 | Voices from the Mountains |  |
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THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES.
A LEGEND OF HAVERING.
[_]
[Havering-atte-Bower, in Essex, was the favourite retirement of King Edward the Confessor, who so delighted in its solitary woods, that he shut himself up in them for weeks at a time. Old legends say that he met with but one annoyance in that pleasant seclusion—the continual warbling of the nightingales, pouring such floods of music upon his ear during his midnight meditations, as to disturb his devotions. He therefore prayed that never more within the bounds of that forest might nightin-gale's song be heard. His prayer, adds the legend, was granted. The following versification of the story shows a different result to his prayers—a result which, if it contradict tradition, does not, it is presumed, contradict poetical justice.]
King Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower—
Old and enfeebled by the weight of power—
Sick of the troublous majesty of kings—
Weary of duty and all mortal things—
Weary of day—weary of night—forlorn—
Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born.
Thick woods environ'd him, and in their shade
He roam'd all day, and told his beads, and pray'd.
Men's faces pain'd him, and he barr'd his door
That none might find him;—even the sunshine bore
No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight;
And darkness pleased no better than the light.
He scorn'd himself for eating food like men,
And lived on roots and water from the fen;
And aye he groan'd, and bow'd his hoary head—
Did penance, and put nettles in his bed—
Wore sackcloth on his loins, and smote his breast—
Told all his follies—all his sins confess'd—
Made accusations of himself to heaven,
And own'd to crimes too great to be forgiven,
Which he had thought, although he had not done—
Blackening his blackness; numbering one by one
Unheard of villanies without a name,
As if he gloried in inventing shame,
Or thought to win the grace of heaven by lies,
And gain a saintship in a fiend's disguise.
Old and enfeebled by the weight of power—
Sick of the troublous majesty of kings—
Weary of duty and all mortal things—
Weary of day—weary of night—forlorn—
Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born.
Thick woods environ'd him, and in their shade
He roam'd all day, and told his beads, and pray'd.
Men's faces pain'd him, and he barr'd his door
That none might find him;—even the sunshine bore
No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight;
And darkness pleased no better than the light.
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And lived on roots and water from the fen;
And aye he groan'd, and bow'd his hoary head—
Did penance, and put nettles in his bed—
Wore sackcloth on his loins, and smote his breast—
Told all his follies—all his sins confess'd—
Made accusations of himself to heaven,
And own'd to crimes too great to be forgiven,
Which he had thought, although he had not done—
Blackening his blackness; numbering one by one
Unheard of villanies without a name,
As if he gloried in inventing shame,
Or thought to win the grace of heaven by lies,
And gain a saintship in a fiend's disguise.
Long in these woods he dwelt—a wretched man,
Shut from all fellowship, self-placed in ban—
Laden with ceaseless prayer and boastful vows,
Which day and night he breathed beneath the boughs.
But sore distress'd he was, and wretched quite,
For every evening with the waning light
A choir of nightingales, the brakes among,
Deluged the woods with overflow of song.
“Unholy birds,” he said, “your throats be riven!
You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from heaven!”
But still the song, magnificent and loud,
Pour'd from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud;
Now to his vex'd and melancholy ear
Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear;
Anon it deepen'd on his throbbing brain
To full triumphal march or battle-strain;
Then seem'd to vary to a choral hymn,
Or De Profundis from cathedral dim,
“Te Deum,” or “Hosanna to the Lord,”
Chanted by deep-voiced priests in full accord.
He shut his ears, he stamp'd upon the sod—
“Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God!
And thou, belovèd saint to whom I bend,
Lamp of my life, my guardian, and my friend,
Make intercession for me, sweet St. John!
And hear the anguish of thy suffering son!
May nevermore within these woods be heard
The song of morning or of evening bird!
May nevermore their harmonies awake
Within the precincts of this lonely brake,
For I am weary, old, and full of woe,
And their songs vex me! This one boon bestow,
That I may pray, and give my thoughts to thee,
Without distraction of their melody;
And that within these bowers my groans and sighs
And ceaseless prayers be all the sound that rise.
Let God alone possess me, last and first;
And, for His sake, be all these birds accursed!”
Shut from all fellowship, self-placed in ban—
Laden with ceaseless prayer and boastful vows,
Which day and night he breathed beneath the boughs.
But sore distress'd he was, and wretched quite,
For every evening with the waning light
A choir of nightingales, the brakes among,
Deluged the woods with overflow of song.
“Unholy birds,” he said, “your throats be riven!
You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from heaven!”
But still the song, magnificent and loud,
Pour'd from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud;
Now to his vex'd and melancholy ear
Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear;
Anon it deepen'd on his throbbing brain
To full triumphal march or battle-strain;
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Or De Profundis from cathedral dim,
“Te Deum,” or “Hosanna to the Lord,”
Chanted by deep-voiced priests in full accord.
He shut his ears, he stamp'd upon the sod—
“Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God!
And thou, belovèd saint to whom I bend,
Lamp of my life, my guardian, and my friend,
Make intercession for me, sweet St. John!
And hear the anguish of thy suffering son!
May nevermore within these woods be heard
The song of morning or of evening bird!
May nevermore their harmonies awake
Within the precincts of this lonely brake,
For I am weary, old, and full of woe,
And their songs vex me! This one boon bestow,
That I may pray, and give my thoughts to thee,
Without distraction of their melody;
And that within these bowers my groans and sighs
And ceaseless prayers be all the sound that rise.
Let God alone possess me, last and first;
And, for His sake, be all these birds accursed!”
This having said, he started where he stood,
And saw a stranger walking in the wood;
A purple glory, pale as amethyst,
Clad him all o'er. He knew th' Evangelist;
And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet,
He kiss'd his garment's hem, and clasp'd his feet.
“Rise,” said the saint, “and know, unhappy king,
That true Religion hates no living thing;
It loves the sunlight, loves the face of man,
And takes all virtuous pleasure that it can—
Shares in each harmless joy that Nature gives,
Bestows its sympathy on all that lives,
Sings with the bird, rejoices with the bee,
And, wise as manhood, sports with infancy.
Let not the nightingales disturb thy prayers,
But make thy thanksgiving as pure as theirs;
So shall it mount on wings of love to heaven,
And thou, forgiving, be thyself forgiven.”
And saw a stranger walking in the wood;
A purple glory, pale as amethyst,
Clad him all o'er. He knew th' Evangelist;
And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet,
He kiss'd his garment's hem, and clasp'd his feet.
“Rise,” said the saint, “and know, unhappy king,
That true Religion hates no living thing;
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And takes all virtuous pleasure that it can—
Shares in each harmless joy that Nature gives,
Bestows its sympathy on all that lives,
Sings with the bird, rejoices with the bee,
And, wise as manhood, sports with infancy.
Let not the nightingales disturb thy prayers,
But make thy thanksgiving as pure as theirs;
So shall it mount on wings of love to heaven,
And thou, forgiving, be thyself forgiven.”
The calm voice ceased;—King Edward dared not look,
But bent to earth, and blush'd at the rebuke!
And though he closed his eyes and hid his face,
He knew the saint had vanish'd from the place.
And when he rose, ever the wild woods rang
With the sweet song the birds of evening sang.
No more he cursed them; loitering on his way
He listen'd, pleased, and bless'd them for their lay,
And on the morrow quitted Havering
To mix with men and be again a king,
And fasting, moaning, scorning, praying less,
Increased in virtue and in happiness.
But bent to earth, and blush'd at the rebuke!
And though he closed his eyes and hid his face,
He knew the saint had vanish'd from the place.
And when he rose, ever the wild woods rang
With the sweet song the birds of evening sang.
No more he cursed them; loitering on his way
He listen'd, pleased, and bless'd them for their lay,
And on the morrow quitted Havering
To mix with men and be again a king,
And fasting, moaning, scorning, praying less,
Increased in virtue and in happiness.
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