University of Virginia Library

The devil, one night, as he chanced to sail
In a stormy wind, by the Abbey of Dale,
Suddenly stopp'd, and look'd wild with surprise,
That a structure so fair in that valley should rise:
When last he was there it was lonely and still;
And the hermitage scoop'd in the side of the hill,
With its wretched old inmate his beads a-telling,
Were all could be found of life, dweller, and dwelling.
The hermit was seen in the rock no more;
The nettle and dock had sprung up at the door;
And each window the fern and the hart's-tongue hung o'er.
Within, 'twas dampness and nakedness all:
The Virgin, as fair and holy a block
As ever yet stood in a niche of a rock,
Had fall'n to the earth, and was broke in the fall.
The holy cell's ceiling, in idle hour,
When haymakers sought it to 'scape from the shower,
Was scored by their forks in a thousand scars,
Wheels and ovals, circles and stars.
But, by the brook, in the valley below,
Saint Mary of Dale!—what a lordly show!
The abbey's proud arches and windows bright
Glitter'd and gleam'd in the full moonlight.
He perch'd on a finial to ponder the scene,
When he heard, loudly chanted, a chorus within:
The strain was so merry he could not help peeping
To see how their vigils the fathers were keeping.
Wot ye they sung in the cold chapel's gloom?
Nay, they sate in the glow of the abbot's own room.
Saw he beads, and crosses, and visages pale?
I trow ye not, but full flagons of ale;
And the abbot himself, in his lordly chair,
Bore a hearty good part in this godly air.

CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.

The devil he heard, the devil he flew
Away in a whirlwind, that tore as it blew,
Rocks and houses, vast forests of oaks,
And buried some hundreds of cattle and folks.
Then chatter'd each pane in those windows high,
As the fiend arose in the act to fly;
Then a terrible gust did those towers assail,
As the fiend set off from the Abbey of Dale.
He summon'd his imps in the height of his spleen,
And question'd, how many at Dale had been;
And what were the doings might there be seen?
One had seen plenty of beef and beer;
One had been with the friars a-chasing the deer;
One had carried out venison to twenty good wives,
And had wonder'd to see the monks handle their knives,
O'er the smoking hot pasties and sparkling ale,
By the snug evening fires in the village of Dale.
Many had been at a maid's confessing,
And some, when St. Robert conferr'd his blessing
On pious old souls, that to heaven would sail
By giving their lands to the Abbey of Dale.
Some, of the shrine of our lady told,
Of the relics, and jewels, and coffers of gold;
But all of them dwelt on the bountiful cheer,
How jocundly flew the whole round of the year,
But chief when the monks were a-chasing the deer.

The devil no longer such tidings could brook;
He started and stamp'd till his hot dwelling shook:
“O ho!” quoth he, to the demon powers,
“These knavish monks are no monks of ours;
They travel to heaven with feast and song,
And absolve each other while going along.
But troth! if I yet have a subject on earth,
I'll spoil their hunting!—I'll mar their mirth!”
He flew to the keepers—the keepers they pace
Away to Sir Gilbert, the lord of the chase;
Sir Gilbert de Grendon he sped to the king,
And with grievous complaints made his proud palace ring:
How the friars of Dale forsook missal and mass,
To chant o'er a bottle, or shrive a lass;
No matins bell call'd them up in the morn,
But the yell of the hounds, and the sound of the horn;
No penance the monk in his cell could stay,
But a broken leg, or a rainy day;
The pilgrim that came to the abbey door,
With the feet of the fallow deer found it nail'd o'er;
The pilgrim that into the kitchen was led,
On Sir Gilbert's venison there was fed,
And saw skins and antlers hang over his head.
The king was wroth, and with angry tone
He order'd St. Robert before his throne:
St. Robert appear'd in three weeks and a day,
For hot was the weather, and long was the way.
He spoke so wisely, he pleaded so well,
That the king, in sooth, had trouble to tell
Which of the two that before him came
To the forest and deer had the fairest claim:
But the devil, who sate behind the throne,
At that did inwardly writhe and groan;
And whisper'd into the royal ear,
“St. Robert is famous for taming of deer.”
Then sprang the king gaily up from his throne,
And spoke that fancy, and deem'd it his own:
“For taming of deer St. Robert is famed;
Go catch the wild stags, and get them tamed;
With wood, water, and game, as much forest ground
As with such brave steeds thou canst plough round
While two summer suns through the heavens do sail,
Shall for ever belong to the Abbey of Dale:
But if set those two suns ere thou circle the same,
They shall cancel for ever and ever thy claim.”
Sir Gilbert frown'd—St. Robert look'd gay;
But the envious devil went laughing away.

Now the deer were tamed, the day was named,
And over the country the tidings proclaim'd:
With masses by dozens, with beads like hail,
The abbot and friar St. Mary assail,
To speed the plough for her Abbey of Dale.
Never, I ween, had there lodged such a crowd
In the abbey, of barons and knights so proud;
Of ladies so bright, and esquires so gay,
As came from afar to be present that day.
Oh! long ere the grey of the morning was springing,
The fathers, by torch-light, their matins were singing;
And when the light stole through the sweet summer air,
Jesu Maria! what a scene was there!
What a countless crowd on that hill was set!
What a moving mass in that plain was met!
What a hum of sounds! what neighing and prancing!
Mantles fluttering, and light plumes dancing!
The baron his hall, and the hind his bower,
Had left in the dead of the midnight hour;
In cot and in castle, each damsel fair
Forsook her soft couch for the raw night air:
The noise of the forge and the axe was still;
The miller had 'scaped from the clack of his mill;
The shepherd relinquish'd his charge to his son,
And the urchin away by another path run:
Not a soul that could move might at home be found,
All had hasten'd to Dale within twenty miles round.
And had you but seen how the holy array
From the abbey march'd forth at the dawn of the day;
First a reverend friar, without shoon or hood,
Bearing before him the blessed rood,
Open'd the way through the worshipping throng,
And then, how the stags trotted gaily along;
And St. Robert (God rest him!) with solemn air,
Mark'd lightly the ground with the shining share;
While, on either hand, a bare-headed row
Of monks led the deer as they will'd them to go,
You would surely have join'd in the wildering shout,
That at once from the marvelling concourse broke out.
Away—away, over dale and hill,
St. Robert's long furrow goes lengthening still:
And a dark-brow'd knight, on a coal-black steed,
Still rode by his side, and urged him to speed.
But when the sun sank, and the deer they unyoke,
That sable knight spoke, and he laugh'd as he spoke;
“Sir Abbot, you've drawn such a wide-stretching furrow,
My troth! but ye'll rue it ere sunset to-morrow.”

The morrow arose—by the rood! what a morning!
Not balmy and bright, like the yesterday's dawning;
But gloomy and late, and the winds, fierce and loud,
Rush'd furiously on through the struggling crowd.
What holding of caps and of bonnets was there!
How wild flew fair tresses and veils on the air!
But when the good abbot came forth with the team,
Those stags, late so mild, did so turbulent seem,
That no sooner the crowd in their fierceness had seen them,
Than at once they cried loudly, “the foul fiend is in them!”
But away they are gone, like a shaft from a bow;
The crowd in amazement stood gazing below;
And faint grew the hearts of the brotherhood pale,
As they put up their prayers for the abbot of Dale;
And fain would the abbot have cross'd his brow,
But the forest was lost if he held not the plough.
No pause—the mad stags still sped on with the wind;
Hot, panting, and weary, he labour'd behind.
O'er the distant hill top they rush'd forward from sight;
Alone with their course went the dark-brow'd knight.
But lo! when the crowd reach'd the crown of the hill,
Knight, abbot, and stags, in the valley stood still.
Alas! for St. Robert—how woful his plight!
Yet heartily laugh'd that dark-brow'd knight,
Though deep and foul was the bog, and vast,
Where the abbot and deer had rush'd in, and were fast.
How mutter'd the monks, how they turn'd up their eyes;
How many sweet vows were address'd to the skies;
What a clamour—what striving—what schemes there were plann'd,
Ere the abbot and deer were replaced on dry land,
I stay not to tell ye:—the sun was at height,
And the stags must plough far ere it sank at night.
Now swiftly, steadily, onward they flew,
The hopes of the monks with the circle grew;
When lo! two huge hounds, fierce, gaunt, and fell,
From a thicket sprang forth with a dreadful yell,
Started the stags, and away they broke,
For the plough stuck fast in the root of an oak.
St. Robert was dash'd to the earth, and then
Arose there wild and mingled sounds;
The shrieks of women, the rage of men,
And the howl of expiring hounds.
To stay the scared stags, every horseman and friar
Rush'd, struggling and bleeding, through brushwood and brier.
Not yet St. Robert's strange ploughing was ended,
The stags were reclaim'd, for St. Mary befriended.
Now swiftly, steadily, onward they flew;
The hopes of the monks with the circle grew—
Till down a steep hill the fleet deer sprung away;
In the valley before them a rivulet lay,
High were its banks, and swift on their way,
Deeply between them the waters play;
But in the strong stags, without turn or stay,
The plough and the holy man drew.
Then ran every friar and yeoman amain,
Or St. Robert of Dale had been speedily slain;
For, turning upon him, his furious team
Butted him down in the flashing stream.
The dark-brow'd knight was the first in speed
To arrive at the fatal brook;
And as over it bounded his coal-black steed,
He cast down a mirthful look,
Where the holy father, with hoof and horn,
In the blood-dyed waters was trampled and torn,
Yet lent he no hand to aid him;
But the brethren of Dale, with piteous wail,
Did the raging stags with their staves assail;
And out of the torrent the holy man hale,
And on a green slope they laid him.
But alas! for the ploughing! what tongue can tell
What shrieking was there!—what tears there fell!
How groan'd the monks, and how wildly they cried,
As they thought on the deer in the forest so wide,
That all as their own they already had eyed;
For now might the yesterday's furrow be spied,
And the circle had quickly been made:
But woe to their wishes! all now seem'd past:
Loud laugh'd the black knight—“Monks, ye've hunted your last!”
And faint was the sun's yellow radiance cast
Along the grassy glade.
And there the good abbot lay stretch'd on the ground,
And the sorrowing sobbers that stood around,
Deem'd that the monks, in this world for ever,
From abbot and forest at once must sever.
The blood ran down from his shaven crown;
The blood ran from his breast;
And beldames, by death-beds experienced grown,
Cried, “He hastens to his rest!”
But while they stood muttering, “God rest his soul!”
Came a stout friar, and, doffing his cowl,
Down he knelt by the father's knee,
And chanted a prayer religiously:
“Sancta Maria! blessed one!
Save from ruin and scathe thy son!”
Down he knelt by the father's side,
And drew forth a bottle uncouth and wide;
Whatever was in it hath never been known,
But St. Robert he quaff'd, and he ceased to groan:
The monk with the liquor bathed bruise and wound,
And St. Robert he started up fresh from the ground.
Backward scatter'd the wonder-struck crowd;
But shouted St. Robert, eager and loud,
“Fly, my good fathers! fly to the deer!
By the holy maid! there is nothing to fear!
Saint Mary forsakes not her abbey of Dale,
And the sun shall not sink ere he sees us prevail.”
Merrily join'd the monks in the vow;
Swiftly, steadily moves the plough.
On, on, St. Robert! for foul the disgrace,
And sore is the loss of the bountiful chase.
Lower—swiftly sinks the sun,
But the furrow grows fast, and is nearly done.
Lower—lower—lower still,
The sun is blinking on Stanley hill.
Eagerly, anxiously turns each eye,
Now to the furrow, and now to the sky.
The furrow speeds; the stags they pant;
The sun's last rays grow faint and slant;
But there!—'tis done!—that stunning shout
Tells that the forest is circled about!

The devil no sooner heard that cry,
The acclaim of St. Robert's victory,
Than, shooting through the evening sky,
He staid not to witness the proud array
That to the abbey, alert and gay,
Follow'd St. Robert on his way,
With praises and plaudits high:
And long was the time, ere again he would sail
Within many a league of the abbey of Dale.
And again did the holy brethren dwell,
Merry of mood, in the secret cell;
Now pattering a prayer, now feasting well,
With their sparkling beer, and their venison hot:
And many a legend of Dale hath said,
How pleasure and plenty right laughingly sped
Over abbey, and hamlet, and cot.
And how jocundly flew the whole round of the year;
But chief, when the monks were a-chasing the deer.