Sprites of Elle, Bythrycke, Fitz-hardynge,
Frampton, Gaunte, Segowen, Lamyngeton, a Knight Templar, and Byrtonne.
(By Rowlie.)
XVIII.
Sprite of Bythrycke
speaks.
Ellè, thy Bristol is thy only care,
Thou art like dragon vig'lant of its good;
No loving dames (too kind) more love can bear,
Nor Lombards over gold more vig'lant brood.
XIX.
Sprite of Elle
speaks.
At once, ye sprites, forsake the swollen flood,
Enjoy a sight with me, a sight full fine;
Well have I vended mine for Danish blood,
Since this great structure greets my wondering eyne.
Ye that have built upon the Redcliff side,
Turn there your eyne, and see your works outvied!
XX.
Sprite of Bythrycke
speaks.
What wondrous monument, what pile is this,
That binds in wonder's chain entendèment?
That doth aloft the airy skyën kiss,
And seemeth mountains, joined by cement,
From Goddès great and wondrous storehouse sent.
Full well mine eyes advise it cannot be,
That man could rear of such a great extent
A church so huge yet handsome as we see.
The scattered clouds, disparted, from it fly,
'Twill be, Iwis, to all eternity.
XXI.
Elle's sprite
speaks.
Were I once more cast in a mortal frame,
To hear the chantry-song sound in mine ear,
To hear the masses to our holy dame,
To view the cross-aisles and the arches fair!
Through the half-hidden silver-twinkling glare
Of yon bright moon in foggy mantles dress'd,
I must content the building to aspere,
Whilst broken clouds the holy sight arrest;
Till, as the nights grow old, I fly the light.
Oh! were I man again, to see the sight!
[Sprite of Elle]
XXII.
There sit the canons; cloth of sable hue
Adorn the bodies of them every one;
The chanters white with scarfs of woaden blue,
And crimson chapeaux for them to put on,
With golden tassels, glittering in the sun;
The dames in kirtles all of Lincoln green,
And knotted shoe-peaks, of brave colours done.
A finer sight in sooth was never seen.
XXIII.
Byrton's sprite
speaks.
In tilts and tournies was my dear delight,
For man and Goddès warfare had renome,
At every tilting-yard my name was hight,
I bear the bell away where'er I come.
Of Redcliff church the building new I done,
And did full many holy place endow,
Of Mary's house made the foundatïon,
And gave a threescore marks to Saint John's too.
Then closed mine eyes, on earth to ope no mo,
Whilst six-month's mind upon my grave was do.
[Sprite of Byrton]
XXIV.
Full glad am I my church was pullèd down,
Since this brave structure now doth greet mine eye.
This building rare, most polished of the town,
Like to the donor's soul, shall never die.
But if, percase, Time, of his dire envỳ,
Shall beat it to rude walls and blocks of stone,
The wandering traveller that passes by
Will see its ruined ancient splendour shewn
In the craz'd arches and the carvelling,
And pillars their green heads to heav'n rearing.
XXV.
Sprite of Segowen
speaks.
Deceiving gold was once my only toy,
With it my soul within the coffer lay,
It did the mastery of my life employ,
By night my mistress, and my jub by day.
Once, as I dozing in the witch-hour lay,
Thinking how best to filch the orphan's bread,
And from the helpless take their goods away,
I from the skyën heard a voice, which said:
“Thou sleepest; but lo! Satan is awake,
Some deed that's holy do, or he thy soul will take.”
[Sprite of Segowen]
XXVI.
At once I started up with fear astound,
Methought in mirk were playing devils fell;
Straight did I number twenty Aves round,
And thought full soonè for to go to hell.
I'th' morn my case to a good priest did tell.
Who did advise me to y-build that day
The church of Thomas, then to pieces fell.
My heart expanded into heaven lay;
Soon was the silver to the workmen given,
'Twas best bestowed, a karynte giv'n to heaven.
[Sprite of Segowen]
XXVII.
But well, I wot, thy motives were not so,
'Twas love of God that set thee on the rearing
Of this fair church, Oh Canynge, for to do
This polish'd building of so fine appearing:
This church, our lesser buildings all out-daring,
Like to the moon with stars of little light;
And after-times, the beauteous pile revering,
The prince of churches' builders thee shall hight;
Great was the cause, but greater was th'effect,
So all will say who do this place prospect.
XXVIII.
Sprite of Fitz-hardynge
speaks.
From royal parents did I have retaining,
The red-haired Dane confessed to be my sire;
The Dane who, often through this kingdom draining,
Would mark his way therethrough with blood and fire.
As stoppèd rivers always rise more higher,
And ramm'd stones by opposures stronger be,
So they, when vanquishèd, did prove more dire,
And for one countryman did threescore sle.
From them, of Denmark's royal blood, came I,
Well might I boast of my gentility.
[Sprite of Fitz-Hardynge]
XXIX.
The pipes may sound and bubble forth my name,
And tellen what on Redcliffe-side I did;
Trinity College should not grudge my fame,
The fairest place in Bristol y-buildèd.
The royal blood that through my veinès slid
Did tinge my heart with many a noble thought;
Like to my mind the minster y-rearèd
With noble carvèd workmanship was wrought;
High at the daïs, like a king on's throne,
Did I take place, and was myself alone.
[Sprite of Fitz-Hardynge]
XXX.
But thou, the builder of this pleasant place,
Where all the saints in sweet adjunction stand,
A very heaven for its beauteous grace,
The glory and the wonder of the land,
That shews the builder's mind and former's hand
To be the best that on the earth remains,
At once for wonder and delight command,
Shewing how much he of the god retains:
Canynge, the great, the charitable, and good,
Noble as kings, if not of kingly blood.
XXXI.
Sprite of Framptone
speaks.
Bristol shall speak my name, and Redcliff too,
For here my deeds were godly every one,
As Auden's minster by the gate will shew,
And John's at Bristol what my works have done,
Besides another house I had begun.
But mine, compared to this one, is a groffe,
Not to be mentioned or be looked upon,
A very laughing-stock or very scoff.
Canynge, thy name shall living be for aye,
Thy name not with the church shall waste away.
XXXII.
Sprite of Gaunte
speaks.
I did full many reparations give,
And the Bonne-Hommès did full rich endow,
As journeying to my God on earth did live,
So all the Bristol chronicles will shew.
But all my deeds will be as nothing now
Since Canynge has this building finishèd,
Which seemeth to be the pride of Bristow,
And by no building to be o'ermatchèd:
Which aye shall last and be the praise of all,
And only in the wreck of nature fall.
XXXIII.
A Knight Templar's sprite
speaks.
In holy ground, where Saracens defile
The ground whereon our Savïour did go,
And Christès temple make to mosquès vile,
[And] words of déspite 'gainst our Saviour throw;
There 'twas that we did our warfarage do,
Guarding the pilgrims of the Christian fay;
And did our holy arms in blood embrue,
Moving like thunder-bolts in drear array,
Our strokes, like levin tearing the tall tree,
Our God our arm with lethal force did dree.
[Sprite of Knight Templar]
XXXIV.
Large tenures fair, and manors of great wealth,
Green woods, and brooklets running through the lea,
Did men us give for their dear soulès health;
Gave earthly riches for goods heavenly.
Nor did we let our riches useless be,
But did y-build the Temple Church so fine,
The which is brought about so bismarlie,
It seemeth camoys to the wondering eyne.
And ever and anon when bells ringèd,
From place to place it moveth its high head;
But Canynge from the sweat of his own brows
Did get his gold and raise this beauteous house.
XXXV.
Lamyngeton's sprite
speaks.
Let all my faults be buried in the grave;
All obloquies be rotted with my dust;
Let him first carpen that no faults can have;
'Tis past man's nature for to be aye just.
But yet, in soothen, to rejoice I must,
That I did not immeddle for to build;
Since this quaintissed place so glorious,
Seeming all churches joinèd in one guild,
Has now supplièd for what I had done,
Which, to my candle, is a glorious sun.
XXXVI.
Elle's sprite
speaks.
Then let us all do jointly reverence here,
The best of men and bishops here do stand,
Who are God's shepherds and do take good care
Of the good sheep He putteth in their hand;
Not one is lost, but all in well-likande
Await to hear the General Bishop's call,
When Michael's trump shall sound to inmost land,
Affright the wicked, and awaken all;
Then Canynge rises to eternal rest,
And finds he chose on earth a life the best.
