 | Miscellanies (1885) |  |
VOL. I. MISCELLANIES.
80
Christabel.
The Introduction to Part the Third.
Listen! Ye know that I am mad,
And ye will listen!—wizard dreams
Were with me—all is true that seems!
From dreams alone can truth be had—
In dreams divinest lore is taught,
For the eye, no more distraught,
Rests most calmly; and the ear,
Of sound unconscious, may apply
Its attributes unknown, to hear
The Music of Philosophy!
And ye will listen!—wizard dreams
Were with me—all is true that seems!
From dreams alone can truth be had—
In dreams divinest lore is taught,
For the eye, no more distraught,
Rests most calmly; and the ear,
Of sound unconscious, may apply
Its attributes unknown, to hear
The Music of Philosophy!
Thus am I wisest in my sleep,
For thoughts and things which daylight brings
Come to the spirit sad and single;
But verse and prose, and joys and woes,
Inextricably mingle
When the hushed frame is silent in repose!
Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm,
Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane,
And crested lightning, and the snows
That mock the sunbeams, and the rain
Which bounds on earth with big drops warm,
All are round me while I spell
The legend of sweet Christabel!
For thoughts and things which daylight brings
Come to the spirit sad and single;
But verse and prose, and joys and woes,
Inextricably mingle
When the hushed frame is silent in repose!
Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm,
Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane,
And crested lightning, and the snows
That mock the sunbeams, and the rain
Which bounds on earth with big drops warm,
All are round me while I spell
The legend of sweet Christabel!
—Part Third.
Nine moons have waxed, and the tenth in its wane
Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain!
For many moons was her eye less bright,
For many moons was her vest more tight.
And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start,
The life-blood came from the panting heart
And, fluttering o'er that thin fair face,
Past with a rapid, nameless pace;
And at moments a big tear filled the eye,
And at moments a short and smothered sigh
Swelled her breast with sudden strain,
Breathed half in grief and half in pain,
For hers are pangs on the rack that wind
The outward frame and the inward mind.
And when at night she did visit the oak,
She wore the Baron's scarlet cloak
(That cloak which, happy to hear and to tell,
Was lined with the fur of the leopard well).
And as she wandered down the dell,
None said 'twas the Lady Christabel.
Some thought 'twas a weird and ugsome elf;
Some deemed 'twas the sick old Baron himself,
Who wandered beneath the snowy lift
To count his beads in solemn shrift
(For his shape below was wide to see,
All bloated with the hydropsie).
Oh, had her old father the secret known,
He had stood as stark as the statue of stone
That stands so silent and white and tall
At the upper end of his banquet-hall!
Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain!
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For many moons was her vest more tight.
And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start,
The life-blood came from the panting heart
And, fluttering o'er that thin fair face,
Past with a rapid, nameless pace;
And at moments a big tear filled the eye,
And at moments a short and smothered sigh
Swelled her breast with sudden strain,
Breathed half in grief and half in pain,
For hers are pangs on the rack that wind
The outward frame and the inward mind.
And when at night she did visit the oak,
She wore the Baron's scarlet cloak
(That cloak which, happy to hear and to tell,
Was lined with the fur of the leopard well).
And as she wandered down the dell,
None said 'twas the Lady Christabel.
Some thought 'twas a weird and ugsome elf;
Some deemed 'twas the sick old Baron himself,
Who wandered beneath the snowy lift
To count his beads in solemn shrift
(For his shape below was wide to see,
All bloated with the hydropsie).
Oh, had her old father the secret known,
He had stood as stark as the statue of stone
That stands so silent and white and tall
At the upper end of his banquet-hall!
Am I asleep, or am I awake?
In very truth I oft mistake,
As the stories of old come over my brain,
And I build in spirit the mystic strain.
Ah! would to the Virgin that I were asleep!
But I must wake, and I must weep!
In very truth I oft mistake,
As the stories of old come over my brain,
And I build in spirit the mystic strain.
Ah! would to the Virgin that I were asleep!
But I must wake, and I must weep!
Sweet Christabel, it is not well
That a lady, pure as the sunless snow
That lies so oft on the mountain's brow,
That a maiden of sinless chastity
In child-birth pangs should be doomed to die,
Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,
And hear the words of blemish and blame!
For the world that smiles at the guilt of man
Places woman beneath its ban.
Alas! that scandal thus should wreak
Its vengeance on the warm and weak;
That the arrows of the cold and dull
Should wound the heart of the beautiful!
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That lies so oft on the mountain's brow,
That a maiden of sinless chastity
In child-birth pangs should be doomed to die,
Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,
And hear the words of blemish and blame!
For the world that smiles at the guilt of man
Places woman beneath its ban.
Alas! that scandal thus should wreak
Its vengeance on the warm and weak;
That the arrows of the cold and dull
Should wound the heart of the beautiful!
Of the things that be, did we know but half,
Many and many would weep who laugh!
Tears would darken many an eye,
Or that deeper grief (when its orb is dry,
When it cannot dare the eye of day)
O'er the clouded heart would stray
Till it crumbled like desert dust away!
But here we meet with grief and grudge,
And they who cannot know us judge!
Thus souls on whom good angels smile
Are scoffed at in our world of guile.
Let this, Ladie, thy comfort be:
Man knows not us; good angels know
The things that pass in the world below.
And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust
That the world should view thee with mistrust;
For who that saw that child of thine,
Pale Christabel, who could divine
That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine?
Many and many would weep who laugh!
Tears would darken many an eye,
Or that deeper grief (when its orb is dry,
When it cannot dare the eye of day)
O'er the clouded heart would stray
Till it crumbled like desert dust away!
But here we meet with grief and grudge,
And they who cannot know us judge!
Thus souls on whom good angels smile
Are scoffed at in our world of guile.
Let this, Ladie, thy comfort be:
Man knows not us; good angels know
The things that pass in the world below.
And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust
That the world should view thee with mistrust;
For who that saw that child of thine,
Pale Christabel, who could divine
That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine?
But in I rush, with too swift a gale,
Into the ocean of my tale!
Not yet, young Christabel, I ween
Of her babe hath lighter been.
—'Tis the month of the snow and the blast,
And the days of Christmas mirth are past,
When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright,
Casting a broad and dusky light
On the shadowy forms of the warriors old,
Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold;
On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves,
On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves,
The few green glories that still remain
To mock the storm and welcome the rain,
Brighter and livelier 'mid tempest and shower,
Like a hero in the battle hour!
Brave emblems o'er the winter hearth,
They cheered our fathers' hours of mirth!
Into the ocean of my tale!
Not yet, young Christabel, I ween
Of her babe hath lighter been.
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And the days of Christmas mirth are past,
When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright,
Casting a broad and dusky light
On the shadowy forms of the warriors old,
Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold;
On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves,
On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves,
The few green glories that still remain
To mock the storm and welcome the rain,
Brighter and livelier 'mid tempest and shower,
Like a hero in the battle hour!
Brave emblems o'er the winter hearth,
They cheered our fathers' hours of mirth!
Twelve solar months complete and clear
The magic circle of the year!
Each (the ancient riddle saith)
Children two times thirty hath!
Three times ten are fair and white,
Three times ten are black as Night;
Three times ten hath Hecatè,
Three times ten the God of Day:
Thus spoke the old hierophant
(I saw her big breast, swelling, pant)
What time I dreamed, in ghostly wise,
Of Eleusinian mysteries;
For I am the hierarch
Of the mystical and dark,
And now, if rightly I do spell
Of the Lady Christabel,
She hates the three times ten so white,
And sickens in their searching light;
And woe is hers—alas! alack!
She hates the three times ten so black;
As a mastiff bitch doth bark,
I hear her moaning in the dark!
The magic circle of the year!
Each (the ancient riddle saith)
Children two times thirty hath!
Three times ten are fair and white,
Three times ten are black as Night;
Three times ten hath Hecatè,
Three times ten the God of Day:
Thus spoke the old hierophant
(I saw her big breast, swelling, pant)
What time I dreamed, in ghostly wise,
Of Eleusinian mysteries;
For I am the hierarch
Of the mystical and dark,
And now, if rightly I do spell
Of the Lady Christabel,
She hates the three times ten so white,
And sickens in their searching light;
And woe is hers—alas! alack!
She hates the three times ten so black;
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I hear her moaning in the dark!
'Tis the month of January:
Why, lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow
Through the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark
Is withered all, and damp and dark,
While cold above the stars in doubt
Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower,
And hides its namesake, the snowdrop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously?
Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.
Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild—
Ah, think how big thou art with child!
Though the baron's red cloak through the land hath no fellow,
Thou shouldst not thus venture without an umbrella!
Why, lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow
Through the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark
Is withered all, and damp and dark,
While cold above the stars in doubt
Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower,
And hides its namesake, the snowdrop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously?
Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.
Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild—
Ah, think how big thou art with child!
Though the baron's red cloak through the land hath no fellow,
Thou shouldst not thus venture without an umbrella!
Dost thou wander to the field of graves
Where the elder its spectral branches waves;
And will thy hurried footsteps halt
Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?
Where the stranger pauses long to explore
The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,
Where, though the lines are tarnished and dim,
Thy mother's features stare gaunt and grim,
And grinning skull and transverse bone,
And the names of warriors dead and gone,
Mark Sir Leoline's burial-stone:
Thither go not, or I deem almost
That thou wilt frighten thy mother's ghost!
Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,
And, kneeling down upon thy knee,
Number the beads of my rosary?
Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl,
And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,
Nine and one shalt thou record;
Nine to the Virgin and one to the Lord!
The pearls are ten times one to behold,
And ten times nine are the beads of gold:
Methinks 'tis hard of the friar to ask
On a night like this so weary a task!
Where the elder its spectral branches waves;
And will thy hurried footsteps halt
Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?
Where the stranger pauses long to explore
The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,
Where, though the lines are tarnished and dim,
Thy mother's features stare gaunt and grim,
And grinning skull and transverse bone,
And the names of warriors dead and gone,
Mark Sir Leoline's burial-stone:
Thither go not, or I deem almost
That thou wilt frighten thy mother's ghost!
Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,
And, kneeling down upon thy knee,
Number the beads of my rosary?
85
And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,
Nine and one shalt thou record;
Nine to the Virgin and one to the Lord!
The pearls are ten times one to behold,
And ten times nine are the beads of gold:
Methinks 'tis hard of the friar to ask
On a night like this so weary a task!
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant, in summer time,
In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme,
When the light winds above 'mong the light leaves are singing,
And the song of the birds through your heart is ringing;
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant when happily humming
To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!—
When the rivulet, coy and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides 'mong the grass-blades green,
When the light of the moon and each starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o'er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,
'Tis pleasant—with heart, ah! how happy though fearful—
With heaven-beaming eyes where tears come while smiles glisten
To the lover's low vows in the silence to listen!
In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme,
When the light winds above 'mong the light leaves are singing,
And the song of the birds through your heart is ringing;
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant when happily humming
To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!—
When the rivulet, coy and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides 'mong the grass-blades green,
When the light of the moon and each starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o'er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,
'Tis pleasant—with heart, ah! how happy though fearful—
With heaven-beaming eyes where tears come while smiles glisten
To the lover's low vows in the silence to listen!
'Tis pleasant too on a fine spring day
(A month before the month of May)
To pray for a lover that's far away!
But, Christabel, I cannot see
The powerful cause that sways with thee
Thus, with a face all waxen white,
To wander forth on a winter night.
(A month before the month of May)
To pray for a lover that's far away!
But, Christabel, I cannot see
The powerful cause that sways with thee
Thus, with a face all waxen white,
To wander forth on a winter night.
The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek,
But the night is chill and bleak;
And clouds are passing swift away
Below the moon so old and grey—
The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,
That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;
Rapidly, rapidly
With the blast
Clouds of ebony
Wander fast.
And one the maiden hath fixed her eye on
Hath passed o'er the moon and is near the horizon!
Ah, Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,
That the clouds of shame
Will darken and gather
O'er the maiden's name,
Who chances unwedded
To give birth to a child, and knows not its father!
But the night is chill and bleak;
86
Below the moon so old and grey—
The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,
That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;
Rapidly, rapidly
With the blast
Clouds of ebony
Wander fast.
And one the maiden hath fixed her eye on
Hath passed o'er the moon and is near the horizon!
Ah, Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,
That the clouds of shame
Will darken and gather
O'er the maiden's name,
Who chances unwedded
To give birth to a child, and knows not its father!
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—eleven!—
Tempest or calm, in moonshine or shower,
The castle clock still tolls the hour,
And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound,
And is answered by the owls around;
And at every measured tone
You may hear the old baron grunt and groan.
'Tis a thing of wonder, of fright, and fear,
The mastiff bitches' moans to hear;
And the aged cow in her stall that stands,
And is milked each morning by female hands
(That the baron's breakfast of milk and bread
May be brought betimes to the old man's bed,
Who often gives, while he is dressing,
His Christabel a father's blessing)—
That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,
Answers it with a plaintive low!
And the baron old, who is ill at rest,
Curses the favourite cat for a pest;
For let him pray, or let him weep,
She mews through all the hours of sleep,
Till the morning comes with its pleasant beams,
And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams.
Let it rain however fast,
Rest from rain will come at last,
And the blaze that strongest flashes
Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!
But sorrow from the human heart,
And mists of care—will they depart?
I know not, and I cannot tell,
Saith the Lady Christabel;
But I feel my bosom swell!
In my spirit I behold
A lady—call her firm, not bold—
Standing lonely by the burn:
Strange feelings through her breast and brain
Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.
Ah, Christabel, return, return;
Let me not call on thee in vain!
Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned,
That thy body will be found.
What anguish will thy spirit feel
When it must to all reveal
What the spell binds thee to conceal!
How the baron's heart will knock 'gainst his chest
When the stake is driven into thy breast,
When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung,
And over the dead no dirge be sung,
No friend in mourning vesture dight,
No lykewake sad—no tapered rite!
Tempest or calm, in moonshine or shower,
The castle clock still tolls the hour,
And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound,
And is answered by the owls around;
And at every measured tone
You may hear the old baron grunt and groan.
'Tis a thing of wonder, of fright, and fear,
The mastiff bitches' moans to hear;
And the aged cow in her stall that stands,
And is milked each morning by female hands
(That the baron's breakfast of milk and bread
May be brought betimes to the old man's bed,
Who often gives, while he is dressing,
His Christabel a father's blessing)—
That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,
Answers it with a plaintive low!
And the baron old, who is ill at rest,
Curses the favourite cat for a pest;
87
She mews through all the hours of sleep,
Till the morning comes with its pleasant beams,
And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams.
Let it rain however fast,
Rest from rain will come at last,
And the blaze that strongest flashes
Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!
But sorrow from the human heart,
And mists of care—will they depart?
I know not, and I cannot tell,
Saith the Lady Christabel;
But I feel my bosom swell!
In my spirit I behold
A lady—call her firm, not bold—
Standing lonely by the burn:
Strange feelings through her breast and brain
Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.
Ah, Christabel, return, return;
Let me not call on thee in vain!
Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned,
That thy body will be found.
What anguish will thy spirit feel
When it must to all reveal
What the spell binds thee to conceal!
How the baron's heart will knock 'gainst his chest
When the stake is driven into thy breast,
When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung,
And over the dead no dirge be sung,
No friend in mourning vesture dight,
No lykewake sad—no tapered rite!
Return, return, thy home to bless,
Daughter of good Sir Leoline;
In that chamber a recess,
Known to no other eye than thine,
Contains the powerful wild flower wine
That often cheered thy mother's heart;
Lady, lovely as thou art,
Return and, ere thou dost undress
And lie down in thy nakedness,
Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt
And drink the wine as thou art wont,
Hard to uncork and bright to decant!
Daughter of good Sir Leoline;
In that chamber a recess,
Known to no other eye than thine,
Contains the powerful wild flower wine
88
Lady, lovely as thou art,
Return and, ere thou dost undress
And lie down in thy nakedness,
Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt
And drink the wine as thou art wont,
Hard to uncork and bright to decant!
My merry girl—she drinks—she drinks;
Faster she drinks and faster;
My brain reels round as I see her whirl:
She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl,
Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster;
For when sorrow wets the eye,
Yet the heart within is dry.
Sweet maid, upon the bed she sinks:
May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep;
Good angels guard her in her sleep!
Faster she drinks and faster;
My brain reels round as I see her whirl:
She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl,
Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster;
For when sorrow wets the eye,
Yet the heart within is dry.
Sweet maid, upon the bed she sinks:
May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep;
Good angels guard her in her sleep!
89
Billy Routing.
A LYRICAL BALLAD.
Fit subject for heroic story,
I sing a youth of noble fame;
Town and country, ten miles round,
Awaken at the glowing sound
Of gallant Billy Routing's name!
I sing a youth of noble fame;
Town and country, ten miles round,
Awaken at the glowing sound
Of gallant Billy Routing's name!
Who wanders 'mid the summer landscape,
To scare the crows, for ever shouting?
Who makes that sweet harmonious noise,
Surpassing far the raven's voice?
By heavens 'tis he, 'tis Billy Routing!
To scare the crows, for ever shouting?
Who makes that sweet harmonious noise,
Surpassing far the raven's voice?
By heavens 'tis he, 'tis Billy Routing!
Billy Routing walketh lamely—
Lamely, lamely walketh he;
Billy Routing cannot work;
You'd swear his leg is made of cork
(I never saw him bend his knee).
Lamely, lamely walketh he;
Billy Routing cannot work;
You'd swear his leg is made of cork
(I never saw him bend his knee).
The doctors say he's paralytic
Fair certificate he showeth;
Billy limpeth through the town,
Hawking ballads up and down;
Up and down, where'er he goeth.
Fair certificate he showeth;
Billy limpeth through the town,
Hawking ballads up and down;
Up and down, where'er he goeth.
Billy Routing hath a staff,
Measuring inches forty-three:
Its head is smooth; with leathern string
I've seen it from his button swing—
(Some say it grew upon a tree!!!)
Measuring inches forty-three:
Its head is smooth; with leathern string
I've seen it from his button swing—
(Some say it grew upon a tree!!!)
90
Billy Routing is a sportsman:
In summer I have seen him trouting.
A poet also is the youth;
A player too, for I, in truth,
In country barns have heard him spouting.
In summer I have seen him trouting.
A poet also is the youth;
A player too, for I, in truth,
In country barns have heard him spouting.
Billy hath a goodly great-coat,
I'll take my oath it once was green,
Though now it shines of many a hue;
A lovelier coat, I'm certain, you
On human back have never seen.
I'll take my oath it once was green,
Though now it shines of many a hue;
A lovelier coat, I'm certain, you
On human back have never seen.
Now to my tale:—It chanced that Billy
Was seven months from his home away;
And no one of him heard or saw,
Till on the top of blue Skiddaw
He landed on a summer day.
Was seven months from his home away;
And no one of him heard or saw,
Till on the top of blue Skiddaw
He landed on a summer day.
It chanced on that eventful morning,
While walking forth upon the plain,
I saw him with my telescope,
I saw him on the mountain top,
Holding a donkey by the mane!
While walking forth upon the plain,
I saw him with my telescope,
I saw him on the mountain top,
Holding a donkey by the mane!
Oh! where have you been, Billy Routing?
We dreaded much that thou wast lost;
Long did we drag each pond and river,
Fearing that thou wert gone for ever,
And stuck handbills on every post.
We dreaded much that thou wast lost;
Long did we drag each pond and river,
Fearing that thou wert gone for ever,
And stuck handbills on every post.
And hast thou been in Fairyland,
This many a month, this many a day?
And hast thou seen the Danish boy?
The idiot lad, or Betty Foy?
Old Goody Blake, or Lucy Gray?
This many a month, this many a day?
And hast thou seen the Danish boy?
The idiot lad, or Betty Foy?
Old Goody Blake, or Lucy Gray?
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Or hast thou been in Nor-ro-way,
Among the mountains gathering leeches?
That is a lovely beast of thine;
I'm sure its skin would make a fine
Soft easy pair of leathern breeches.
Among the mountains gathering leeches?
That is a lovely beast of thine;
I'm sure its skin would make a fine
Soft easy pair of leathern breeches.
Now Billy, tell me all your tidings,
Now Billy, haste and tell me true.
What was his answer, can you tell?
With the bold front of Peter Bell,
He crowed aloud, “Tu-whit, too-whoo!!!”
Now Billy, haste and tell me true.
What was his answer, can you tell?
With the bold front of Peter Bell,
He crowed aloud, “Tu-whit, too-whoo!!!”
Note.—Further to illustrate this interesting subject, I have only to observe,
that Mr. Routing was a person of an “aspetto nobile;” in his youth he
suffered a severe attack of the “eruptio popularis,” commonly hight smallpox;
which, it must be confessed, had somewhat impaired the “contorno
del suo viso.” From being so much in the sun, his countenance had acquired
a tawny—I had almost said—a
colour. The most objectionable
feature of his inward man, was the “auri sacra fames,” which sometimes
“αγαγε αυτον” to make free with “les oiseaux domestiques” about farmyards.
I remember on speaking to him on this subject, in a friendly manner,
he defended himself with this quotation from Plato de Republica, lib. 2. cap. 4,
“εαν εχωμεν χρημαθ, εξομεν φιλους.” I have always chimed in with that
opinion, that the sayings of great men, however trivial, are worthy of eternal
commemoration. Vide Boswell's Life of Johnson, Hayley's Cowper, &c.
Rydal Mount.
W. W.
![illustration](https://iiif.lib.virginia.edu/iiif/uva-lib:466379/full/!1600,1600/0/default.jpg")
103
“THAT I LOVE THEE, CHARMING MAID,”
That I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand times have said,
And a thousand times more I have sworn it;
But 'tis easy to be seen in the coldness of your mien
That you doubt my affection, or scorn it.
Ah me!
And a thousand times more I have sworn it;
But 'tis easy to be seen in the coldness of your mien
That you doubt my affection, or scorn it.
Ah me!
Not a single pile of sense is in the whole of these pretences
For rejecting your lover's petitions;
Had I windows in my bosom, oh! how gladly I'd expose 'em
To undo your phantastic suspicions.
Ah me!
For rejecting your lover's petitions;
Had I windows in my bosom, oh! how gladly I'd expose 'em
To undo your phantastic suspicions.
Ah me!
You repeat I've known you long, and you hint I do you wrong
In beginning so late to pursue ye;
But 'tis folly to look glum because people did not come
Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye.
Ah me!
In beginning so late to pursue ye;
But 'tis folly to look glum because people did not come
Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye.
Ah me!
In a grapery one walks without looking at the stalks,
While the bunches are green that they're bearing;
All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the eaves
Scarce attract even a moment of staring.
Ah me!
While the bunches are green that they're bearing;
All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the eaves
Scarce attract even a moment of staring.
Ah me!
104
But when time has swell'd the grapes to a richer style of shapes,
And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes,
Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us and to madden,
Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes.
Ah me!
And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes,
Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us and to madden,
Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes.
Ah me!
Oh 'tis then that mortals pant, while they gaze on Bacchus' plant,
Oh 'tis then—will my simile serve ye?
Should a damsel fair repine, though neglected like a vine?
Both ere long shall turn heads topsy-turvy.
Ah me!
Oh 'tis then—will my simile serve ye?
Should a damsel fair repine, though neglected like a vine?
Both ere long shall turn heads topsy-turvy.
Ah me!
163
Song in Praise of Wastle and North.
Where'er Odoherty with casual foot
Winds through this weary world his varied way,
Still be it his with vigour to recruit
His toil-worn frame, and moistify his clay
With—any potent dram his taste will suit,
To toast the health of friends beside the Forth—
The dauntless Wastle and the peerless North!
Winds through this weary world his varied way,
Still be it his with vigour to recruit
His toil-worn frame, and moistify his clay
With—any potent dram his taste will suit,
To toast the health of friends beside the Forth—
The dauntless Wastle and the peerless North!
Let Southey sing of Thalaba and Roderick,
And Scott chaunt forth his epic strains, to tell
How Bruce's vessel left the Bay of Broderick,
And how, at Flodden, Scotland's ensign fell;
Let simple Wordsworth tune on Peter Bell;
And Coleridge curdle blood, and stiffen hair,
Telling how spirits plagued the Mariner.
And Scott chaunt forth his epic strains, to tell
How Bruce's vessel left the Bay of Broderick,
And how, at Flodden, Scotland's ensign fell;
Let simple Wordsworth tune on Peter Bell;
And Coleridge curdle blood, and stiffen hair,
Telling how spirits plagued the Mariner.
Let Crabbe rhyme on 'bout vagabonds and flunkeys,
Tailors and cobblers, gipsies and their brats,
Riding on wicker creels or half-starved donkeys,
Their black eyes glancing 'neath their bits of hats;
Let Wilson roam to Fairyland: but that's
An oldish story; I'll lay half a crown
The tiny elves are smothered by his gown.
Tailors and cobblers, gipsies and their brats,
Riding on wicker creels or half-starved donkeys,
Their black eyes glancing 'neath their bits of hats;
Let Wilson roam to Fairyland: but that's
An oldish story; I'll lay half a crown
The tiny elves are smothered by his gown.
Let missions go to Greenland with Montgomery;
Let green-sick ladies sonnetize with Bowles;
Let Leigh Hunt sing of cabbages and flummery,
And currant-bushes blooming on green knowls;
Let Keats draw out his whinings into growls;
Let Corney Webbe write sonnets by the score,
“And trample wounded Time upon the floor.”
Let green-sick ladies sonnetize with Bowles;
Let Leigh Hunt sing of cabbages and flummery,
And currant-bushes blooming on green knowls;
Let Keats draw out his whinings into growls;
164
“And trample wounded Time upon the floor.”
Let Shelley sing of darknesses and devilry,
Till earth grows Pandemonium at his touch;
Let Tommy Moore, that son and soul of revilry,
Praise Indians and fire-worshippers, and such:
To stretch our thoughts so far is rather much;
Although to spend an hour we do not grudge
With Twopenny Post-bags, Crib, and Betty Fudge.
Till earth grows Pandemonium at his touch;
Let Tommy Moore, that son and soul of revilry,
Praise Indians and fire-worshippers, and such:
To stretch our thoughts so far is rather much;
Although to spend an hour we do not grudge
With Twopenny Post-bags, Crib, and Betty Fudge.
Let Mrs. Hemans chaunt historic tales
Till Cader Idris echoes back the strain;
Let Missy Mitford spread adventurous sails
Far south, and sing Cristina of the Main;
Miss Horford now may visit Falkirk plain
In safety; as the only danger there
Is meeting with wild cattle at the fair.
Till Cader Idris echoes back the strain;
Let Missy Mitford spread adventurous sails
Far south, and sing Cristina of the Main;
Miss Horford now may visit Falkirk plain
In safety; as the only danger there
Is meeting with wild cattle at the fair.
Let Mrs. Opie sing of orphan boys,
Whose sires were shot with slug at Trafalgar;
Let Lady Morgan cant, and make a noise,
With Lindley Murray and good sense at war;
Miss Baillie no doubt is a shining star:
But unto none I will attend, unless—
What is the sine quâ non? Only guess.
Whose sires were shot with slug at Trafalgar;
Let Lady Morgan cant, and make a noise,
With Lindley Murray and good sense at war;
Miss Baillie no doubt is a shining star:
But unto none I will attend, unless—
What is the sine quâ non? Only guess.
Unless in Blackwood's pine-tree grove he flourish,
Writing an article for every number,
With fun and frolic. These are things that nourish
The heart of man, and keep his eyes from slumber.
I like none of your melancholy lumber,
Your sonnets and your sentimental tales,
As tardy of digestion as brass nails.
Writing an article for every number,
With fun and frolic. These are things that nourish
The heart of man, and keep his eyes from slumber.
I like none of your melancholy lumber,
Your sonnets and your sentimental tales,
As tardy of digestion as brass nails.
You see I'm tainted with the metromanie,
And not a little proud of innovation:
I'll have original verse as well as any,
And not think there's any great occasion
To write like Frere and Byron. When the nation
Talks of the seven-line stanza, they shall cry—
Aye! that's the stanza of Odoherty!
And not a little proud of innovation:
165
And not think there's any great occasion
To write like Frere and Byron. When the nation
Talks of the seven-line stanza, they shall cry—
Aye! that's the stanza of Odoherty!
203
POCOCURANTE
213
[Here's a health to thee, Margaret]
Here's a health to thee, Margaret,Here's a health to thee;
The drinkers are gone,
And I am alone,
So here's a health to thee.
260
Chevy Chase;
A POEM—
1.
The Percy out of Northumberland,And a vow to God made he,
That he would hunt in the mountains
Of Cheviot within days three,
In the mauger of doughty Douglas,
And all that with him be.
261
2.
The fattest harts in CheviotHe said he'd kill and carry away:
“By my faith,” said doughty Douglas,
“I'll let that hunting if I may.”
3.
The Percy out of Bamborough came,With him a mighty meany;
With fifteen hundred archers bold;
They were chosen out of shires three.
4.
This began on Monday at morn,In Cheviot the hills so high;
The child may rue that is unborn;
It is the more pity!
5.
The drivers through the woods went,For to raise up the deer;
Bowmen bickered upon the bent
With their broad arrows clear.
6.
Then the wild through the woods went,On every side sheer;
Greyhounds through the groves glent,
For to kill their deer.
7.
This began in Cheviot the hills above,Early on a Monday;
By that it drew to the hour of noon,
A hundred fat harts dead there lay.
8.
They blew a mort upon the bent;They 'sembled on sides sheer:
To the quarry then the Percy went,
To see the brittling of the deer.
262
9.
He said—“It was the Douglas' promiseThis day to meet me here,
But I wist he would fail verament:”
A great oath the Percy sware.
10.
At last a squire of NorthumberlandLooked at his hand full nigh—
He was ware of the Douglas coming,
With him a mighty meany;
11.
Both with spear, bill, and brand,It was a mighty sight to see;
Hardier men of heart and hand
Were not in Christianity.
12.
They were twenty hundred spearmen good,Withouten any fail;
They were borne along by the water of Tweed,
In the bounds of Tividale.
13.
“Leave off the brittling of the deer,” he said,“And to your bows take heed;
For never since you were on your mothers born
Had ye such meikle need.”
14.
The doughty Douglas on a steedHe rode his men beforne;
His armour glittered as did a glede—
A bolder bairn was never born.
263
15.
“Tell me what men ye are,” he says,“Or whose men that ye be;
Who gave ye leave to hunt in this
Cheviot Chase in spite of me?”
16.
The first man that an answer made,It was the Lord Percy—
“We will not tell what men we are,
Nor whose men that we be;
But we will hunt here in this chase,
In spite of thine and thee.
17.
“The fattest harts in CheviotWe have killed, and cast to carry away.”
“By my troth,” said the doughty Douglas,
“Therefore the one of us shall die this day.”
18.
Then said the doughty DouglasUnto the Lord Percy,
“To kill all these guiltless men,
Alas! it were great pity.
19.
“But, Percy, thou art a lord of land,I am an earl in my own country;
Let all our men upon a party stand,
And do the battle of thee and me.”
20.
“Now Christ's curse on his crown,” said the Lord Percy,“Whosoever thereto says nay!
By my troth, doughty Douglas,” he says,
“Thou shalt never see that day,
21.
“Neither in England, Scotland, nor France,Nor for no man of woman born;
But an fortune be my chance,
I dare meet him one for one.”
264
22.
Then bespake a squire of Northumberland,Rog. Witherington was his name—
It shall never be told in South England
To King Harry the Fourth for shame,
23.
“I wot ye be great lords two,I am a poor squire of land,
I will never see my captain fight in a field
And look on myself and stand;
But while I may my weapon wield,
I will not fail both heart and hand.”
24.
That day, that day, that dreadful day—The first fytte here I find;
An ye will hear more of the hunting of Cheviot,
Yet there is more behind.
FINIS PARTIS PRIMÆ.
265
Second Fytte.
1.
The English men had their bows bent,Their hearts were good enow,
The first of arrows that they shot off,
Seven score spearmen they slew.
2.
Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,A captain good enough:
And that was seen verament,
For he wrought them wo and wouch.
3.
The Douglas parted his host in three,Like a chief chieftain of pride;
With sure spears of mighty tree,
They came in on every side.
4.
Through our English archeryGave many a wound full wide;
Many a doughty they made to die,
Which gained them no pride.
266
5.
The English men let their bows be,And pulled out brands that were bright;
It was a heavy sight to see
Bright swords on helmets light.
6.
Through rich mail and myne-ye-pleMany stern they struck down straight;
Many a ficke that was full free
There under foot did light.
7.
At last the Douglas and the Percy met,Like two captains of might and main;
They swept together, till they both sweat,
With swords of fine Milain.
8.
These worthy fickes for to fight,Thereto they were full fain,
Till the blood out of their helmets sprung,
As ever did hail or rain.
9.
“Hold thee, Percy,” said the Douglas,“And i' faith I will thee bring,
Where thou shalt have an earl's wages
Of James, our Scottish king:
10.
“Thou shalt have thy ransom free—I bid thee hear this thing;
For the manfullest man art thou,
That ever I conquered in field-fighting.”
267
11.
“Nay, then,” said the Lord Percy,“I told it thee beforne,
That I would never yielded be
To no man of woman born.”
12.
With that there came an arrow hastilyForth of a mighty one;
It hath stricken the Earl Douglas
In at the breast-bone.
13.
Through liver and lungs bothThe sharp arrow is gone;
That never after in his life days
He spake more words than one:
“Fight ye my merry men while you may,
For my life days are gone.”
14.
The Percy leant upon his brand,And saw the Douglas die;
He took the dead man by the hand,
And said, “Woe is me for thee.
15.
“To have saved thy life I'd have parted withMy lands for years three;
For a better man of heart nor hand
Was not in all the north country.”
16.
Of all that saw a Scottish knight,Was named Sir Hugh Montgomery;
He saw the Douglas to death was dight;
He spanned a spear a trusty tree.
268
17.
He rode upon a courserThrough an hundred archery;
He never stinted nor never stopped
Till he came to the good Lord Percy.
18.
He set upon Lord PercyA dint that was full sore,
With a sure spear of a trusty tree,
Clean through the body he the Percy bore.
19.
At the other side that a man might seeA large cloth-yard and mare.
Two better captains were not in Christianty
Than that day slain was there.
20.
An archer of NorthumberlandSaw slain was the Lord Percy;
He bare a bent bow in his hand,
Was made of trusty tree.
21.
An arrow that a cloth-yard long,To the hard steel haled he;
A dint that was both sad and sore
He set on Sir Hugh Montgomery.
22.
The dint it was both sad and soreThat he on Montgomery set;
The swan-feathers that his arrow bore
With his heart's-blood were wet.
23.
There was never a ficke one foot would fly,But still in storm did stand,
Hewing on each other while they might drie
With many a baleful band.
269
24.
This battle began on Cheviot,An hour before the noon,
And when even song-bell was rung,
The battle was not half done.
25.
They took on, on either hand,By the light of the moon;
Many had no strength to stand,
In Cheviot the hills aboun.
26.
Of fifteen hundred archers of EnglandWent away but fifty and three:
Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland
But even five and fifty.
27.
But all were slain, Cheviot within,They had no strength to stand on high;
The child may rue that is unborn;
It was the more pity.
28.
There was slain with the Lord PercySir John of Agerstone,
Sir Roger, the kind Hartley,
Sir William the bold Heron.
29.
Sir George the worthy Lovel,A knight of great renown,
Sir Ralph, the rich Rokeby,
With dints were beaten down.
270
30.
For Withrington my heart is wo,That ever he slain should be:
For when his legs were hewn in two,
He knelt, and fought upon his knee.
31.
There was slain with the doughty DouglasSir Hugh Montgomery,
Sir David Liddel, that worthy was,
His sister's son was he.
32.
Sir Charles Murray in that place,That never a foot would fly;
Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord that was,
With the Douglas did he die.
33.
So on the morrow they made them biersOf birch and hazel gray;
Many widows, with weeping tears,
Came to fetch their mates away.
34.
Tividale may carp of care!Northumberland may make great moan!
For two such captains, as slain were there,
Of the march party shall never be none.
35.
Word is come to Edinburgh,To James the Scottish king,
That doughty Douglas, lieutenant of the march,
He lay slain Cheviot within.
36.
His hands did he weal and wring,He said, “Alas! and wo is me!
Such another captain Scotland within,”
He said, “I'faith shall never be.”
271
37.
Word is come to lovely London,To the Fourth Harry our king,
That Lord Percy, lieutenant of the marches,
He lay slain Cheviot within.
38.
“God have mercy on his soul,” says King Harry,“Good Lord if thou will it be!
I have a hundred captains in England
As good as ever was he.
But, Percy, an I brook my life,
Thy death well quit shall be.”
39.
As our noble king made his avow,Like a noble prince of renown,
For the death of the Lord Percy,
He did the battle of Humbledown.
40.
Where six-and-thirty Scottish knightsOn a day were beaten down;
Glendale glittered with their armour bright,
O'er castle, tower, and town.
41.
(This was the bunting of the Cheviot;That tear began this spurn;
272
Call it the battle of Otterburn.
42.
At Otterburn began this spurnUpon a Monday;
There was the doughty Douglas slain,
The Percy never went away.)
43.
There never was a time on the march parties,Since the Douglas and the Percy met,
But it was marvel an the red blood ran not
As the rain does on the street.
44.
Jesus Christ our bales bete,And to the bless us bring!
This was the hunting of the Cheviot;
God send us all good ending!
Expliceth Richard Sheale
temp.
Henr. VI.
I have, as before, modernised the spelling of the old ballad, and in a few places the language.—W. M.
“Perhaps many plies or folds. Monyple is still used in this sense in the north, according to Mr. Lambe.” Bp. Percy. I have followed him.— W. M.
From this it appears that Jerry-Benthamism is of an older date than the superficial commonly imagine. Fight-you-my-merry-men-while-you- may-for-my-life-days-are-gone; or, as the original has it, Fyghte-ye-my- merry-men-whylles-ye-may-for-my-lyff-days-ben-gan, is as pretty a single word as any we can find in the lucid pages of this most Euphuistical radical, and most radical Euphuist, who commonly passes in our days for the inventor of the many-words-clubbing-to-make-one style. We have here a much older authority; so that Jerry must be set down as one of the servum pecus in that instance.—W. M.
Bp. Percy suspects these two verses, 41, 42, to be spurious. So do I, as they stand at present; but I think we might make a good verse out of the two, thus:
This was the hunting of the Cheviot,
Upon a Monday;
There was the doughty Douglas slain,
The Percy never went away.
This will get off the confusion with regard to the battle of Otterburn, and
strange language of these verses. Percy's interpretation of “That tear
began this spurn,” is, “That tearing or pulling occasioned this spurn or
kick.” I have followed him, though I confess I am not satisfied with it.
—W. M.
Upon a Monday;
There was the doughty Douglas slain,
The Percy never went away.
The author of this ballad, as the reader may see by the expliceth, is Richard Sheale, a gentleman not to be confounded, as honest old Tom Hearne has done, with a Richard Sheale who was living in 1588. Nor is he to be confounded with a Richard Sheil who is alive in 1820, writing tragedies and other jocose performances. I waive the objection arising from Chronology, as that is a science I despise, therein imitating Lady Morgan, the Edinburgh Reviewers, Major Cartwright, and various other eminent persons. For (to take one instance from the works of the firstcited authority) might not Mr. Richard Sheil of 1820 be as capable of writing a ballad in the days of Henry VI. as the wife of the Grand Condè of intriguing with a king who was dead before she was born? (See, if extant, Lady Morgan's France.) My objections to their identity are of a graver and more critical nature. 1st, Richard Sheil of Chevy Chase is an original writer, which nobody accuses Richard Sheil of Evadne of being. 2ndly, Although in verse 33, Second Fytte, the ballad-monger had an opportunity of bringing up the children with their mothers, to serve as a clap trap, he has not done so; an omission of which the tragedy-monger of Ballemira would never have been guilty. 3dly, The people in the poem of the rhymester are decent men, who talk plain language; whereas the people in The Apostate are stalking-talking rogues, who discourse in the most sarsenet phraseology. 4thly and lastly, The ballad of the Percy and Douglas (teste Sir P. Sidney) moves the heart like the sound of a trumpet, whereas the tragedy of Adelaide puts one to sleep more effectually than a double dose of diacodium. Wherefore I am of opinion that Mr. R. Sheil now extant is not the author of Chevy Chase. Q. E. D.—W. M.
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END OF VOL. I
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