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.