The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

King Arthur, as the legends sing,
Was a right brave and merry king,
And had a wondrous reputation
Through this right brave and merry nation.
His ancient face, and ancient clothes,
His tables round, and rounder oaths,
His crown and cup, his feasts and fights,
His pretty Queen and valiant knights,
Would make me up the raciest scene
That is, or will be, or has been.
These points, and others not a few,
Of great importance to the view,
As, how King Arthur valued woman,
And how King Arthur threshed the Roman,
And how King Arthur built a hall,
And how King Arthur played at ball,
I'll have the prudence to omit,
Since brevity's the soul of wit.
Oh! Arthur's days were blessed days,
When all was wit, and worth, and praise,

And planting thrusts, and planting oaks,
And cracking nuts, and cracking jokes,
And turning out the toes, and tiltings,
And jousts, and journeyings, and jiltings.
Lord! what a stern and stunning rout,
As tall Adventure strode about,
Rang through the land! for there were duels
For love of dames, and love of jewels;
And steeds, that carried knight and prince
As never steeds have carried since;
And heavy lords and heavy lances;
And strange unfashionable dances;
And endless bustle and turmoil
In vain disputes for fame or spoil.
Manners and roads were very rough;
Armour and beeves were very tough;
And then,—the brightest figures far
In din or dinner, peace or war,—
Dwarfs sang to ladies in their teens,
And giants grew as thick as beans!

One of these worthies, in my verse,
I mean, O Clio! to rehearse:
He was much talked of in his time,
And sung of too in monkish rhyme;
So, lest my pen should chance to err,
I'll quote his ancient chronicler.
Thus Friar Joseph paints my hero:

“Addictus cædibus et mero,
Impavidus, luxuriosus,
Preces, jejuniaque perosus,
Metum ubique vultu jactans,
Boves ubique manu mactans,
Tauros pro cœna vorans, post hos
Libenter edens pueros tostos,
Anglorum, et (ni fallit error)
Ipsius Regis sæpe terror,
Equorum equitumque captor,
Incola rupis, ingens raptor
Episcopalium honorum,
Damnatus hostis Monachorum!”

Such was his eulogy! The fact is,
He had a most outrageous practice
Of running riot, bullying, beating,
Behaving rudely, killing, eating;
He wore a black beard, like a jew's,
And stood twelve feet without his shoes;
He used to sleep through half the day,
And then went out to kill and slay;
At night he drank a deal of grog,
And slept again;—his name was Gog.

He was the son of Gorboduc,
And was a boy of monstrous pluck;

For once, when in a morning early
He happened to be bruising barley,
A knight came by with sword and spear,
And halted in his mid-career:
The youngster looked so short and pliant,
He never dreamed he was a giant,
And so he pulled up with a jerk,
And called young bruiser from his work:—
“Friend, can you lead me by the rein
To Master Gorboduc's domain?—
I mean to stop the country's fears,
And knock his house about his ears!”
The urchin chuckled at the joke,
And grinned acutely as he spoke:
“Sir Knight, I'll do it if I can;
Just get behind me in my pan;
I'm off,—I stop but once to bait,
I'll set you down before the gate.”
Sir Lolly swallowed all the twang,
He leaped into the mortar—bang!
And when he saw him in the vessel,
Gog beat his brains out with the pestle.

This was esteemed a clever hit,
And showed the stripling had a wit;
Therefore his father spared no arts
To cultivate such brilliant parts.

No giant ever went before
Beyond his “two and two make four,”
But Gog possessed a mind gigantic,
And grasped a learning quite romantic.
'Tis certain that he used to sport
The language that they spoke at court;
Had something of a jaunty air,
That men so tall can seldom wear;
Unless he chanced to need some victuals,
He was a pleasant match at skittles;
And if he could have found a horse
To bear him through a single course,
I think he might have brought the weight
'Gainst all that Britain counted great.
In physic he was sage indeed,
He used to blister and to bleed,
Made up strange plasters—had been known
To amputate or set a bone,
And had a notable device
For curing colic in a trice
By making patients jump a wall,
And get a most salubrious fall.
Then in philosophy, 'twas said,
He got new fancies in his head;
Had reckonings of the sea's profundity,
And dreams about the earth's rotundity;
In argument was quite a Grecian,
And taught the doctrine of cohesion.

This knowledge, as one often sees,
Softened his manners by degrees;
He came to have a nicer maw,
And seldom ate his mutton raw;
And if he had upon his board
At once a peasant and a lord,
He called the lord his dainty meat,
And had him devilled for a treat.

Old Gorboduc, the legends say,
Happened to go to pot one day;
The how and why remains a question;
Some say he died of indigestion
From swallowing a little boat
In drinking dry Sir Toby's moat.
Others assert that Dame Ulrica
(Whom he confined beneath a beaker,
Having removed her from her cottage
To stew her in a mess of pottage)
Upset her prison in the night,
And played Ulysses out of spite,
So that he woke in great surprise
With two sharp needles in his eyes.
Perhaps Ulrica may have lied;
At all events—the giant died,
Bequeathing to his son and heir,
Illustrious Gog, the pious care

To lord it o'er his goods and chattels,
And wield his club and fight his battles.

'Twould take an Iliad, Sirs, to tell
The numerous feats on flood and fell,
At which my hero tried his hand;
He was the terror of the land,
And did a thousand humorous things,
Fit to delight the ear of kings;
I cull what I consider best,
And pass in silence o'er the rest.

There was a Lady sent from Wales,
With quiet sea, and favouring gales,
To land upon the English shore,
And marry with Sir Paladore.
It seems she sailed from Milford Haven,
On board the Bittern, Captain Craven,
And smiles, and nods, and gratulation,
Attended on her embarkation.
But when the ship got out from land,
The Captain took her by the hand,
And with a brace of shocking oaths,
He led her to her chest of clothes.
They paused!—he scratching at his chin,
As if much puzzled to begin:
She o'er the box in stupor leaning,
As if she couldn't guess his meaning.

Then thus the rogue the silence broke—
His whiskers wriggled as he spoke:—
“Look out an extra gown and shift;
You're going to be turned adrift;
As many gewgaws as you please,
Only don't bounce upon your knees;
It's very fine, but don't amuse,
And isn't of the smallest use.
Ho there! above! put down the boat!—
In half an hour you'll be afloat;
I wouldn't have you lose a minute;—
There—put a little victuals in it;—
You think I'm playing off a sham,
But—split my vitals if I am!”

Struggling and tears in vain were tried,
He hauled her to the vessel's side,
And still the horrid brute ran on,
Exclaiming in ferocious tone—
“You needn't hollow to the crew,
Be quiet, it will never do;—
Pray spare your breath;—come wind and weather,
We all are sworn to this together!
Don't talk us round! 'cause why? you can't!—
Oh! sink my timbers if we an't!
So—gently!—mind your footing—there!
You'll find the weather very fair;

You'd better keep a sharp look-out,
There are some ugly reefs about;
Stay!—what provision have they made ye?
I wouldn't have ye famished, Lady!
Dick! lend a hand, ye staring oaf,
And heave us down another loaf;
Here are two bustards—take 'em both;
You've got a famous pot of broth;
You'd better use the sculls—you'll find
You've got a deuced little wind;
Now!—don't stand blubbering at me,
But trim the boat and put to sea.”—
He spoke! regardless of her moan,
They left her in the boat, alone!
According to our modern creed,
It was a cruel thing, indeed;
Unless some villain bribed them to it,
I can't conceive what made them do it.

It was a very cruel thing!—
She was the daughter of a king;
Though it appears that kings were then
But little more than common men.
She was a handsome girl withal,
Well formed, majestic, rather tall;
She had dark eyes (I like them dark),
And in them was an angry spark,

That came, and went, and came again,
Like lightning in the pause of rain;
Her robe adorned, but not concealed,
The shape it shrouded, yet revealed;
It chanced her ivory neck was bare,
But clusters rich of jetty hair
Lay like a garment scattered there;
She had upon her pale white brow
A look of pride, that, even now
Gazed round upon her solitude,
Hopeless perhaps, but unsubdued,
As if she thought the dashing wave,
That swelled beneath, was born her slave.

She felt not yet a touch of fear,
But didn't know which way to steer;
She thought it prudent to get back:
The wind due east!—she said she'd tack;
And, though she had a tinge of doubt,
She laughed, and put the helm about.

The wind went down—a plaguy calm;
The Princess felt a rising qualm;
The boat lay sleeping on the sea,
The sky looked blue,—and so did she!
The night came on, and still the gale
Breathed vainly on her leather sail;

It scarcely would have stirred a feather:
Heaven and her hopes grew dark together;
She slept!—I don't know how she dined,—
And light returned, and brought no wind;
She seized her oars at break of day,
And thought she made a little way;
The skin was rubbed from off her thumb,
And she had no Diaculum;
(Diaculum, my story says,
Was not invented in those days;)
At last, not being used to pull,
She lost her temper—and her scull.

A long long time becalmed she lay;
And still untired, from day to day
She formed a thousand anxious wishes,
And bit her nails, and watched the fishes;
To give it up she still was loth;—
She ate the bustards and the broth;
And when they failed, she sighed and said,
“I'll make my dinner on the bread!”
She ate the bread, and thought with sorrow
“There's nothing left me for to-morrow!”

She pulled her lover's letter out,
And turned its vellum leaves about;
It was a billet-doux of fire,
Scarce thicker than a modern quire;

And thus it ran—“I never suppe
Because mine heatte dothe eatte me uppe:
And eke, dear Loue, I never dine,
Nor drinke atte Courte a cuppe of wine:
For daye and nighte, I telle you true,
I feede uponne my Loue for you.”
Alas! that Lady fair, who long
Had felt her hunger rather strong,
Said (and her eye with tears was dim),
“I've no such solid love for him!
And so she thought it might be better
To sup upon her lover's letter.

She ate the treasure quite or nearly,
From “Beauteous Queen!” to “yours sincerely;
She thought upon her father's crown.
And then despair came o'er her!—down
Upon the bottom-boards she lay,
And veiled her from the look of day;
The sea-birds flapped their wings, and she
Looked out upon the tumbling sea;
And there was nothing on its face
But wide, interminable space,
And so she gave a piteous cry—
The murmuring waters made reply!

Alas! another morning came,
And brought no food!—the hapless dame

Thought, as she watched the lifeless sail,
That she should die “withouten fail;”
Another morn—and not a whiff!
The Lady grew so weak and stiff
That she could hardly move her stumps;
At last she fed upon her pumps!
And called upon her absent Lord,
And thought of going overboard:
As the dusk evening veiled the sky
She said, “I'm ready now to die!”
She saw the dim light fade away,
And fainted, as she kneeled to pray.

I sing not where and how the boat
With its pale load contrived to float,
Nor how it struck off Hartland Point,
And 'gan to leak at every joint;
'Twill be enough, I think, to tell ye
Linda was shaken to a jelly,
And when she woke from her long sleep,
Was lying in the Giant's keep,
While at a distance, like a log,
Her captor snored,—prodigious Gog!

He spared as yet his captive's life;
She wasn't ready for the knife,
For toil, and famine, and the sun
Had worn her to a skeleton;

He kept her carefully in view,
And fed her for a week or two;
Then, in a sudden hungry freak,
He felt her arm, and neck, and cheek,
And being rather short of meat,
Cried out that she was fit to eat.
The Monster saw the bright dark eye
That met his purpose fearlessly;
He saw the form that did not quail,
He saw the look that did not fail,
And the white arm that tranquil lay,
And never stirred to stop or stay;
He changed his mind,—threw down the kmfe,
And swore that she should be his wife.

Linda, like many a modern Miss,
Began to veer about at this;
She feared not roasting! but a ring!—
O Lord! 'twas quite another thing;
She'd rather far be fried, than tied,
And make a sausage, than a bride;
She had no hand at argument,
And so she tried to circumvent.

“My Lord,” said she, “I know a plaster,
The which before my sad disaster
I kept most carefully in store
For my own knight, Sir Paladore;
It is a mixture mild and thin;
But, when 'tis spread upon the skin,
It makes a surface white as snow
Sword-proof thenceforth from top to toe,
I've sworn to wed with none, my Lord,
Who can be harmed by human sword.
The ointment shall be yours! I'll make it,
Mash it and mix it, rub and bake it;
You look astonished!—you shall see,
And try its power upon me.”

She bruised some herbs; to make them hot
She put them in the Giant's pot;
Some mystic words she uttered there,
But whether they were charm or prayer
The convent legend hath not said;
A little of the salve she spread
Upon her neck, and then she stood
In reverential attitude,
With head bent down, and lips compressed,
And hands enfolded on her breast;
“Strike!” and the stroke in thunder fell
Full on the neck that met it well;

“Strike!” the red blood started out,
Like water from a water-spout;
A moment's space—and down it sunk,
That headless, pale, and quivering trunk,
And the small head with its gory wave
Flew in wild eddies round the cave.

You think I shouldn't laugh at this;
You know not that a scene of bliss
To close my song is yet in store;
For Merlin to Sir Paladore
The head and trunk in air conveyed,
And spoke some magic words, and made.
By one brief fillip of his wand,
The happiest pair in all the land.

The Giant—but I think I've done
Enough of him for Canto One.

END OF CANTO I.

The latter part of Linda's history
In Ariosto's work is an ingredient;
I can't imagine how my monks and he
Happened to hit upon the same expedient;
You'll find it in ‘Orlando Furioso;’
But Mr. Hoole's translation is but so so.

CANTO II.

The morn is laughing in the sky,
The sun hath risen jocundly,
Brightly the dancing beam hath shone
On the cottage of clay and the abbey of stone;
As on the redolent air they float,
The songs of the birds have a gayer note,
And the fall of the waters hath breathed around
A purer breath and a sweeter sound;
And why is Nature so richly drest
In the flowery garb she loveth best?
Peasant and monk will tell you the tale!
There is a wedding in Nithys-dale.

With his green vest around him flung,
His bugle o'er his shoulders hung
And roses blushing in his hair,
The Minstrel-Boy is waiting there!
O'er his young cheek and earnest brow
Pleasure hath spread a warmer glow,
And love his fervid look hath dight
In something of ethereal light:
And still the Minstrel's pale blue eye
Is looking out impatiently

To see his glad and tender bride
Come dancing o'er the hillock's side:
For look! the sun's all-cheering ray
Shines proudly on a joyous day;
And, ere his setting, young Le Fraile
Shall wed the Lily of Nithys-dale.

A moment, and he saw her come,
That maiden, from her latticed home,
With eyes all love, and lips apart,
And faltering step, and beating heart.
She came, and joined her cheek to his
In one prolonged and rapturous kiss,
And while it thrilled through heart and limb
The world was nought to her or him!
Fair was the boy; a woman's grace
Beamed o'er his figure and his face;
His red lips had a maiden's pout,
And his light eyes looked sweetly out,
Scattering a thousand vivid flashes
Beneath their long and jetty lashes;—
And she, the still and timid bride
That clung so fondly to his side,
Might well have seemed, to Fancy's sight,
Some slender thing of air or light!
So white an arm, so pale a cheek,
A look so eloquently meek,

A neck of such a marble hue,
An eye of such transparent blue,
Could never, never, take their birth
From parentage of solid earth!
He that had searched fair England round
A lovelier pair had never found
Than that Minstrel-Boy, the young Le Fraile,
And Alice, the Lily of Nithys-dale!

Hark! hark! a sound!—it flies along,
How fearfully!—a trembling throng
Come round the bride in wild amaze,
All ear and eye to hear and gaze;
Again it came, that sound of wonder,
Rolling along like distant thunder;
“That barbarous growl, that horrid noise—
Was it indeed a human voice?
The man must have a thousand tongues,
And bellows of brass by way of lungs!”
Each to his friend, in monstrous fuss,
The staring peasants whispered thus:
“Hark! hark! another echoing shout!”
And, as the boobies stared about,
Just leaping o'er a mountain's brow,
They saw the Brute that made the row;
Two meadows and a little bog
Divided them from cruel Gog!

Maiden and matron, boy and man,
You can't conceive how fast they ran!
And as they scampered, you might hear
A thousand sounds of pain and fear.
“I get so tired.”—“Where's my son?”—
“How fast the horrid beast comes on!”—
“What plaguy teeth!”—“You heard him roar?
I never puffed so much before!”
“I can't imagine what to do!”—
“Whom has he caught?”—“I've lost my shoe!”—
“Oh! I'm a sinful”—“Father Joe
Do just absolve me as we go!”
“Absolve you here? pray hold your pother:
I wouldn't do it for my mother!
A pretty time to stop and shrive,
Zounds! we shall all be broiled alive!
I feel the spit!”—“Nay, Father, nay,
Don't talk in such a horrid way!”—
“O mighty Love, to thee I bow!
Oh! give me wings, and save me now!”—
“A fig for Love!”—“Don't talk of figs!
He'll stick us all like sucking-pigs,
Or skin us like a dish of eels”—
“Run—run—he's just upon your heels!”—
“I promise the Abbey a silver cup.
Holy St. Jerome, trip him up!”—
“I promise the Abbey a silver crown!
Holy St. Jerome, knock him down!”—

The Monster came, and singled out
The tenderest bit in all the rout;
Spite of her weeping and her charms,
He tore her from her lover's arms:
Woe for that hapless Minstrel-Boy!
Where is his pride—his hope—his joy?
His eye is wet, his cheek is pale;
He hath lost the Lily of Nithys-dale!

It chanced that day two travelling folk
Had spread their cloth beneath an oak,
And sat them gaily down to dine
On good fat buck and ruddy wine.
One was a Friar, fat and sleek,
With pimpled nose and rosy cheek,
And belly, whose capacious paunch
Told tales of many a buried haunch.
He was no Stoic!—In his eye
Frolic fought hard with gravity;
And though he strove in conversation
To talk as best beseemed his station,
Yet did he make some little slips;
And in the corners of his lips
There were some sly officious dimples,
Which spake no love for roots and simples.
The other was a hardy Knight,
Caparisoned for instant fight;

You might have deemed him framed of stone
So huge he was of limb and bone;
His short black hair, unmixed with grey,
Curled closely on his forehead lay;
His brow was swarthy, and a scar,
Not planted there in recent war,
Had drawn one long and blushing streak
Over the darkness of his cheek;
The warrior's voice was full and bold,
His gorgeous arms were rich with gold;
But weaker shoulders soon would fail
Beneath that cumbrous mass of mail;
Yet from his bearing you might guess
He oft had worn a softer dress,
And laid aside that nodding crest
To lap his head on lady's breast.

The meal of course was short and hasty,
And they had half got through the pasty,
When hark!—a shriek rung loud and shrill;
The churchman jumped, and dropped the gill;
The soldier started from the board,
And twined his hand around his sword.
While they stood wondering at the din,
The Minstrel-Boy came running in;
With trembling frame and rueful face
He bent his knee, and told his case:—

“The Monster's might away hath riven
My bliss on earth, my hope in Heaven;
And there is nothing left me now
But doubt above, and grief below!
My heart and hers together fly,
And she must live, or I must die!
Look at the caitiff's face of pride,
Look at his long and haughty stride;
Look how he bears her o'er hill and vale,
My Beauty, the Lily of Nithys-dale!”

They gazed around them;—Monk and Knight
Were startled at that awful sight!
They never had the smallest notion
How vast twelve feet would look in motion.
Dark as the midnight's deepest gloom,
Swift as the breath of the Simoom,
That hill of flesh was moving on;
And oh! the sight of horror won
A shriek from all our three beholders,—
He bore the maid upon his shoulders!
“Now,” said the Knight, “by all the fame
That ever clung to Arthur's name,
I'll do it,—or I'll try, at least,
To win her from that monstrous Beast.”
“Sir,” said the Friar to the Knight,
“Success will wait upon the right;

I feel much pity for the youth,
And though, to tell the honest truth,
I'm rather used to drink than slay,
I'll aid you here as best I may!”
They bade the minstrel blow a blast,
To stop the monster as he passed;
Gog was quite puzzled!—“Zounds—I'feg!
My friend—piano!—let me beg!”
Then in a rage towards the place
He strode along a rattling pace;
Firm on the ground his foot he planted,
And “wondered what the deuce they wanted!”

No blockhead was that holy man,
He cleared his throat, and thus began:—
“O pessime!—that is, I pray,
Discede—signifying, stay!
Damno—that is, before you go,
Sis comes in convivio:
Abi—that is, set down the lass;
Monstrum—that is, you'll take a glass?
Oh, holy Church!—that is, I swear
You never looked on nicer fare;
Informe—horridum—immane!
That is, the wine's as good as any;
Apage!—exorcizo te!
That is, it came from Burgundy;

We both are anxious—execrande!
To drink your health—abominande!
And then my comrade means to put
His falchion through your occiput!”
The Giant stared (and who would not?)
To find a monk so wondrous hot;
So fierce a stare you never saw;
At last the brute's portentous jaw
Swung like a massy creaking hinge,
And then, beneath its shaggy fringe
Rolling about each wondrous eye,
He scratched his beard and made reply:—
“Bold is the Monk, and bold the Knight,
That wishes with Gog to drink, or fight,
For I have been from east to west,
And battled with King Arthur's best,
And never found I friend or foe
To stand my cup—or bear my blow!”
“Most puissant Gog! although I burst,”
Exclaimed the Monk, “I'll do the first;”
And ere a moment could be reckoned,
The Knight chimed in—“I'll try the second.”

The Giant, ere he did the job,
Took a huge chain from out his fob:
He bound his captive to a tree;
And young Le Fraile came silently,

And marked how all her senses slept,
And leaned upon her brow, and wept;
He kissed her lip, but her lip was grown
As coldly white as a marble stone;
He met her eye, but its vacant gaze
Had not the light of its living rays;
Yet still that trembling lover pressed
The maiden to his throbbing breast,
Till consciousness returned again,
And the tears flowed out like summer rain;
There was the bliss of a hundred years
In the rush of those delicious tears!

The helm from off the Warrior's head
Is doffed to bear the liquor red:
That casque, I trow, is deep and high,
But the Monk and the Giant shall drain it dry;
And which of the two, when the feat is done,
Shall keep his legs at set of sun?

They filled to the brim that helm of gold,
And the Monk hath drained its ample hold;
Silent and slow the liquor fell,
As into some capacious well:
Tranquilly flowing down it went,
And made no noise in its long descent;
And it leaves no trace of its passage now,
But the stain on his lip, and the flush on his brow.

They filled to the brim that helm of gold,
And the Giant hath drained its ample hold;
Through his dark jaws the purple ocean
Ran with a swift and restless motion,
And the roar that heralded on its track
Seemed like the burst of a cataract.
Twice for each was the fountain filled,
Twice by each was the red flood swilled;
The Monk is as straight as a poplar tree,
Gog is as giddy as Gog may be!

“Now try we a buffet!” exclaimed the Knight,
And rose collected in his might,
Crossing his arms, and clenching his hand,
And fixing his feet on their firmest stand.
The Giant struck a terrible stroke,
But it lighted on the forest-oak;
And bough and branch of the ancient tree
Shook, as he smote it, wondrously:
His gauntleted hand the Warrior tried;
Full it fell on the Giant's side;
He sank to earth with a hideous shock,
Like the ruin of a crumbling rock,
And that quivering mass was senseless laid
In the pit its sudden fall had made.

That stranger Knight hath gone to the tree
To set the trembling captive free;

Thrice hath he smitten with might and main,
And burst the lock, and shivered the chain;
But the knotty trunk, as the warrior strove,
Wrenched from his hand the iron glove,
And they saw the gem on his finger's ring,
And they bent the knee to England's King.
“Up! up!” he said, “for the sun hath passed,
The shadows of night are falling fast,
And still the wedding shall be to-day,
And a King shall give the bride away!”

The abbey bells are ringing
With a merry, merry tone;
And the happy boors are singing
With a music all their own;
Joy came in the morning, and fled at noon;
But he smiles again by the light of the moon:
That Minstrel-Boy, the young Le Fraile,
Hath wedded the Lily of Nithys-dale!