had, at twelve years old, more general knowledge
Than boys of fifteen gain at Eton College.
L
She turn'd and left his Lordship sore perplex'd,He almost question'd if he was awake,
And knew not whether to feel pleased or vex'd;
Still less, what step it would be right to take.
He “wonder'd what the Devil she'd do next
Who could so bold a resolution make:”
And felt a sort of shame that he'd consented,
And, for the first time in his life, repented.
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LI
But then he felt he never could retract,(At least he would not—which was much the same)
And if his wife thought proper thus to act,
He couldn't help it—he was not to blame!
So that day, after breakfast, off he pack'd
A trumpeter (I quite forget his name)
To tell the people, in the market-place,
His wife's intention—and his own disgrace.
LII
It was an idle morn in Coventry,The people wander'd through the gloomy mart;
Labour with hope was o'er, and listlessly
Their footsteps traversed each unheeded part;
Despair was yielding fast to apathy—
They were prepared to die,—and every heart
Its weight of woe had half forgot to feel,—
When in their ears shrill rung a trumpet-peal.
LIII
There was a sudden crowding round the spaceWhence the sound came—and then from man to man,
Throughout the full and spacious market-place,
A sudden, cold, electric shudder ran;
And each glanced quickly on his neighbour's face,
As if the working of his thought to scan,—
And then in every countenance were blent
Joy, love, and anger, and astonishment.
LIV
A breathless pause succeeded,—then aroseA low and gathering murmur in the crowd,
Like the far peal that breaks the dread repose
Cast by the shadow of a thunder-cloud:
And fast and far that thrilling murmur flows
On through the multitude—yet grows not loud—
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Of crowds dispersing sounded in the street.
LV
Noon came, yet ne'er in Coventry had reign'dAt deepest midnight silence so profound;
In the wide streets no human form remain'd,
It seem'd as Death had swallow'd all around:
It was like that enchanted city, feign'd
In Oriental Tales, where all were bound
In magic slumbers, and transform'd to stone—
A story pretty generally known.
LVI
What were Godiva's thoughts at that dread hourIn her lone chamber? Silent did she kneel,
Her deep blue eyes raised meekly to the Power
Of Heaven, in dumb, yet eloquent appeal.
Thus pray'd the gentle lady in her bower,
Till o'er her sorrows peace began to steal,
And the calm rapture of the silent skies
Had sunk into her spirit through her eyes.
LVII
The lady rose from prayer, with cheek o'erflush'd,And eyes all radiant with celestial fire,
The anguish'd beatings of her heart were hush'd,
So calmly heavenward did her thoughts aspire.
A moment's pause—and then she deeply blush'd,
As, trembling, she unclasp'd her rich attire,
And shrinking from the sunlight, shone confest
The ripe and dazzling beauties of her breast.
LVIII
And when her white and radiant limbs lay bare,The fillet from her brow the dame unbound,
And let the traces of her raven hair
Flow down in wavy lightness to the ground,
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In dark and shadowy beauty floating round,
As clouds, in the still firmament of June,
Shade the pale splendors of the midnight Moon.
LIX
But then her spirit fell when thus aloneShe stood in the deep silence of her bower,
And felt that there she was beheld by none
Save One unknown, supreme, eternal Power.
She dared not raise her meek eyes, trembling one,
Again from earth; she could have wish'd that hour
Rather in view of thousands to have stood,
Than in that still and awful solitude.
LX
Away—away, with wild and hurried pace,Through many a long and echoing room she stole;
No voice arrests her ear, no human face
Bursts on the dreamy wildness of her soul.
All silent now is that proud dwelling-place,—
On—on she presses till she reach the goal;
The portal's pass'd—she sees her palfrey stand,
Held by a weak and weeping maiden's hand.
LXI
Away, away!—the Lady hath departed;The freedom of the land will soon be won:
Rejoice, ye wrong'd, and spurn'd, and broken-hearted,
Rejoice!—for your deliverance is begun.
It's full five minutes since Godiva started,
She'll be among you before half-past one;
Therefore, take care, both bachelors and spouses,
All but the blind, to keep within your houses.
LXII
Godiva pass'd, but all had disappear'd,Each in his dwelling's innermost recess:
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To gaze upon her dazzling loveliness.
Sudden her palfrey stopp'd, and neigh'd, and rear'd,
And prick'd his ears—as if he would express
That there was something wicked in the wind;
Godiva trembled and held fast behind.
LXIII
And here I also must remark that this isWith ladies very frequently the case,
And beg to hint to all Equestrian Misses,
That horses' backs are not their proper place.
A woman's forte is music—love—or kisses,
Not leaping gates, or galloping a race;
I used sometimes to ride with them of yore,
And always found them an infernal bore.
LXIV
The steed grew quiet, and a piercing cryBurst on Godiva's ear;—she started, and
Beheld a man, who, in a window high,
Shaded his dim eyes with his trembling hand.
He had been led by curiosity
To see her pass, and there had ta'en his stand;
And as he gazed ('tis thus the story's read),
His eyeballs sunk and shrivell'd in his head.
LXV
I know not, gentles, whether this be true;If so, you'll own the punishment was just;
Poor wretch!—full dearly had he cause to rue
His prying temper, or unbridled lust.
No more could he his daily toil pursue—
He was a tinker—but his tools might rust,
He might dispose of all his stock of metal,
For ne'er, thenceforward, could he mend a kettle.
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LXVI
Alas! poor Peeping Tom! Godiva keptAnd fed him.—Reader, now my tale is told;
I need not state how all the peasants wept,
And laugh'd, and bless'd their Countess—young and old.
That night Godiva very soundly slept—
I grieve to add she caught a trifling cold;
Leofric's heart was so extremely full,
He roasted for the populace a bull.
LXVII
There stood an ancient cross at Coventry,Pull'd down, of late, by order of the Mayor,
Because 'twas clear its downfall must be nigh,
And 'twould be too expensive to repair;
It bore two figures carved—and you might spy
Beneath them graved, in letters large and fair,
Godiva, Leofric, for love of thee,
Doth make henceforth fair Coventry toll free.
LXVIII
The tale's believed by all the population,And still a sham Godiva, every year,
Is carried by the Mayor and Corporation
In grand procession—and the mob get beer.
Gentles, I've spent my fit of inspiration,
Which being over, I must leave you here;
And for Godiva—hope you'll decent think her,
Laugh at her husband, and forgive the tinker.
1820.
“If any member refuse to pay a fine imposed by the Club, the fine shall be doubled.”—Rules of the Harrow Cricket Club, 1818.
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