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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/29722-8.txt b/29722-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..beff1c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/29722-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3398 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas Rhyme, by +Thomas Cooper + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas Rhyme + +Author: Thomas Cooper + +Release Date: August 18, 2009 [EBook #29722] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARON'S YULE FEAST *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Stephanie Eason, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + + + + The + + Baron's Yule Feast. + + + LONDON: + Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE, + New-Street-Square. + + + + + The + Baron's Yule Feast: + A + Christmas-Rhyme. + + By + Thomas Cooper, + The Chartist. + + London + JEREMIAH HOW + + 209 Picadilley + 1846 + + + + +TO + +THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. + + + Lady, receive a tributary lay + From one who cringeth not to titled state + Conventional, and lacketh will to prate + Of comeliness--though thine, to which did pay + The haughty Childe his tuneful homage, may + No minstrel deem a harp-theme derogate. + I reckon thee among the truly great + And fair, because with genius thou dost sway + The thought of thousands, while thy noble heart + With pity glows for Suffering, and with zeal + Cordial relief and solace to impart. + Thou didst, while I rehearsed Toil's wrongs, reveal + Such yearnings! Plead! let England hear thee plead + With eloquent tongue,--that Toil from wrong be freed! + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +Several pieces in the following Rhyme were written many years ago, and +will be recognised by my early friends. They were the fruit of +impressions derived from the local associations of boyhood, (of which, +the reader, if inclined, may learn more in the notes,) and of an +admiration created by the exquisite beauty and simplicity of Coleridge's +'Christabel,'--which I had by heart, and used to repeat to Thomas +Miller, my playmate and companion from infancy, during many a delightful +'Day in the Woods,' and pleasing ramble on the hills and in the woods +above Gainsborough, and along the banks of Trent. + +I offer but one apology for the production of a metrical essay, composed +chiefly of imperfect and immature pieces:--the ambition to contribute +towards the fund of Christmas entertainment, in which agreeable labour I +see many popular names engaged,--and among them, one, the most +deservedly popular in the literature of the day. The favour with which +an influential portion of the press has received my 'Prison Rhyme' +emboldens me to take this step; and if the flagellation of criticism be +not too keenly dealt upon me for the imperfections in the few pages that +follow, I will be content, in this instance, to expect no praise. + +134, _Blackfriars Road_, + +_Dec. 20. 1845_. + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + + + + +CANTO I. + + + Right beautiful is Torksey's hall,[1] + Adown by meadowed Trent; + Right beautiful that mouldering wall, + And remnant of a turret tall, + Shorn of its battlement. + + For, while the children of the Spring + Blush into life, and die; + And Summer's joy-birds take light wing + When Autumn mists are nigh; + And soon the year--a winterling-- + With its fall'n leaves doth lie; + That ruin gray-- + Mirror'd, alway, + Deep in the silver stream, + Doth summon weird-wrought visions vast, + That show the actors of the past + Pictured, as in a dream. + + Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes, + The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise, + Till the full pageant bright-- + A throng of warrior-barons bold, + Glittering in burnished steel and gold, + Bursts on my glowing sight. + + And, mingles with the martial train, + Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain, + On palfrey and jennet-- + That proudly toss the tasselled rein, + And daintily curvet; + And war-steeds prance, + And rich plumes glance + On helm and burgonet; + And lances crash, + And falchions flash + Of knights in tourney met. + + Fast fades the joust!--and fierce forms frown + That man the leaguered tower,-- + Nor quail to scan the kingly crown + That leads the leaguering power. + + Trumpet and "rescue" ring!--and, soon, + He who began the strife + Is fain to crave one paltry boon:-- + The thrall-king begs his life! + + Our fathers and their throbbing toil + Are hushed in pulseless death; + Hushed is the dire and deadly broil-- + The tempest of their wrath;-- + Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil + Is thine, O sateless Grave! + Songs of their brother-hours shall foil + Thy triumph o'er the brave! + + Their bravery take, and darkly hide + Deep in thy inmost hold! + Take all their mailėd pomp and pride + To deck thy mansions cold! + Plunderer! thou hast but purified + Their memories from alloy: + Faults of the dead we scorn to chide-- + Their virtues sing with joy. + + Lord of our fathers' ashes! list + A carol of their mirth; + Nor shake thy nieve, chill moralist! + To check their sons' joy-birth:-- + + It is the season when our sires + Kept jocund holiday; + And, now, around our charier fires, + Old Yule shall have a lay:-- + A prison-bard is once more free; + And, ere he yields his voice to thee, + His song a merry-song shall be! + + * * * * * + + Sir Wilfrid de Thorold[2] freely holds + What his stout sires held before-- + Broad lands for plough, and fruitful folds,-- + Though by gold he sets no store; + And he saith, from fen and woodland wolds, + From marish, heath, and moor,-- + To feast in his hall, + Both free and thrall, + Shall come as they came of yore. + + "Let the merry bells ring out!" saith he + To my lady of the Fosse;[3] + "We will keep the birth-eve joyfully + Of our Lord who bore the cross!" + + "Let the merry bells ring loud!" he saith + To saint Leonard's shaven prior;[4] + "Bid thy losel monks that patter of faith + Shew works, and never tire." + Saith the lord of saint Leonard's: "The brotherhood + Will ring and never tire + For a beck or a nod of the Baron good;"-- + Saith Sir Wilfrid: "They will--for hire!" + + Then, turning to his daughter fair, + Who leaned on her father's carven chair,-- + He said,--and smiled + On his peerless child,-- + His jewel whose price no clerk could tell, + Though the clerk had told + Sea sands for gold;-- + For her dear mother's sake he loved her well,-- + But more for the balm her tenderness + Had poured on his widowed heart's distress;-- + More, still more, for her own heart's grace + That so lovelily shone in her lovely face, + And drew all eyes its love to trace-- + Left all tongues languageless!-- + + He said,--and smiled + On his peerless child, + "Sweet bird! bid Hugh our seneschal + Send to saint Leonard's, ere even-fall, + A fat fed beeve, and a two-shear sheep, + With a firkin of ale that a monk in his sleep + May hear to hum, when it feels the broach, + And wake up and swig, without reproach!-- + And the nuns of the Fosse--for wassail-bread-- + Let them have wheat, both white and red; + And a runlet of mead, with a jug of the wine + Which the merchant-man vowed he brought from the Rhine; + And bid Hugh say that their bells must ring + A peal loud and long, + While we chaunt heart-song, + For the birth of our heavenly king!" + + Now merrily ring the lady-bells + Of the nunnery by the Fosse:-- + Say the hinds, "Their silver music swells + Like the blessed angels' syllables, + At his birth who bore the cross!" + + And solemnly swells saint Leonard's chime + And the great bell loud and deep:-- + Say the gossips, "Let's talk of the holy time + When the shepherds watched their sheep; + And the Babe was born for all souls' crime + In the weakness of flesh to weep."-- + But, anon, shrills the pipe of the merry mime, + And their simple hearts upleap. + + "God save your souls, good Christian folk! + God save your souls from sin!-- + Blythe Yule is come--let us blythely joke!"-- + Cry the mummers, ere they begin. + + Then, plough-boy Jack, in kirtle gay,-- + Though shod with clouted shoon,-- + Stands forth the wilful maid to play + Who ever saith to her lover "Nay"-- + When he sues for a lover's boon. + + While Hob the smith with sturdy arm + Circleth the feignėd maid; + And, spite of Jack's assumed alarm, + Busseth his lips, like a lover warm, + And will not "Nay" be said. + + Then loffe the gossips, as if wit + Were mingled with the joke:-- + Gentles,--they were with folly smit,-- + Natheless, their memories acquit + Of crime--these simple folk! + + No harmful thoughts their revels blight,-- + Devoid of bitter hate and spite, + They hold their merriment;-- + And, till the chimes tell noon at night, + Their joy shall be unspent! + + "Come haste ye to bold Thorold's hall, + And crowd his kitchen wide; + For there, he saith, both free and thrall + Shall sport this good Yule-tide! + + "Come hasten, gossips!" the mummers cry, + Throughout old Torksey town; + "We'll hasten!" they answer, joyfully, + The gossip and the clown. + + Heigho! whence cometh that cheery shout? + 'Tis the Yule-log troop,--a merry rout! + The gray old ash that so bravely stood, + The pride of the Past, in Thorney wood,[5] + They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule; + And kirtled Jack is placed astride: + On the log to the grunsel[6] he shall ride! + + "Losels, yoke all! yoke to, and pull!" + Cries Dick the wright, on long-eared steed; + "He shall have thwack + On lazy back, + That yoketh him not, in time of need!" + A long wain-whip + Dick doth equip, + And with beans in the bladder at end of thong, + It seemeth to threaten strokes sturdy and strong;-- + Yet clown and maid + Give eager aid,-- + And all, as they rattle the huge block along, + Seem to court the joke + Of Dick's wain-whip stroke,-- + Be it ever so smart, none thinks he hath wrong;-- + Till with mirthsome glee, + The old ash tree + Hath come to the threshold of Torksey hall,-- + Where its brave old heart + A glow shall impart + To the heart of each guest at the festival. + + And through the porch, a jocund crowd, + They rush, with heart-born laughter loud; + And still the merry mimesters call, + With jest and gibe, "Laugh, losels all!" + + Then in the laden sewers troop, + With plattered beef and foaming stoup:-- + "Make merry, neighbours!" cries good Hugh, + The white-haired seneschal: + "Ye trow, bold Thorold welcomes you-- + Make merry, my masters, all!" + + They pile the Yule-log on the hearth,-- + Soak toasted crabs in ale; + And while they sip, their homely mirth + Is joyous as if all the earth + For man were void of bale! + + And why should fears for future years + Mix jolly ale with thoughts of tears + When in the horn 'tis poured? + And why should ghost of sorrow fright + The bold heart of an English wight + When beef is on the board? + + De Thorold's guests are wiser than + The men of mopish lore; + For round they push the smiling can, + And slice the plattered store. + + And round they thrust the ponderous cheese, + And the loaves of wheat and rye: + None stinteth him for lack of ease-- + For each a stintless welcome sees, + In the Baron's blythesome eye. + + The Baron joineth the joyous feast-- + But not in pomp or pride; + He smileth on the humblest guest + So gladsomely--all feel that rest + Of heart which doth abide + Where deeds of generousness attest + The welcome by the tongue professed, + Is not within belied. + + And the Baron's beauteous child is there, + In her maiden peerlessness,-- + Her eyes diffusing heart-light rare, + And smiles so sweetly debonair, + That all her presence bless.-- + + But wherefore paleth, soon, her cheek? + And why, with trembling, doth she seek + To shun her father's gaze? + And who is he for whom the crowd + Make ready room, and "Welcome" loud + With gleeful voices raise? + + "Right welcome!" though the revellers shout, + They hail the minstrel "Stranger!" + And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt, + And his daughter's look thrills "danger!" + + Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold, + And his speech is firm and free; + He saith he will carol a legend old, + Of a Norman lord of Torksey told: + He learnt it o'er the sea; + And he will not sing for the Baron's gold, + But for love of minstrelsy. + + "Come, tune thy harp!" the Baron saith, + "And tell thy minstrel tale: + It is too late to harbour wrath + For the thieves in helm and mail: + + "Our fathers' home again is ours!-- + Though Thorold is Saxon still, + To a song of thy foreign troubadours + He can list with right good will!" + + A shout of glee rings to the roof, + And the revellers form a ring; + Then silent wait to mark what proof + Of skill with voice and string + The youthful stranger will afford. + + Full soon he tunes each quivering chord, + And, with preamble wildly sweet + He doth the wondering listeners greet;-- + Then strikes into a changeful chaunt + That fits his fanciful romaunt. + + + + +The Daughter of Plantagenet. + +THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S TALE. + + +FYTTE THE FYRSTE. + + 'Tis midnight, and the broad full moon + Pours on the earth her silver noon; + Sheeted in white, like spectres of fear, + Their ghostly forms the towers uprear; + And their long dark shadows behind them are cast, + Like the frown of the cloud when the lightning hath past. + + The warder sleeps on the battlement, + And there is not a breeze to curl the Trent; + The leaf is at rest, and the owl is mute-- + But list! awaked is the woodland lute: + The nightingale warbles her omen sweet + On the hour when the ladye her lover shall meet. + + She waves her hand from the loophole high, + And watcheth, with many a struggling sigh, + And hearkeneth in doubt, and paleth with fear,-- + Yet tremblingly trusts her true knight is near;-- + And there skims o'er the river--or doth her heart doat?-- + As with wing of the night-hawk--her lover's brave boat. + + His noble form hath attained the strand, + And she waves again her small white hand; + And breathing to heaven, in haste, a prayer, + Softly glides down the lonely stair; + And there stands by the portal, all watchful and still, + Her own faithful damsel awaiting her will. + + The midnight lamp gleams dull and pale,-- + The maidens twain are weak and frail,-- + But Love doth aid his votaries true, + While they the massive bolts undo,-- + And a moment hath flown, and the warrior knight + Embraceth his love in the meek moonlight. + + The knight his love-prayer, tenderly, + Thus breathed in his fair one's ear + "Oh! wilt thou not, my Agnes, flee?-- + And, quelling thy maiden fear, + Away in the fleeting skiff with me, + And, for aye, this lone heart cheer?" + + "O let not bold Romara[7] seek"-- + Soft answered his ladye-love,-- + "A father's doating heart to break, + For should I disdainful prove + Of his high behests, his darling child + Will thenceforth be counted a thing defiled; + And the kindling eye of my martial sire + Be robbed of its pride, and be quenched its fire: + Nor long would true Romara deem + The heart of his Agnes beat for him, + And for him alone--if that heart, he knew, + To its holiest law could be thus untrue." + + His plume-crowned helm the warrior bows + Low o'er her shoulder fair, + And bursting sighs the grief disclose + His lips can not declare; + And swiftly glide the tears of love + Adown the ladye's cheek;-- + Their deep commingling sorrows prove + The love they cannot speak! + + The moon shines on them, as on things + She loves to robe with gladness,-- + But all her light no radiance brings + Unto their hearts' dark sadness: + Forlornly, 'neath her cheerless ray,-- + Bosom to bosom beating,-- + In speechless agony they stay, + With burning kisses greeting;-- + Nor reck they with what speed doth haste + The present hour to join the past. + + "Ho! lady Agnes, lady dear!" + Her fearful damsel cries; + "You reckon not, I deeply fear, + How swift the moontide flies! + The surly warder will awake, + The morning dawn, anon,-- + My heart beginneth sore to quake,-- + I fear we are undone!" + + But Love is mightier than Fear: + The ladye hasteth not: + The magnet of her heart is near, + And peril is forgot! + + She clingeth to her knight's brave breast + Like a lorn turtle-dove, + And 'mid the peril feeleth rest,-- + The full, rapt rest of Love! + + "I charge thee, hie thee hence, sir knight!" + The damsel shrilly cries; + "If this should meet her father's sight, + By Heaven! my lady dies." + + The warrior rouseth all his pride, + And looseth his love's caress,-- + Yet slowness of heart doth his strength betide + As he looks on her loveliness:-- + But again the damsel their love-dream breaks,-- + And, self-reproachingly, + The knight his resolve of its fetters shakes, + And his spirit now standeth free. + + Then, came the last, absorbing kiss, + True Love can ne'er forego,-- + That dreamy plenitude of bliss + Or antepast of woe,-- + That seeming child of Heaven, which at its birth + Briefly expires, and proves itself of earth. + + The ladye hieth to her couch;-- + And when the morn appears, + The changes of her cheek avouch, + Full virginly her fears;-- + But her doating father can nought discern + In the hues of the rose and the lily that chase + Each other across her lovely face,-- + Save a sweetness that softens his visage stern. + + +FYTTE THE SECONDE. + + Romara's skiff is on the Trent, + And the stream is in its strength,-- + For a surge, from its ocean-fountain sent, + Pervades its giant length:[8] + Roars the hoarse heygre[9] in its course, + Lashing the banks with its wrathful force; + And dolefully echoes the wild-fowl's scream, + As the sallows are swept by the whelming stream; + And her callow young are hurled for a meal, + To the gorge of the barbel, the pike, and the eel: + The porpoise[10] heaves 'mid the rolling tide, + And, snorting in mirth, doth merrily ride,-- + For he hath forsaken his bed in the sea, + To sup on the salmon, right daintily! + + In Romara's breast a tempest raves: + He heeds not the rage of the furrowy waves: + Supremely his hopes and fears are set + On the image of Agnes Plantagenet:[11] + And though from his vision fade Gainsburgh's towers, + And the moon is beclouded, and darkness lours, + Yet the eye of his passion oft pierceth the gloom, + And beholds his Beloved in her virgin bloom-- + Kneeling before the holy Rood,-- + All clasped her hands,-- + Beseeching the saints and angels good + That their watchful bands + Her knight may preserve from a watery tomb! + + What deathful scream rends Romara's heart?-- + Is it the bittern that, flapping the air, + Doth shriek in madness, and downward dart, + As if from the bosom of Death she would tear + Her perished brood,--or a shroud would have + By their side, in the depths of their river-grave? + + Hark! hark! again!--'tis a human cry, + Like the shriek of a man about to die! + And its desolateness doth fearfully pierce + The billowy boom of the torrent fierce; + And, swift as a thought + Glides the warrior's boat + Through the foaming surge to the river's bank, + Where, lo!--by a branch of the osiers dank, + Clingeth one in agony + Uttering that doleful cry! + + His silvery head of age upborne + Appeared above the wave; + So nearly was his strength outworn, + That all too late to save + Had been the knight, if another billow + Its force on his fainting frame, had bent,-- + Nay, his feeble grasp by the drooping willow + The beat of a pulse might have fatally spent. + + With eager pounce did Romara take + From the yawning wave its prey,-- + But nought to his deliverer spake + The man with the head of gray: + And the warrior stripped, with needful haste, + The helpless one of his drenchėd vest, + And wrapt his own warm mantle round + The chill one in his deathly swound. + + The sea-born strength of the stream is spent, + And Romara's boat outstrips its speed,-- + For his stalwart arm to the oar is bent, + And swiftly the ebbing waves recede. + + Divinely streaketh the morning-star + With a wavy light the rippling waters; + And the moon looks on from the west, afar, + And palely smiles, with her waning daughters, + The thin-strown stars, which their vigil keep + Till the orient sun shall awake from sleep. + + The sun hath awoke; and in garments of gold + The turrets of Torksey are livingly rolled; + Afar, on Trent's margin, the flowery lea + Exhales her dewy fragrancy; + And gaily carols the matin lark, + As the warrior hastes to moor his bark. + + Two menials hastened to the beach, + For signal none need they; + On the towers they kept a heedful watch + As the skiff glode on its way: + + With silent step and breathless care + The rescued one they softly bear, + And bring him, at their lord's behest, + To a couch of silken pillowed rest. + + The serfs could scarce avert their eye + From his manly form and mien, + As, with closėd lids, all reverendly, + He lay in peace, serene. + + And Romara thought, as he gazing leant + O'er the slumberer's form, that so pure a trace + Of the spirit of Heaven with the earthly blent + Dwelt only there, and in Agnes' face. + + The leech comes forth at the hour of noon, + And saith, that the sick from his deathly swoon + Will awake anon; and Romara's eye, + Uplit, betokens his heartfelt joy; + And again o'er the slumberer's couch he bows + Till, slowly, those peaceful lids unclose,-- + When, long, with heavenward-fixėd gaze, + With lowly prayer and grateful praise, + The aged man, from death reprieved, + His bosom of its joy relieved.-- + + Then did Romara thus address + His gray guest, in his reverendness: + + "Now, man of prayer come tell to me + Some spell of thy holy mystery! + Some vision hast had of the Virgin bright,-- + Or message, conveyed from the world of light, + By the angels of love who in purity stand + 'Fore the throne of our Lord in the heavenly land? + + "I hope, when I die, to see them there: + For I love the angels so holy and fair: + And often, I trust, my prayer they greet + With smiles, when I kneel and kiss their feet + In the missal, my mother her weeping child gave, + But a day or two ere she was laid in the grave. + + "Sage man of prayer, come tell to me + What holy shapes in sleep they see + Who love the blest saints and serve them well! + I pray thee, sage man, to Romara tell, + For a guerdon, thy dreams,--sith, to me thou hast said + No thanks that I rescued thy soul from the dead." + + But, when the aged man arose + And met Romara's wistful eye,-- + What accents shall the change disclose + That marked his visage, fearfully?-- + From joy to grief and deepest dole, + From radiant hope to dark presage + Of future ills beyond control-- + Hath passed, the visage of the sage. + + "Son of an honoured line, I grieve," + Outspake the reverend seer, + "That I no guerdon thee can give + But words of woe and fear!-- + Thy sun is setting!--and thy race, + In thee, their goodly heir, + Shall perish, nor a feeble trace + Their fated name declare!-- + Thy love is fatal: fatal, too, + This act of rescue brave-- + For, him who from destruction drew + My life, no arm can save!" + + He said,--and took his lonely way + Far from Romara's towers.-- + His fateful end from that sad day + O'er Torksey's chieftain lowers:-- + Yet, vainly, in his heart a shrine + Hope builds for love,--with faith;-- + Alas! for him with frown malign + Waiteth the grim king Death! + + +FYTTE THE THYRDE. + + Plantagenet hath dungeons deep + Beneath his castled halls;-- + Plantagenet awakes from sleep + To count his dungeoned thralls. + + Alone, with the torch of blood-red flame, + The man of blood descends; + And the fettered captives curse his name, + As through the vaults he wends.-- + + His caverns are visited, all, save one, + The deepest, and direst in gloom,-- + Where his father, doomed by a demon son, + Abode in a living tomb.-- + + "I bring thee bread and water, sire! + Brave usury for thy gold! + I fear my filial zeal will tire + To visit, soon, thy hold!" + + Thus spake the fiendish-hearted lord, + And wildly laughed, in scorn: + Like thunder round the cell each word + By echoing fiends is borne,-- + But not a human heart is there + The baron's scorn or hate to fear! + + And the captives tell, as he passeth again,-- + That tyrant, in his rage,-- + How an angel hath led the aged man + To his heavenly heritage! + + The wrathful baron little recked + That angel was his darling child; + Or knew his dark ambition checked + By her who oft his rage beguiled,-- + By her on whom he ever smiled:-- + This had he known, from that dread hour, + His darling's smile had lost its power,-- + And his own hand, without remorse, + Had laid her at his feet a corse!-- + + Plantagenet's banners in pride are borne + To the sound of pipe and drum! + And his mailėd bands, with the dawn of morn, + To Romara's walls are come. + "We come not as foes," the herald saith,-- + "But we bring Plantagenet's shriven faith + That thou, Romara, in thine arms + Shall soon enfold thy true love's charms: + Let no delay thy joy betide!-- + Thy Agnes soon shall be thy bride!" + + The raven croaks as Torksey's lord + Attends that bannered host; + But the lover is deaf to the omen-bird-- + The fatal moat is crossed! + + "Ride, ride;" saith the baron,--"thy ladye fain + And the priest--by the altar wait!"-- + And the spearmen seize his bridle-rein, + And hurry him to his fate. + + "A marriage by torchlight!" the baron said; + "This stair to the altar leads! + We patter our prayers, 'mong the mouldering dead,-- + And there we tell our beads!" + + Along the caverned dungeon's gloom + The tyrant strides in haste; + And, powerless, to his dreadful doom + The victim followeth fast. + The dazėd captives quake and stare + At the sullen torch's blood-red glare, + And the lover starts aghast + At the deathlike forms they wear! + + Too late, the truth upon him breaks!-- + Romara's heart is faint!-- + "Behold thy bride!" the baron shrieks-- + "Wilt hear the wedding chaunt? + This chain once bound my father here, + Who would have found his grave-- + The cursed dotard!--'neath the wave,-- + Had not thy hateful hand been near.-- + Be this the bride thou now shalt wed! + This dungeon dank thy bridal bed!-- + And when thy youthful blood shall freeze + In death,--may fiends thy spirit seize!"-- + + Plantagenet hath minions fell + Who do their master's bidding well:-- + Few days Romara pines in dread:-- + His soul is with the sainted dead!-- + + Plantagenet hath reached his bourne! + What terrors meet his soul forlorn + And full of stain,--I may not say:-- + Reveal them shall the Judgment Day!-- + + Her orisons at matin hour, + At noon, and eve, and midnight toll, + For him, doth tearful Agnes pour!-- + Jesu Maria! sain his soul! + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + +CANTO II. + + + Symphonious notes of dulcet plaint + Followed the stranger minstrel's chaunt; + And, when his sounding harp was dumb, + The crowd, with loud applausive hum, + Gave hearty guerdon for his strain; + While some with sighs expressed what pain + Had pierced their simple bosoms thorow + To hear his song of death and sorrow. + + "Come bear the mead-cup to our guest," + Said Thorold to his daughter; + "We thought to hear, at our Yule feast, + A lay of mirth and laughter; + But, to thy harp, thou well hast sung + A song that may impart, + For future hours, to old and young, + Deep lessons to the heart. + Yet, should not life be all a sigh! + Good Snell, do thou a burthen try + Shall change our sadness into joy: + Such as thou trollest in blythe mood, + On days of sunshine in the wood. + Tell out thy heart withouten fear-- + For none shall stifle free thoughts here! + But, bear the mead-cup, Edith sweet! + We crave our stranger guest will greet + All hearts, again, with minstrelsy, + When Snell hath trolled his mirth-notes free!" + + Fairer than fairest flower that blows,-- + Sweeter than breath of sweetest rose,-- + Still on her cheek, in lustre left, + The tear the minstrel's tale had reft + From its pearl-treasure in the brain-- + The limbec where, by mystic vein, + From the heart's fountains are distilled + Those crystals, when 'tis overfilled,-- + With downcast eye, and trembling hands, + Edith before the stranger stands-- + Stranger to all but her! + Though well the baron notes his brow, + While the young minstrel kneeleth low-- + Love's grateful worshipper!-- + And doth with lips devout impress + The hand of his fair ministress! + + Yet, was the deed so meekly done,-- + His guerdon seemed so fairly won,-- + The tribute he to beauty paid + So deeply all believed deserved,-- + That nought of blame Sir Wilfrid said, + Though much his thoughts from meekness swerved. + + Impatience, soon, their faces tell + To hear the song of woodman Snell, + Among the festive crew; + And, soon, their old and honest frere, + Elated by the good Yule cheer, + In untaught notes, but full and clear, + Thus told his heart-thoughts true:-- + + +The Woodman's Song. + + I would not be a crownėd king, + For all his gaudy gear; + I would not be that pampered thing, + His gew-gaw gold to wear: + But I would be where I can sing + Right merrily, all the year; + Where forest treen, + All gay and green, + Full blythely do me cheer. + + I would not be a gentleman, + For all his hawks and hounds,-- + For fear the hungry poor should ban + My halls and wide-parked grounds: + But I would be a merry man, + Among the wild wood sounds,-- + Where free birds sing, + And echoes ring + While my axe from the oak rebounds. + + I would not be a shaven priest, + For all his sloth-won tythe: + But while to me this breath is leased, + And these old limbs are lithe,-- + Ere Death hath marked me for his feast, + And felled me with his scythe,-- + I'll troll my song, + The leaves among, + All in the forest blythe. + + * * * * * + + "Well done, well done!" bold Thorold cried, + When the woodman ceased to sing; + "By'r Lady! it warms the Saxon tide + In our veins to hear thee bring + These English thoughts so freely out! + Thy health, good Snell!"--and a merry shout + For honest boldness, truth, and worth, + The baron's grateful guests sent forth. + + Silence like grave-yard air, again, + Pervades the festive space: + All list for another minstrel strain; + And the youth, with merrier face, + But tender notes, thus half-divulged + The passion which his heart indulged:-- + + +The Minstrel's Song. + + O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye, + That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy; + Who weepeth for pity, + To hear a love ditty, + And marketh the end with a sigh. + + If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look, + Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook, + Each day for the morrow + Will nurture more sorrow,-- + Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook. + + The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife; + The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife: + 'Twere better to tarry, + Unless thou canst marry + To sweeten the bitters of life! + + * * * * * + + What fires the youthful minstrel's lay + Lit in De Thorold's eyes, + It needs not, now, I soothly say: + Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,-- + And 'mid his own surprise, + Blent with the boisterous applause + That, instant, to the rafters rose, + The baron his jealous thought forgot. + Quickly, sithence a jocund note + Was fairly struck in every mind, + And jolly ale its power combined + To fill all hearts with deeper glee,-- + All wished for gleeful minstrelsy; + And every eye was shrewdly bent + On one whose caustic merriment + At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin + Compelling cause of mirthful grin + To ancient Torksey's rustic folk. + + Full soon this sturdy summons broke + From sire and son, and maid and mother:-- + "Ho, ho! saint Leonard's fat lay brother! + Why dost thou in the corner peep, + And sipple as if half asleep + Thou wert with this good nappy ale? + Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old tale + Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil, + We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel! + Thy folded cloak come cast aside!-- + Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide-- + It is thy old trick--we know it well-- + Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!" + "Pledge all, pledge all!" the baron cried; + "Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!" + + Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew, + And athwart the triple string + The bow in gamesome mood he threw,-- + His joke-song preluding;-- + Soon, with sly look, the burly man, + In burly tones his tale began. + + +The Miller of Roche.[12] + +THE LAY BROTHER OF SAINT LEONARD'S TALE. + + O the Prior of Roche + Was without reproach + While with saintly monks he chanted; + But when from the mass + He had turned his face, + The prior his saintship scanted. + + O the Miller of Roche,-- + I swear and avouch,-- + Had a wife of nut-brown beauty; + And to shrive her,--they say,-- + The prior, each day, + Came with zeal to his ghostly duty. + + But the neighbouring wives, + Who ne'er shrove in their lives,-- + Such wickedness Sathanas whispers!-- + Said the black-cloaked prior + By the miller's log fire, + Oft tarried too late for vespers! + + O the thunder was loud, + And the sky wore a shroud, + And the lightning blue was gleaming; + And the foaming flood, + Where the good mill stood, + Pell-mell o'er the dam was teeming. + + O the Miller, that night, + Toiled on in a fright,-- + Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded! + Yet, although he'd stayed long, + The storm was so strong + That full loath to depart was he minded. + + Lo! at midnight a jolt, + As loud as the bolt + Of the thunder on high that still rumbled, + Assailed the mill-doors, + And burst them, perforce,-- + And in a drenched beggar-lad stumbled! + + "Saint Luke and saint John + Save the ground we stand on"-- + Cried the Miller,--"but ye come in a hurry;" + While the lad, turning pale, + 'Gan to weep and to wail, + And to patter this pitiful story: + + "Goodman Miller, I pray, + Believe what I say,-- + For, as surely as thou art a sinner,-- + Since the break of the morn + I have wandered forlorn, + And have neither had breakfast nor dinner!" + + O the Miller looked sad, + And cried, "Good lack, my lad! + But ye tell me a dolorous ditty!-- + And ye seem in sad plight + To travel to-night:-- + The sight o' ye stirs up one's pity! + + "Go straight to my cot, + And beg something that's hot,-- + For ye look very haggard and hollow:-- + The storm's nearly o'er; + I will not grind much more,-- + And when I have done, I will follow. + + "Keep by the brook-side! + The path is not wide-- + But ye cannot soon stray, if ye mind it;-- + At the foot of the hill, + Half a mile from the mill, + Stands my cottage:--ye can't fail to find it." + + Then out the lad set, + All dripping with wet,-- + But the skies around him seemed brighter; + And he went gaily on,-- + For his burthen was gone,-- + And his heart in his bosom danced lighter. + + Adown by the brook + His travel he took, + And soon raught the Miller's snug dwelling;-- + But, what he saw ere + He was admitted there-- + By Saint Bridget!--I must not be telling! + + Thus much I may say-- + That the cot was of clay, + And the light was through wind-cracks ejected; + And he placed close his eye, + And peeped in, so sly,-- + And saw--what he never expected! + + O the lad 'gan to fear + That the Miller would appear,-- + And, to him, this strange sight would be vexing; + So he, first, sharply coughed, + And, then, knocked very soft,-- + Lest his summons should be too perplexing. + + But, I scorn to think harm!-- + So pass by all alarm, + And trembling, and bustle, and terror, + Occasioned within: + The first stone at sin + Let him cast who, himself, hath no error! + + In inquisitive mood, + The eaves-dropper stood, + By the wind-cracks still keeping his station; + Till, half-choked with fear, + A voice cried, "Who's there?"-- + Cried the beggar, "Mary grant ye salvation!-- + + "I'm a poor beggar-lad, + Very hungry and sad, + Who have travelled in rain and in thunder; + I am soaked, through and through"-- + Cried the voice, "Perhaps 'tis true-- + But who's likely to help thee, I wonder? + + "Here's a strange time of night + To put folk in a fright, + By waking them up from their bolsters!-- + Honest folk, by Saint Paul! + Abroad never crawl, + At the gloom-hour of night--when the owl stirs!" + + But the Miller now came, + And, hearing his dame + So sharply the beggar-lad scolding, + Said, "Open, sweet Joan! + And I'll tell thee, anon,-- + When thy brown cheek, once more, I'm beholding, + + "Why this poor lad is found + So late on our ground-- + Haste, my pigeon!--for here there's hard bedding!"-- + So the door was unbarred;-- + But the wife she frowned hard, + As the lad, by the door, thrust his head in. + + And she looked very cold + While her lord the tale told; + And then she made oath, by our Lady,-- + Such wandering elves + Might provide for themselves-- + For she would get no supper ready! + + O the Miller waxed wroth, + And vowed, by his troth,-- + While the beggar slunk into a corner,-- + If his termagant wife + Did not end her ill strife, + He would change words for blows, he'd forewarn her! + + O the lad he looked sly, + And with mischievous eye, + Cried, "Bridle your wrath, Goodman Grinder!-- + Don't be in a pet,-- + For I don't care a fret!-- + Your wife, in a trice, will be kinder! + + "In the stars I have skill, + And their powers, at my will, + I can summon, with food to provide us: + Say,--what d'ye choose? + I pray, don't refuse:-- + Neither hunger nor thirst shall betide us!" + + O the Miller he frowned, + And rolled his eyes round, + And seemed not the joke to be liking; + But the lad did not heed: + He was at his strange deed, + And the table was chalking and striking! + + With scrawls straight and crookt, + And with signs square and hookt, + With the lord of each house, or the lady, + The table he filled, + Like a clerk 'ith' stars skilled,-- + And, striking, cried "Presto! be ready!-- + + "A jug of spiced wine + 'S in the box,--I divine! + Ask thy wife for the key, and unlock it!-- + Nay, stop!" the lad said; + "We shall want meat and bread;" + And the chalk took again from his pocket. + + O the lad he looked wise, + And, in scholarly guise, + Completed his horary question:-- + "A brace of roast ducks + Thou wilt find in the box, + With the wine--sure as I am a Christian!-- + + "And a white wheaten loaf;-- + Quick! proceed to the proof!"-- + Cried the beggar,--while Grist stood stark staring;-- + Though the lad's weasel eyes + Shone so wondrously wise, + That to doubt him seemed sin over-daring! + + O the Miller's wife, Joan, + Turning pale, 'gan to groan; + But the Miller, arousing his spirits, + Said, "Hand me the key, + And our luck we will see-- + A faint heart no fortune inherits." + + But,--Gramercy!--his looks-- + When he opened the box, + And at what he saw in it stood wondering! + How his sturdy arm shook, + While the wine-jug he took, + And feared he would break it with blundering! + + Faith and troth! at the last, + On the table Grist placed + The wine and the ducks--hot and smoking! + Yet he felt grievous shy + His stomach to try + With cates of a wizard's own cooking! + + But, with hunger grown fell, + The lad sped so well, + That Grist was soon tempted to join in; + While Joan sat apart, + And looked sad at heart, + And some fearful mishap seemed divining! + + O the lad chopped away, + And smiling so gay, + Told stories to make his host merry:-- + How the Moon kittened stars,-- + And how Venus loved Mars, + And often went to see him in a wherry! + + O the Miller he laughed, + And the liquor he quaffed; + But the beggar new marvels was hatching:-- + Quoth he "I'm a clerk, + And I swear, by saint Mark, + That the Devil from hell I'll be fetching!"-- + + O the wife she looked scared, + And wildly Grist stared, + And cried, "Nay, my lad, nay,--thou'rt not able!"-- + But the lad plied his chalk, + And muttered strange talk-- + Till Grist drew his stool from the table! + + Then the lad quenched the rush, + And cried, "Bring a gorse-bush, + And under the caldron now kindle!"-- + But the Miller cried, "Nay! + Give over, I pray!"-- + For his courage began fast to dwindle. + + Quoth the lad, "I must on + Till my conjuring's done; + To break off just now would be ruin: + So fetch me the thorns,-- + And a devil without horns, + In the copper I soon will be brewing!"-- + + O the Miller he shook + For fear his strange cook + Should, indeed and in truth, prove successful; + But feeling ashamed + That his pluck should be blamed, + Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful. + + So the fuel he brought, + And said he feared nought + Of the Devil being brewed in his copper: + He'd as quickly believe + Nick would sit in his sieve, + Or dance 'mong the wheat in his hopper:-- + + And yet, lest strange ill, + From such conjuring skill, + Should arise, and their souls be in danger,-- + He would have his crab-stick, + And would show my lord Nick + Some tricks to which he was a stranger! + + O the lad 'gan to raise + 'Neath the caldron a blaze,-- + While the Miller, his crab-cudgel grasping, + Stood on watch, for his life!-- + But his terrified wife + Her hands--in devotion--was clasping! + + When the copper grew warm, + Quoth the lad, "Lest some harm + From the visit of Nick be betiding,-- + Set open the door, + And not long on the floor + Will the Goblin of Hell be abiding!" + + Quickly so did the host, + And returned to his post,-- + Uplifting his cudgel with trembling:-- + His strength was soon proved,-- + For the copper-lid moved!-- + When Grist's fears grew too big for dissembling. + + Turning white as the wall, + His staff he let fall,-- + While the Devil from the caldron ascended,-- + And, all on a heap,-- + With a flying leap, + On the fear-stricken Miller descended! + + In dread lest his soul, + In the Devil's foul goal, + Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder,-- + Grist grabbed the Fiend's throat, + And his grisly eyes smote,-- + Till Nick's face seemed a platter of tinder! + + Yea, with many a thwack, + Grist battered Nick's back,-- + Nor spared Satan's portly abdomen!-- + Hot Nick had lain cold + By this time--but his hold + Grist lost, through the screams of his woman! + + While up from the floor, + And out, at the door, + Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer! + He seemed panic-struck,-- + Or, doubted his luck,-- + For he neither staid question nor answer! + + "Grist!" the beggar-lad cried, + "Lay your trembling aside, + And tell me, my man, how ye like him. + 'Twas well ye were cool: + He'd have proved ye a fool,-- + Had ye dar'd with the cudgel to strike him!" + + "By saint Martin!" Grist said, + And, scratching his head, + Seemed pondering between good and evil,-- + "I could swear and avouch + 'Twas the Prior of Roche,-- + If thou hadst not said 'twas the Devil!" + + And, in deed and in sooth,-- + Though a marvellous truth,-- + Yet such was the Fiend's revelation!-- + But think it not strange + He should choose such a change:-- + 'Tis much after his old occupation:-- + + An angel of light, + 'Tis his darling delight + To be reckoned--'tis very well tested:-- + I argue, therefore, + 'Twas not sinning much more, + In the garb of a Prior to be vested. + + Though, with wink, nod, and smile-- + O the world's very vile!-- + Grist's neighbours told tales unbelieving,-- + How the beggar, so shrewd, + Monk and supper had viewed, + And produced 'em!--the Miller deceiving! + + But I do not belong + To that heretic throng + Who measure their faith with their eyesight:-- + Thus much I may say-- + Grist's cottage of clay + Never, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit:-- + + But, the sly beggar-lad, + Be he hungry or sad, + A remedy finds for each evil + In the Miller's good cheer, + Any day of the year;-- + And though Joan looketh shy--_she is civil_! + + * * * * * + + The tale was rude, but pleased rude men; + And clamorous many a clown grew, when + The rebeck ceased to thrill: + Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain, + Gosherd and swineherd,--all were fain + To prove their tuneful skill. + + But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand, + And gently stilled the jarring band: + "What ho!" he cried, "what ails your throats? + Be these your most melodious notes? + Forget ye that to-morrow morn + Old Yule-day and its sports return,-- + And that your freres, from scrogg and carr,[13] + From heath and wold, and fen, afar, + Will come to join ye in your glee? + Husband your mirth and minstrelsy, + And let some goodly portion be + Kept for their entertainment meet. + Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet, + And warm your winter blood! + Good night to all!--For His dear sake + Who bore our sin, if well we wake, + We'll join to banish care and sorrow + With mirth and sport again to-morrow!" + And forth the Baron good + Passed from his chair, midst looks of love + That showed how truly was enwove + Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude + For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude. + + The broad hall-doors were open cast, + And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed. + Yet, was the crowning hour unflown-- + Enjoyment's crowning hour!-- + A signal note the pipe hath blown, + And a maiden at the door + Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush, + To bring the sacred missel-bush. + + Gaily a younker leads the fair, + Proud of his dimpled, blushing care: + All clap their hands, both old and young, + And soon the misseltoe is hung + In the mid-rafters, overhead; + And, while the agile dance they thread, + Such honey do the plough-lads seize + From lips of lasses as the bees + Ne'er sip from sweetest flowers of May. + + All in the rapture of their play,-- + While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe, + And merrily their light feet trip,-- + Leave we the simple happy throng + Their mirth and rapture to prolong. + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + + + +CANTO III. + + + Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller! + Of late, thy dungeon-harpings were + Of discontent and wrong; + And we, the Privileged, were banned + For cumber-grounds of fatherland, + In thy drear prison-song. + + What fellowship hast thou with times + When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes + At feast, in feudal hall,-- + And peasant churls, a saucy crew, + Fantastic o'er their wassail grew, + Forgetful of their thrall?-- + + Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,-- + And with the homely Past compare + Your tinselled show and state! + Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold + On human hearts so firm a hold + For ye, and yours, create + As they possessed, whose breasts though rude + Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood + For all who toiled, through youth and age, + T' enrich their force-won heritage! + + Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride + Secure, ere ye begin to chide! + Then, lordlings, though ye may discard + The measures I rehearse, + Slight not the lessons of the bard-- + The moral of his verse.-- + + But _we_ will dare thy verse to chide! + Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide, + And taunt our wretchedness + With visioned feast, and song, and dance,-- + While, daily, our grim heritance + Is famine and distress? + + Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern, + Never from Suffering's cause to turn, + But--to the end of life-- + Against Oppression's ruthless band + Still unsubduable to stand, + A champion in the strife? + + Think'st thou we suffer less, or feel + To-day's soul-piercing wounds do heal + The wounds of months and years? + Or that our eyes so long have been + Familiar with the hunger keen + Our babes endure, we gaze serene-- + Strangers to scalding tears?-- + + Ah no! my brothers, not from me + Hath faded solemn memory + Of all your bitter grief: + This heart its pledges doth renew-- + To its last pulse it will be true + To beat for your relief. + + My rhymes are trivial, but my aim + Deem ye not purposeless: + I would the homely truth proclaim-- + That times which knaves full loudly blame + For feudal haughtiness + Would put the grinding crew to shame + Who prey on your distress. + + O that my simple lay might tend + To kindle some remorse + In your oppressors' souls, and bend + Their wills a cheerful help to lend + And lighten Labour's curse! + + * * * * * + + A night of snow the earth hath clad + With virgin mantle chill; + But in the sky the sun looks glad,-- + And blythely o'er the hill, + From fen and wold, troops many a guest + To sing and smile at Thorold's feast. + + And oft they bless the bounteous sun + That smileth on the snow; + And oft they bless the generous one + Their homes that bids them fro + To glad their hearts with merry cheer, + When Yule returns, in winter drear. + + How joyously the lady bells + Shout--though the bluff north-breeze + Loudly his boisterous bugle swells! + And though the brooklets freeze, + How fair the leafless hawthorn-tree + Waves with its hoar-frost tracery! + While sun-smiles throw o'er stalks and stems + Sparkles so far transcending gems-- + The bard would gloze who said their sheen + Did not out-diamond + All brightest gauds that man hath seen + Worn by earth's proudest king or queen, + In pomp and grandeur throned! + + Saint Leonard's monks have chaunted mass, + And clown's and gossip's laughing face + Is turned unto the porch,-- + For now comes mime and motley fool, + Guarding the dizened Lord Misrule + With mimic pomp and march; + And the burly Abbot of Unreason + Forgets not that the blythe Yule season + Demands his paunch at church; + And he useth his staff + While the rustics laugh,-- + And, still, as he layeth his crosier about, + Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt,-- + And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim, + Sees carven apes ever laughing at him! + + Louder and wilder the merriment grows, + For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws! + And the dragon's roar, + As he paweth the floor, + And belcheth fire + In his demon ire, + When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose, + Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din-- + Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin-- + For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold, + With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold; + And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine + Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine! + "Come forth, come forth! it is high noon," + Cries Hugh the seneschal; + "My masters, will ye ne'er have done? + Come forth unto the hall!"-- + + 'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall: + Full many a trophy bedecks the wall + Of prowess in field and wood; + Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear + Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer-- + But De Thorold's guests beheld nought there + That scented of human blood. + The mighty wassail horn suspended + From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended, + With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound, + Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed, + While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed, + As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound, + That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest, + And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast. + + Sir Wilfrid's carven chair of state + 'Neath the dais is gently elevate,-- + But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride: + Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire's side, + And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall, + Sit by the tables along the wide hall, + Each with his platter, and stout drink-horn,-- + They count on good cheer this Christmas morn! + + Not long they wait, not long they wish-- + The trumpet peals,--and the kingly dish,-- + The head of the brawny boar, + Decked with rosemary and laurels gay,-- + Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza, + As their fathers did, of yore! + And they point to the costard he bears in his mouth, + And vow the huge pig, + So luscious a fig, + Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South! + + Strike up, strike up, a louder chime, + Ye minstrels in the loft! + Strike up! it is no fitting time + For drowsy strains and soft,-- + When sewers threescore + Have passed the hall door, + And the tables are laden with roast and boiled, + And carvers are hasting, lest all should be spoiled; + And gossips' tongues clatter + More loudly than platter, + And tell of their marvel to reckon the sorts:-- + + Ham by fat capon, and beef by green worts; + Ven'son from forest, and mutton from fold; + Brawn from the oak-wood, and hare from the wold; + Wild-goose from fen, and tame from the lea; + And plumėd dish from the heronry-- + With choicest apples 'twas featly rimmed, + And stood next the flagons with malmsey brimmed,-- + Near the knightly swan, begirt with quinces, + Which the gossips said was a dish for princes,-- + Though his place was never to stand before + The garnished head of the royal boar! + + Puddings of plumbs and mince-pies, placed + In plenty along the board, met taste + Of gossip and maiden,--nor did they fail + To sip, now and then, of the double brown ale-- + That ploughman and shepherd vowed and sware + Was each drop so racy, and sparkling, and rare-- + No outlandish Rhenish could with it compare! + + Trow ye they stayed till the meal was done + To pledge a health? Degenerate son + Of friendly sires! a health thrice-told + Each guest had pledged to fellowships old,-- + Untarrying eager mouth to wipe, + And across the board with hearty gripe + Joining rough hands,--ere the meal was o'er:-- + Hearts and hands went with "healths" in the days of yore! + + The meal is o'er,--though the time of mirth, + Each brother feels, is but yet in its birth:-- + "Wassail, wassail!" the seneschal cries; + And the spicy bowl rejoiceth all eyes, + When before the baron beloved 'tis set, + And he dippeth horn, and thus doth greet + The honest hearts around him met:-- + + "Health to ye all, my brothers good! + All health and happiness! + Health to the absent of our blood! + May Heaven the suffering bless,-- + And cheer their hearts who lie at home + In pain, now merry Yule hath come! + My jolly freres, all health!" + + The shout is loud and long,--but tears + Glide quickly from some eyes, while ears + List whispering sounds of stealth + That tell how the noble Thorold hath sent, + To palsied widow and age-stricken hind, + Clothing and food, and brother-words kind,-- + Cheering their aching languishment! + + "Wassail, wassail!" Sir Wilfrid saith,-- + "Push round the brimming bowl!-- + Art thou there, minstrel?--By my faith, + All list to hear thee troll, + Again, some goodly love-lorn verse!-- + Begin thy ditty to rehearse, + And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe-- + Less thou wilt take red gold therewith!" + + Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth,-- + But, now the merry Yule returneth, + For love of Him whom angels sung, + And love of one his burning tongue + Is fain to name, but may not tell,-- + Once more, unto the harp's sweet swell, + A knightly chanson he will sing,-- + And, straight, he struck the throbbing string. + + +Sir Raymond and the False Palmer. + +THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S SECOND TALE. + + Sir Raymond de Clifford, a gallant band + Hath gathered to fight in the Holy Land; + And his lady's heart is sinking in sorrow,-- + For the knight and his lances depart on the morrow! + + "Oh, wherefore, noble Raymond, tell,"-- + His lovely ladye weeping said,-- + "With lonely sorrow must I dwell, + When but three bridal moons have fled?" + + Sir Raymond kissed her pale, pale cheek, + And strove, with a warrior's pride, + While an answer of love he essayed to speak, + His flooding tears to hide. + + But an image rose in his heated brain, + That shook his heart with vengeful pain, + And anger flashed in his rolling eye, + While his ladye looked on him tremblingly. + + Yet, he answered not in wrathful haste,-- + But clasped his bride to his manly breast; + And with words of tender yet stately dress, + Thus strove to banish her heart's distress:-- + + "De Burgh hath enrolled him with Philip of France,-- + Baron Hubert,--who challenged De Clifford's lance, + And made him the scoff of the burgher swine, + When he paid his vows at the Virgin's shrine. + + "Oh, ask me not, love, to tarry in shame,-- + Lest 'craven' be added to Raymond's name! + To Palestine hastens my mortal foe,-- + And I with our Lion's Heart will go! + + "Nay, Gertrude, repeat not thy sorrowing tale! + Behold in my casque the scallop-shell,-- + And see on my shoulder the Holy Rood-- + The pledge of my emprize--bedyed in blood! + + "Thou wouldst not, love, I should be forsworn, + Nor the stain on my honour be tamely borne: + Do thou to the saints, each passing day, + For Raymond and royal Richard pray,-- + + "While they rush to the rescue, for God's dear Son; + And soon, for thy Raymond, the conqu'ror's meed,-- + By the skill of this arm, and the strength of my steed,-- + From the Paynim swart shall be nobly won. + + "Thou shalt not long for De Clifford mourn, + Ere he to thy bosom of love return; + When blind to the lure of the red-cross bright, + He will bask, for life, in thy beauty's light!" + + The morn in the radiant east arose:-- + The Red-cross Knight hath spurred his steed + That courseth as swift as a falcon's speed:-- + To the salt-sea shore Sir Raymond goes. + + Soon, the sea he hath crossed, to Palestine; + And there his heart doth chafe and pine,-- + For Hubert de Burgh is not in that land: + He loitereth in France, with Philip's band. + + But De Clifford will never a recreant turn, + While the knightly badge on his arm is borne; + And long, beneath the Syrian sun, + He fasted and fought, and glory won. + + His Gertrude, alas! like a widow pines; + And though on her castle the bright sun shines, + She sees not its beams,--but in loneliness prays, + Through the live-long hours of her weeping days.-- + + Twelve moons have waned, and the morn is come + When, a year before, from his meed-won home + Sir Raymond went:--At the castle gate + A reverend Palmer now doth wait. + + He saith he hath words for the ladye's ear; + And he telleth, in accents dread and drear, + Of De Clifford's death in the Holy Land, + At Richard's side, by a Saracen's hand. + + And he gave to the ladye, when thus he had spoken,-- + Of Sir Raymond's fall a deathly token: + 'Twas a lock of his hair all stained with blood, + Entwined on a splinter of Holy Rood.-- + + Then the Palmer in haste from the castle sped; + And from gloomy morn to weary night, + Lorn Gertrude, in her widowed plight, + Weepeth and waileth the knightly dead.-- + + Three moons have waned, and the Palmer, again, + By Gertrude stands, and smileth fain; + Nor of haste, nor of death, speaks the Palmer, now; + Nor doth sadness or sorrow bedim his brow. + + He softly sits by the ladye's side, + And vaunteth his deeds of chivalrous pride; + Then lisps, in her secret ear, of things + Which deeply endanger the thrones of kings: + + From Philip of France, he saith, he came, + To treat with Prince John, whom she must not name; + And he, in fair France, hath goodly lands,-- + And a thousand vassals there wait his commands.-- + + The ladye liked her gallant guest,-- + For he kenned the themes that pleased her best; + And his tongue, in silken measures skilled, + With goodly ditties her memory filled. + + Thus the Palmer the ladye's ear beguiles,-- + Till Gertrude her sorrow exchangeth for smiles; + And when from the castle the Palmer went, + She watched his return, from the battlement.-- + + Another moon doth swell and wane:-- + But how slowly it waneth! + How her heart now paineth + For sight of the Palmer again! + + But the Palmer comes, and her healėd heart + Derideth pain and sorrow: + She pledgeth the Palmer, and smirketh smart, + And saith, "we'll wed to-morrow!"-- + + The morrow is come, and at break of day, + 'Fore the altar, the abbot, in holy array, + Is joining the Palmer's and Gertrude's hands,-- + But, in sudden amazement the holy man stands! + + For, before the castle, a trumpet's blast + Rings so loud that the Palmer starts aghast; + And, at Gertrude's side, he sinks dismayed,-- + Is't with dread of the living, or fear of the dead? + + The doors of the chapel were open thrown, + And the beams through the pictured windows shone + On the face of De Clifford, with fury flushed,-- + And forth on the Palmer he wildly rushed!-- + + "False Hubert!" he cried; and his knightly sword + Was sheathed in the heart of the fiend-sold lord!-- + With a scream of terror, Gertrude fell-- + For she knew the pride of Sir Raymond well! + + He flew to raise her--but 'twas in vain: + Her spirit its flight in fear had ta'en!-- + And Sir Raymond kneels that his soul be shriven, + And the stain of this deed be by grace forgiven:-- + + But ere the Abbot his grace can dole, + De Clifford's truthful heart is breaking,-- + And his soul, also, its flight is taking!-- + Christ, speed it to a heavenly goal!-- + Oh, pray for the peace of Sir Raymond's soul! + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + + + +CANTO IV. + + + What power can stay the burst of song + When throats with ale are mellow? + What wight with nieve so stout and strong + Dares lift it, jolly freres among, + And cry, "Knaves, cease to bellow?" + + "'Twas doleful drear,"--the gossips vowed,-- + To hear the minstrel's piteous tale! + But, when the swineherd tuned his crowd,[14] + And the gosherd began to grumble loud, + The gossips smiled, and sipped their ale! + + "A boon, bold Thorold!" boldly cried + The gosherd from Croyland fen; + "I crave to sing of the fen so wide, + And of geese and goosish men!" + + Loud loffe they all; and the baron, with glee, + Cried "begin, good Swithin! for men may see + Thou look'st so like a knowing fowl, + Of geese thou art skilled right well to troll!" + + Stout Swithin sware the baron spake well,-- + And his halting ditty began to tell: + The rhyme was lame, and dull the joke,-- + But it tickled the ears of clownish folk. + + +The Gosherd's Song. + + 'Tis a tale of merry Lincolnshire + I've heard my grannam tell; + And I'll tell it to you, my masters, here, + An' it likes you all, full well. + + A Gosherd on Croyland fen, one day, + Awoke, in haste, from slumber; + And on counting his geese, to his sad dismay, + He found there lacked one of the number. + + O the Gosherd looked west, and he looked east, + And he looked before and behind him; + And his eye from north to south he cast + For the gander--but couldn't find him! + + So the Gosherd he drave his geese to the cote, + And began, forthwith, to wander + Over the marshy wild remote, + In search of the old stray gander. + + O the Gosherd he wandered till twilight gray + Was throwing its mists around him; + But the gander seemed farther and farther astray-- + For the Gosherd had not yet found him. + + So the Gosherd, foredeeming his search in vain, + Resolved no farther to wander; + But to Croyland he turned him, in dudgeon, again, + Sore fretting at heart for the gander. + + Thus he footed the fens so dreary and dern, + While his brain, like the sky, was dark'ning; + And with dread to the scream o' the startled hern + And the bittern's boom he was heark'ning. + + But when the Gosherd the church-yard reached,-- + Forefearing the dead would be waking,-- + Like a craven upon the sward he stretched, + And could travel no farther for quaking! + + And there the Gosherd lay through the night, + Not daring to rise and go further: + For, in sooth, the Gosherd beheld a sight + That frighted him more than murther! + + From the old church clock the midnight hour + In hollow tones was pealing, + When a slim white ghost to the church porch door + Seemed up the footpath stealing! + + Stark staring upon the sward lay the clown, + And his heart went "pitter patter,"-- + Till the ghost in the clay-cold grave sunk down,-- + When he felt in a twitter-twatter! + + Soon--stretching aloft its long white arms-- + From the grave the ghost was peeping!-- + Cried the Gosherd, "Our Lady defend me from harms, + And Saint Guthlacke[15] have me in his keeping!" + + The white ghost hissed!--the Gosherd swooned! + In the morn,--on the truth 'tis no slander,-- + Near the church porch door a new grave he found, + And, therein, the white ghost--his stray gander! + + * * * * * + + The Gosherd, scarce, his mirthful meed + Had won, ere Tibbald of Stow,-- + With look as pert as the pouncing glede + When he eyeth the chick below,-- + Scraped his crowd, + And clear and loud, + As the merle-cock shrill, + Or the bell from the hill, + Thus tuned his throat to his rough sire's praise-- + His sire the swineherd of olden days:-- + + +The Swineherd's Song. + + I sing of a swineherd, in Lindsey, so bold, + Who tendeth his flock in the wide forest-fold: + He sheareth no wool from his snouted sheep: + He soweth no corn, and none he doth reap: + Yet the swineherd no lack of good living doth know: + Come jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + Like the jovial swineherd of Stow! + + He hedgeth no meadows to fatten his swine: + He renteth no joist for his snorting kine: + They rove through the forest, and browse on the mast,-- + Yet, he lifteth his horn, and bloweth a blast, + And they come at his call, blow he high, blow he low!-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And drink to the swineherd of Stow! + + He shunneth the heat 'mong the fern-stalks green,-- + Or dreameth of elves 'neath the forest treen: + He wrappeth him up when the oak leaves sere + And the ripe acorns fall, at the wane o' the year; + And he tippleth at Yule, by the log's cheery glow.-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And pledge the bold swineherd of Stow! + + The bishop he passeth the swineherd in scorn,-- + Yet, to mass wends the swineherd at Candlemas morn; + And he offereth his horn, at our Lady's hymn, + With bright silver pennies filled up to the brim:-- + Saith the bishop, "A very good fellow, I trow!"-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And honour the swineherd of Stow! + + And now the brave swineherd, in stone, ye may spy, + Holding his horn, on the Minster so high!-- + But the swineherd he laugheth, and cracketh his joke, + With his pig-boys that vittle beneath the old oak,-- + Saying, "Had I no pennies, they'd make me no show!"-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And laugh with the swineherd of Stow![16] + + * * * * * + + So merrily the chorus rose,-- + For every guest chimed in,-- + That, had the dead been there to doze, + They had surely waked with the din!-- + So the rustics said while their brains were mellow; + And all called the swineherd "a jolly good fellow!" + + "Come, hearty Snell!" said the Baron good; + "What sayest thou more of the merry greenwood?" + + "I remember no lay of the forest, now,"-- + Said Snell, with a glance at three maids in a row; + "Belike, I could whimper a love-lorn ditty,-- + If Tib, Doll, and Bell, would listen with pity!" + + "Then chaunt us thy love-song!" cried Baron and guests; + And Snell, looking shrewd, obeyed their behests. + + +The Woodman's Love Song. + + Along the meads a simple maid + One summer's day a musing strayed, + And, as the cowslips sweet she pressed, + This burthen to the breeze confessed-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + For, ever since so playfully + Young Robin trod this path with me, + I always feel more happy here + Than ever I have felt elsewhere:-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + And, ever since young Robin talked + So sweetly, while alone we walked, + Of truth, and faith, and constancy, + I've wished he always walked with me:-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + And, ever since that pleasing night + When, 'neath the lady moon's fair light, + He asked my hand, but asked in vain, + I've wished he'd walk, and ask again:-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + And yet, I greatly fear, alas! + That wish will ne'er be brought to pass!-- + What else to fear I cannot tell:-- + I hope that all will yet be well-- + But, surely, I'm in love! + + * * * * * + + Coy was their look, but true their pleasure, + While the maidens listed the woodman's measure; + Nor shrunk they at laughter of herdsman or hind, + But mixed with the mirth, and still looked kind. + + One maid there was who faintly smiled, + But never joined their laughter: + And why, by Yule-mirth unbeguiled, + Sits the Baron's beauteous daughter? + Why looks she downcast, yet so sweet, + And seeketh no eyes with mirth to greet? + + "My darling Edith,--hast no song?" + Saith Thorold, tenderly; + "Our guests have tarried to hear thee, long, + And looked with wistful eye!" + + Soft words the peerless damosel + Breathes of imperfect skill: + "Sweet birds," smiles the Baron, "all know--right well, + Can sweetly sing an' they will." + + And the stranger minstrel, on his knee, + Offers his harp, with courtesy + So rare and gentle, that the hall + Rings with applause which one and all + Render who share the festival. + + De Thorold smiled; and the maiden took + The harp, with grace in act and look,-- + But waked its echoes tremulously,-- + Singing no noisy jubilee,-- + But a chanson of sweetly stifled pain-- + So sweet--when ended all were fain + To hear her chaunt it o'er again. + + +The Baron's Daughter's Song. + + I own the gay lark is the blythest bird + That welcomes the purple dawn; + But a sweeter chorister far is heard + When the veil of eve is drawn: + + When the last lone traveller homeward wends + O'er the moorland, drowsily; + And the pale bright moon her crescent bends, + And silvers the soft gray sky; + + And in silence the wakeful starry crowd + Their vigil begin to keep; + And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud, + And their buds in dew-drops weep; + + Oh, then the nightingale's warbling wild, + In the depth of the forest dark, + Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow's child, + Than the song of the cheerful lark! + + * * * * * + + "'Twas sweet, but somewhat sad," said some; + And the Baron sought his daughter's eye,-- + But, now, there fell a shade of gloom + On the cheek of Edith;--and tearfully, + He thought she turned to shun his look. + + He would have asked his darling's woe,-- + But the harp, again, the minstrel took; + And with such prelude as awoke + Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe + In Thorold's soul,--the minstrel stranger-- + In spite of fear, in spite of danger,-- + In measures sweet and soft, but quaint,-- + Responded thus to Edith's plaint:-- + + +The Minstrel's Response. + + What meant that glancing of thine eye, + That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh? + Hast thou a thought of woe or weal, + Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel? + Why should'st thou, then, that thought conceal, + Or hide it from my mind, Love? + + Did'st thou e'er breathe a sigh to me, + And I not breathe as deep to thee? + Or hast thou whispered in mine ear + A word of sorrow or of fear,-- + Or have I seen thee shed a tear,-- + And looked a thought unkind, Love? + + Did e'er a gleam of Love's sweet ray + Across thy beaming countenance play,-- + Or joy its seriousness beguile, + And o'er it cast a radiant smile,-- + And mine with kindred joy, the while, + Not glow as bright as thine, Love? + + Why would'st thou, then, that something seek + To hide within thy breast,--nor speak, + Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear, + Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear,-- + Assured this heart would gladly bear + A burthen borne by thine, Love? + + * * * * * + + Sir Wilfrid sat in thoughtful mood, + When the youthful minstrel's song was ended; + While Edith by her loved sire stood, + And o'er his chair in sadness bended. + The guests were silent;--for the chaunt, + Where all, of late, were jubilant, + Had kindled quick imagining + Who he might be that thus dared sing-- + Breathing of deep and fervent feeling-- + His tender passion half-revealing. + + Soon, sportive sounds the silence broke: + Saint Leonard's lay-brother, + Who seldom could smother + Conception of mischief, or thought of a joke, + Drew forth his old rebeck from under his cloak,-- + And touching the chords + To brain-sick words,-- + While he mimicked a lover's phantasy, + Upward rolling his lustrous eye,-- + With warblings wild + He flourished and trilled,-- + Till mother and maiden aloud 'gan to laugh, + And clown challenged clown more good liquor to quaff. + + These freakish rhymes, in freakish measure, + He chaunted, for his wayward pleasure. + + +The Lay-Brother's Love Song. + + The lilies are fair, down by the green grove, + Where the brooklet glides through the dell; + But I view not a lily so fair, while I rove, + As the maid whose name I could tell. + + The roses are sweet that blush in the vale, + Where the thorn-bush grows by the well; + But they breathe not a perfume so sweet on the gale + As the maid whose name I could tell. + + The lark singeth sweetly up in the sky,-- + Over song-birds bearing the bell; + But one bird may for music the skylark defy,-- + 'Tis the maid whose name I could tell. + + The angels all brightly glitter and glow, + In the regions high where they dwell; + But they beam not so bright as one angel below,-- + 'Tis the maid whose name I could tell. + + * * * * * + + Sport may, a while, defy heart-cares, + And woo faint smiles from pain; + Jesting, a while, may keep down tears-- + But they will rise, again! + + And saddening thoughts of others' care, + Unwelcome, though they be, to share,-- + And though self-love would coldly say + "Let me laugh on, while others bear + Their own grief-fardels as they may!"-- + Yet, while in sadness droops a brother, + No brother-heart can sadness smother: + The tear of fellowship will start-- + The tongue seek comfort to impart. + + And English hearts, of old, were dull + To quell their yearnings pitiful:-- + The guests forgot the jester's strain, + To think upon the harp again, + And of the youth who, to its swell, + So late, his sighs did syllable. + + Natheless, no guest was skilled to find, + At once, fit words that might proclaim,-- + For one who seemed without a name,-- + Their sympathy;--and so, with kind + Intent, they urged some roundelay + The stranger minstrel would essay. + + He struck the harp, forthwith, but sung + Of passion still,--and still it clung + To Love--his full, melodious tongue! + + +The Minstrel's Avowal. + + O yes! I hold thee in my heart; + Nor shall thy cherished form depart + From its loved home: though sad I be,-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + My dawn of life is dimmed and dark; + Hope's flame is dwindled to a spark; + But, though I live thus dyingly,-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + Though short my summer's day hath been, + And now the winter's eve is keen,-- + Yet, while the storm descends on me,-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + No look of love upon me beams,-- + No tear of pity for me streams:-- + A thing forlorn--despairingly-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + Thine eye would pity wert thou free + To soothe my woe; and though I be + Condemned to helpless misery, + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + * * * * * + + The maidens wept--the clowns looked glum-- + Each rustic reveller was dumb: + Sir Wilfrid struggled hard to hide + Revengeful throes and ireful pride, + That, now, his wounded bosom swelled,-- + For in that youth he had beheld + An image which had overcast + His life with sorrow in the Past:-- + He struggled,--and besought the youth + To leave his strains of woe and ruth + For some light lay, or merry rhyme, + More fitting Yule's rejoicing time.-- + And, though it cost him dear, the while, + He eyed the minstrel with a smile. + + The stranger waited not to note + The Baron's speech: like one distraught + He struck the harp--a wild farewell + Thus breathing to its deepest swell:-- + + +The Minstrel's Farewell. + + Oh! smile not upon me--my heart is not smiling: + Too long it hath mourned, 'neath reproach and reviling: + Thy smile is a false one: it never can bless me: + It doth not relieve,--but more deeply distress me! + + I care not for beauty; I care not for riches: + I am not the slave whom their tinsel bewitches: + A bosom I seek + That is true, like mine own,-- + Though pale be the cheek, + And its roses all flown,-- + And the wearer be desolate, wretched, forlorn,-- + And alike from each soul-soothing solace be torn. + + That heart I would choose, which is stricken and slighted; + Whose joys are all fled, and whose hopes are all blighted; + For that heart alone + Would in sympathy thrill + With one like my own + That sorrow doth fill;-- + With a heart whose fond breathings have ever been spurned,-- + And hath long their rejection in solitude mourned. + + The harp of my heart is unstrung; and to gladness + Respond not its chords--but to sorrow and sadness:-- + Then speak not of mirth which my soul hath forsaken! + Why would ye my heart-breaking sorrows awaken? + + * * * * * + + It is the shriek of deathful danger! + None heed the heart-plaint of the stranger! + All start aghast, with deadly fear, + While they, again, that wild shriek hear! + + "He drowns--Sir Wilfrid!" cries a hind: + "The ferryman is weak: + He cannot stem the stream and wind: + Help, help! for Jesu's sake!" + + "Help one,--help all!" the Baron cries; + "Whatever boon he craves, + I swear, by Christ, that man shall win, + My ferryman who saves!"-- + + Out rush the guests: but one was forth + Who heard no word of boon: + His manly heart to deeds of worth + Needed no clarion. + + He dashed into the surging Trent-- + Nor feared the hurricane; + And, ere the breath of life was spent, + He seized the drowning man.-- + + "What is thy boon?" said Torksey's lord,-- + But his cheek was deadly pale; + "Tell forth thy heart,--and to keep his word + De Thorold will not fail."-- + + "I rushed to save my brother-man, + And not to win thy boon: + My just desert had been Heaven's ban-- + If thus I had not done!"-- + + Thus spake the minstrel, when the hall + The Baron's guests had gained: + And, now, De Thorold's noble soul + Spoke out, all unrestrained. + + "Then for thy own heart's nobleness + Tell forth thy boon," he said; + "Before thou tell'st thy thought, I guess + What wish doth it pervade."-- + + "Sweet Edith, his true, plighted love, + Romara asks of thee! + What though my kindred with thee strove, + And wrought thee misery? + + "Our Lord, for whom we keep this day, + When nailed upon the tree; + Did he foredoom his foes, or pray + That they might pardoned be?"-- + + "Son of my ancient foe!" replied + The Baron to the youth,-- + I glad me that my ireful pride + Already bows to truth: + + "Deep zeal to save our brother-man-- + Generous self-sacrifice + For other's weal--is nobler than + All blood-stained victories! + + "Take thy fair boon!--for thou hast spoiled + Death,--greedy Death--of prey-- + This poor man who for me hath toiled + Full many a stormy day! + + "I feel--to quell the heart's bad flame, + And bless an enemy, + Is richer than all earthly fame-- + Though the world should be its fee! + + "My sire was by thy kinsman slain;-- + Yet, as thy tale hath told, + Thy kinsman's usurping act was vain-- + He died in the dungeon cold. + + "Perish the memory of feud, + And deeds of savage strife! + Blood still hath led to deeds of blood, + And life hath paid for life! + + "My darling Edith shall be thine-- + My blood with thine shall blend-- + The Saxon with the Norman line-- + In love our feuds shall end. + + "In age I'll watch ye bless the poor, + And smile upon your love; + And, when my pilgrimage is o'er, + I hope to meet above + + "Him who on earth a Babe was born + In lowliness, as on this morn,-- + And tabernacled here below, + Lessons of brotherhood to show!" + + * * * * * + + High was the feast, and rich the song, + For many a day, that did prolong + The wedding-revelry: + + But more it needeth not to sing + Of our fathers' festive revelling:-- + How will the dream agree + With waking hours of famished throngs, + Brooding on daily deepening wrongs-- + A stern reality!-- + + With pictures, that exist in life, + Of thousands waging direful strife + With gaunt Starvation, in the holds + Where Mammon vauntingly unfolds + His boasted banner of success? + + Oh, that bruised hearts, in their distress, + May meet with hearts whose bounteousness + Helps them to keep their courage up,-- + "Bating no jot of heart or hope!"[17] + + My suffering brothers! still your hope + Hold fast, though hunger make ye droop! + Right--glorious Right--shall yet be done! + The Toilers' boon shall yet be won! + Wrong from its fastness shall be hurled-- + The World shall be a happy world!-- + It shall be filled with brother-men,-- + And merry Yule oft come again! + + + + +NOTES. + + +I. + +TORKSEY'S HALL. + +The remains of this ancient erection (of which a representation is given +in the accompanying vignette) form an interesting antiquarian object +beside the Trent, twelve miles from Lincoln, and seven from +Gainsborough. The entire absence of any authentic record, as to the date +of the foundation, or its former possessors, leaves the imagination at +full liberty to clothe it with poetic legend. Visits made to it, in my +childhood, and the hearing of wild narratives respecting the treasures +buried beneath its ruins, and the power of its lords in the times of +chivalry, fixed it, very early, in my mind, as the fit site for a tale +of romance. In addition to the beautiful fragment of a front on the +Trent bank, massive and extensive foundations in the back-ground show +that it must have been an important building in by-gone times. + +Torksey was, undoubtedly, one of the first towns in Lincolnshire, in the +Saxon period. Only three of the towns in the county are classed in +Domesday Book, and it is one of them: "Lincoln mans. 982; Stamford 317: +_Terchesey_ 102." (Turner's Hist. of the Anglo-Saxons, 1836, vol. iii. +page 251.) Writers of parts of the county history,--(for a complete +history of Lincolnshire has not yet been written,)--affirm that Torksey +is the _Tiovulfingacester_ of Venerable Bede; but Smith, the learned +editor of the Cambridge edition of Bede, inclines to the opinion that +Southwell is the town indicated by the pious and industrious monastic. +The passage in Bede leaves every thing to conjecture: he simply relates +that a truth-speaking presbyter and abbot of _Pearteneu_, (most likely, +Partney, near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire,) named Deda, said that an old +man had told him, that he, with a great multitude, was baptized by +Paulinus, in the presence of King Edwin, "in fluvio Treenta juxta +civitatem quę lingua Anglorum Tiovulfingacaestir vocatur"--in the river +Trent, near the city which in the language of the Angles is called +Tiovulfingacaestir (Smith's Bede: Cambr. 1722, page 97.)--This passage +occurs immediately after the relation of the Christian mission of +Paulinus into Lindsey, and his conversion of Blecca, governor of +Lincoln, and his family, while the good King Edwin reigned over East +Anglia, to which petty kingdom Lincolnshire seems sometimes to have +belonged, though it was generally comprehended in the kingdom of Mercia, +during the period of the Heptarchy. + +If Stukeley be correct in his supposition that the "Foss-dyke," or canal +which connects the Trent here with the Witham at Lincoln, be the work of +the Romans,--and I know no reason for doubting it,--Torksey, standing at +the junction of the artificial river with the Trent, must have been an +important station even before the Saxon times. These are Stukeley's +words relative to the commercial use of the Foss-Dyke: "By this means +the corn of Cambridgeshire, Bedfordshire, Huntingdonshire, +Northamptonshire, Rutland, and Lincolnshire, came in;--from the Trent, +that of Nottinghamshire; all easily conveyed northward to the utmost +limits of the Roman power there, by the river Ouse, which is navigable +to the imperial city of York. This city (York) was built and placed +there, in that spot, on the very account of the corn-boats coming +thither, and the emperors there resided, on that account; and the great +morass on the river Foss was the haven, or bason, where these corn-boats +unladed. The very name of the Foss at York, and Foss-dyke between +Lincoln and the Trent, are memorials of its being an artificial work, +even as the great Foss road, equally the work of the spade, though in a +different manner." (Stukeley's Palęographia Britannica: Stamford, 1746: +No. 2, page 39.) + +In the superb edition of Dugdale's Monasticon Anglicanum, edited by Sir +Henry Ellis and others (1825), occurs the following note, also +evidencing the extent of ancient Torksey:--"Mr. T. Sympson, who +collected for a history of Lincoln, in a letter preserved in one of +Cole's manuscript volumes in the British Museum, dated January 20, 1741, +says, 'Yesterday, in Atwater's Memorandums, I met with a composition +between the prior of St. Leonard's in Torksey and the nuns of the Fosse, +by which it appears there were then three parishes in Torksey: viz. All +Saints, St. Mary's, and St Peter's." (Vol. iv. page 292.) + +At what date this "composition" took place between the prior and nuns, +we are not told: of course, it must have been before the dissolution of +the religious houses. Leland's account of Torksey, which is as follows, +applies to a period immediately succeeding that event. + +"The olde buildinges of Torkesey wer on the south of the new toune, +[that is, at the junction of the Trent with the Fosse] but ther now is +litle seene of olde buildinges, more than a chapelle, wher men say was +the paroch chirch of olde Torkesey; and on Trent side the Yerth so +balkith up that it shewith that there be likelihod hath beene sum +waulle, and by it is a hill of yerth cast up: they caulle it the Wynde +Mille Hille, but I thinke the dungeon of sum olde castelle was there. By +olde Torkesey standith southely the ruines of Fosse Nunnery, hard by the +stone-bridge over Fosse Dik; and there Fosse Dike hath his entering ynto +Trente. There be 2 smaul paroche chirches in new Torkesey and the Priory +of S. Leonard standith on theste [the East] side of it. The ripe [bank] +that Torkesey standith on is sumwhat higher ground than is by the west +ripe of Trent. Trent there devidith, and a good deale upward, +Lincolnshire from Nottinghamshire." (Itinerary: Oxon, 1745: vol. i. page +33.) + + +II. + +THOROLD. + +The high character for generousness and hospitality assigned to this +most ancient of Lincolnshire families, by history and tradition, was my +only reason for giving its name to an imaginary lord of Torksey. +Ingulphus, the Croyland chronicler, in a passage full of grateful +eloquence,--(commencing, "Tunc inter familiares nostri monasterii, et +benevolos amicos, erat pręcipuus consiliarius quidam. Vicecomes +Lincolnię, dictus Thoroldus,"--but too long to quote entire,)--relates, +that in a dreadful famine, which occurred in the reign of Edward the +Confessor, Thorold, sheriff of Lincolnshire, gave his manor of Bokenhale +to the abbey of Croyland, and afterwards bestowed upon it his manor of +Spalding, with all its rents and profits. (Gale's Rer. Ang. Script. Vet. +Tom. i. page 65. Oxon, 1684.) + +Tanner thus briefly notices the latter circumstance: "Spalding. Thorold +de Bukenale, brother to the charitable countess Godiva, gave a place +here, A.D. 1052, for the habitation, and lands for the maintenance of a +prior and five monks from Croiland." (Notitia, page 251. fol. 1744.) The +generosity of the female Thorold, Godiva, is matter of notoriety in the +traditionary history of Coventry; and her name, and that of her husband, +are found in connection with the history of the very ancient town of +Stow, in Lincolnshire, as benefactors to its church. "Leofricus, comes +Mercię, et Godiva ejus uxor ecclesiam de S. Marie Stow, quam Eadnotus, +episcopus Lincolnię, construxit, pluribus ornamentis ditavit"--Leofric, +earl of Mercia, and Godiva his wife, enriched with many adornments the +church of St. Mary at Stow, which Eadnoth, bishop of Lincoln, built. +(Leland's Collectanea, vol. i. page 158. London, 1770.) + +In Kimber and Johnson's Baronetage (vol. i. page 470.) the Thorold of +the reign of Edward the Confessor is said to be descended from Thorold, +sheriff of Lincolnshire in the reign of Kenelph, king of Mercia. Betham, +in his "Baronetage of England" (Ipswich, 1801, vol. i. page 476) says +the pedigree of the Thorolds is a "very fine" one, and enumerates its +several branches of Marston, Blankney, Harmston, Morton, and Claythorp, +and of the "High Hall and Low Hall, in Hough, all within the said county +of Lincoln." Betham, and other writers of his class, enumerate Thorolds, +sheriffs of Lincolnshire, in the reigns of Philip and Mary, Elizabeth, +James I. and Charles I.; and Sir George Thorold of Harmston was sheriff +of London and Middlesex, in 1710,--and afterwards Lord Mayor. + +Sir John Thorold of Syston is now the chief representative of this Saxon +family; but report says that he delights to live abroad--rather than in +the midst of his tenantry and dependants, to gladden the hearts of the +poor, and receive happiness from diffusing it among others, after the +good example of his ancestors. + + +III. + +FOSSE NUNNERY. + +"The Nunnery of the Fosse was begun by the inhabitants of Torksey upon +some demesne lands belonging to the Crown, pretty early in King John's +time; but King Henry III. confirming it, is said to have been the +founder. The circumstance of the foundation by the men of Torksey is +mentioned in King Henry's charter. The Inspeximus of the 5th Edw. II., +which contains it, also contains a charter of King John, granting to the +nuns two marks of silver which they had been used to pay annually into +the Exchequer for the land at Torksey. In this charter King John calls +them the Nuns of Torkesey."--_Dugdale's Monasticon_, vol. iv. p. 292. + + +IV. + +SAINT LEONARD'S. + +Bishop Tanner, following Speed and Leland, says, "Torkesey. On the east +side of the new town stood a priory of Black Canons, built by K. John to +the honour of St. Leonard."--_Notitia_, p. 278. This priory was granted +to Sir Philip Hobby, after the Dissolution: the Fosse Nunnery to Edward +Lord Clinton. + + +V. + +THORNEY WOOD. + +In the neighbourhood of Torksey, and, traditionally, part of an +extensive forest, in past times. A branch of the Nevils, claiming +descent from the great earls of Warwick and Montagu, reside at Thorney. + + +VI. + +GRUNSEL. + +This old word for _threshold_ is still common in Lincolnshire; and with +Milton's meaning so plainly before his understanding (_Paradise Lost_, +book i. line 460.), it is strange that Dr. Johnson should have given +"the lower part of the building" as an explanation for _grunsel_. Lemon, +in his "Etymology," spells the word "ground-sill," and then derives the +last syllable from "soil." Nothing can be more stupid. Door-sill is as +common as grunsel, for threshold, in Staffordshire, as well as +Lincolnshire; and, in both counties, "window-sill" is frequent. I +remember, too, in my boyhood, having heard the part of the plough to +which the share is fitted--the frame of the harrows--and the frame of a +grindstone, each called "sill" by the farmers of Lindsey. + + +VII. + +ROMARA. + +In this instance I have also used a name associated with the ancient +history of Lincolnshire as an imaginary Norman lord of Torksey. "William +de Romara, lord of Bolingbroke, in Lincolnshire, was the first earl of +that county after the Conquest. He was the son of Roger, son of Gerold +de Romara; which Roger married Lucia, daughter of Algar, earl of +Chester, and sister and heir to Morcar, the Saxon earl of Northumberland +and Lincoln. In 1142 he founded the Abbey of Revesby, in com. Linc., +bearing then the title of Earl of Lincoln."--BANKES' _Extinct and +Dormant Peerage_. + + +VIII. + +THE TRENT. + + "Or Trent, who like some earth-born giant spreads + His thirty arms along the indented meads." + + MILTON. + + +IX. + +THE HEYGRE. + +The tide, at the equinoxes especially, presents a magnificent spectacle +on the Trent. It comes up even to Gainsborough, which is seventy miles +from the sea, in one overwhelming wave, spreading across the wide +river-channel, and frequently putting the sailors into some alarm for +the safety of their vessels, which are dashed to and fro, while "all +hands" are engaged in holding the cables and slackening them, so as to +relieve the ships. + +To be in a boat, under the guardianship of a sailor, and to hear the +shouts on every hand of "'Ware Heygre!"--as the grand wave is beheld +coming on,--and then to be tossed up and down in the boat, as the wave +is met,--form no slight excitements for a boy living by the side of +Trent. + +I find no key to the derivation of the word Heygre in the Etymologists. +The Keltic verb, Éigh, signifying, to cry, shout, sound, proclaim; or +the noun Eigin, signifying difficulty, distress, force, violence--may, +perhaps, be the root from whence came this name for the tide--so +dissimilar to any other English word of kindred meaning. It is scarcely +probable that the word by which the earliest inhabitants of Britain +would express their surprise at this striking phenomenon should ever be +lost, or changed for another. + + +X. + +THE PORPOISE. + +The appearance of a porpoise, at the season when his favourite prey, the +salmon, comes up the river to spawn, is another high excitement to +dwellers on the Trent. I remember well the almost appalling interest +with which, in childhood, I beheld some huge specimen of this marine +visitor, drawn up by crane on a wharf, after an enthusiastic contest for +his capture by the eager sailors. + + +XI. + +AGNES PLANTAGENET. + +The very interesting relic of the Old Hall at Gainsborough is +associated, in the mind of one who spent more than half his existence in +the old town, with much that is chivalrous. Mowbrays, Percys, De Burghs, +and other high names of the feudal era are in the list of its +possessors, as lords of the manor. None, however, of its former tenants +calls up such stirring associations as 'Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured +Lancaster,' who, with his earldom of Lincoln, held this castle and +enlarged and beautified it. Tradition confidently affirms that his +daughter was starved to death by him, in one of the rooms of the old +tower,--in consequence of her perverse attachment to her father's +foe,--the knight of Torksey. Often have I heard the recital, from some +aged gossip, by the fireside on a winter's night; and the rehearsal was +invariably delivered with so much of solemn and serious averment--that +the lady was still seen,--that she would point out treasure, to any one +who had the courage to speak to her,--and that some families _had been_ +enriched by her ghostly means, though they had kept the secret,--as to +awaken within me no little dread of leaving the fireside for bed in the +dark! + +With indescribable feeling I wandered along the carven galleries and +ruined rooms, or crept up the antique massive staircases, of this +crumbling mansion of departed state, in my boyhood,--deriving from these +stolen visits to its interior, mingled with my admiring gaze at its +battlemented turret, and rich octagonal window, (which tradition said +had lighted the chapel erected by John of Gaunt,) a passion for +chivalry and romance, that not even my Chartism can quench. Once, and +once only, I remember creeping, under the guidance of an elder boy, up +to the 'dark room' in the turret; but the fear that we should really see +the ghostly Lady caused us to run down the staircase, with beating +hearts, as soon as we had reached the door and had had one momentary +peep! + +Other traditions of high interest are connected with this ancient +mansion. One, says that Sweyn the Danish invader, (the remains of whose +camp exist at the distance of a mile from the town,) was killed at a +banquet, by his drunken nobles, in the field adjoining its precincts. +Another, avers that in the Saxon building believed to have stood on the +same spot, as the residence of the earls of Mercia, the glorious +Alfred's wedding-feast was held. Speed gives some little aid to the +imagination in its credent regard for the story: "Elswith, the wife of +king Ęlfred, was the daughter of Ethelfred, surnamed Muchel, that is, +the Great, an Earle of the Mercians, who inhabited about Gainesborough, +in Lincolnshire: her mother was Edburg, a lady borne of the Bloud roiall +of Mercia." (Historie of Great Britaine, 1632: page 333.) + + +XII. + +ROCHE. + +A visit to the beautiful ruins of Roche Abbey, near ancient Tickhill, +and to the scenery amidst which they lie, created a youthful desire to +depict them in verse. This doggrel ditty (I forestall the critics!) of +the Miller of Roche is all, however, that I preserved of the imperfect +piece. The ditty is a homely versification of a homely tale which was +often told by the fireside in Lincolnshire. I never saw anything +resembling it in print, until Mr. Dickens (whose kind attention I cannot +help acknowledging) pointed out to me a similar story in the Decameron. + +Roche Abbey, according to the "Monasticon Anglicanum," was founded by +Richard de Builli and Richard Fitz-Turgis, in 1147. "The architecture +bespeaks the time of Edward II. or III." (Edit. 1825: vol. v. p. 502.) + + +XIII. + +SCROGG AND CARR. + +Johnson says, "Scrog. A stunted shrub, bush, or branch; yet used in some +parts of the north." In Lincolnshire, however, the word is used to +designate wild ground on which "stunted shrub, bush, or branch" grows, +and _not_ as a synonyme with shrub or bush. + +_Carr_ I have looked for in vain among the etymologists. Johnson merely +quotes Gibson's Camden to show that, in the names of places, _Car_ +"seems to have relation to the British _caer_, a city;" and Junius, +Skinner, Lemon, Horne Tooke, Jamieson, &c. are silent about it. The word +is applied, in Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire, to the low lands, or +wide marsh pastures that border the Trent; and I feel little doubt that, +like the word _heygre_, and many others that might be collected, it has +been in use ever since it was given to these localities, by the primeval +tribes, the Kelts, when they first saw these beautiful tracts, so much +subject to inundation, like the flat borders of their own rivers in the +East. =HEBREW= (car) a pasture, is found in Isaiah, xxx. 23. Psalm +lxv. 14, &c., and although =HEBREW= (kicar) is simply translated +"plain" in the established version, and Gesenius would, still more +vaguely, render it "circuit, surrounding country," (from =HEBREW=, in +Arabic, _to be round_,) yet I suspect the words come from the same root, +and have the same meaning. Thus, Genesis xiii. 10. =HEBREW= might +literally be rendered "And Lot raised his eyes, and saw all the carr of +the Jordan, that it was well watered everywhere, before Jehovah +destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, like the garden of Jehovah; like the land +of Mitzraim, as thou approachest Zoar." How natural, that the Keltic or +Kymric tribes should behold, in the Trent pastures, the resemblance of +the plains on the banks of the Jordan, the Nile, the Tigris, and +Euphrates--(for the term =HEBREW= _garden of Jehovah_ most probably +denotes Mesopotamia, in the very ancient fragments collected by Moses to +form the book of Genesis)--and should denote them by the same name! + +=ARABIC=, khaw[=a]r, also signifies "low or sloping ground," in +Richardson's Arabic and Persian Dictionary; and "Carr, a bog, a fen, or +morass," occurs in Armstrong's Gaelic Dictionary. The word I conceive is +thus clearly traced to its Keltic or Eastern origin. + + +XIV. + +CROWD. + +Sir John Hawkins, in his highly curious "History of Music" (vol. ii. +page 274) says "The _Cruth_ or _Crowth_" was an instrument "formerly in +common use in the principality of Wales," and is the "prototype of the +whole fidicinal species of musical instruments." "It has six strings, +supported by a bridge, and is played on by a bow." "The word _Cruth_ is +pronounced in English _Crowth_, and corruptly _Crowd_." "LŽuš +is the Saxon appellation given by Leland, for the instrument +(Collectanea: vol. v.)" "A player on the _cruth_ was called a Crowther +or Crowder, and so also is a common fiddler to this day; and hence, +undoubtedly, Crowther, or Crowder, a common surname. Butler, with his +usual humour, has characterised a common fiddler, and given him the name +of Crowdero." + + "I'th' head of all this warlike rabble + Crowdero marched, expert and able." + + +XV. + +REBECK. + +Rebeck is a word well known from Milton's exquisite "L'Allegro." Sir +John Hawkins (vol. ii. page 86) traces it to the Moorish _Rebeb_; and +believes he finds this old three-stringed fiddle in the hands of +Chaucer's Absolon, the parish-clerk, who could "plaie songs on a smale +ribible." + + +XV. + +ST. GUTHLACKE. + +The patron saint of the ancient Abbey of Croyland. + + +XVI. + +THE SWINEHERD OF STOW. + +St. Remigius, the Norman bishop, is placed on the pinnacle of one +buttress that terminates the splendid faēade, or west front of Lincoln +Cathedral, and the Swineherd of Stow, with his horn in his hand, on the +other. The tradition is in the mouth of every Lincolner, that this +effigied honour was conferred on the generous rudester because he gave +his horn filled with silver pennies towards the rebuilding or +beautifying of the Minster. + + +XVII. + + "Nor bate a jot of heart or hope." + + _Milton's Sonnet on his blindness._ + + +THE END. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + + Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. + + The original text includes Hebrew and Arabic characters. For this text + version these characters have been replaced with =HEBREW= and =ARABIC=. + + The original text includes one letter printed with a macron; this is + indicated by [=a]. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas +Rhyme, by Thomas Cooper + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARON'S YULE FEAST *** + +***** This file should be named 29722-8.txt or 29722-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/7/2/29722/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Stephanie Eason, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas Rhyme + +Author: Thomas Cooper + +Release Date: August 18, 2009 [EBook #29722] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARON'S YULE FEAST *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Stephanie Eason, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1>The<br /> +Baron's Yule Feast.</h1> +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> + +<h4><span class="smcap">London:</span><br /> +Printed by <span class="smcap">A. Spottiswoode</span>,<br /> +New-Street-Square.</h4> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Title Page" /></div> +<div class="page"><a href="#titlepage">Text of Title Page</a></div> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>TO</h3> +<h2>THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Countess"> +<tr><td> +Lady, receive a tributary lay<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From one who cringeth not to titled state</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Conventional, and lacketh will to prate</span><br /> +Of comeliness—though thine, to which did pay<br /> +The haughty Childe his tuneful homage, may<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No minstrel deem a harp-theme derogate.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I reckon thee among the truly great</span><br /> +And fair, because with genius thou dost sway<br /> +The thought of thousands, while thy noble heart<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With pity glows for Suffering, and with zeal</span><br /> +Cordial relief and solace to impart.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou didst, while I rehearsed Toil's wrongs, reveal</span><br /> +Such yearnings! Plead! let England hear thee plead<br /> +With eloquent tongue,—that Toil from wrong be freed!</td></tr></table> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>ADVERTISEMENT.</h2> + +<p>Several pieces in the following Rhyme were written many years ago, and +will be recognised by my early friends. They were the fruit of +impressions derived from the local associations of boyhood, (of which, +the reader, if inclined, may learn more in the notes,) and of an +admiration created by the exquisite beauty and simplicity of Coleridge's +'Christabel,'—which I had by heart, and used to repeat to Thomas +Miller, my playmate and companion from infancy, during many a delightful +'Day in the Woods,' and pleasing ramble on the hills and in the woods +above Gainsborough, and along the banks of Trent.</p> + +<p>I offer but one apology for the production of a metrical essay, composed +chiefly of imperfect and immature pieces:—the ambition to contribute +towards the fund of Christmas entertainment, in which agreeable labour I +see many popular names engaged,—and among them, one, the most +deservedly popular in the literature of the day. The favour with which +an influential portion of the press has received my 'Prison Rhyme' +emboldens me to take this step; and if the flagellation of criticism be +not too keenly dealt upon me for the imperfections in the few pages that +follow, I will be content, in this instance, to expect no praise.</p> + +<p>134, <i>Blackfriars Road</i>,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Dec. 20. 1845</i>.</span></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<h3>THE</h3> +<h2>BARON'S YULE FEAST.</h2> + +<h3>A</h3> +<h2>Christmas Rhyme.</h2> +<p> </p> + +<h2><span class="smcap">Canto</span> I.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +Right beautiful is Torksey's hall,<small><a name="f1.1" id="f1.1" href="#f1">[1]</a></small><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adown by meadowed Trent;</span><br /> +Right beautiful that mouldering wall,<br /> +And remnant of a turret tall,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shorn of its battlement.</span><br /> +<br /> +For, while the children of the Spring<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blush into life, and die;</span><br /> +And Summer's joy-birds take light wing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Autumn mists are nigh;</span><br /> +And soon the year—a winterling—<br /> +With its fall'n leaves doth lie;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">That ruin gray—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Mirror'd, alway,</span><br /> +Deep in the silver stream,<br /> +Doth summon weird-wrought visions vast,<br /> +That show the actors of the past<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pictured, as in a dream.</span><br /> +<br /> +Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes,<br /> +The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till the full pageant bright—</span><br /> +A throng of warrior-barons bold,<br /> +Glittering in burnished steel and gold,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bursts on my glowing sight.</span><br /> +<br /> +And, mingles with the martial train,<br /> +Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On palfrey and jennet—</span><br /> +That proudly toss the tasselled rein,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And daintily curvet;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And war-steeds prance,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And rich plumes glance</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On helm and burgonet;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">And lances crash,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And falchions flash</span><br /> +Of knights in tourney met.<br /> +<br /> +Fast fades the joust!—and fierce forms frown<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That man the leaguered tower,—</span><br /> +Nor quail to scan the kingly crown<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That leads the leaguering power.</span><br /> +<br /> +Trumpet and "rescue" ring!—and, soon,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He who began the strife</span><br /> +Is fain to crave one paltry boon:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The thrall-king begs his life!</span><br /> +<br /> +Our fathers and their throbbing toil<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are hushed in pulseless death;</span><br /> +Hushed is the dire and deadly broil—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tempest of their wrath;—</span><br /> +Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is thine, O sateless Grave!</span><br /> +Songs of their brother-hours shall foil<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thy triumph o'er the brave!</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span><br /> +Their bravery take, and darkly hide<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deep in thy inmost hold!</span><br /> +Take all their mailëd pomp and pride<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To deck thy mansions cold!</span><br /> +Plunderer! thou hast but purified<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their memories from alloy:</span><br /> +Faults of the dead we scorn to chide—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their virtues sing with joy.</span><br /> +<br /> +Lord of our fathers' ashes! list<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A carol of their mirth;</span><br /> +Nor shake thy nieve, chill moralist!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To check their sons' joy-birth:—</span><br /> +<br /> +It is the season when our sires<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kept jocund holiday;</span><br /> +And, now, around our charier fires,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Yule shall have a lay:—</span><br /> +A prison-bard is once more free;<br /> +And, ere he yields his voice to thee,<br /> +His song a merry-song shall be!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span><br /> +Sir Wilfrid de Thorold<small><a name="f2.1" id="f2.1" href="#f2">[2]</a></small> freely holds<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What his stout sires held before—</span><br /> +Broad lands for plough, and fruitful folds,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though by gold he sets no store;</span><br /> +And he saith, from fen and woodland wolds,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From marish, heath, and moor,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">To feast in his hall,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Both free and thrall,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall come as they came of yore.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Let the merry bells ring out!" saith he<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To my lady of the Fosse;<small><a name="f3.1" id="f3.1" href="#f3">[3]</a></small></span><br /> +"We will keep the birth-eve joyfully<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of our Lord who bore the cross!"</span><br /> +<br /> +"Let the merry bells ring loud!" he saith<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To saint Leonard's shaven prior;<small><a name="f4.1" id="f4.1" href="#f4">[4]</a></small></span><br /> +"Bid thy losel monks that patter of faith<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shew works, and never tire."</span><br /> +Saith the lord of saint Leonard's: "The brotherhood<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Will ring and never tire</span><br /> +For a beck or a nod of the Baron good;"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Saith Sir Wilfrid: "They will—for hire!"</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span><br /> +Then, turning to his daughter fair,<br /> +Who leaned on her father's carven chair,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">He said,—and smiled</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On his peerless child,—</span><br /> +His jewel whose price no clerk could tell,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Though the clerk had told</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Sea sands for gold;—</span><br /> +For her dear mother's sake he loved her well,—<br /> +But more for the balm her tenderness<br /> +Had poured on his widowed heart's distress;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">More, still more, for her own heart's grace</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That so lovelily shone in her lovely face,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And drew all eyes its love to trace—</span><br /> +Left all tongues languageless!—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">He said,—and smiled</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On his peerless child,</span><br /> +"Sweet bird! bid Hugh our seneschal<br /> +Send to saint Leonard's, ere even-fall,<br /> +A fat fed beeve, and a two-shear sheep,<br /> +With a firkin of ale that a monk in his sleep<br /> +May hear to hum, when it feels the broach,<br /> +And wake up and swig, without reproach!—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>And the nuns of the Fosse—for wassail-bread—<br /> +Let them have wheat, both white and red;<br /> +And a runlet of mead, with a jug of the wine<br /> +Which the merchant-man vowed he brought from the Rhine;<br /> +And bid Hugh say that their bells must ring<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A peal loud and long,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While we chaunt heart-song,</span><br /> +For the birth of our heavenly king!"<br /> +<br /> +Now merrily ring the lady-bells<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the nunnery by the Fosse:—</span><br /> +Say the hinds, "Their silver music swells<br /> +Like the blessed angels' syllables,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At his birth who bore the cross!"</span><br /> +<br /> +And solemnly swells saint Leonard's chime<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the great bell loud and deep:—</span><br /> +Say the gossips, "Let's talk of the holy time<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the shepherds watched their sheep;</span><br /> +And the Babe was born for all souls' crime<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the weakness of flesh to weep."—</span><br /> +But, anon, shrills the pipe of the merry mime,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And their simple hearts upleap.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span><br /> +"God save your souls, good Christian folk!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">God save your souls from sin!—</span><br /> +Blythe Yule is come—let us blythely joke!"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cry the mummers, ere they begin.</span><br /> +<br /> +Then, plough-boy Jack, in kirtle gay,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though shod with clouted shoon,—</span><br /> +Stands forth the wilful maid to play<br /> +Who ever saith to her lover "Nay"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When he sues for a lover's boon.</span><br /> +<br /> +While Hob the smith with sturdy arm<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Circleth the feignëd maid;</span><br /> +And, spite of Jack's assumed alarm,<br /> +Busseth his lips, like a lover warm,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And will not "Nay" be said.</span><br /> +<br /> +Then loffe the gossips, as if wit<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were mingled with the joke:—</span><br /> +Gentles,—they were with folly smit,—<br /> +Natheless, their memories acquit<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of crime—these simple folk!</span><br /> +<br /> +No harmful thoughts their revels blight,—<br /> +Devoid of bitter hate and spite,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">They hold their merriment;—</span><br /> +And, till the chimes tell noon at night,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their joy shall be unspent!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Come haste ye to bold Thorold's hall,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And crowd his kitchen wide;</span><br /> +For there, he saith, both free and thrall<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall sport this good Yule-tide!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Come hasten, gossips!" the mummers cry,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Throughout old Torksey town;</span><br /> +"We'll hasten!" they answer, joyfully,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The gossip and the clown.</span><br /> +<br /> +Heigho! whence cometh that cheery shout?<br /> +'Tis the Yule-log troop,—a merry rout!<br /> +The gray old ash that so bravely stood,<br /> +The pride of the Past, in Thorney wood,<small><a name="f5.1" id="f5.1" href="#f5">[5]</a></small><br /> +They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule;<br /> +And kirtled Jack is placed astride:<br /> +On the log to the grunsel<small><a name="f6.1" id="f6.1" href="#f6">[6]</a></small> he shall ride!<br /> +<br /> +"Losels, yoke all! yoke to, and pull!"<br /> +Cries Dick the wright, on long-eared steed;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">"He shall have thwack</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On lazy back,</span><br /> +That yoketh him not, in time of need!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">A long wain-whip</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Dick doth equip,</span><br /> +And with beans in the bladder at end of thong,<br /> +It seemeth to threaten strokes sturdy and strong;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Yet clown and maid</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Give eager aid,—</span><br /> +And all, as they rattle the huge block along,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Seem to court the joke</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of Dick's wain-whip stroke,—</span><br /> +Be it ever so smart, none thinks he hath wrong;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Till with mirthsome glee,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The old ash tree</span><br /> +Hath come to the threshold of Torksey hall,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where its brave old heart</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">A glow shall impart</span><br /> +To the heart of each guest at the festival.<br /> +<br /> +And through the porch, a jocund crowd,<br /> +They rush, with heart-born laughter loud;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>And still the merry mimesters call,<br /> +With jest and gibe, "Laugh, losels all!"<br /> +<br /> +Then in the laden sewers troop,<br /> +With plattered beef and foaming stoup:—<br /> +"Make merry, neighbours!" cries good Hugh,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The white-haired seneschal:</span><br /> +"Ye trow, bold Thorold welcomes you—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Make merry, my masters, all!"</span><br /> +<br /> +They pile the Yule-log on the hearth,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soak toasted crabs in ale;</span><br /> +And while they sip, their homely mirth<br /> +Is joyous as if all the earth<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For man were void of bale!</span><br /> +<br /> +And why should fears for future years<br /> +Mix jolly ale with thoughts of tears<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When in the horn 'tis poured?</span><br /> +And why should ghost of sorrow fright<br /> +The bold heart of an English wight<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When beef is on the board?</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span><br /> +De Thorold's guests are wiser than<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The men of mopish lore;</span><br /> +For round they push the smiling can,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And slice the plattered store.</span><br /> +<br /> +And round they thrust the ponderous cheese,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the loaves of wheat and rye:</span><br /> +None stinteth him for lack of ease—<br /> +For each a stintless welcome sees,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Baron's blythesome eye.</span><br /> +<br /> +The Baron joineth the joyous feast—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But not in pomp or pride;</span><br /> +He smileth on the humblest guest<br /> +So gladsomely—all feel that rest<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of heart which doth abide</span><br /> +Where deeds of generousness attest<br /> +The welcome by the tongue professed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is not within belied.</span><br /> +<br /> +And the Baron's beauteous child is there,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In her maiden peerlessness,—</span><br /> +Her eyes diffusing heart-light rare,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>And smiles so sweetly debonair,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That all her presence bless.—</span><br /> +<br /> +But wherefore paleth, soon, her cheek?<br /> +And why, with trembling, doth she seek<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To shun her father's gaze?</span><br /> +And who is he for whom the crowd<br /> +Make ready room, and "Welcome" loud<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With gleeful voices raise?</span><br /> +<br /> +"Right welcome!" though the revellers shout,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They hail the minstrel "Stranger!"</span><br /> +And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his daughter's look thrills "danger!"</span><br /> +<br /> +Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his speech is firm and free;</span><br /> +He saith he will carol a legend old,<br /> +Of a Norman lord of Torksey told:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He learnt it o'er the sea;</span><br /> +And he will not sing for the Baron's gold,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But for love of minstrelsy.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Come, tune thy harp!" the Baron saith,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And tell thy minstrel tale:</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>It is too late to harbour wrath<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the thieves in helm and mail:</span><br /> +<br /> +"Our fathers' home again is ours!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though Thorold is Saxon still,</span><br /> +To a song of thy foreign troubadours<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He can list with right good will!"</span><br /> +<br /> +A shout of glee rings to the roof,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the revellers form a ring;</span><br /> +Then silent wait to mark what proof<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of skill with voice and string</span><br /> +The youthful stranger will afford.<br /> +<br /> +Full soon he tunes each quivering chord,<br /> +And, with preamble wildly sweet<br /> +He doth the wondering listeners greet;—<br /> +Then strikes into a changeful chaunt<br /> +That fits his fanciful romaunt.</div> +<p> </p><p> </p> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p> +<h3>The Daughter of Plantagenet.</h3> + +<h4>THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S TALE.</h4> +<p> </p> +<h4>FYTTE THE FYRSTE.</h4> + +<div class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Tis midnight, and the broad full moon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pours on the earth her silver noon;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sheeted in white, like spectres of fear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their ghostly forms the towers uprear;</span><br /> +And their long dark shadows behind them are cast,<br /> +Like the frown of the cloud when the lightning hath past.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The warder sleeps on the battlement,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there is not a breeze to curl the Trent;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The leaf is at rest, and the owl is mute—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But list! awaked is the woodland lute:</span><br /> +The nightingale warbles her omen sweet<br /> +On the hour when the ladye her lover shall meet.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She waves her hand from the loophole high,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And watcheth, with many a struggling sigh,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hearkeneth in doubt, and paleth with fear,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet tremblingly trusts her true knight is near;—</span><br /> +And there skims o'er the river—or doth her heart doat?—<br /> +As with wing of the night-hawk—her lover's brave boat.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His noble form hath attained the strand,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And she waves again her small white hand;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And breathing to heaven, in haste, a prayer,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Softly glides down the lonely stair;</span><br /> +And there stands by the portal, all watchful and still,<br /> +Her own faithful damsel awaiting her will.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The midnight lamp gleams dull and pale,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The maidens twain are weak and frail,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Love doth aid his votaries true,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While they the massive bolts undo,—</span><br /> +And a moment hath flown, and the warrior knight<br /> +Embraceth his love in the meek moonlight.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span><br /> +The knight his love-prayer, tenderly,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus breathed in his fair one's ear</span><br /> +"Oh! wilt thou not, my Agnes, flee?—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, quelling thy maiden fear,</span><br /> +Away in the fleeting skiff with me,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, for aye, this lone heart cheer?"</span><br /> +<br /> +"O let not bold Romara<small><a name="f7.1" id="f7.1" href="#f7">[7]</a></small> seek"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soft answered his ladye-love,—</span><br /> +"A father's doating heart to break,<br /> +For should I disdainful prove<br /> +Of his high behests, his darling child<br /> +Will thenceforth be counted a thing defiled;<br /> +And the kindling eye of my martial sire<br /> +Be robbed of its pride, and be quenched its fire:<br /> +Nor long would true Romara deem<br /> +The heart of his Agnes beat for him,<br /> +And for him alone—if that heart, he knew,<br /> +To its holiest law could be thus untrue."<br /> +<br /> +His plume-crowned helm the warrior bows<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Low o'er her shoulder fair,</span><br /> +And bursting sighs the grief disclose<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His lips can not declare;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>And swiftly glide the tears of love<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adown the ladye's cheek;—</span><br /> +Their deep commingling sorrows prove<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The love they cannot speak!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The moon shines on them, as on things</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">She loves to robe with gladness,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But all her light no radiance brings</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Unto their hearts' dark sadness:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forlornly, 'neath her cheerless ray,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bosom to bosom beating,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In speechless agony they stay,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With burning kisses greeting;—</span><br /> +Nor reck they with what speed doth haste<br /> +The present hour to join the past.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ho! lady Agnes, lady dear!"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Her fearful damsel cries;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"You reckon not, I deeply fear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How swift the moontide flies!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The surly warder will awake,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The morning dawn, anon,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My heart beginneth sore to quake,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I fear we are undone!"</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span><br /> +But Love is mightier than Fear:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ladye hasteth not:</span><br /> +The magnet of her heart is near,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And peril is forgot!</span><br /> +<br /> +She clingeth to her knight's brave breast<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like a lorn turtle-dove,</span><br /> +And 'mid the peril feeleth rest,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The full, rapt rest of Love!</span><br /> +<br /> +"I charge thee, hie thee hence, sir knight!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The damsel shrilly cries;</span><br /> +"If this should meet her father's sight,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By Heaven! my lady dies."</span><br /> +<br /> +The warrior rouseth all his pride,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And looseth his love's caress,—</span><br /> +Yet slowness of heart doth his strength betide<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As he looks on her loveliness:—</span><br /> +But again the damsel their love-dream breaks,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, self-reproachingly,</span><br /> +The knight his resolve of its fetters shakes,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his spirit now standeth free.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, came the last, absorbing kiss,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">True Love can ne'er forego,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That dreamy plenitude of bliss</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or antepast of woe,—</span><br /> +That seeming child of Heaven, which at its birth<br /> +Briefly expires, and proves itself of earth.<br /> +<br /> +The ladye hieth to her couch;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when the morn appears,</span><br /> +The changes of her cheek avouch,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full virginly her fears;—</span><br /> +But her doating father can nought discern<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the hues of the rose and the lily that chase</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Each other across her lovely face,—</span><br /> +Save a sweetness that softens his visage stern.</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h4>FYTTE THE SECONDE.</h4> + +<div class="poem"> +Romara's skiff is on the Trent,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the stream is in its strength,—</span><br /> +For a surge, from its ocean-fountain sent,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pervades its giant length:<small><a name="f8.1" id="f8.1" href="#f8">[8]</a></small></span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>Roars the hoarse heygre<small><a name="f9.1" id="f9.1" href="#f9">[9]</a></small> in its course,<br /> +Lashing the banks with its wrathful force;<br /> +And dolefully echoes the wild-fowl's scream,<br /> +As the sallows are swept by the whelming stream;<br /> +And her callow young are hurled for a meal,<br /> +To the gorge of the barbel, the pike, and the eel:<br /> +The porpoise<small><a name="f10.1" id="f10.1" href="#f10">[10]</a></small> heaves 'mid the rolling tide,<br /> +And, snorting in mirth, doth merrily ride,—<br /> +For he hath forsaken his bed in the sea,<br /> +To sup on the salmon, right daintily!<br /> +<br /> +In Romara's breast a tempest raves:<br /> +He heeds not the rage of the furrowy waves:<br /> +Supremely his hopes and fears are set<br /> +On the image of Agnes Plantagenet:<small><a name="f11.1" id="f11.1" href="#f11">[11]</a></small><br /> +And though from his vision fade Gainsburgh's towers,<br /> +And the moon is beclouded, and darkness lours,<br /> +Yet the eye of his passion oft pierceth the gloom,<br /> +And beholds his Beloved in her virgin bloom—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kneeling before the holy Rood,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">All clasped her hands,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beseeching the saints and angels good</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">That their watchful bands</span><br /> +Her knight may preserve from a watery tomb!<br /> +<br /> +What deathful scream rends Romara's heart?—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is it the bittern that, flapping the air,</span><br /> +Doth shriek in madness, and downward dart,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As if from the bosom of Death she would tear</span><br /> +Her perished brood,—or a shroud would have<br /> +By their side, in the depths of their river-grave?<br /> +<br /> +Hark! hark! again!—'tis a human cry,<br /> +Like the shriek of a man about to die!<br /> +And its desolateness doth fearfully pierce<br /> +The billowy boom of the torrent fierce;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And, swift as a thought</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Glides the warrior's boat</span><br /> +Through the foaming surge to the river's bank,<br /> +Where, lo!—by a branch of the osiers dank,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Clingeth one in agony</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Uttering that doleful cry!</span><br /> +<br /> +His silvery head of age upborne<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Appeared above the wave;</span><br /> +So nearly was his strength outworn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That all too late to save</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>Had been the knight, if another billow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its force on his fainting frame, had bent,—</span><br /> +Nay, his feeble grasp by the drooping willow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The beat of a pulse might have fatally spent.</span><br /> +<br /> +With eager pounce did Romara take<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the yawning wave its prey,—</span><br /> +But nought to his deliverer spake<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The man with the head of gray:</span><br /> +And the warrior stripped, with needful haste,<br /> +The helpless one of his drenchëd vest,<br /> +And wrapt his own warm mantle round<br /> +The chill one in his deathly swound.<br /> +<br /> +The sea-born strength of the stream is spent,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Romara's boat outstrips its speed,—</span><br /> +For his stalwart arm to the oar is bent,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And swiftly the ebbing waves recede.</span><br /> +<br /> +Divinely streaketh the morning-star<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With a wavy light the rippling waters;</span><br /> +And the moon looks on from the west, afar,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And palely smiles, with her waning daughters,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>The thin-strown stars, which their vigil keep<br /> +Till the orient sun shall awake from sleep.<br /> +<br /> +The sun hath awoke; and in garments of gold<br /> +The turrets of Torksey are livingly rolled;<br /> +Afar, on Trent's margin, the flowery lea<br /> +Exhales her dewy fragrancy;<br /> +And gaily carols the matin lark,<br /> +As the warrior hastes to moor his bark.<br /> +<br /> +Two menials hastened to the beach,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For signal none need they;</span><br /> +On the towers they kept a heedful watch<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the skiff glode on its way:</span><br /> +<br /> +With silent step and breathless care<br /> +The rescued one they softly bear,<br /> +And bring him, at their lord's behest,<br /> +To a couch of silken pillowed rest.<br /> +<br /> +The serfs could scarce avert their eye<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From his manly form and mien,</span><br /> +As, with closëd lids, all reverendly,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He lay in peace, serene.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span><br /> +And Romara thought, as he gazing leant<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'er the slumberer's form, that so pure a trace</span><br /> +Of the spirit of Heaven with the earthly blent<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dwelt only there, and in Agnes' face.</span><br /> +<br /> +The leech comes forth at the hour of noon,<br /> +And saith, that the sick from his deathly swoon<br /> +Will awake anon; and Romara's eye,<br /> +Uplit, betokens his heartfelt joy;<br /> +And again o'er the slumberer's couch he bows<br /> +Till, slowly, those peaceful lids unclose,—<br /> +When, long, with heavenward-fixëd gaze,<br /> +With lowly prayer and grateful praise,<br /> +The aged man, from death reprieved,<br /> +His bosom of its joy relieved.—<br /> +<br /> +Then did Romara thus address<br /> +His gray guest, in his reverendness:<br /> +<br /> +"Now, man of prayer come tell to me<br /> +Some spell of thy holy mystery!<br /> +Some vision hast had of the Virgin bright,—<br /> +Or message, conveyed from the world of light,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>By the angels of love who in purity stand<br /> +'Fore the throne of our Lord in the heavenly land?<br /> +<br /> +"I hope, when I die, to see them there:<br /> +For I love the angels so holy and fair:<br /> +And often, I trust, my prayer they greet<br /> +With smiles, when I kneel and kiss their feet<br /> +In the missal, my mother her weeping child gave,<br /> +But a day or two ere she was laid in the grave.<br /> +<br /> +"Sage man of prayer, come tell to me<br /> +What holy shapes in sleep they see<br /> +Who love the blest saints and serve them well!<br /> +I pray thee, sage man, to Romara tell,<br /> +For a guerdon, thy dreams,—sith, to me thou hast said<br /> +No thanks that I rescued thy soul from the dead."<br /> +<br /> +But, when the aged man arose<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And met Romara's wistful eye,—</span><br /> +What accents shall the change disclose<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That marked his visage, fearfully?—</span><br /> +From joy to grief and deepest dole,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From radiant hope to dark presage</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>Of future ills beyond control—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hath passed, the visage of the sage.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Son of an honoured line, I grieve,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Outspake the reverend seer,</span><br /> +"That I no guerdon thee can give<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But words of woe and fear!—</span><br /> +Thy sun is setting!—and thy race,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In thee, their goodly heir,</span><br /> +Shall perish, nor a feeble trace<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their fated name declare!—</span><br /> +Thy love is fatal: fatal, too,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This act of rescue brave—</span><br /> +For, him who from destruction drew<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My life, no arm can save!"</span><br /> +<br /> +He said,—and took his lonely way<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Far from Romara's towers.—</span><br /> +His fateful end from that sad day<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'er Torksey's chieftain lowers:—</span><br /> +Yet, vainly, in his heart a shrine<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hope builds for love,—with faith;—</span><br /> +Alas! for him with frown malign<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waiteth the grim king Death!</span></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> +<h3>FYTTE THE THYRDE.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"> +Plantagenet hath dungeons deep<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beneath his castled halls;—</span><br /> +Plantagenet awakes from sleep<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To count his dungeoned thralls.</span><br /> +<br /> +Alone, with the torch of blood-red flame,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The man of blood descends;</span><br /> +And the fettered captives curse his name,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As through the vaults he wends.—</span><br /> +<br /> +His caverns are visited, all, save one,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The deepest, and direst in gloom,—</span><br /> +Where his father, doomed by a demon son,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Abode in a living tomb.—</span><br /> +<br /> +"I bring thee bread and water, sire!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Brave usury for thy gold!</span><br /> +I fear my filial zeal will tire<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To visit, soon, thy hold!"</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span><br /> +Thus spake the fiendish-hearted lord,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wildly laughed, in scorn:</span><br /> +Like thunder round the cell each word<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By echoing fiends is borne,—</span><br /> +But not a human heart is there<br /> +The baron's scorn or hate to fear!<br /> +<br /> +And the captives tell, as he passeth again,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That tyrant, in his rage,—</span><br /> +How an angel hath led the aged man<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To his heavenly heritage!</span><br /> +<br /> +The wrathful baron little recked<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That angel was his darling child;</span><br /> +Or knew his dark ambition checked<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By her who oft his rage beguiled,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By her on whom he ever smiled:—</span><br /> +This had he known, from that dread hour,<br /> +His darling's smile had lost its power,—<br /> +And his own hand, without remorse,<br /> +Had laid her at his feet a corse!—<br /> +<br /> +Plantagenet's banners in pride are borne<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the sound of pipe and drum!</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>And his mailëd bands, with the dawn of morn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To Romara's walls are come.</span><br /> +"We come not as foes," the herald saith,—<br /> +"But we bring Plantagenet's shriven faith<br /> +That thou, Romara, in thine arms<br /> +Shall soon enfold thy true love's charms:<br /> +Let no delay thy joy betide!—<br /> +Thy Agnes soon shall be thy bride!"<br /> +<br /> +The raven croaks as Torksey's lord<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Attends that bannered host;</span><br /> +But the lover is deaf to the omen-bird—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The fatal moat is crossed!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Ride, ride;" saith the baron,—"thy ladye fain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the priest—by the altar wait!"—</span><br /> +And the spearmen seize his bridle-rein,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hurry him to his fate.</span><br /> +<br /> +"A marriage by torchlight!" the baron said;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"This stair to the altar leads!</span><br /> +We patter our prayers, 'mong the mouldering dead,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there we tell our beads!"</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span><br /> +Along the caverned dungeon's gloom<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tyrant strides in haste;</span><br /> +And, powerless, to his dreadful doom<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The victim followeth fast.</span><br /> +The dazëd captives quake and stare<br /> +At the sullen torch's blood-red glare,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the lover starts aghast</span><br /> +At the deathlike forms they wear!<br /> +<br /> +Too late, the truth upon him breaks!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Romara's heart is faint!—</span><br /> +"Behold thy bride!" the baron shrieks—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Wilt hear the wedding chaunt?</span><br /> +This chain once bound my father here,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who would have found his grave—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The cursed dotard!—'neath the wave,—</span><br /> +Had not thy hateful hand been near.—<br /> +Be this the bride thou now shalt wed!<br /> +This dungeon dank thy bridal bed!—<br /> +And when thy youthful blood shall freeze<br /> +In death,—may fiends thy spirit seize!"—<br /> +<br /> +Plantagenet hath minions fell<br /> +Who do their master's bidding well:—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>Few days Romara pines in dread:—<br /> +His soul is with the sainted dead!—<br /> +<br /> +Plantagenet hath reached his bourne!<br /> +What terrors meet his soul forlorn<br /> +And full of stain,—I may not say:—<br /> +Reveal them shall the Judgment Day!—<br /> +<br /> +Her orisons at matin hour,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At noon, and eve, and midnight toll,</span><br /> +For him, doth tearful Agnes pour!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jesu Maria! sain his soul!</span></div> + +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i040.jpg" alt="Jesu Maria! sain his soul!" /></div> +<p> </p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> +<h3>THE</h3> +<h2>BARON'S YULE FEAST.</h2> + +<h3>A</h3> +<h2>Christmas Rhyme.</h2> +<p> </p> + +<h2><span class="smcap">Canto</span> II.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +Symphonious notes of dulcet plaint<br /> +Followed the stranger minstrel's chaunt;<br /> +And, when his sounding harp was dumb,<br /> +The crowd, with loud applausive hum,<br /> +Gave hearty guerdon for his strain;<br /> +While some with sighs expressed what pain<br /> +Had pierced their simple bosoms thorow<br /> +To hear his song of death and sorrow.<br /> +<br /> +"Come bear the mead-cup to our guest,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Said Thorold to his daughter;</span><br /> +"We thought to hear, at our Yule feast,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A lay of mirth and laughter;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>But, to thy harp, thou well hast sung<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A song that may impart,</span><br /> +For future hours, to old and young,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deep lessons to the heart.</span><br /> +Yet, should not life be all a sigh!<br /> +Good Snell, do thou a burthen try<br /> +Shall change our sadness into joy:<br /> +Such as thou trollest in blythe mood,<br /> +On days of sunshine in the wood.<br /> +Tell out thy heart withouten fear—<br /> +For none shall stifle free thoughts here!<br /> +But, bear the mead-cup, Edith sweet!<br /> +We crave our stranger guest will greet<br /> +All hearts, again, with minstrelsy,<br /> +When Snell hath trolled his mirth-notes free!"<br /> +<br /> +Fairer than fairest flower that blows,—<br /> +Sweeter than breath of sweetest rose,—<br /> +Still on her cheek, in lustre left,<br /> +The tear the minstrel's tale had reft<br /> +From its pearl-treasure in the brain—<br /> +The limbec where, by mystic vein,<br /> +From the heart's fountains are distilled<br /> +Those crystals, when 'tis overfilled,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>With downcast eye, and trembling hands,<br /> +Edith before the stranger stands—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stranger to all but her!</span><br /> +Though well the baron notes his brow,<br /> +While the young minstrel kneeleth low—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Love's grateful worshipper!—</span><br /> +And doth with lips devout impress<br /> +The hand of his fair ministress!<br /> +<br /> +Yet, was the deed so meekly done,—<br /> +His guerdon seemed so fairly won,—<br /> +The tribute he to beauty paid<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So deeply all believed deserved,—</span><br /> +That nought of blame Sir Wilfrid said,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though much his thoughts from meekness swerved.</span><br /> +<br /> +Impatience, soon, their faces tell<br /> +To hear the song of woodman Snell,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Among the festive crew;</span><br /> +And, soon, their old and honest frere,<br /> +Elated by the good Yule cheer,<br /> +In untaught notes, but full and clear,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus told his heart-thoughts true:—</span></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> +<h2>The Woodman's Song.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +I would not be a crownëd king,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For all his gaudy gear;</span><br /> +I would not be that pampered thing,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His gew-gaw gold to wear:</span><br /> +But I would be where I can sing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Right merrily, all the year;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where forest treen,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">All gay and green,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full blythely do me cheer.</span><br /> +<br /> +I would not be a gentleman,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For all his hawks and hounds,—</span><br /> +For fear the hungry poor should ban<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My halls and wide-parked grounds:</span><br /> +But I would be a merry man,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Among the wild wood sounds,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where free birds sing,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And echoes ring</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While my axe from the oak rebounds.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span><br /> +I would not be a shaven priest,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For all his sloth-won tythe:</span><br /> +But while to me this breath is leased,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And these old limbs are lithe,—</span><br /> +Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And felled me with his scythe,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I'll troll my song,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The leaves among,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All in the forest blythe.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +"Well done, well done!" bold Thorold cried,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the woodman ceased to sing;</span><br /> +"By'r Lady! it warms the Saxon tide<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In our veins to hear thee bring</span><br /> +These English thoughts so freely out!<br /> +Thy health, good Snell!"—and a merry shout<br /> +For honest boldness, truth, and worth,<br /> +The baron's grateful guests sent forth.<br /> +<br /> +Silence like grave-yard air, again,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pervades the festive space:</span><br /> +All list for another minstrel strain;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the youth, with merrier face,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>But tender notes, thus half-divulged<br /> +The passion which his heart indulged:—</div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h3>The Minstrel's Song.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"> +O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye,<br /> +That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Who weepeth for pity,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">To hear a love ditty,</span><br /> +And marketh the end with a sigh.<br /> +<br /> +If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look,<br /> +Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Each day for the morrow</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Will nurture more sorrow,—</span><br /> +Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.<br /> +<br /> +The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife;<br /> +The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">'Twere better to tarry,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Unless thou canst marry</span><br /> +To sweeten the bitters of life!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span></div> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i047.jpg" alt="illustration" /></div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +What fires the youthful minstrel's lay<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lit in De Thorold's eyes,</span><br /> +It needs not, now, I soothly say:<br /> +Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And 'mid his own surprise,</span><br /> +Blent with the boisterous applause<br /> +That, instant, to the rafters rose,<br /> +The baron his jealous thought forgot.<br /> +Quickly, sithence a jocund note<br /> +Was fairly struck in every mind,<br /> +And jolly ale its power combined<br /> +To fill all hearts with deeper glee,—<br /> +All wished for gleeful minstrelsy;<br /> +And every eye was shrewdly bent<br /> +On one whose caustic merriment<br /> +At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>Compelling cause of mirthful grin<br /> +To ancient Torksey's rustic folk.<br /> +<br /> +Full soon this sturdy summons broke<br /> +From sire and son, and maid and mother:—<br /> +"Ho, ho! saint Leonard's fat lay brother!<br /> +Why dost thou in the corner peep,<br /> +And sipple as if half asleep<br /> +Thou wert with this good nappy ale?<br /> +Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old tale<br /> +Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil,<br /> +We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel!<br /> +Thy folded cloak come cast aside!—<br /> +Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide—<br /> +It is thy old trick—we know it well—<br /> +Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!"<br /> +"Pledge all, pledge all!" the baron cried;<br /> +"Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!"<br /> +<br /> +Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And athwart the triple string</span><br /> +The bow in gamesome mood he threw,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His joke-song preluding;—</span><br /> +Soon, with sly look, the burly man,<br /> +In burly tones his tale began.</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> +<h3>The Miller of Roche.<small><a name="f12.1" id="f12.1" href="#f12">[12]</a></small></h3> + +<h4>THE LAY BROTHER OF SAINT LEONARD'S TALE.</h4> + +<div class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Prior of Roche</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was without reproach</span><br /> +While with saintly monks he chanted;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when from the mass</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He had turned his face,</span><br /> +The prior his saintship scanted.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller of Roche,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I swear and avouch,—</span><br /> +Had a wife of nut-brown beauty;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And to shrive her,—they say,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The prior, each day,</span><br /> +Came with zeal to his ghostly duty.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the neighbouring wives,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who ne'er shrove in their lives,—</span><br /> +Such wickedness Sathanas whispers!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Said the black-cloaked prior</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the miller's log fire,</span><br /> +Oft tarried too late for vespers!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the thunder was loud,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the sky wore a shroud,</span><br /> +And the lightning blue was gleaming;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the foaming flood,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the good mill stood,</span><br /> +Pell-mell o'er the dam was teeming.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller, that night,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Toiled on in a fright,—</span><br /> +Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, although he'd stayed long,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The storm was so strong</span><br /> +That full loath to depart was he minded.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lo! at midnight a jolt,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As loud as the bolt</span><br /> +Of the thunder on high that still rumbled,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Assailed the mill-doors,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And burst them, perforce,—</span><br /> +And in a drenched beggar-lad stumbled!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Saint Luke and saint John</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save the ground we stand on"—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>Cried the Miller,—"but ye come in a hurry;"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While the lad, turning pale,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Gan to weep and to wail,</span><br /> +And to patter this pitiful story:<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Goodman Miller, I pray,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Believe what I say,—</span><br /> +For, as surely as thou art a sinner,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since the break of the morn</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I have wandered forlorn,</span><br /> +And have neither had breakfast nor dinner!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller looked sad,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And cried, "Good lack, my lad!</span><br /> +But ye tell me a dolorous ditty!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And ye seem in sad plight</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To travel to-night:—</span><br /> +The sight o' ye stirs up one's pity!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Go straight to my cot,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And beg something that's hot,—</span><br /> +For ye look very haggard and hollow:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The storm's nearly o'er;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I will not grind much more,—</span><br /> +And when I have done, I will follow.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Keep by the brook-side!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The path is not wide—</span><br /> +But ye cannot soon stray, if ye mind it;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At the foot of the hill,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Half a mile from the mill,</span><br /> +Stands my cottage:—ye can't fail to find it."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then out the lad set,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All dripping with wet,—</span><br /> +But the skies around him seemed brighter;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he went gaily on,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For his burthen was gone,—</span><br /> +And his heart in his bosom danced lighter.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adown by the brook</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His travel he took,</span><br /> +And soon raught the Miller's snug dwelling;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, what he saw ere</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He was admitted there—</span><br /> +By Saint Bridget!—I must not be telling!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus much I may say—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That the cot was of clay,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>And the light was through wind-cracks ejected;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he placed close his eye,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And peeped in, so sly,—</span><br /> +And saw—what he never expected!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the lad 'gan to fear</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That the Miller would appear,—</span><br /> +And, to him, this strange sight would be vexing;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So he, first, sharply coughed,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, then, knocked very soft,—</span><br /> +Lest his summons should be too perplexing.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, I scorn to think harm!—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So pass by all alarm,</span><br /> +And trembling, and bustle, and terror,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Occasioned within:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The first stone at sin</span><br /> +Let him cast who, himself, hath no error!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In inquisitive mood,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The eaves-dropper stood,</span><br /> +By the wind-cracks still keeping his station;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till, half-choked with fear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A voice cried, "Who's there?"—</span><br /> +Cried the beggar, "Mary grant ye salvation!—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"I'm a poor beggar-lad,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Very hungry and sad,</span><br /> +Who have travelled in rain and in thunder;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I am soaked, through and through"—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cried the voice, "Perhaps 'tis true—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">But who's likely to help thee, I wonder?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Here's a strange time of night</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To put folk in a fright,</span><br /> +By waking them up from their bolsters!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Honest folk, by Saint Paul!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Abroad never crawl,</span><br /> +At the gloom-hour of night—when the owl stirs!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the Miller now came,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, hearing his dame</span><br /> +So sharply the beggar-lad scolding,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Said, "Open, sweet Joan!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I'll tell thee, anon,—</span><br /> +When thy brown cheek, once more, I'm beholding,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Why this poor lad is found</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So late on our ground—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>Haste, my pigeon!—for here there's hard bedding!"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So the door was unbarred;—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the wife she frowned hard,</span><br /> +As the lad, by the door, thrust his head in.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And she looked very cold</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While her lord the tale told;</span><br /> +And then she made oath, by our Lady,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Such wandering elves</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might provide for themselves—</span><br /> +For she would get no supper ready!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller waxed wroth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And vowed, by his troth,—</span><br /> +While the beggar slunk into a corner,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If his termagant wife</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Did not end her ill strife,</span><br /> +He would change words for blows, he'd forewarn her!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the lad he looked sly,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with mischievous eye,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>Cried, "Bridle your wrath, Goodman Grinder!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Don't be in a pet,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For I don't care a fret!—</span><br /> +Your wife, in a trice, will be kinder!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"In the stars I have skill,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And their powers, at my will,</span><br /> +I can summon, with food to provide us:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Say,—what d'ye choose?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I pray, don't refuse:—</span><br /> +Neither hunger nor thirst shall betide us!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller he frowned,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And rolled his eyes round,</span><br /> +And seemed not the joke to be liking;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the lad did not heed:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He was at his strange deed,</span><br /> +And the table was chalking and striking!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With scrawls straight and crookt,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with signs square and hookt,</span><br /> +With the lord of each house, or the lady,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The table he filled,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like a clerk 'ith' stars skilled,—</span><br /> +And, striking, cried "Presto! be ready!—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"A jug of spiced wine</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'S in the box,—I divine!</span><br /> +Ask thy wife for the key, and unlock it!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nay, stop!" the lad said;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"We shall want meat and bread;"</span><br /> +And the chalk took again from his pocket.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the lad he looked wise,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, in scholarly guise,</span><br /> +Completed his horary question:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"A brace of roast ducks</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou wilt find in the box,</span><br /> +With the wine—sure as I am a Christian!—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And a white wheaten loaf;—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quick! proceed to the proof!"—</span><br /> +Cried the beggar,—while Grist stood stark staring;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though the lad's weasel eyes</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shone so wondrously wise,</span><br /> +That to doubt him seemed sin over-daring!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller's wife, Joan,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turning pale, 'gan to groan;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>But the Miller, arousing his spirits,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Said, "Hand me the key,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And our luck we will see—</span><br /> +A faint heart no fortune inherits."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But,—Gramercy!—his looks—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When he opened the box,</span><br /> +And at what he saw in it stood wondering!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How his sturdy arm shook,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While the wine-jug he took,</span><br /> +And feared he would break it with blundering!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Faith and troth! at the last,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the table Grist placed</span><br /> +The wine and the ducks—hot and smoking!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet he felt grievous shy</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His stomach to try</span><br /> +With cates of a wizard's own cooking!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, with hunger grown fell,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lad sped so well,</span><br /> +That Grist was soon tempted to join in;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While Joan sat apart,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And looked sad at heart,</span><br /> +And some fearful mishap seemed divining!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the lad chopped away,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And smiling so gay,</span><br /> +Told stories to make his host merry:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How the Moon kittened stars,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And how Venus loved Mars,</span><br /> +And often went to see him in a wherry!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller he laughed,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the liquor he quaffed;</span><br /> +But the beggar new marvels was hatching:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quoth he "I'm a clerk,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I swear, by saint Mark,</span><br /> +That the Devil from hell I'll be fetching!"—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the wife she looked scared,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wildly Grist stared,</span><br /> +And cried, "Nay, my lad, nay,—thou'rt not able!"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the lad plied his chalk,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And muttered strange talk—</span><br /> +Till Grist drew his stool from the table!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then the lad quenched the rush,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And cried, "Bring a gorse-bush,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>And under the caldron now kindle!"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the Miller cried, "Nay!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give over, I pray!"—</span><br /> +For his courage began fast to dwindle.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quoth the lad, "I must on</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till my conjuring's done;</span><br /> +To break off just now would be ruin:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So fetch me the thorns,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a devil without horns,</span><br /> +In the copper I soon will be brewing!"—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the Miller he shook</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For fear his strange cook</span><br /> +Should, indeed and in truth, prove successful;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But feeling ashamed</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That his pluck should be blamed,</span><br /> +Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So the fuel he brought,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And said he feared nought</span><br /> +Of the Devil being brewed in his copper:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He'd as quickly believe</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nick would sit in his sieve,</span><br /> +Or dance 'mong the wheat in his hopper:—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet, lest strange ill,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From such conjuring skill,</span><br /> +Should arise, and their souls be in danger,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He would have his crab-stick,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And would show my lord Nick</span><br /> +Some tricks to which he was a stranger!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the lad 'gan to raise</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Neath the caldron a blaze,—</span><br /> +While the Miller, his crab-cudgel grasping,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stood on watch, for his life!—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But his terrified wife</span><br /> +Her hands—in devotion—was clasping!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the copper grew warm,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quoth the lad, "Lest some harm</span><br /> +From the visit of Nick be betiding,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Set open the door,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And not long on the floor</span><br /> +Will the Goblin of Hell be abiding!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quickly so did the host,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And returned to his post,—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>Uplifting his cudgel with trembling:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His strength was soon proved,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the copper-lid moved!—</span><br /> +When Grist's fears grew too big for dissembling.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turning white as the wall,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His staff he let fall,—</span><br /> +While the Devil from the caldron ascended,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, all on a heap,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With a flying leap,</span><br /> +On the fear-stricken Miller descended!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In dread lest his soul,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Devil's foul goal,</span><br /> +Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grist grabbed the Fiend's throat,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his grisly eyes smote,—</span><br /> +Till Nick's face seemed a platter of tinder!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yea, with many a thwack,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grist battered Nick's back,—</span><br /> +Nor spared Satan's portly abdomen!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hot Nick had lain cold</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By this time—but his hold</span><br /> +Grist lost, through the screams of his woman!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While up from the floor,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And out, at the door,</span><br /> +Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He seemed panic-struck,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or, doubted his luck,—</span><br /> +For he neither staid question nor answer!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Grist!" the beggar-lad cried,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lay your trembling aside,</span><br /> +And tell me, my man, how ye like him.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Twas well ye were cool:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He'd have proved ye a fool,—</span><br /> +Had ye dar'd with the cudgel to strike him!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"By saint Martin!" Grist said,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, scratching his head,</span><br /> +Seemed pondering between good and evil,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"I could swear and avouch</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Twas the Prior of Roche,—</span><br /> +If thou hadst not said 'twas the Devil!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, in deed and in sooth,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though a marvellous truth,—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>Yet such was the Fiend's revelation!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But think it not strange</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He should choose such a change:—</span><br /> +'Tis much after his old occupation:—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An angel of light,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Tis his darling delight</span><br /> +To be reckoned—'tis very well tested:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I argue, therefore,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Twas not sinning much more,</span><br /> +In the garb of a Prior to be vested.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though, with wink, nod, and smile—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O the world's very vile!—</span><br /> +Grist's neighbours told tales unbelieving,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How the beggar, so shrewd,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Monk and supper had viewed,</span><br /> +And produced 'em!—the Miller deceiving!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I do not belong</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To that heretic throng</span><br /> +Who measure their faith with their eyesight:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus much I may say—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grist's cottage of clay</span><br /> +Never, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit:—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, the sly beggar-lad,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be he hungry or sad,</span><br /> +A remedy finds for each evil<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Miller's good cheer,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Any day of the year;—</span><br /> +And though Joan looketh shy—<i>she is civil</i>!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +The tale was rude, but pleased rude men;<br /> +And clamorous many a clown grew, when<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The rebeck ceased to thrill:</span><br /> +Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain,<br /> +Gosherd and swineherd,—all were fain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To prove their tuneful skill.</span><br /> +<br /> +But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand,<br /> +And gently stilled the jarring band:<br /> +"What ho!" he cried, "what ails your throats?<br /> +Be these your most melodious notes?<br /> +Forget ye that to-morrow morn<br /> +Old Yule-day and its sports return,—<br /> +And that your freres, from scrogg and carr,<small><a name="f13.1" id="f13.1" href="#f13">[13]</a></small><br /> +From heath and wold, and fen, afar,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>Will come to join ye in your glee?<br /> +Husband your mirth and minstrelsy,<br /> +And let some goodly portion be<br /> +Kept for their entertainment meet.<br /> +Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And warm your winter blood!</span><br /> +Good night to all!—For His dear sake<br /> +Who bore our sin, if well we wake,<br /> +We'll join to banish care and sorrow<br /> +With mirth and sport again to-morrow!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And forth the Baron good</span><br /> +Passed from his chair, midst looks of love<br /> +That showed how truly was enwove<br /> +Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude<br /> +For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude.<br /> +<br /> +The broad hall-doors were open cast,<br /> +And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed.<br /> +Yet, was the crowning hour unflown—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Enjoyment's crowning hour!—</span><br /> +A signal note the pipe hath blown,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a maiden at the door</span><br /> +Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush,<br /> +To bring the sacred missel-bush.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span><br /> +Gaily a younker leads the fair,<br /> +Proud of his dimpled, blushing care:<br /> +All clap their hands, both old and young,<br /> +And soon the misseltoe is hung<br /> +In the mid-rafters, overhead;<br /> +And, while the agile dance they thread,<br /> +Such honey do the plough-lads seize<br /> +From lips of lasses as the bees<br /> +Ne'er sip from sweetest flowers of May.<br /> +<br /> +All in the rapture of their play,—<br /> +While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe,<br /> +And merrily their light feet trip,—<br /> +Leave we the simple happy throng<br /> +Their mirth and rapture to prolong.</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> +<h3>THE</h3> +<h2>BARON'S YULE FEAST.</h2> + +<h3>A</h3> +<h2>Christmas Rhyme.</h2> +<p> </p> + +<h2><span class="smcap">Canto</span> III.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller!<br /> +Of late, thy dungeon-harpings were<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of discontent and wrong;</span><br /> +And we, the Privileged, were banned<br /> +For cumber-grounds of fatherland,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In thy drear prison-song.</span><br /> +<br /> +What fellowship hast thou with times<br /> +When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At feast, in feudal hall,—</span><br /> +And peasant churls, a saucy crew,<br /> +Fantastic o'er their wassail grew,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forgetful of their thrall?—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span><br /> +Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,—<br /> +And with the homely Past compare<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your tinselled show and state!</span><br /> +Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold<br /> +On human hearts so firm a hold<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For ye, and yours, create</span><br /> +As they possessed, whose breasts though rude<br /> +Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood<br /> +For all who toiled, through youth and age,<br /> +T' enrich their force-won heritage!<br /> +<br /> +Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride<br /> +Secure, ere ye begin to chide!<br /> +Then, lordlings, though ye may discard<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The measures I rehearse,</span><br /> +Slight not the lessons of the bard—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The moral of his verse.—</span><br /> +<br /> +But <i>we</i> will dare thy verse to chide!<br /> +Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And taunt our wretchedness</span><br /> +With visioned feast, and song, and dance,—<br /> +While, daily, our grim heritance<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is famine and distress?</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span><br /> +Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern,<br /> +Never from Suffering's cause to turn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But—to the end of life—</span><br /> +Against Oppression's ruthless band<br /> +Still unsubduable to stand,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A champion in the strife?</span><br /> +<br /> +Think'st thou we suffer less, or feel<br /> +To-day's soul-piercing wounds do heal<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wounds of months and years?</span><br /> +Or that our eyes so long have been<br /> +Familiar with the hunger keen<br /> +Our babes endure, we gaze serene—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strangers to scalding tears?—</span><br /> +<br /> +Ah no! my brothers, not from me<br /> +Hath faded solemn memory<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of all your bitter grief:</span><br /> +This heart its pledges doth renew—<br /> +To its last pulse it will be true<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To beat for your relief.</span><br /> +<br /> +My rhymes are trivial, but my aim<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deem ye not purposeless:</span><br /> +I would the homely truth proclaim—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>That times which knaves full loudly blame<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For feudal haughtiness</span><br /> +Would put the grinding crew to shame<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who prey on your distress.</span><br /> +<br /> +O that my simple lay might tend<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To kindle some remorse</span><br /> +In your oppressors' souls, and bend<br /> +Their wills a cheerful help to lend<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And lighten Labour's curse!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +A night of snow the earth hath clad<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With virgin mantle chill;</span><br /> +But in the sky the sun looks glad,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And blythely o'er the hill,</span><br /> +From fen and wold, troops many a guest<br /> +To sing and smile at Thorold's feast.<br /> +<br /> +And oft they bless the bounteous sun<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That smileth on the snow;</span><br /> +And oft they bless the generous one<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their homes that bids them fro</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>To glad their hearts with merry cheer,<br /> +When Yule returns, in winter drear.<br /> +<br /> +How joyously the lady bells<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shout—though the bluff north-breeze</span><br /> +Loudly his boisterous bugle swells!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And though the brooklets freeze,</span><br /> +How fair the leafless hawthorn-tree<br /> +Waves with its hoar-frost tracery!<br /> +While sun-smiles throw o'er stalks and stems<br /> +Sparkles so far transcending gems—<br /> +The bard would gloze who said their sheen<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Did not out-diamond</span><br /> +All brightest gauds that man hath seen<br /> +Worn by earth's proudest king or queen,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In pomp and grandeur throned!</span><br /> +<br /> +Saint Leonard's monks have chaunted mass,<br /> +And clown's and gossip's laughing face<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is turned unto the porch,—</span><br /> +For now comes mime and motley fool,<br /> +Guarding the dizened Lord Misrule<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With mimic pomp and march;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>And the burly Abbot of Unreason<br /> +Forgets not that the blythe Yule season<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Demands his paunch at church;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And he useth his staff</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">While the rustics laugh,—</span><br /> +And, still, as he layeth his crosier about,<br /> +Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt,—<br /> +And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim,<br /> +Sees carven apes ever laughing at him!<br /> +<br /> +Louder and wilder the merriment grows,<br /> +For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And the dragon's roar,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">As he paweth the floor,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And belcheth fire</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In his demon ire,</span><br /> +When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose,<br /> +Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din—<br /> +Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin—<br /> +For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold,<br /> +With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine<br /> +Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine!<br /> +"Come forth, come forth! it is high noon,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cries Hugh the seneschal;</span><br /> +"My masters, will ye ne'er have done?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come forth unto the hall!"—</span><br /> +<br /> +'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall:<br /> +Full many a trophy bedecks the wall<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of prowess in field and wood;</span><br /> +Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear<br /> +Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer—<br /> +But De Thorold's guests beheld nought there<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That scented of human blood.</span><br /> +The mighty wassail horn suspended<br /> +From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended,<br /> +With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound,<br /> +Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed,<br /> +While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed,<br /> +As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound,<br /> +That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest,<br /> +And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span><br /> +Sir Wilfrid's carven chair of state<br /> +'Neath the dais is gently elevate,—<br /> +But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride:<br /> +Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire's side,<br /> +And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall,<br /> +Sit by the tables along the wide hall,<br /> +Each with his platter, and stout drink-horn,—<br /> +They count on good cheer this Christmas morn!<br /> +<br /> +Not long they wait, not long they wish—<br /> +The trumpet peals,—and the kingly dish,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The head of the brawny boar,</span><br /> +Decked with rosemary and laurels gay,—<br /> +Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As their fathers did, of yore!</span><br /> +And they point to the costard he bears in his mouth,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And vow the huge pig,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So luscious a fig,</span><br /> +Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South!<br /> +<br /> +Strike up, strike up, a louder chime,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ye minstrels in the loft!</span><br /> +Strike up! it is no fitting time<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For drowsy strains and soft,—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">When sewers threescore</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Have passed the hall door,</span><br /> +And the tables are laden with roast and boiled,<br /> +And carvers are hasting, lest all should be spoiled;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And gossips' tongues clatter</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">More loudly than platter,</span><br /> +And tell of their marvel to reckon the sorts:—<br /> +<br /> +Ham by fat capon, and beef by green worts;<br /> +Ven'son from forest, and mutton from fold;<br /> +Brawn from the oak-wood, and hare from the wold;<br /> +Wild-goose from fen, and tame from the lea;<br /> +And plumëd dish from the heronry—<br /> +With choicest apples 'twas featly rimmed,<br /> +And stood next the flagons with malmsey brimmed,—<br /> +Near the knightly swan, begirt with quinces,<br /> +Which the gossips said was a dish for princes,—<br /> +Though his place was never to stand before<br /> +The garnished head of the royal boar!<br /> +<br /> +Puddings of plumbs and mince-pies, placed<br /> +In plenty along the board, met taste<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>Of gossip and maiden,—nor did they fail<br /> +To sip, now and then, of the double brown ale—<br /> +That ploughman and shepherd vowed and sware<br /> +Was each drop so racy, and sparkling, and rare—<br /> +No outlandish Rhenish could with it compare!<br /> +<br /> +Trow ye they stayed till the meal was done<br /> +To pledge a health? Degenerate son<br /> +Of friendly sires! a health thrice-told<br /> +Each guest had pledged to fellowships old,—<br /> +Untarrying eager mouth to wipe,<br /> +And across the board with hearty gripe<br /> +Joining rough hands,—ere the meal was o'er:—<br /> +Hearts and hands went with "healths" in the days of yore!<br /> +<br /> +The meal is o'er,—though the time of mirth,<br /> +Each brother feels, is but yet in its birth:—<br /> +"Wassail, wassail!" the seneschal cries;<br /> +And the spicy bowl rejoiceth all eyes,<br /> +When before the baron beloved 'tis set,<br /> +And he dippeth horn, and thus doth greet<br /> +The honest hearts around him met:—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span><br /> +"Health to ye all, my brothers good!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All health and happiness!</span><br /> +Health to the absent of our blood!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">May Heaven the suffering bless,—</span><br /> +And cheer their hearts who lie at home<br /> +In pain, now merry Yule hath come!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My jolly freres, all health!"</span><br /> +<br /> +The shout is loud and long,—but tears<br /> +Glide quickly from some eyes, while ears<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">List whispering sounds of stealth</span><br /> +That tell how the noble Thorold hath sent,<br /> +To palsied widow and age-stricken hind,<br /> +Clothing and food, and brother-words kind,—<br /> +Cheering their aching languishment!<br /> +<br /> +"Wassail, wassail!" Sir Wilfrid saith,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Push round the brimming bowl!—</span><br /> +Art thou there, minstrel?—By my faith,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All list to hear thee troll,</span><br /> +Again, some goodly love-lorn verse!—<br /> +Begin thy ditty to rehearse,<br /> +And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe—<br /> +Less thou wilt take red gold therewith!"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span><br /> +Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth,—<br /> +But, now the merry Yule returneth,<br /> +For love of Him whom angels sung,<br /> +And love of one his burning tongue<br /> +Is fain to name, but may not tell,—<br /> +Once more, unto the harp's sweet swell,<br /> +A knightly chanson he will sing,—<br /> +And, straight, he struck the throbbing string.</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h3>Sir Raymond and the False Palmer.</h3> + +<h3>THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S SECOND TALE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +Sir Raymond de Clifford, a gallant band<br /> +Hath gathered to fight in the Holy Land;<br /> +And his lady's heart is sinking in sorrow,—<br /> +For the knight and his lances depart on the morrow!<br /> +<br /> +"Oh, wherefore, noble Raymond, tell,"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His lovely ladye weeping said,—</span><br /> +"With lonely sorrow must I dwell,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When but three bridal moons have fled?"</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span><br /> +Sir Raymond kissed her pale, pale cheek,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And strove, with a warrior's pride,</span><br /> +While an answer of love he essayed to speak,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His flooding tears to hide.</span><br /> +<br /> +But an image rose in his heated brain,<br /> +That shook his heart with vengeful pain,<br /> +And anger flashed in his rolling eye,<br /> +While his ladye looked on him tremblingly.<br /> +<br /> +Yet, he answered not in wrathful haste,—<br /> +But clasped his bride to his manly breast;<br /> +And with words of tender yet stately dress,<br /> +Thus strove to banish her heart's distress:—<br /> +<br /> +"De Burgh hath enrolled him with Philip of France,—<br /> +Baron Hubert,—who challenged De Clifford's lance,<br /> +And made him the scoff of the burgher swine,<br /> +When he paid his vows at the Virgin's shrine.<br /> +<br /> +"Oh, ask me not, love, to tarry in shame,—<br /> +Lest 'craven' be added to Raymond's name!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>To Palestine hastens my mortal foe,—<br /> +And I with our Lion's Heart will go!<br /> +<br /> +"Nay, Gertrude, repeat not thy sorrowing tale!<br /> +Behold in my casque the scallop-shell,—<br /> +And see on my shoulder the Holy Rood—<br /> +The pledge of my emprize—bedyed in blood!<br /> +<br /> +"Thou wouldst not, love, I should be forsworn,<br /> +Nor the stain on my honour be tamely borne:<br /> +Do thou to the saints, each passing day,<br /> +For Raymond and royal Richard pray,—<br /> +<br /> +"While they rush to the rescue, for God's dear Son;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And soon, for thy Raymond, the conqu'ror's meed,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the skill of this arm, and the strength of my steed,—</span><br /> +From the Paynim swart shall be nobly won.<br /> +<br /> +"Thou shalt not long for De Clifford mourn,<br /> +Ere he to thy bosom of love return;<br /> +When blind to the lure of the red-cross bright,<br /> +He will bask, for life, in thy beauty's light!"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span><br /> +The morn in the radiant east arose:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Red-cross Knight hath spurred his steed</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That courseth as swift as a falcon's speed:—</span><br /> +To the salt-sea shore Sir Raymond goes.<br /> +<br /> +Soon, the sea he hath crossed, to Palestine;<br /> +And there his heart doth chafe and pine,—<br /> +For Hubert de Burgh is not in that land:<br /> +He loitereth in France, with Philip's band.<br /> +<br /> +But De Clifford will never a recreant turn,<br /> +While the knightly badge on his arm is borne;<br /> +And long, beneath the Syrian sun,<br /> +He fasted and fought, and glory won.<br /> +<br /> +His Gertrude, alas! like a widow pines;<br /> +And though on her castle the bright sun shines,<br /> +She sees not its beams,—but in loneliness prays,<br /> +Through the live-long hours of her weeping days.—<br /> +<br /> +Twelve moons have waned, and the morn is come<br /> +When, a year before, from his meed-won home<br /> +Sir Raymond went:—At the castle gate<br /> +A reverend Palmer now doth wait.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span><br /> +He saith he hath words for the ladye's ear;<br /> +And he telleth, in accents dread and drear,<br /> +Of De Clifford's death in the Holy Land,<br /> +At Richard's side, by a Saracen's hand.<br /> +<br /> +And he gave to the ladye, when thus he had spoken,—<br /> +Of Sir Raymond's fall a deathly token:<br /> +'Twas a lock of his hair all stained with blood,<br /> +Entwined on a splinter of Holy Rood.—<br /> +<br /> +Then the Palmer in haste from the castle sped;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And from gloomy morn to weary night,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lorn Gertrude, in her widowed plight,</span><br /> +Weepeth and waileth the knightly dead.—<br /> +<br /> +Three moons have waned, and the Palmer, again,<br /> +By Gertrude stands, and smileth fain;<br /> +Nor of haste, nor of death, speaks the Palmer, now;<br /> +Nor doth sadness or sorrow bedim his brow.<br /> +<br /> +He softly sits by the ladye's side,<br /> +And vaunteth his deeds of chivalrous pride;<br /> +Then lisps, in her secret ear, of things<br /> +Which deeply endanger the thrones of kings:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span><br /> +From Philip of France, he saith, he came,<br /> +To treat with Prince John, whom she must not name;<br /> +And he, in fair France, hath goodly lands,—<br /> +And a thousand vassals there wait his commands.—<br /> +<br /> +The ladye liked her gallant guest,—<br /> +For he kenned the themes that pleased her best;<br /> +And his tongue, in silken measures skilled,<br /> +With goodly ditties her memory filled.<br /> +<br /> +Thus the Palmer the ladye's ear beguiles,—<br /> +Till Gertrude her sorrow exchangeth for smiles;<br /> +And when from the castle the Palmer went,<br /> +She watched his return, from the battlement.—<br /> +<br /> +Another moon doth swell and wane:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But how slowly it waneth!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How her heart now paineth</span><br /> +For sight of the Palmer again!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span><br /> +But the Palmer comes, and her healëd heart<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Derideth pain and sorrow:</span><br /> +She pledgeth the Palmer, and smirketh smart,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And saith, "we'll wed to-morrow!"—</span><br /> +<br /> +The morrow is come, and at break of day,<br /> +'Fore the altar, the abbot, in holy array,<br /> +Is joining the Palmer's and Gertrude's hands,—<br /> +But, in sudden amazement the holy man stands!<br /> +<br /> +For, before the castle, a trumpet's blast<br /> +Rings so loud that the Palmer starts aghast;<br /> +And, at Gertrude's side, he sinks dismayed,—<br /> +Is't with dread of the living, or fear of the dead?<br /> +<br /> +The doors of the chapel were open thrown,<br /> +And the beams through the pictured windows shone<br /> +On the face of De Clifford, with fury flushed,—<br /> +And forth on the Palmer he wildly rushed!—<br /> +<br /> +"False Hubert!" he cried; and his knightly sword<br /> +Was sheathed in the heart of the fiend-sold lord!—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>With a scream of terror, Gertrude fell—<br /> +For she knew the pride of Sir Raymond well!<br /> +<br /> +He flew to raise her—but 'twas in vain:<br /> +Her spirit its flight in fear had ta'en!—<br /> +And Sir Raymond kneels that his soul be shriven,<br /> +And the stain of this deed be by grace forgiven:—<br /> +<br /> +But ere the Abbot his grace can dole,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">De Clifford's truthful heart is breaking,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his soul, also, its flight is taking!—</span><br /> +Christ, speed it to a heavenly goal!—<br /> +Oh, pray for the peace of Sir Raymond's soul!</div> + + +<p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> +<h3>THE</h3> +<h2>BARON'S YULE FEAST.</h2> + +<h3>A</h3> +<h2>Christmas Rhyme.</h2> +<p> </p> + +<h2><span class="smcap">Canto</span> IV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +What power can stay the burst of song<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When throats with ale are mellow?</span><br /> +What wight with nieve so stout and strong<br /> +Dares lift it, jolly freres among,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And cry, "Knaves, cease to bellow?"</span><br /> +<br /> +"'Twas doleful drear,"—the gossips vowed,—<br /> +To hear the minstrel's piteous tale!<br /> +But, when the swineherd tuned his crowd,<small><a name="f14.1" id="f14.1" href="#f14">[14]</a></small><br /> +And the gosherd began to grumble loud,<br /> +The gossips smiled, and sipped their ale!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span><br /> +"A boon, bold Thorold!" boldly cried<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The gosherd from Croyland fen;</span><br /> +"I crave to sing of the fen so wide,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And of geese and goosish men!"</span><br /> +<br /> +Loud loffe they all; and the baron, with glee,<br /> +Cried "begin, good Swithin! for men may see<br /> +Thou look'st so like a knowing fowl,<br /> +Of geese thou art skilled right well to troll!"<br /> +<br /> +Stout Swithin sware the baron spake well,—<br /> +And his halting ditty began to tell:<br /> +The rhyme was lame, and dull the joke,—<br /> +But it tickled the ears of clownish folk.</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h3>The Gosherd's Song.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +'Tis a tale of merry Lincolnshire<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I've heard my grannam tell;</span><br /> +And I'll tell it to you, my masters, here,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An' it likes you all, full well.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span><br /> +A Gosherd on Croyland fen, one day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Awoke, in haste, from slumber;</span><br /> +And on counting his geese, to his sad dismay,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He found there lacked one of the number.</span><br /> +<br /> +O the Gosherd looked west, and he looked east,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he looked before and behind him;</span><br /> +And his eye from north to south he cast<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the gander—but couldn't find him!</span><br /> +<br /> +So the Gosherd he drave his geese to the cote,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And began, forthwith, to wander</span><br /> +Over the marshy wild remote,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In search of the old stray gander.</span><br /> +<br /> +O the Gosherd he wandered till twilight gray<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was throwing its mists around him;</span><br /> +But the gander seemed farther and farther astray—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the Gosherd had not yet found him.</span><br /> +<br /> +So the Gosherd, foredeeming his search in vain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Resolved no farther to wander;</span><br /> +But to Croyland he turned him, in dudgeon, again,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sore fretting at heart for the gander.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span><br /> +Thus he footed the fens so dreary and dern,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While his brain, like the sky, was dark'ning;</span><br /> +And with dread to the scream o' the startled hern<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the bittern's boom he was heark'ning.</span><br /> +<br /> +But when the Gosherd the church-yard reached,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forefearing the dead would be waking,—</span><br /> +Like a craven upon the sward he stretched,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And could travel no farther for quaking!</span><br /> +<br /> +And there the Gosherd lay through the night,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not daring to rise and go further:</span><br /> +For, in sooth, the Gosherd beheld a sight<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That frighted him more than murther!</span><br /> +<br /> +From the old church clock the midnight hour<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In hollow tones was pealing,</span><br /> +When a slim white ghost to the church porch door<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Seemed up the footpath stealing!</span><br /> +<br /> +Stark staring upon the sward lay the clown,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his heart went "pitter patter,"—</span><br /> +Till the ghost in the clay-cold grave sunk down,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When he felt in a twitter-twatter!</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span><br /> +Soon—stretching aloft its long white arms—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the grave the ghost was peeping!—</span><br /> +Cried the Gosherd, "Our Lady defend me from harms,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Saint Guthlacke<small><a name="f15.1" id="f15.1" href="#f15">[15]</a></small> have me in his keeping!"</span><br /> +<br /> +The white ghost hissed!—the Gosherd swooned!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the morn,—on the truth 'tis no slander,—</span><br /> +Near the church porch door a new grave he found,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, therein, the white ghost—his stray gander!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +The Gosherd, scarce, his mirthful meed<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Had won, ere Tibbald of Stow,—</span><br /> +With look as pert as the pouncing glede<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When he eyeth the chick below,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Scraped his crowd,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And clear and loud,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As the merle-cock shrill,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or the bell from the hill,</span><br /> +Thus tuned his throat to his rough sire's praise—<br /> +His sire the swineherd of olden days:—</div> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + +<h3>The Swineherd's Song.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +I sing of a swineherd, in Lindsey, so bold,<br /> +Who tendeth his flock in the wide forest-fold:<br /> +He sheareth no wool from his snouted sheep:<br /> +He soweth no corn, and none he doth reap:<br /> +Yet the swineherd no lack of good living doth know:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Come jollily trowl</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The brown round bowl,</span><br /> +Like the jovial swineherd of Stow!<br /> +<br /> +He hedgeth no meadows to fatten his swine:<br /> +He renteth no joist for his snorting kine:<br /> +They rove through the forest, and browse on the mast,—<br /> +Yet, he lifteth his horn, and bloweth a blast,<br /> +And they come at his call, blow he high, blow he low!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Come, jollily trowl</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The brown round bowl,</span><br /> +And drink to the swineherd of Stow!<br /> +<br /> +He shunneth the heat 'mong the fern-stalks green,—<br /> +Or dreameth of elves 'neath the forest treen:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>He wrappeth him up when the oak leaves sere<br /> +And the ripe acorns fall, at the wane o' the year;<br /> +And he tippleth at Yule, by the log's cheery glow.—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Come, jollily trowl</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The brown round bowl,</span><br /> +And pledge the bold swineherd of Stow!<br /> +<br /> +The bishop he passeth the swineherd in scorn,—<br /> +Yet, to mass wends the swineherd at Candlemas morn;<br /> +And he offereth his horn, at our Lady's hymn,<br /> +With bright silver pennies filled up to the brim:—<br /> +Saith the bishop, "A very good fellow, I trow!"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Come, jollily trowl</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The brown round bowl,</span><br /> +And honour the swineherd of Stow!<br /> +<br /> +And now the brave swineherd, in stone, ye may spy,<br /> +Holding his horn, on the Minster so high!—<br /> +But the swineherd he laugheth, and cracketh his joke,<br /> +With his pig-boys that vittle beneath the old oak,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>Saying, "Had I no pennies, they'd make me no show!"—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Come, jollily trowl</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The brown round bowl,</span><br /> +And laugh with the swineherd of Stow!<small><a name="f16.1" id="f16.1" href="#f16">[16]</a></small><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +So merrily the chorus rose,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For every guest chimed in,—</span><br /> +That, had the dead been there to doze,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They had surely waked with the din!—</span><br /> +So the rustics said while their brains were mellow;<br /> +And all called the swineherd "a jolly good fellow!"<br /> +<br /> +"Come, hearty Snell!" said the Baron good;<br /> +"What sayest thou more of the merry greenwood?"<br /> +<br /> +"I remember no lay of the forest, now,"—<br /> +Said Snell, with a glance at three maids in a row;<br /> +"Belike, I could whimper a love-lorn ditty,—<br /> +If Tib, Doll, and Bell, would listen with pity!"<br /> +<br /> +"Then chaunt us thy love-song!" cried Baron and guests;<br /> +And Snell, looking shrewd, obeyed their behests.</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> + +<h3>The Woodman's Love Song.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +Along the meads a simple maid<br /> +One summer's day a musing strayed,<br /> +And, as the cowslips sweet she pressed,<br /> +This burthen to the breeze confessed—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I fear that I'm in love!</span><br /> +<br /> +For, ever since so playfully<br /> +Young Robin trod this path with me,<br /> +I always feel more happy here<br /> +Than ever I have felt elsewhere:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I fear that I'm in love!</span><br /> +<br /> +And, ever since young Robin talked<br /> +So sweetly, while alone we walked,<br /> +Of truth, and faith, and constancy,<br /> +I've wished he always walked with me:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I fear that I'm in love!</span><br /> +<br /> +And, ever since that pleasing night<br /> +When, 'neath the lady moon's fair light,<br /> +He asked my hand, but asked in vain,<br /> +I've wished he'd walk, and ask again:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I fear that I'm in love!</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span><br /> +And yet, I greatly fear, alas!<br /> +That wish will ne'er be brought to pass!—<br /> +What else to fear I cannot tell:—<br /> +I hope that all will yet be well—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">But, surely, I'm in love!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +Coy was their look, but true their pleasure,<br /> +While the maidens listed the woodman's measure;<br /> +Nor shrunk they at laughter of herdsman or hind,<br /> +But mixed with the mirth, and still looked kind.<br /> +<br /> +One maid there was who faintly smiled,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But never joined their laughter:</span><br /> +And why, by Yule-mirth unbeguiled,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sits the Baron's beauteous daughter?</span><br /> +Why looks she downcast, yet so sweet,<br /> +And seeketh no eyes with mirth to greet?<br /> +<br /> +"My darling Edith,—hast no song?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Saith Thorold, tenderly;</span><br /> +"Our guests have tarried to hear thee, long,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And looked with wistful eye!"</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span><br /> +Soft words the peerless damosel<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Breathes of imperfect skill:</span><br /> +"Sweet birds," smiles the Baron, "all know—right well,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Can sweetly sing an' they will."</span><br /> +<br /> +And the stranger minstrel, on his knee,<br /> +Offers his harp, with courtesy<br /> +So rare and gentle, that the hall<br /> +Rings with applause which one and all<br /> +Render who share the festival.<br /> +<br /> +De Thorold smiled; and the maiden took<br /> +The harp, with grace in act and look,—<br /> +But waked its echoes tremulously,—<br /> +Singing no noisy jubilee,—<br /> +But a chanson of sweetly stifled pain—<br /> +So sweet—when ended all were fain<br /> +To hear her chaunt it o'er again.</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> + +<h3>The Baron's Daughter's Song.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +I own the gay lark is the blythest bird<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That welcomes the purple dawn;</span><br /> +But a sweeter chorister far is heard<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the veil of eve is drawn:</span><br /> +<br /> +When the last lone traveller homeward wends<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'er the moorland, drowsily;</span><br /> +And the pale bright moon her crescent bends,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And silvers the soft gray sky;</span><br /> +<br /> +And in silence the wakeful starry crowd<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their vigil begin to keep;</span><br /> +And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And their buds in dew-drops weep;</span><br /> +<br /> +Oh, then the nightingale's warbling wild,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the depth of the forest dark,</span><br /> +Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow's child,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Than the song of the cheerful lark!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span><br /> +"'Twas sweet, but somewhat sad," said some;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Baron sought his daughter's eye,—</span><br /> +But, now, there fell a shade of gloom<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the cheek of Edith;—and tearfully,</span><br /> +He thought she turned to shun his look.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He would have asked his darling's woe,—</span><br /> +But the harp, again, the minstrel took;<br /> +And with such prelude as awoke<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe</span><br /> +In Thorold's soul,—the minstrel stranger—<br /> +In spite of fear, in spite of danger,—<br /> +In measures sweet and soft, but quaint,—<br /> +Responded thus to Edith's plaint:—</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + +<h3>The Minstrel's Response.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +What meant that glancing of thine eye,<br /> +That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hast thou a thought of woe or weal,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why should'st thou, then, that thought conceal,</span><br /> +Or hide it from my mind, Love?<br /> +<br /> +Did'st thou e'er breathe a sigh to me,<br /> +And I not breathe as deep to thee?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or hast thou whispered in mine ear</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A word of sorrow or of fear,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or have I seen thee shed a tear,—</span><br /> +And looked a thought unkind, Love?<br /> +<br /> +Did e'er a gleam of Love's sweet ray<br /> +Across thy beaming countenance play,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or joy its seriousness beguile,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And o'er it cast a radiant smile,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And mine with kindred joy, the while,</span><br /> +Not glow as bright as thine, Love?<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span><br /> +Why would'st thou, then, that something seek<br /> +To hide within thy breast,—nor speak,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Assured this heart would gladly bear</span><br /> +A burthen borne by thine, Love?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +Sir Wilfrid sat in thoughtful mood,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the youthful minstrel's song was ended;</span><br /> +While Edith by her loved sire stood,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And o'er his chair in sadness bended.</span><br /> +The guests were silent;—for the chaunt,<br /> +Where all, of late, were jubilant,<br /> +Had kindled quick imagining<br /> +Who he might be that thus dared sing—<br /> +Breathing of deep and fervent feeling—<br /> +His tender passion half-revealing.<br /> +<br /> +Soon, sportive sounds the silence broke:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Saint Leonard's lay-brother,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who seldom could smother</span><br /> +Conception of mischief, or thought of a joke,<br /> +Drew forth his old rebeck from under his cloak,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">And touching the chords</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To brain-sick words,—</span><br /> +While he mimicked a lover's phantasy,<br /> +Upward rolling his lustrous eye,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With warblings wild</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He flourished and trilled,—</span><br /> +Till mother and maiden aloud 'gan to laugh,<br /> +And clown challenged clown more good liquor to quaff.<br /> +<br /> +These freakish rhymes, in freakish measure,<br /> +He chaunted, for his wayward pleasure.</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h3>The Lay-Brother's Love Song.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +The lilies are fair, down by the green grove,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the brooklet glides through the dell;</span><br /> +But I view not a lily so fair, while I rove,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the maid whose name I could tell.</span><br /> +<br /> +The roses are sweet that blush in the vale,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the thorn-bush grows by the well;</span><br /> +But they breathe not a perfume so sweet on the gale<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the maid whose name I could tell.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span><br /> +The lark singeth sweetly up in the sky,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Over song-birds bearing the bell;</span><br /> +But one bird may for music the skylark defy,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Tis the maid whose name I could tell.</span><br /> +<br /> +The angels all brightly glitter and glow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the regions high where they dwell;</span><br /> +But they beam not so bright as one angel below,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Tis the maid whose name I could tell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +Sport may, a while, defy heart-cares,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And woo faint smiles from pain;</span><br /> +Jesting, a while, may keep down tears—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But they will rise, again!</span><br /> +<br /> +And saddening thoughts of others' care,<br /> +Unwelcome, though they be, to share,—<br /> +And though self-love would coldly say<br /> +"Let me laugh on, while others bear<br /> +Their own grief-fardels as they may!"—<br /> +Yet, while in sadness droops a brother,<br /> +No brother-heart can sadness smother:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>The tear of fellowship will start—<br /> +The tongue seek comfort to impart.<br /> +<br /> +And English hearts, of old, were dull<br /> +To quell their yearnings pitiful:—<br /> +The guests forgot the jester's strain,<br /> +To think upon the harp again,<br /> +And of the youth who, to its swell,<br /> +So late, his sighs did syllable.<br /> +<br /> +Natheless, no guest was skilled to find,<br /> +At once, fit words that might proclaim,—<br /> +For one who seemed without a name,—<br /> +Their sympathy;—and so, with kind<br /> +Intent, they urged some roundelay<br /> +The stranger minstrel would essay.<br /> +<br /> +He struck the harp, forthwith, but sung<br /> +Of passion still,—and still it clung<br /> +To Love—his full, melodious tongue!</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<h3>The Minstrel's Avowal.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +O yes! I hold thee in my heart;<br /> +Nor shall thy cherished form depart<br /> +From its loved home: though sad I be,—<br /> +My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!<br /> +<br /> +My dawn of life is dimmed and dark;<br /> +Hope's flame is dwindled to a spark;<br /> +But, though I live thus dyingly,—<br /> +My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!<br /> +<br /> +Though short my summer's day hath been,<br /> +And now the winter's eve is keen,—<br /> +Yet, while the storm descends on me,—<br /> +My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!<br /> +<br /> +No look of love upon me beams,—<br /> +No tear of pity for me streams:—<br /> +A thing forlorn—despairingly—<br /> +My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span><br /> +Thine eye would pity wert thou free<br /> +To soothe my woe; and though I be<br /> +Condemned to helpless misery,<br /> +My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +The maidens wept—the clowns looked glum—<br /> +Each rustic reveller was dumb:<br /> +Sir Wilfrid struggled hard to hide<br /> +Revengeful throes and ireful pride,<br /> +That, now, his wounded bosom swelled,—<br /> +For in that youth he had beheld<br /> +An image which had overcast<br /> +His life with sorrow in the Past:—<br /> +He struggled,—and besought the youth<br /> +To leave his strains of woe and ruth<br /> +For some light lay, or merry rhyme,<br /> +More fitting Yule's rejoicing time.—<br /> +And, though it cost him dear, the while,<br /> +He eyed the minstrel with a smile.<br /> +<br /> +The stranger waited not to note<br /> +The Baron's speech: like one distraught<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>He struck the harp—a wild farewell<br /> +Thus breathing to its deepest swell:—</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h3>The Minstrel's Farewell.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +Oh! smile not upon me—my heart is not smiling:<br /> +Too long it hath mourned, 'neath reproach and reviling:<br /> +Thy smile is a false one: it never can bless me:<br /> +It doth not relieve,—but more deeply distress me!<br /> +<br /> +I care not for beauty; I care not for riches:<br /> +I am not the slave whom their tinsel bewitches:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A bosom I seek</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That is true, like mine own,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though pale be the cheek,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And its roses all flown,—</span><br /> +And the wearer be desolate, wretched, forlorn,—<br /> +And alike from each soul-soothing solace be torn.<br /> +<br /> +That heart I would choose, which is stricken and slighted;<br /> +Whose joys are all fled, and whose hopes are all blighted;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">For that heart alone</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would in sympathy thrill</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With one like my own</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That sorrow doth fill;—</span><br /> +With a heart whose fond breathings have ever been spurned,—<br /> +And hath long their rejection in solitude mourned.<br /> +<br /> +The harp of my heart is unstrung; and to gladness<br /> +Respond not its chords—but to sorrow and sadness:—<br /> +Then speak not of mirth which my soul hath forsaken!<br /> +Why would ye my heart-breaking sorrows awaken?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<br /> +It is the shriek of deathful danger!<br /> +None heed the heart-plaint of the stranger!<br /> +All start aghast, with deadly fear,<br /> +While they, again, that wild shriek hear!<br /> +<br /> +"He drowns—Sir Wilfrid!" cries a hind:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The ferryman is weak:</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>He cannot stem the stream and wind:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Help, help! for Jesu's sake!"</span><br /> +<br /> +"Help one,—help all!" the Baron cries;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Whatever boon he craves,</span><br /> +I swear, by Christ, that man shall win,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My ferryman who saves!"—</span><br /> +<br /> +Out rush the guests: but one was forth<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who heard no word of boon:</span><br /> +His manly heart to deeds of worth<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Needed no clarion.</span><br /> +<br /> +He dashed into the surging Trent—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor feared the hurricane;</span><br /> +And, ere the breath of life was spent,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He seized the drowning man.—</span><br /> +<br /> +"What is thy boon?" said Torksey's lord,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But his cheek was deadly pale;</span><br /> +"Tell forth thy heart,—and to keep his word<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">De Thorold will not fail."—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span><br /> +"I rushed to save my brother-man,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And not to win thy boon:</span><br /> +My just desert had been Heaven's ban—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If thus I had not done!"—</span><br /> +<br /> +Thus spake the minstrel, when the hall<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Baron's guests had gained:</span><br /> +And, now, De Thorold's noble soul<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Spoke out, all unrestrained.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Then for thy own heart's nobleness<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tell forth thy boon," he said;</span><br /> +"Before thou tell'st thy thought, I guess<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What wish doth it pervade."—</span><br /> +<br /> +"Sweet Edith, his true, plighted love,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Romara asks of thee!</span><br /> +What though my kindred with thee strove,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wrought thee misery?</span><br /> +<br /> +"Our Lord, for whom we keep this day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When nailed upon the tree;</span><br /> +Did he foredoom his foes, or pray<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That they might pardoned be?"—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span><br /> +"Son of my ancient foe!" replied<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Baron to the youth,—</span><br /> +I glad me that my ireful pride<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Already bows to truth:</span><br /> +<br /> +"Deep zeal to save our brother-man—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Generous self-sacrifice</span><br /> +For other's weal—is nobler than<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All blood-stained victories!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Take thy fair boon!—for thou hast spoiled<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Death,—greedy Death—of prey—</span><br /> +This poor man who for me hath toiled<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full many a stormy day!</span><br /> +<br /> +"I feel—to quell the heart's bad flame,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bless an enemy,</span><br /> +Is richer than all earthly fame—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though the world should be its fee!</span><br /> +<br /> +"My sire was by thy kinsman slain;—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, as thy tale hath told,</span><br /> +Thy kinsman's usurping act was vain—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He died in the dungeon cold.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span><br /> +"Perish the memory of feud,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And deeds of savage strife!</span><br /> +Blood still hath led to deeds of blood,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And life hath paid for life!</span><br /> +<br /> +"My darling Edith shall be thine—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My blood with thine shall blend—</span><br /> +The Saxon with the Norman line—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In love our feuds shall end.</span><br /> +<br /> +"In age I'll watch ye bless the poor,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And smile upon your love;</span><br /> +And, when my pilgrimage is o'er,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I hope to meet above</span><br /> +<br /> +"Him who on earth a Babe was born<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In lowliness, as on this morn,—</span><br /> +And tabernacled here below,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lessons of brotherhood to show!"</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">————</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span><br /> +High was the feast, and rich the song,<br /> +For many a day, that did prolong<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wedding-revelry:</span><br /> +<br /> +But more it needeth not to sing<br /> +Of our fathers' festive revelling:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How will the dream agree</span><br /> +With waking hours of famished throngs,<br /> +Brooding on daily deepening wrongs—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A stern reality!—</span><br /> +<br /> +With pictures, that exist in life,<br /> +Of thousands waging direful strife<br /> +With gaunt Starvation, in the holds<br /> +Where Mammon vauntingly unfolds<br /> +His boasted banner of success?<br /> +<br /> +Oh, that bruised hearts, in their distress,<br /> +May meet with hearts whose bounteousness<br /> +Helps them to keep their courage up,—<br /> +"Bating no jot of heart or hope!"<small><a name="f17.1" id="f17.1" href="#f17">[17]</a></small><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span><br /> +My suffering brothers! still your hope<br /> +Hold fast, though hunger make ye droop!<br /> +Right—glorious Right—shall yet be done!<br /> +The Toilers' boon shall yet be won!<br /> +Wrong from its fastness shall be hurled—<br /> +The World shall be a happy world!—<br /> +It shall be filled with brother-men,—<br /> +And merry Yule oft come again!</div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> + +<h2>NOTES.</h2> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> +<h3>NOTES.</h3> + + +<h3><a name="f1" id="f1" href="#f1.1">I.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Torksey's Hall.</span></h4> + +<p>The remains of this ancient erection (of which a representation is given +in the accompanying vignette) form an interesting antiquarian object +beside the Trent, twelve miles from Lincoln, and seven from +Gainsborough. The entire absence of any authentic record, as to the date +of the foundation, or its former possessors, leaves the imagination at +full liberty to clothe it with poetic legend. Visits made to it, in my +childhood, and the hearing of wild narratives respecting the treasures +buried beneath its ruins, and the power of its lords in the times of +chivalry, fixed it, very early, in my mind, as the fit site for a tale +of romance. In addition to the beautiful fragment of a front on the +Trent bank, massive and extensive foundations in the back-ground show +that it must have been an important building in by-gone times.</p> + +<p>Torksey was, undoubtedly, one of the first towns in Lincolnshire, in the +Saxon period. Only three of the towns in the county are classed in +Domesday Book, and it is one of them: "Lincoln mans. 982; Stamford 317: +<i>Terchesey</i> 102." (Turner's Hist. of the Anglo-Saxons, 1836, vol. iii. +page 251.) Writers of parts of the county history,—(for a complete<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +history of Lincolnshire has not yet been written,)—affirm that Torksey +is the <i>Tiovulfingacester</i> of Venerable Bede; but Smith, the learned +editor of the Cambridge edition of Bede, inclines to the opinion that +Southwell is the town indicated by the pious and industrious monastic. +The passage in Bede leaves every thing to conjecture: he simply relates +that a truth-speaking presbyter and abbot of <i>Pearteneu</i>, (most likely, +Partney, near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire,) named Deda, said that an old +man had told him, that he, with a great multitude, was baptized by +Paulinus, in the presence of King Edwin, "in fluvio Treenta juxta +civitatem quæ lingua Anglorum Tiovulfingacaestir vocatur"—in the river +Trent, near the city which in the language of the Angles is called +Tiovulfingacaestir (Smith's Bede: Cambr. 1722, page 97.)—This passage +occurs immediately after the relation of the Christian mission of +Paulinus into Lindsey, and his conversion of Blecca, governor of +Lincoln, and his family, while the good King Edwin reigned over East +Anglia, to which petty kingdom Lincolnshire seems sometimes to have +belonged, though it was generally comprehended in the kingdom of Mercia, +during the period of the Heptarchy.</p> + +<p>If Stukeley be correct in his supposition that the "Foss-dyke," or canal +which connects the Trent here with the Witham at Lincoln, be the work of +the Romans,—and I know no reason for doubting it,—Torksey, standing at +the junction of the artificial river with the Trent, must have been an +important station even before the Saxon times. These are Stukeley's +words relative to the commercial use of the Foss-Dyke: "By this means +the corn of Cambridgeshire, Bedfordshire, Huntingdonshire, +Northamptonshire, Rutland, and Lincolnshire, came in;—from the Trent, +that of Nottinghamshire; all easily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> conveyed northward to the utmost +limits of the Roman power there, by the river Ouse, which is navigable +to the imperial city of York. This city (York) was built and placed +there, in that spot, on the very account of the corn-boats coming +thither, and the emperors there resided, on that account; and the great +morass on the river Foss was the haven, or bason, where these corn-boats +unladed. The very name of the Foss at York, and Foss-dyke between +Lincoln and the Trent, are memorials of its being an artificial work, +even as the great Foss road, equally the work of the spade, though in a +different manner." (Stukeley's Palæographia Britannica: Stamford, 1746: +No. 2, page 39.)</p> + +<p>In the superb edition of Dugdale's Monasticon Anglicanum, edited by Sir +Henry Ellis and others (1825), occurs the following note, also +evidencing the extent of ancient Torksey:—"Mr. T. Sympson, who +collected for a history of Lincoln, in a letter preserved in one of +Cole's manuscript volumes in the British Museum, dated January 20, 1741, +says, 'Yesterday, in Atwater's Memorandums, I met with a composition +between the prior of St. Leonard's in Torksey and the nuns of the Fosse, +by which it appears there were then three parishes in Torksey: viz. All +Saints, St. Mary's, and St Peter's." (Vol. iv. page 292.)</p> + +<p>At what date this "composition" took place between the prior and nuns, +we are not told: of course, it must have been before the dissolution of +the religious houses. Leland's account of Torksey, which is as follows, +applies to a period immediately succeeding that event.</p> + +<p>"The olde buildinges of Torkesey wer on the south of the new toune, +[that is, at the junction of the Trent with the Fosse] but ther now is +litle seene of olde buildinges, more than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> a chapelle, wher men say was +the paroch chirch of olde Torkesey; and on Trent side the Yerth so +balkith up that it shewith that there be likelihod hath beene sum +waulle, and by it is a hill of yerth cast up: they caulle it the Wynde +Mille Hille, but I thinke the dungeon of sum olde castelle was there. By +olde Torkesey standith southely the ruines of Fosse Nunnery, hard by the +stone-bridge over Fosse Dik; and there Fosse Dike hath his entering ynto +Trente. There be 2 smaul paroche chirches in new Torkesey and the Priory +of S. Leonard standith on theste [the East] side of it. The ripe [bank] +that Torkesey standith on is sumwhat higher ground than is by the west +ripe of Trent. Trent there devidith, and a good deale upward, +Lincolnshire from Nottinghamshire." (Itinerary: Oxon, 1745: vol. i. page +33.)</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f2" id="f2" href="#f2.1">II.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Thorold.</span></h4> + +<p>The high character for generousness and hospitality assigned to this +most ancient of Lincolnshire families, by history and tradition, was my +only reason for giving its name to an imaginary lord of Torksey. +Ingulphus, the Croyland chronicler, in a passage full of grateful +eloquence,—(commencing, "Tunc inter familiares nostri monasterii, et +benevolos amicos, erat præcipuus consiliarius quidam. Vicecomes +Lincolniæ, dictus Thoroldus,"—but too long to quote entire,)—relates, +that in a dreadful famine, which occurred in the reign of Edward the +Confessor, Thorold, sheriff of Lincolnshire, gave his manor of Bokenhale +to the abbey of Croyland, and afterwards<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> bestowed upon it his manor of +Spalding, with all its rents and profits. (Gale's Rer. Ang. Script. Vet. +Tom. i. page 65. Oxon, 1684.)</p> + +<p>Tanner thus briefly notices the latter circumstance: "Spalding. Thorold +de Bukenale, brother to the charitable countess Godiva, gave a place +here, A.D. 1052, for the habitation, and lands for the maintenance of a +prior and five monks from Croiland." (Notitia, page 251. fol. 1744.) The +generosity of the female Thorold, Godiva, is matter of notoriety in the +traditionary history of Coventry; and her name, and that of her husband, +are found in connection with the history of the very ancient town of +Stow, in Lincolnshire, as benefactors to its church. "Leofricus, comes +Merciæ, et Godiva ejus uxor ecclesiam de S. Marie Stow, quam Eadnotus, +episcopus Lincolniæ, construxit, pluribus ornamentis ditavit"—Leofric, +earl of Mercia, and Godiva his wife, enriched with many adornments the +church of St. Mary at Stow, which Eadnoth, bishop of Lincoln, built. +(Leland's Collectanea, vol. i. page 158. London, 1770.)</p> + +<p>In Kimber and Johnson's Baronetage (vol. i. page 470.) the Thorold of +the reign of Edward the Confessor is said to be descended from Thorold, +sheriff of Lincolnshire in the reign of Kenelph, king of Mercia. Betham, +in his "Baronetage of England" (Ipswich, 1801, vol. i. page 476) says +the pedigree of the Thorolds is a "very fine" one, and enumerates its +several branches of Marston, Blankney, Harmston, Morton, and Claythorp, +and of the "High Hall and Low Hall, in Hough, all within the said county +of Lincoln." Betham, and other writers of his class, enumerate Thorolds, +sheriffs of Lincolnshire, in the reigns of Philip and Mary, Elizabeth, +James I. and Charles I.; and Sir George Thorold of Harm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>ston was sheriff +of London and Middlesex, in 1710,—and afterwards Lord Mayor.</p> + +<p>Sir John Thorold of Syston is now the chief representative of this Saxon +family; but report says that he delights to live abroad—rather than in +the midst of his tenantry and dependants, to gladden the hearts of the +poor, and receive happiness from diffusing it among others, after the +good example of his ancestors.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f3" id="f3" href="#f3.1">III.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Fosse Nunnery.</span></h4> + +<p>"The Nunnery of the Fosse was begun by the inhabitants of Torksey upon +some demesne lands belonging to the Crown, pretty early in King John's +time; but King Henry III. confirming it, is said to have been the +founder. The circumstance of the foundation by the men of Torksey is +mentioned in King Henry's charter. The Inspeximus of the 5th Edw. II., +which contains it, also contains a charter of King John, granting to the +nuns two marks of silver which they had been used to pay annually into +the Exchequer for the land at Torksey. In this charter King John calls +them the Nuns of Torkesey."—<i>Dugdale's Monasticon</i>, vol. iv. p. 292.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f4" id="f4" href="#f4.1">IV.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Saint Leonard's.</span></h4> + +<p>Bishop Tanner, following Speed and Leland, says, "Torkesey. On the east +side of the new town stood a priory of Black Canons, built by K. John to +the honour of St. Leonard."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>—<i>Notitia</i>, p. 278. This priory was granted +to Sir Philip Hobby, after the Dissolution: the Fosse Nunnery to Edward +Lord Clinton.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f5" id="f5" href="#f5.1">V.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Thorney Wood.</span></h4> + +<p>In the neighbourhood of Torksey, and, traditionally, part of an +extensive forest, in past times. A branch of the Nevils, claiming +descent from the great earls of Warwick and Montagu, reside at Thorney.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f6" id="f6" href="#f6.1">VI.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Grunsel.</span></h4> + +<p>This old word for <i>threshold</i> is still common in Lincolnshire; and with +Milton's meaning so plainly before his understanding (<i>Paradise Lost</i>, +book i. line 460.), it is strange that Dr. Johnson should have given +"the lower part of the building" as an explanation for <i>grunsel</i>. Lemon, +in his "Etymology," spells the word "ground-sill," and then derives the +last syllable from "soil." Nothing can be more stupid. Door-sill is as +common as grunsel, for threshold, in Staffordshire, as well as +Lincolnshire; and, in both counties, "window-sill" is frequent. I +remember, too, in my boyhood, having heard the part of the plough to +which the share is fitted—the frame of the harrows—and the frame of a +grindstone, each called "sill" by the farmers of Lindsey.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="f7" id="f7" href="#f7.1">VII.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Romara.</span></h4> + +<p>In this instance I have also used a name associated with the ancient +history of Lincolnshire as an imaginary Norman lord of Torksey. "William +de Romara, lord of Bolingbroke, in Lincolnshire, was the first earl of +that county after the Conquest. He was the son of Roger, son of Gerold +de Romara; which Roger married Lucia, daughter of Algar, earl of +Chester, and sister and heir to Morcar, the Saxon earl of Northumberland +and Lincoln. In 1142 he founded the Abbey of Revesby, in com. Linc., +bearing then the title of Earl of Lincoln."—<span class="smcap">Bankes</span>' <i>Extinct and +Dormant Peerage</i>.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f8" id="f8" href="#f8.1">VIII.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">The Trent.</span></h4> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">"Or Trent, who like some earth-born giant spreads</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">His thirty arms along the indented meads."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 20em;"><span class="smcap">Milton.</span></span></p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f9" id="f9" href="#f9.1">IX.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">The Heygre.</span></h4> + +<p>The tide, at the equinoxes especially, presents a magnificent spectacle +on the Trent. It comes up even to Gainsborough, which is seventy miles +from the sea, in one overwhelming wave, spreading across the wide +river-channel, and frequently putting the sailors into some alarm for +the safety of their vessels, which are dashed to and fro, while "all +hands" are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> engaged in holding the cables and slackening them, so as to +relieve the ships.</p> + +<p>To be in a boat, under the guardianship of a sailor, and to hear the +shouts on every hand of "'Ware Heygre!"—as the grand wave is beheld +coming on,—and then to be tossed up and down in the boat, as the wave +is met,—form no slight excitements for a boy living by the side of +Trent.</p> + +<p>I find no key to the derivation of the word Heygre in the Etymologists. +The Keltic verb, Éigh, signifying, to cry, shout, sound, proclaim; or +the noun Eigin, signifying difficulty, distress, force, violence—may, +perhaps, be the root from whence came this name for the tide—so +dissimilar to any other English word of kindred meaning. It is scarcely +probable that the word by which the earliest inhabitants of Britain +would express their surprise at this striking phenomenon should ever be +lost, or changed for another.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f10" id="f10" href="#f10.1">X.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">The Porpoise.</span></h4> + +<p>The appearance of a porpoise, at the season when his favourite prey, the +salmon, comes up the river to spawn, is another high excitement to +dwellers on the Trent. I remember well the almost appalling interest +with which, in childhood, I beheld some huge specimen of this marine +visitor, drawn up by crane on a wharf, after an enthusiastic contest for +his capture by the eager sailors.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="f11" id="f11" href="#f11.1">XI.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Agnes Plantagenet.</span></h4> + +<p>The very interesting relic of the Old Hall at Gainsborough is +associated, in the mind of one who spent more than half his existence in +the old town, with much that is chivalrous. Mowbrays, Percys, De Burghs, +and other high names of the feudal era are in the list of its +possessors, as lords of the manor. None, however, of its former tenants +calls up such stirring associations as 'Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured +Lancaster,' who, with his earldom of Lincoln, held this castle and +enlarged and beautified it. Tradition confidently affirms that his +daughter was starved to death by him, in one of the rooms of the old +tower,—in consequence of her perverse attachment to her father's +foe,—the knight of Torksey. Often have I heard the recital, from some +aged gossip, by the fireside on a winter's night; and the rehearsal was +invariably delivered with so much of solemn and serious averment—that +the lady was still seen,—that she would point out treasure, to any one +who had the courage to speak to her,—and that some families <i>had been</i> +enriched by her ghostly means, though they had kept the secret,—as to +awaken within me no little dread of leaving the fireside for bed in the +dark!</p> + +<p>With indescribable feeling I wandered along the carven galleries and +ruined rooms, or crept up the antique massive staircases, of this +crumbling mansion of departed state, in my boyhood,—deriving from these +stolen visits to its interior, mingled with my admiring gaze at its +battlemented turret, and rich octagonal window, (which tradition said +had lighted the chapel erected by John of Gaunt,) a passion for +chivalry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> and romance, that not even my Chartism can quench. Once, and +once only, I remember creeping, under the guidance of an elder boy, up +to the 'dark room' in the turret; but the fear that we should really see +the ghostly Lady caused us to run down the staircase, with beating +hearts, as soon as we had reached the door and had had one momentary +peep!</p> + +<p>Other traditions of high interest are connected with this ancient +mansion. One, says that Sweyn the Danish invader, (the remains of whose +camp exist at the distance of a mile from the town,) was killed at a +banquet, by his drunken nobles, in the field adjoining its precincts. +Another, avers that in the Saxon building believed to have stood on the +same spot, as the residence of the earls of Mercia, the glorious +Alfred's wedding-feast was held. Speed gives some little aid to the +imagination in its credent regard for the story: "Elswith, the wife of +king Ælfred, was the daughter of Ethelfred, surnamed Muchel, that is, +the Great, an Earle of the Mercians, who inhabited about Gainesborough, +in Lincolnshire: her mother was Edburg, a lady borne of the Bloud roiall +of Mercia." (Historie of Great Britaine, 1632: page 333.)</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f12" id="f12" href="#f12.1">XII.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Roche.</span></h4> + +<p>A visit to the beautiful ruins of Roche Abbey, near ancient Tickhill, +and to the scenery amidst which they lie, created a youthful desire to +depict them in verse. This doggrel ditty (I forestall the critics!) of +the Miller of Roche is all, however, that I preserved of the imperfect +piece. The ditty is a homely versification of a homely tale which was +often told<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> by the fireside in Lincolnshire. I never saw anything +resembling it in print, until Mr. Dickens (whose kind attention I cannot +help acknowledging) pointed out to me a similar story in the Decameron.</p> + +<p>Roche Abbey, according to the "Monasticon Anglicanum," was founded by +Richard de Builli and Richard Fitz-Turgis, in 1147. "The architecture +bespeaks the time of Edward II. or III." (Edit. 1825: vol. v. p. 502.)</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f13" id="f13" href="#f13.1">XIII.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Scrogg and Carr.</span></h4> + +<p>Johnson says, "Scrog. A stunted shrub, bush, or branch; yet used in some +parts of the north." In Lincolnshire, however, the word is used to +designate wild ground on which "stunted shrub, bush, or branch" grows, +and <i>not</i> as a synonyme with shrub or bush.</p> + +<p><i>Carr</i> I have looked for in vain among the etymologists. Johnson merely +quotes Gibson's Camden to show that, in the names of places, <i>Car</i> +"seems to have relation to the British <i>caer</i>, a city;" and Junius, +Skinner, Lemon, Horne Tooke, Jamieson, &c. are silent about it. The word +is applied, in Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire, to the low lands, or +wide marsh pastures that border the Trent; and I feel little doubt that, +like the word <i>heygre</i>, and many others that might be collected, it has +been in use ever since it was given to these localities, by the primeval +tribes, the Kelts, when they first saw these beautiful tracts, so much +subject to inundation, like the flat borders of their own rivers in the +East. <span class="lang">כַּר</span> (car) a pasture, is found in Isaiah, xxx. 23. Psalm +lxv.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> 14, &c., and although <span class="lang">כִּכָּר</span> (kicar) +is simply translated "plain" in the established version, and Gesenius would, still more +vaguely, render it "circuit, surrounding country," (from <span class="lang">כור</span>, in +Arabic, <i>to be round</i>,) yet I suspect the words come from the same root, +and have the same meaning. Thus, Genesis xiii. 10.</p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/hebrew.png" alt="Hebrew" /></div> +<p>might literally be rendered "And Lot raised his eyes, and saw all the carr of +the Jordan, that it was well watered everywhere, before Jehovah +destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, like the garden of Jehovah; like the land +of Mitzraim, as thou approachest Zoar." How natural, that the Keltic or +Kymric tribes should behold, in the Trent pastures, the resemblance of +the plains on the banks of the Jordan, the Nile, the Tigris, and +Euphrates—(for the term <span class="lang">נַן-יְהֹוָה</span> <i>garden of Jehovah</i> most probably +denotes Mesopotamia, in the very ancient fragments collected by Moses to +form the book of Genesis)—and should denote them by the same name!</p> + +<p><span class="lang">ض ار</span>, khawār, also signifies "low or sloping ground," in +Richardson's Arabic and Persian Dictionary; and "Carr, a bog, a fen, or +morass," occurs in Armstrong's Gaelic Dictionary. The word I conceive is +thus clearly traced to its Keltic or Eastern origin.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f14" id="f14" href="#f14.1">XIV.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Crowd.</span></h4> + +<p>Sir John Hawkins, in his highly curious "History of Music" (vol. ii. +page 274) says "The <i>Cruth</i> or <i>Crowth</i>" was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> an instrument "formerly in +common use in the principality of Wales," and is the "prototype of the +whole fidicinal species of musical instruments." "It has six strings, +supported by a bridge, and is played on by a bow." "The word <i>Cruth</i> is +pronounced in English <i>Crowth</i>, and corruptly <i>Crowd</i>." "LÞuð +is the Saxon appellation given by Leland, for the instrument +(Collectanea: vol. v.)" "A player on the <i>cruth</i> was called a Crowther +or Crowder, and so also is a common fiddler to this day; and hence, +undoubtedly, Crowther, or Crowder, a common surname. Butler, with his +usual humour, has characterised a common fiddler, and given him the name +of Crowdero."</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 4em;">"I'th' head of all this warlike rabble</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Crowdero marched, expert and able."</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<h3>XV.</h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Rebeck.</span></h4> + +<p>Rebeck is a word well known from Milton's exquisite "L'Allegro." Sir +John Hawkins (vol. ii. page 86) traces it to the Moorish <i>Rebeb</i>; and +believes he finds this old three-stringed fiddle in the hands of +Chaucer's Absolon, the parish-clerk, who could "plaie songs on a smale +ribible."</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f15" id="f15" href="#f15.1">XV.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">St. Guthlacke.</span></h4> + +<p>The patron saint of the ancient Abbey of Croyland.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f16" id="f16" href="#f16.1">XVI.</a></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">The Swineherd of Stow.</span></h4> + +<p>St. Remigius, the Norman bishop, is placed on the pinnacle of one +buttress that terminates the splendid façade, or west front of Lincoln +Cathedral, and the Swineherd of Stow, with his horn in his hand, on the +other. The tradition is in the mouth of every Lincolner, that this +effigied honour was conferred on the generous rudester because he gave +his horn filled with silver pennies towards the rebuilding or +beautifying of the Minster.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="f17" id="f17" href="#f17.1">XVII.</a></h3> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 4em;">"Nor bate a jot of heart or hope."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12em;"><i>Milton's Sonnet on his blindness.</i></span></p> + + +<h2>THE END.</h2> + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="titlepage" id="titlepage">Text of Title Page:</a></h3> +<p class="center"> +The<br /> +Baron's Yule Feast:<br /><br /> +A<br /> +Christmas-Rhyme.<br /> +<br /> +By<br /> +Thomas Cooper,<br /> +The Chartist.<br /> +<br /> +London<br /> +Jeremiah How<br /> +<br /> +209 Picadilley<br /> +1846</p> + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="u">Transcriber's Notes:</span></p> +<p>Two notes "XV" are presented in this text as they are presented in the original. The first "XV" explaining "Rebeck" has no marker in the original text.</p> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas +Rhyme, by Thomas Cooper + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARON'S YULE FEAST *** + +***** This file should be named 29722-h.htm or 29722-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/7/2/29722/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Stephanie Eason, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas Rhyme + +Author: Thomas Cooper + +Release Date: August 18, 2009 [EBook #29722] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARON'S YULE FEAST *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Stephanie Eason, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + + + + The + + Baron's Yule Feast. + + + LONDON: + Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE, + New-Street-Square. + + + + + The + Baron's Yule Feast: + A + Christmas-Rhyme. + + By + Thomas Cooper, + The Chartist. + + London + JEREMIAH HOW + + 209 Picadilley + 1846 + + + + +TO + +THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. + + + Lady, receive a tributary lay + From one who cringeth not to titled state + Conventional, and lacketh will to prate + Of comeliness--though thine, to which did pay + The haughty Childe his tuneful homage, may + No minstrel deem a harp-theme derogate. + I reckon thee among the truly great + And fair, because with genius thou dost sway + The thought of thousands, while thy noble heart + With pity glows for Suffering, and with zeal + Cordial relief and solace to impart. + Thou didst, while I rehearsed Toil's wrongs, reveal + Such yearnings! Plead! let England hear thee plead + With eloquent tongue,--that Toil from wrong be freed! + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +Several pieces in the following Rhyme were written many years ago, and +will be recognised by my early friends. They were the fruit of +impressions derived from the local associations of boyhood, (of which, +the reader, if inclined, may learn more in the notes,) and of an +admiration created by the exquisite beauty and simplicity of Coleridge's +'Christabel,'--which I had by heart, and used to repeat to Thomas +Miller, my playmate and companion from infancy, during many a delightful +'Day in the Woods,' and pleasing ramble on the hills and in the woods +above Gainsborough, and along the banks of Trent. + +I offer but one apology for the production of a metrical essay, composed +chiefly of imperfect and immature pieces:--the ambition to contribute +towards the fund of Christmas entertainment, in which agreeable labour I +see many popular names engaged,--and among them, one, the most +deservedly popular in the literature of the day. The favour with which +an influential portion of the press has received my 'Prison Rhyme' +emboldens me to take this step; and if the flagellation of criticism be +not too keenly dealt upon me for the imperfections in the few pages that +follow, I will be content, in this instance, to expect no praise. + +134, _Blackfriars Road_, + +_Dec. 20. 1845_. + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + + + + +CANTO I. + + + Right beautiful is Torksey's hall,[1] + Adown by meadowed Trent; + Right beautiful that mouldering wall, + And remnant of a turret tall, + Shorn of its battlement. + + For, while the children of the Spring + Blush into life, and die; + And Summer's joy-birds take light wing + When Autumn mists are nigh; + And soon the year--a winterling-- + With its fall'n leaves doth lie; + That ruin gray-- + Mirror'd, alway, + Deep in the silver stream, + Doth summon weird-wrought visions vast, + That show the actors of the past + Pictured, as in a dream. + + Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes, + The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise, + Till the full pageant bright-- + A throng of warrior-barons bold, + Glittering in burnished steel and gold, + Bursts on my glowing sight. + + And, mingles with the martial train, + Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain, + On palfrey and jennet-- + That proudly toss the tasselled rein, + And daintily curvet; + And war-steeds prance, + And rich plumes glance + On helm and burgonet; + And lances crash, + And falchions flash + Of knights in tourney met. + + Fast fades the joust!--and fierce forms frown + That man the leaguered tower,-- + Nor quail to scan the kingly crown + That leads the leaguering power. + + Trumpet and "rescue" ring!--and, soon, + He who began the strife + Is fain to crave one paltry boon:-- + The thrall-king begs his life! + + Our fathers and their throbbing toil + Are hushed in pulseless death; + Hushed is the dire and deadly broil-- + The tempest of their wrath;-- + Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil + Is thine, O sateless Grave! + Songs of their brother-hours shall foil + Thy triumph o'er the brave! + + Their bravery take, and darkly hide + Deep in thy inmost hold! + Take all their mailed pomp and pride + To deck thy mansions cold! + Plunderer! thou hast but purified + Their memories from alloy: + Faults of the dead we scorn to chide-- + Their virtues sing with joy. + + Lord of our fathers' ashes! list + A carol of their mirth; + Nor shake thy nieve, chill moralist! + To check their sons' joy-birth:-- + + It is the season when our sires + Kept jocund holiday; + And, now, around our charier fires, + Old Yule shall have a lay:-- + A prison-bard is once more free; + And, ere he yields his voice to thee, + His song a merry-song shall be! + + * * * * * + + Sir Wilfrid de Thorold[2] freely holds + What his stout sires held before-- + Broad lands for plough, and fruitful folds,-- + Though by gold he sets no store; + And he saith, from fen and woodland wolds, + From marish, heath, and moor,-- + To feast in his hall, + Both free and thrall, + Shall come as they came of yore. + + "Let the merry bells ring out!" saith he + To my lady of the Fosse;[3] + "We will keep the birth-eve joyfully + Of our Lord who bore the cross!" + + "Let the merry bells ring loud!" he saith + To saint Leonard's shaven prior;[4] + "Bid thy losel monks that patter of faith + Shew works, and never tire." + Saith the lord of saint Leonard's: "The brotherhood + Will ring and never tire + For a beck or a nod of the Baron good;"-- + Saith Sir Wilfrid: "They will--for hire!" + + Then, turning to his daughter fair, + Who leaned on her father's carven chair,-- + He said,--and smiled + On his peerless child,-- + His jewel whose price no clerk could tell, + Though the clerk had told + Sea sands for gold;-- + For her dear mother's sake he loved her well,-- + But more for the balm her tenderness + Had poured on his widowed heart's distress;-- + More, still more, for her own heart's grace + That so lovelily shone in her lovely face, + And drew all eyes its love to trace-- + Left all tongues languageless!-- + + He said,--and smiled + On his peerless child, + "Sweet bird! bid Hugh our seneschal + Send to saint Leonard's, ere even-fall, + A fat fed beeve, and a two-shear sheep, + With a firkin of ale that a monk in his sleep + May hear to hum, when it feels the broach, + And wake up and swig, without reproach!-- + And the nuns of the Fosse--for wassail-bread-- + Let them have wheat, both white and red; + And a runlet of mead, with a jug of the wine + Which the merchant-man vowed he brought from the Rhine; + And bid Hugh say that their bells must ring + A peal loud and long, + While we chaunt heart-song, + For the birth of our heavenly king!" + + Now merrily ring the lady-bells + Of the nunnery by the Fosse:-- + Say the hinds, "Their silver music swells + Like the blessed angels' syllables, + At his birth who bore the cross!" + + And solemnly swells saint Leonard's chime + And the great bell loud and deep:-- + Say the gossips, "Let's talk of the holy time + When the shepherds watched their sheep; + And the Babe was born for all souls' crime + In the weakness of flesh to weep."-- + But, anon, shrills the pipe of the merry mime, + And their simple hearts upleap. + + "God save your souls, good Christian folk! + God save your souls from sin!-- + Blythe Yule is come--let us blythely joke!"-- + Cry the mummers, ere they begin. + + Then, plough-boy Jack, in kirtle gay,-- + Though shod with clouted shoon,-- + Stands forth the wilful maid to play + Who ever saith to her lover "Nay"-- + When he sues for a lover's boon. + + While Hob the smith with sturdy arm + Circleth the feigned maid; + And, spite of Jack's assumed alarm, + Busseth his lips, like a lover warm, + And will not "Nay" be said. + + Then loffe the gossips, as if wit + Were mingled with the joke:-- + Gentles,--they were with folly smit,-- + Natheless, their memories acquit + Of crime--these simple folk! + + No harmful thoughts their revels blight,-- + Devoid of bitter hate and spite, + They hold their merriment;-- + And, till the chimes tell noon at night, + Their joy shall be unspent! + + "Come haste ye to bold Thorold's hall, + And crowd his kitchen wide; + For there, he saith, both free and thrall + Shall sport this good Yule-tide! + + "Come hasten, gossips!" the mummers cry, + Throughout old Torksey town; + "We'll hasten!" they answer, joyfully, + The gossip and the clown. + + Heigho! whence cometh that cheery shout? + 'Tis the Yule-log troop,--a merry rout! + The gray old ash that so bravely stood, + The pride of the Past, in Thorney wood,[5] + They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule; + And kirtled Jack is placed astride: + On the log to the grunsel[6] he shall ride! + + "Losels, yoke all! yoke to, and pull!" + Cries Dick the wright, on long-eared steed; + "He shall have thwack + On lazy back, + That yoketh him not, in time of need!" + A long wain-whip + Dick doth equip, + And with beans in the bladder at end of thong, + It seemeth to threaten strokes sturdy and strong;-- + Yet clown and maid + Give eager aid,-- + And all, as they rattle the huge block along, + Seem to court the joke + Of Dick's wain-whip stroke,-- + Be it ever so smart, none thinks he hath wrong;-- + Till with mirthsome glee, + The old ash tree + Hath come to the threshold of Torksey hall,-- + Where its brave old heart + A glow shall impart + To the heart of each guest at the festival. + + And through the porch, a jocund crowd, + They rush, with heart-born laughter loud; + And still the merry mimesters call, + With jest and gibe, "Laugh, losels all!" + + Then in the laden sewers troop, + With plattered beef and foaming stoup:-- + "Make merry, neighbours!" cries good Hugh, + The white-haired seneschal: + "Ye trow, bold Thorold welcomes you-- + Make merry, my masters, all!" + + They pile the Yule-log on the hearth,-- + Soak toasted crabs in ale; + And while they sip, their homely mirth + Is joyous as if all the earth + For man were void of bale! + + And why should fears for future years + Mix jolly ale with thoughts of tears + When in the horn 'tis poured? + And why should ghost of sorrow fright + The bold heart of an English wight + When beef is on the board? + + De Thorold's guests are wiser than + The men of mopish lore; + For round they push the smiling can, + And slice the plattered store. + + And round they thrust the ponderous cheese, + And the loaves of wheat and rye: + None stinteth him for lack of ease-- + For each a stintless welcome sees, + In the Baron's blythesome eye. + + The Baron joineth the joyous feast-- + But not in pomp or pride; + He smileth on the humblest guest + So gladsomely--all feel that rest + Of heart which doth abide + Where deeds of generousness attest + The welcome by the tongue professed, + Is not within belied. + + And the Baron's beauteous child is there, + In her maiden peerlessness,-- + Her eyes diffusing heart-light rare, + And smiles so sweetly debonair, + That all her presence bless.-- + + But wherefore paleth, soon, her cheek? + And why, with trembling, doth she seek + To shun her father's gaze? + And who is he for whom the crowd + Make ready room, and "Welcome" loud + With gleeful voices raise? + + "Right welcome!" though the revellers shout, + They hail the minstrel "Stranger!" + And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt, + And his daughter's look thrills "danger!" + + Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold, + And his speech is firm and free; + He saith he will carol a legend old, + Of a Norman lord of Torksey told: + He learnt it o'er the sea; + And he will not sing for the Baron's gold, + But for love of minstrelsy. + + "Come, tune thy harp!" the Baron saith, + "And tell thy minstrel tale: + It is too late to harbour wrath + For the thieves in helm and mail: + + "Our fathers' home again is ours!-- + Though Thorold is Saxon still, + To a song of thy foreign troubadours + He can list with right good will!" + + A shout of glee rings to the roof, + And the revellers form a ring; + Then silent wait to mark what proof + Of skill with voice and string + The youthful stranger will afford. + + Full soon he tunes each quivering chord, + And, with preamble wildly sweet + He doth the wondering listeners greet;-- + Then strikes into a changeful chaunt + That fits his fanciful romaunt. + + + + +The Daughter of Plantagenet. + +THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S TALE. + + +FYTTE THE FYRSTE. + + 'Tis midnight, and the broad full moon + Pours on the earth her silver noon; + Sheeted in white, like spectres of fear, + Their ghostly forms the towers uprear; + And their long dark shadows behind them are cast, + Like the frown of the cloud when the lightning hath past. + + The warder sleeps on the battlement, + And there is not a breeze to curl the Trent; + The leaf is at rest, and the owl is mute-- + But list! awaked is the woodland lute: + The nightingale warbles her omen sweet + On the hour when the ladye her lover shall meet. + + She waves her hand from the loophole high, + And watcheth, with many a struggling sigh, + And hearkeneth in doubt, and paleth with fear,-- + Yet tremblingly trusts her true knight is near;-- + And there skims o'er the river--or doth her heart doat?-- + As with wing of the night-hawk--her lover's brave boat. + + His noble form hath attained the strand, + And she waves again her small white hand; + And breathing to heaven, in haste, a prayer, + Softly glides down the lonely stair; + And there stands by the portal, all watchful and still, + Her own faithful damsel awaiting her will. + + The midnight lamp gleams dull and pale,-- + The maidens twain are weak and frail,-- + But Love doth aid his votaries true, + While they the massive bolts undo,-- + And a moment hath flown, and the warrior knight + Embraceth his love in the meek moonlight. + + The knight his love-prayer, tenderly, + Thus breathed in his fair one's ear + "Oh! wilt thou not, my Agnes, flee?-- + And, quelling thy maiden fear, + Away in the fleeting skiff with me, + And, for aye, this lone heart cheer?" + + "O let not bold Romara[7] seek"-- + Soft answered his ladye-love,-- + "A father's doating heart to break, + For should I disdainful prove + Of his high behests, his darling child + Will thenceforth be counted a thing defiled; + And the kindling eye of my martial sire + Be robbed of its pride, and be quenched its fire: + Nor long would true Romara deem + The heart of his Agnes beat for him, + And for him alone--if that heart, he knew, + To its holiest law could be thus untrue." + + His plume-crowned helm the warrior bows + Low o'er her shoulder fair, + And bursting sighs the grief disclose + His lips can not declare; + And swiftly glide the tears of love + Adown the ladye's cheek;-- + Their deep commingling sorrows prove + The love they cannot speak! + + The moon shines on them, as on things + She loves to robe with gladness,-- + But all her light no radiance brings + Unto their hearts' dark sadness: + Forlornly, 'neath her cheerless ray,-- + Bosom to bosom beating,-- + In speechless agony they stay, + With burning kisses greeting;-- + Nor reck they with what speed doth haste + The present hour to join the past. + + "Ho! lady Agnes, lady dear!" + Her fearful damsel cries; + "You reckon not, I deeply fear, + How swift the moontide flies! + The surly warder will awake, + The morning dawn, anon,-- + My heart beginneth sore to quake,-- + I fear we are undone!" + + But Love is mightier than Fear: + The ladye hasteth not: + The magnet of her heart is near, + And peril is forgot! + + She clingeth to her knight's brave breast + Like a lorn turtle-dove, + And 'mid the peril feeleth rest,-- + The full, rapt rest of Love! + + "I charge thee, hie thee hence, sir knight!" + The damsel shrilly cries; + "If this should meet her father's sight, + By Heaven! my lady dies." + + The warrior rouseth all his pride, + And looseth his love's caress,-- + Yet slowness of heart doth his strength betide + As he looks on her loveliness:-- + But again the damsel their love-dream breaks,-- + And, self-reproachingly, + The knight his resolve of its fetters shakes, + And his spirit now standeth free. + + Then, came the last, absorbing kiss, + True Love can ne'er forego,-- + That dreamy plenitude of bliss + Or antepast of woe,-- + That seeming child of Heaven, which at its birth + Briefly expires, and proves itself of earth. + + The ladye hieth to her couch;-- + And when the morn appears, + The changes of her cheek avouch, + Full virginly her fears;-- + But her doating father can nought discern + In the hues of the rose and the lily that chase + Each other across her lovely face,-- + Save a sweetness that softens his visage stern. + + +FYTTE THE SECONDE. + + Romara's skiff is on the Trent, + And the stream is in its strength,-- + For a surge, from its ocean-fountain sent, + Pervades its giant length:[8] + Roars the hoarse heygre[9] in its course, + Lashing the banks with its wrathful force; + And dolefully echoes the wild-fowl's scream, + As the sallows are swept by the whelming stream; + And her callow young are hurled for a meal, + To the gorge of the barbel, the pike, and the eel: + The porpoise[10] heaves 'mid the rolling tide, + And, snorting in mirth, doth merrily ride,-- + For he hath forsaken his bed in the sea, + To sup on the salmon, right daintily! + + In Romara's breast a tempest raves: + He heeds not the rage of the furrowy waves: + Supremely his hopes and fears are set + On the image of Agnes Plantagenet:[11] + And though from his vision fade Gainsburgh's towers, + And the moon is beclouded, and darkness lours, + Yet the eye of his passion oft pierceth the gloom, + And beholds his Beloved in her virgin bloom-- + Kneeling before the holy Rood,-- + All clasped her hands,-- + Beseeching the saints and angels good + That their watchful bands + Her knight may preserve from a watery tomb! + + What deathful scream rends Romara's heart?-- + Is it the bittern that, flapping the air, + Doth shriek in madness, and downward dart, + As if from the bosom of Death she would tear + Her perished brood,--or a shroud would have + By their side, in the depths of their river-grave? + + Hark! hark! again!--'tis a human cry, + Like the shriek of a man about to die! + And its desolateness doth fearfully pierce + The billowy boom of the torrent fierce; + And, swift as a thought + Glides the warrior's boat + Through the foaming surge to the river's bank, + Where, lo!--by a branch of the osiers dank, + Clingeth one in agony + Uttering that doleful cry! + + His silvery head of age upborne + Appeared above the wave; + So nearly was his strength outworn, + That all too late to save + Had been the knight, if another billow + Its force on his fainting frame, had bent,-- + Nay, his feeble grasp by the drooping willow + The beat of a pulse might have fatally spent. + + With eager pounce did Romara take + From the yawning wave its prey,-- + But nought to his deliverer spake + The man with the head of gray: + And the warrior stripped, with needful haste, + The helpless one of his drenched vest, + And wrapt his own warm mantle round + The chill one in his deathly swound. + + The sea-born strength of the stream is spent, + And Romara's boat outstrips its speed,-- + For his stalwart arm to the oar is bent, + And swiftly the ebbing waves recede. + + Divinely streaketh the morning-star + With a wavy light the rippling waters; + And the moon looks on from the west, afar, + And palely smiles, with her waning daughters, + The thin-strown stars, which their vigil keep + Till the orient sun shall awake from sleep. + + The sun hath awoke; and in garments of gold + The turrets of Torksey are livingly rolled; + Afar, on Trent's margin, the flowery lea + Exhales her dewy fragrancy; + And gaily carols the matin lark, + As the warrior hastes to moor his bark. + + Two menials hastened to the beach, + For signal none need they; + On the towers they kept a heedful watch + As the skiff glode on its way: + + With silent step and breathless care + The rescued one they softly bear, + And bring him, at their lord's behest, + To a couch of silken pillowed rest. + + The serfs could scarce avert their eye + From his manly form and mien, + As, with closed lids, all reverendly, + He lay in peace, serene. + + And Romara thought, as he gazing leant + O'er the slumberer's form, that so pure a trace + Of the spirit of Heaven with the earthly blent + Dwelt only there, and in Agnes' face. + + The leech comes forth at the hour of noon, + And saith, that the sick from his deathly swoon + Will awake anon; and Romara's eye, + Uplit, betokens his heartfelt joy; + And again o'er the slumberer's couch he bows + Till, slowly, those peaceful lids unclose,-- + When, long, with heavenward-fixed gaze, + With lowly prayer and grateful praise, + The aged man, from death reprieved, + His bosom of its joy relieved.-- + + Then did Romara thus address + His gray guest, in his reverendness: + + "Now, man of prayer come tell to me + Some spell of thy holy mystery! + Some vision hast had of the Virgin bright,-- + Or message, conveyed from the world of light, + By the angels of love who in purity stand + 'Fore the throne of our Lord in the heavenly land? + + "I hope, when I die, to see them there: + For I love the angels so holy and fair: + And often, I trust, my prayer they greet + With smiles, when I kneel and kiss their feet + In the missal, my mother her weeping child gave, + But a day or two ere she was laid in the grave. + + "Sage man of prayer, come tell to me + What holy shapes in sleep they see + Who love the blest saints and serve them well! + I pray thee, sage man, to Romara tell, + For a guerdon, thy dreams,--sith, to me thou hast said + No thanks that I rescued thy soul from the dead." + + But, when the aged man arose + And met Romara's wistful eye,-- + What accents shall the change disclose + That marked his visage, fearfully?-- + From joy to grief and deepest dole, + From radiant hope to dark presage + Of future ills beyond control-- + Hath passed, the visage of the sage. + + "Son of an honoured line, I grieve," + Outspake the reverend seer, + "That I no guerdon thee can give + But words of woe and fear!-- + Thy sun is setting!--and thy race, + In thee, their goodly heir, + Shall perish, nor a feeble trace + Their fated name declare!-- + Thy love is fatal: fatal, too, + This act of rescue brave-- + For, him who from destruction drew + My life, no arm can save!" + + He said,--and took his lonely way + Far from Romara's towers.-- + His fateful end from that sad day + O'er Torksey's chieftain lowers:-- + Yet, vainly, in his heart a shrine + Hope builds for love,--with faith;-- + Alas! for him with frown malign + Waiteth the grim king Death! + + +FYTTE THE THYRDE. + + Plantagenet hath dungeons deep + Beneath his castled halls;-- + Plantagenet awakes from sleep + To count his dungeoned thralls. + + Alone, with the torch of blood-red flame, + The man of blood descends; + And the fettered captives curse his name, + As through the vaults he wends.-- + + His caverns are visited, all, save one, + The deepest, and direst in gloom,-- + Where his father, doomed by a demon son, + Abode in a living tomb.-- + + "I bring thee bread and water, sire! + Brave usury for thy gold! + I fear my filial zeal will tire + To visit, soon, thy hold!" + + Thus spake the fiendish-hearted lord, + And wildly laughed, in scorn: + Like thunder round the cell each word + By echoing fiends is borne,-- + But not a human heart is there + The baron's scorn or hate to fear! + + And the captives tell, as he passeth again,-- + That tyrant, in his rage,-- + How an angel hath led the aged man + To his heavenly heritage! + + The wrathful baron little recked + That angel was his darling child; + Or knew his dark ambition checked + By her who oft his rage beguiled,-- + By her on whom he ever smiled:-- + This had he known, from that dread hour, + His darling's smile had lost its power,-- + And his own hand, without remorse, + Had laid her at his feet a corse!-- + + Plantagenet's banners in pride are borne + To the sound of pipe and drum! + And his mailed bands, with the dawn of morn, + To Romara's walls are come. + "We come not as foes," the herald saith,-- + "But we bring Plantagenet's shriven faith + That thou, Romara, in thine arms + Shall soon enfold thy true love's charms: + Let no delay thy joy betide!-- + Thy Agnes soon shall be thy bride!" + + The raven croaks as Torksey's lord + Attends that bannered host; + But the lover is deaf to the omen-bird-- + The fatal moat is crossed! + + "Ride, ride;" saith the baron,--"thy ladye fain + And the priest--by the altar wait!"-- + And the spearmen seize his bridle-rein, + And hurry him to his fate. + + "A marriage by torchlight!" the baron said; + "This stair to the altar leads! + We patter our prayers, 'mong the mouldering dead,-- + And there we tell our beads!" + + Along the caverned dungeon's gloom + The tyrant strides in haste; + And, powerless, to his dreadful doom + The victim followeth fast. + The dazed captives quake and stare + At the sullen torch's blood-red glare, + And the lover starts aghast + At the deathlike forms they wear! + + Too late, the truth upon him breaks!-- + Romara's heart is faint!-- + "Behold thy bride!" the baron shrieks-- + "Wilt hear the wedding chaunt? + This chain once bound my father here, + Who would have found his grave-- + The cursed dotard!--'neath the wave,-- + Had not thy hateful hand been near.-- + Be this the bride thou now shalt wed! + This dungeon dank thy bridal bed!-- + And when thy youthful blood shall freeze + In death,--may fiends thy spirit seize!"-- + + Plantagenet hath minions fell + Who do their master's bidding well:-- + Few days Romara pines in dread:-- + His soul is with the sainted dead!-- + + Plantagenet hath reached his bourne! + What terrors meet his soul forlorn + And full of stain,--I may not say:-- + Reveal them shall the Judgment Day!-- + + Her orisons at matin hour, + At noon, and eve, and midnight toll, + For him, doth tearful Agnes pour!-- + Jesu Maria! sain his soul! + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + +CANTO II. + + + Symphonious notes of dulcet plaint + Followed the stranger minstrel's chaunt; + And, when his sounding harp was dumb, + The crowd, with loud applausive hum, + Gave hearty guerdon for his strain; + While some with sighs expressed what pain + Had pierced their simple bosoms thorow + To hear his song of death and sorrow. + + "Come bear the mead-cup to our guest," + Said Thorold to his daughter; + "We thought to hear, at our Yule feast, + A lay of mirth and laughter; + But, to thy harp, thou well hast sung + A song that may impart, + For future hours, to old and young, + Deep lessons to the heart. + Yet, should not life be all a sigh! + Good Snell, do thou a burthen try + Shall change our sadness into joy: + Such as thou trollest in blythe mood, + On days of sunshine in the wood. + Tell out thy heart withouten fear-- + For none shall stifle free thoughts here! + But, bear the mead-cup, Edith sweet! + We crave our stranger guest will greet + All hearts, again, with minstrelsy, + When Snell hath trolled his mirth-notes free!" + + Fairer than fairest flower that blows,-- + Sweeter than breath of sweetest rose,-- + Still on her cheek, in lustre left, + The tear the minstrel's tale had reft + From its pearl-treasure in the brain-- + The limbec where, by mystic vein, + From the heart's fountains are distilled + Those crystals, when 'tis overfilled,-- + With downcast eye, and trembling hands, + Edith before the stranger stands-- + Stranger to all but her! + Though well the baron notes his brow, + While the young minstrel kneeleth low-- + Love's grateful worshipper!-- + And doth with lips devout impress + The hand of his fair ministress! + + Yet, was the deed so meekly done,-- + His guerdon seemed so fairly won,-- + The tribute he to beauty paid + So deeply all believed deserved,-- + That nought of blame Sir Wilfrid said, + Though much his thoughts from meekness swerved. + + Impatience, soon, their faces tell + To hear the song of woodman Snell, + Among the festive crew; + And, soon, their old and honest frere, + Elated by the good Yule cheer, + In untaught notes, but full and clear, + Thus told his heart-thoughts true:-- + + +The Woodman's Song. + + I would not be a crowned king, + For all his gaudy gear; + I would not be that pampered thing, + His gew-gaw gold to wear: + But I would be where I can sing + Right merrily, all the year; + Where forest treen, + All gay and green, + Full blythely do me cheer. + + I would not be a gentleman, + For all his hawks and hounds,-- + For fear the hungry poor should ban + My halls and wide-parked grounds: + But I would be a merry man, + Among the wild wood sounds,-- + Where free birds sing, + And echoes ring + While my axe from the oak rebounds. + + I would not be a shaven priest, + For all his sloth-won tythe: + But while to me this breath is leased, + And these old limbs are lithe,-- + Ere Death hath marked me for his feast, + And felled me with his scythe,-- + I'll troll my song, + The leaves among, + All in the forest blythe. + + * * * * * + + "Well done, well done!" bold Thorold cried, + When the woodman ceased to sing; + "By'r Lady! it warms the Saxon tide + In our veins to hear thee bring + These English thoughts so freely out! + Thy health, good Snell!"--and a merry shout + For honest boldness, truth, and worth, + The baron's grateful guests sent forth. + + Silence like grave-yard air, again, + Pervades the festive space: + All list for another minstrel strain; + And the youth, with merrier face, + But tender notes, thus half-divulged + The passion which his heart indulged:-- + + +The Minstrel's Song. + + O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye, + That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy; + Who weepeth for pity, + To hear a love ditty, + And marketh the end with a sigh. + + If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look, + Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook, + Each day for the morrow + Will nurture more sorrow,-- + Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook. + + The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife; + The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife: + 'Twere better to tarry, + Unless thou canst marry + To sweeten the bitters of life! + + * * * * * + + What fires the youthful minstrel's lay + Lit in De Thorold's eyes, + It needs not, now, I soothly say: + Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,-- + And 'mid his own surprise, + Blent with the boisterous applause + That, instant, to the rafters rose, + The baron his jealous thought forgot. + Quickly, sithence a jocund note + Was fairly struck in every mind, + And jolly ale its power combined + To fill all hearts with deeper glee,-- + All wished for gleeful minstrelsy; + And every eye was shrewdly bent + On one whose caustic merriment + At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin + Compelling cause of mirthful grin + To ancient Torksey's rustic folk. + + Full soon this sturdy summons broke + From sire and son, and maid and mother:-- + "Ho, ho! saint Leonard's fat lay brother! + Why dost thou in the corner peep, + And sipple as if half asleep + Thou wert with this good nappy ale? + Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old tale + Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil, + We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel! + Thy folded cloak come cast aside!-- + Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide-- + It is thy old trick--we know it well-- + Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!" + "Pledge all, pledge all!" the baron cried; + "Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!" + + Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew, + And athwart the triple string + The bow in gamesome mood he threw,-- + His joke-song preluding;-- + Soon, with sly look, the burly man, + In burly tones his tale began. + + +The Miller of Roche.[12] + +THE LAY BROTHER OF SAINT LEONARD'S TALE. + + O the Prior of Roche + Was without reproach + While with saintly monks he chanted; + But when from the mass + He had turned his face, + The prior his saintship scanted. + + O the Miller of Roche,-- + I swear and avouch,-- + Had a wife of nut-brown beauty; + And to shrive her,--they say,-- + The prior, each day, + Came with zeal to his ghostly duty. + + But the neighbouring wives, + Who ne'er shrove in their lives,-- + Such wickedness Sathanas whispers!-- + Said the black-cloaked prior + By the miller's log fire, + Oft tarried too late for vespers! + + O the thunder was loud, + And the sky wore a shroud, + And the lightning blue was gleaming; + And the foaming flood, + Where the good mill stood, + Pell-mell o'er the dam was teeming. + + O the Miller, that night, + Toiled on in a fright,-- + Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded! + Yet, although he'd stayed long, + The storm was so strong + That full loath to depart was he minded. + + Lo! at midnight a jolt, + As loud as the bolt + Of the thunder on high that still rumbled, + Assailed the mill-doors, + And burst them, perforce,-- + And in a drenched beggar-lad stumbled! + + "Saint Luke and saint John + Save the ground we stand on"-- + Cried the Miller,--"but ye come in a hurry;" + While the lad, turning pale, + 'Gan to weep and to wail, + And to patter this pitiful story: + + "Goodman Miller, I pray, + Believe what I say,-- + For, as surely as thou art a sinner,-- + Since the break of the morn + I have wandered forlorn, + And have neither had breakfast nor dinner!" + + O the Miller looked sad, + And cried, "Good lack, my lad! + But ye tell me a dolorous ditty!-- + And ye seem in sad plight + To travel to-night:-- + The sight o' ye stirs up one's pity! + + "Go straight to my cot, + And beg something that's hot,-- + For ye look very haggard and hollow:-- + The storm's nearly o'er; + I will not grind much more,-- + And when I have done, I will follow. + + "Keep by the brook-side! + The path is not wide-- + But ye cannot soon stray, if ye mind it;-- + At the foot of the hill, + Half a mile from the mill, + Stands my cottage:--ye can't fail to find it." + + Then out the lad set, + All dripping with wet,-- + But the skies around him seemed brighter; + And he went gaily on,-- + For his burthen was gone,-- + And his heart in his bosom danced lighter. + + Adown by the brook + His travel he took, + And soon raught the Miller's snug dwelling;-- + But, what he saw ere + He was admitted there-- + By Saint Bridget!--I must not be telling! + + Thus much I may say-- + That the cot was of clay, + And the light was through wind-cracks ejected; + And he placed close his eye, + And peeped in, so sly,-- + And saw--what he never expected! + + O the lad 'gan to fear + That the Miller would appear,-- + And, to him, this strange sight would be vexing; + So he, first, sharply coughed, + And, then, knocked very soft,-- + Lest his summons should be too perplexing. + + But, I scorn to think harm!-- + So pass by all alarm, + And trembling, and bustle, and terror, + Occasioned within: + The first stone at sin + Let him cast who, himself, hath no error! + + In inquisitive mood, + The eaves-dropper stood, + By the wind-cracks still keeping his station; + Till, half-choked with fear, + A voice cried, "Who's there?"-- + Cried the beggar, "Mary grant ye salvation!-- + + "I'm a poor beggar-lad, + Very hungry and sad, + Who have travelled in rain and in thunder; + I am soaked, through and through"-- + Cried the voice, "Perhaps 'tis true-- + But who's likely to help thee, I wonder? + + "Here's a strange time of night + To put folk in a fright, + By waking them up from their bolsters!-- + Honest folk, by Saint Paul! + Abroad never crawl, + At the gloom-hour of night--when the owl stirs!" + + But the Miller now came, + And, hearing his dame + So sharply the beggar-lad scolding, + Said, "Open, sweet Joan! + And I'll tell thee, anon,-- + When thy brown cheek, once more, I'm beholding, + + "Why this poor lad is found + So late on our ground-- + Haste, my pigeon!--for here there's hard bedding!"-- + So the door was unbarred;-- + But the wife she frowned hard, + As the lad, by the door, thrust his head in. + + And she looked very cold + While her lord the tale told; + And then she made oath, by our Lady,-- + Such wandering elves + Might provide for themselves-- + For she would get no supper ready! + + O the Miller waxed wroth, + And vowed, by his troth,-- + While the beggar slunk into a corner,-- + If his termagant wife + Did not end her ill strife, + He would change words for blows, he'd forewarn her! + + O the lad he looked sly, + And with mischievous eye, + Cried, "Bridle your wrath, Goodman Grinder!-- + Don't be in a pet,-- + For I don't care a fret!-- + Your wife, in a trice, will be kinder! + + "In the stars I have skill, + And their powers, at my will, + I can summon, with food to provide us: + Say,--what d'ye choose? + I pray, don't refuse:-- + Neither hunger nor thirst shall betide us!" + + O the Miller he frowned, + And rolled his eyes round, + And seemed not the joke to be liking; + But the lad did not heed: + He was at his strange deed, + And the table was chalking and striking! + + With scrawls straight and crookt, + And with signs square and hookt, + With the lord of each house, or the lady, + The table he filled, + Like a clerk 'ith' stars skilled,-- + And, striking, cried "Presto! be ready!-- + + "A jug of spiced wine + 'S in the box,--I divine! + Ask thy wife for the key, and unlock it!-- + Nay, stop!" the lad said; + "We shall want meat and bread;" + And the chalk took again from his pocket. + + O the lad he looked wise, + And, in scholarly guise, + Completed his horary question:-- + "A brace of roast ducks + Thou wilt find in the box, + With the wine--sure as I am a Christian!-- + + "And a white wheaten loaf;-- + Quick! proceed to the proof!"-- + Cried the beggar,--while Grist stood stark staring;-- + Though the lad's weasel eyes + Shone so wondrously wise, + That to doubt him seemed sin over-daring! + + O the Miller's wife, Joan, + Turning pale, 'gan to groan; + But the Miller, arousing his spirits, + Said, "Hand me the key, + And our luck we will see-- + A faint heart no fortune inherits." + + But,--Gramercy!--his looks-- + When he opened the box, + And at what he saw in it stood wondering! + How his sturdy arm shook, + While the wine-jug he took, + And feared he would break it with blundering! + + Faith and troth! at the last, + On the table Grist placed + The wine and the ducks--hot and smoking! + Yet he felt grievous shy + His stomach to try + With cates of a wizard's own cooking! + + But, with hunger grown fell, + The lad sped so well, + That Grist was soon tempted to join in; + While Joan sat apart, + And looked sad at heart, + And some fearful mishap seemed divining! + + O the lad chopped away, + And smiling so gay, + Told stories to make his host merry:-- + How the Moon kittened stars,-- + And how Venus loved Mars, + And often went to see him in a wherry! + + O the Miller he laughed, + And the liquor he quaffed; + But the beggar new marvels was hatching:-- + Quoth he "I'm a clerk, + And I swear, by saint Mark, + That the Devil from hell I'll be fetching!"-- + + O the wife she looked scared, + And wildly Grist stared, + And cried, "Nay, my lad, nay,--thou'rt not able!"-- + But the lad plied his chalk, + And muttered strange talk-- + Till Grist drew his stool from the table! + + Then the lad quenched the rush, + And cried, "Bring a gorse-bush, + And under the caldron now kindle!"-- + But the Miller cried, "Nay! + Give over, I pray!"-- + For his courage began fast to dwindle. + + Quoth the lad, "I must on + Till my conjuring's done; + To break off just now would be ruin: + So fetch me the thorns,-- + And a devil without horns, + In the copper I soon will be brewing!"-- + + O the Miller he shook + For fear his strange cook + Should, indeed and in truth, prove successful; + But feeling ashamed + That his pluck should be blamed, + Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful. + + So the fuel he brought, + And said he feared nought + Of the Devil being brewed in his copper: + He'd as quickly believe + Nick would sit in his sieve, + Or dance 'mong the wheat in his hopper:-- + + And yet, lest strange ill, + From such conjuring skill, + Should arise, and their souls be in danger,-- + He would have his crab-stick, + And would show my lord Nick + Some tricks to which he was a stranger! + + O the lad 'gan to raise + 'Neath the caldron a blaze,-- + While the Miller, his crab-cudgel grasping, + Stood on watch, for his life!-- + But his terrified wife + Her hands--in devotion--was clasping! + + When the copper grew warm, + Quoth the lad, "Lest some harm + From the visit of Nick be betiding,-- + Set open the door, + And not long on the floor + Will the Goblin of Hell be abiding!" + + Quickly so did the host, + And returned to his post,-- + Uplifting his cudgel with trembling:-- + His strength was soon proved,-- + For the copper-lid moved!-- + When Grist's fears grew too big for dissembling. + + Turning white as the wall, + His staff he let fall,-- + While the Devil from the caldron ascended,-- + And, all on a heap,-- + With a flying leap, + On the fear-stricken Miller descended! + + In dread lest his soul, + In the Devil's foul goal, + Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder,-- + Grist grabbed the Fiend's throat, + And his grisly eyes smote,-- + Till Nick's face seemed a platter of tinder! + + Yea, with many a thwack, + Grist battered Nick's back,-- + Nor spared Satan's portly abdomen!-- + Hot Nick had lain cold + By this time--but his hold + Grist lost, through the screams of his woman! + + While up from the floor, + And out, at the door, + Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer! + He seemed panic-struck,-- + Or, doubted his luck,-- + For he neither staid question nor answer! + + "Grist!" the beggar-lad cried, + "Lay your trembling aside, + And tell me, my man, how ye like him. + 'Twas well ye were cool: + He'd have proved ye a fool,-- + Had ye dar'd with the cudgel to strike him!" + + "By saint Martin!" Grist said, + And, scratching his head, + Seemed pondering between good and evil,-- + "I could swear and avouch + 'Twas the Prior of Roche,-- + If thou hadst not said 'twas the Devil!" + + And, in deed and in sooth,-- + Though a marvellous truth,-- + Yet such was the Fiend's revelation!-- + But think it not strange + He should choose such a change:-- + 'Tis much after his old occupation:-- + + An angel of light, + 'Tis his darling delight + To be reckoned--'tis very well tested:-- + I argue, therefore, + 'Twas not sinning much more, + In the garb of a Prior to be vested. + + Though, with wink, nod, and smile-- + O the world's very vile!-- + Grist's neighbours told tales unbelieving,-- + How the beggar, so shrewd, + Monk and supper had viewed, + And produced 'em!--the Miller deceiving! + + But I do not belong + To that heretic throng + Who measure their faith with their eyesight:-- + Thus much I may say-- + Grist's cottage of clay + Never, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit:-- + + But, the sly beggar-lad, + Be he hungry or sad, + A remedy finds for each evil + In the Miller's good cheer, + Any day of the year;-- + And though Joan looketh shy--_she is civil_! + + * * * * * + + The tale was rude, but pleased rude men; + And clamorous many a clown grew, when + The rebeck ceased to thrill: + Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain, + Gosherd and swineherd,--all were fain + To prove their tuneful skill. + + But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand, + And gently stilled the jarring band: + "What ho!" he cried, "what ails your throats? + Be these your most melodious notes? + Forget ye that to-morrow morn + Old Yule-day and its sports return,-- + And that your freres, from scrogg and carr,[13] + From heath and wold, and fen, afar, + Will come to join ye in your glee? + Husband your mirth and minstrelsy, + And let some goodly portion be + Kept for their entertainment meet. + Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet, + And warm your winter blood! + Good night to all!--For His dear sake + Who bore our sin, if well we wake, + We'll join to banish care and sorrow + With mirth and sport again to-morrow!" + And forth the Baron good + Passed from his chair, midst looks of love + That showed how truly was enwove + Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude + For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude. + + The broad hall-doors were open cast, + And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed. + Yet, was the crowning hour unflown-- + Enjoyment's crowning hour!-- + A signal note the pipe hath blown, + And a maiden at the door + Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush, + To bring the sacred missel-bush. + + Gaily a younker leads the fair, + Proud of his dimpled, blushing care: + All clap their hands, both old and young, + And soon the misseltoe is hung + In the mid-rafters, overhead; + And, while the agile dance they thread, + Such honey do the plough-lads seize + From lips of lasses as the bees + Ne'er sip from sweetest flowers of May. + + All in the rapture of their play,-- + While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe, + And merrily their light feet trip,-- + Leave we the simple happy throng + Their mirth and rapture to prolong. + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + + + +CANTO III. + + + Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller! + Of late, thy dungeon-harpings were + Of discontent and wrong; + And we, the Privileged, were banned + For cumber-grounds of fatherland, + In thy drear prison-song. + + What fellowship hast thou with times + When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes + At feast, in feudal hall,-- + And peasant churls, a saucy crew, + Fantastic o'er their wassail grew, + Forgetful of their thrall?-- + + Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,-- + And with the homely Past compare + Your tinselled show and state! + Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold + On human hearts so firm a hold + For ye, and yours, create + As they possessed, whose breasts though rude + Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood + For all who toiled, through youth and age, + T' enrich their force-won heritage! + + Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride + Secure, ere ye begin to chide! + Then, lordlings, though ye may discard + The measures I rehearse, + Slight not the lessons of the bard-- + The moral of his verse.-- + + But _we_ will dare thy verse to chide! + Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide, + And taunt our wretchedness + With visioned feast, and song, and dance,-- + While, daily, our grim heritance + Is famine and distress? + + Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern, + Never from Suffering's cause to turn, + But--to the end of life-- + Against Oppression's ruthless band + Still unsubduable to stand, + A champion in the strife? + + Think'st thou we suffer less, or feel + To-day's soul-piercing wounds do heal + The wounds of months and years? + Or that our eyes so long have been + Familiar with the hunger keen + Our babes endure, we gaze serene-- + Strangers to scalding tears?-- + + Ah no! my brothers, not from me + Hath faded solemn memory + Of all your bitter grief: + This heart its pledges doth renew-- + To its last pulse it will be true + To beat for your relief. + + My rhymes are trivial, but my aim + Deem ye not purposeless: + I would the homely truth proclaim-- + That times which knaves full loudly blame + For feudal haughtiness + Would put the grinding crew to shame + Who prey on your distress. + + O that my simple lay might tend + To kindle some remorse + In your oppressors' souls, and bend + Their wills a cheerful help to lend + And lighten Labour's curse! + + * * * * * + + A night of snow the earth hath clad + With virgin mantle chill; + But in the sky the sun looks glad,-- + And blythely o'er the hill, + From fen and wold, troops many a guest + To sing and smile at Thorold's feast. + + And oft they bless the bounteous sun + That smileth on the snow; + And oft they bless the generous one + Their homes that bids them fro + To glad their hearts with merry cheer, + When Yule returns, in winter drear. + + How joyously the lady bells + Shout--though the bluff north-breeze + Loudly his boisterous bugle swells! + And though the brooklets freeze, + How fair the leafless hawthorn-tree + Waves with its hoar-frost tracery! + While sun-smiles throw o'er stalks and stems + Sparkles so far transcending gems-- + The bard would gloze who said their sheen + Did not out-diamond + All brightest gauds that man hath seen + Worn by earth's proudest king or queen, + In pomp and grandeur throned! + + Saint Leonard's monks have chaunted mass, + And clown's and gossip's laughing face + Is turned unto the porch,-- + For now comes mime and motley fool, + Guarding the dizened Lord Misrule + With mimic pomp and march; + And the burly Abbot of Unreason + Forgets not that the blythe Yule season + Demands his paunch at church; + And he useth his staff + While the rustics laugh,-- + And, still, as he layeth his crosier about, + Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt,-- + And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim, + Sees carven apes ever laughing at him! + + Louder and wilder the merriment grows, + For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws! + And the dragon's roar, + As he paweth the floor, + And belcheth fire + In his demon ire, + When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose, + Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din-- + Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin-- + For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold, + With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold; + And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine + Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine! + "Come forth, come forth! it is high noon," + Cries Hugh the seneschal; + "My masters, will ye ne'er have done? + Come forth unto the hall!"-- + + 'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall: + Full many a trophy bedecks the wall + Of prowess in field and wood; + Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear + Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer-- + But De Thorold's guests beheld nought there + That scented of human blood. + The mighty wassail horn suspended + From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended, + With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound, + Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed, + While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed, + As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound, + That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest, + And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast. + + Sir Wilfrid's carven chair of state + 'Neath the dais is gently elevate,-- + But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride: + Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire's side, + And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall, + Sit by the tables along the wide hall, + Each with his platter, and stout drink-horn,-- + They count on good cheer this Christmas morn! + + Not long they wait, not long they wish-- + The trumpet peals,--and the kingly dish,-- + The head of the brawny boar, + Decked with rosemary and laurels gay,-- + Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza, + As their fathers did, of yore! + And they point to the costard he bears in his mouth, + And vow the huge pig, + So luscious a fig, + Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South! + + Strike up, strike up, a louder chime, + Ye minstrels in the loft! + Strike up! it is no fitting time + For drowsy strains and soft,-- + When sewers threescore + Have passed the hall door, + And the tables are laden with roast and boiled, + And carvers are hasting, lest all should be spoiled; + And gossips' tongues clatter + More loudly than platter, + And tell of their marvel to reckon the sorts:-- + + Ham by fat capon, and beef by green worts; + Ven'son from forest, and mutton from fold; + Brawn from the oak-wood, and hare from the wold; + Wild-goose from fen, and tame from the lea; + And plumed dish from the heronry-- + With choicest apples 'twas featly rimmed, + And stood next the flagons with malmsey brimmed,-- + Near the knightly swan, begirt with quinces, + Which the gossips said was a dish for princes,-- + Though his place was never to stand before + The garnished head of the royal boar! + + Puddings of plumbs and mince-pies, placed + In plenty along the board, met taste + Of gossip and maiden,--nor did they fail + To sip, now and then, of the double brown ale-- + That ploughman and shepherd vowed and sware + Was each drop so racy, and sparkling, and rare-- + No outlandish Rhenish could with it compare! + + Trow ye they stayed till the meal was done + To pledge a health? Degenerate son + Of friendly sires! a health thrice-told + Each guest had pledged to fellowships old,-- + Untarrying eager mouth to wipe, + And across the board with hearty gripe + Joining rough hands,--ere the meal was o'er:-- + Hearts and hands went with "healths" in the days of yore! + + The meal is o'er,--though the time of mirth, + Each brother feels, is but yet in its birth:-- + "Wassail, wassail!" the seneschal cries; + And the spicy bowl rejoiceth all eyes, + When before the baron beloved 'tis set, + And he dippeth horn, and thus doth greet + The honest hearts around him met:-- + + "Health to ye all, my brothers good! + All health and happiness! + Health to the absent of our blood! + May Heaven the suffering bless,-- + And cheer their hearts who lie at home + In pain, now merry Yule hath come! + My jolly freres, all health!" + + The shout is loud and long,--but tears + Glide quickly from some eyes, while ears + List whispering sounds of stealth + That tell how the noble Thorold hath sent, + To palsied widow and age-stricken hind, + Clothing and food, and brother-words kind,-- + Cheering their aching languishment! + + "Wassail, wassail!" Sir Wilfrid saith,-- + "Push round the brimming bowl!-- + Art thou there, minstrel?--By my faith, + All list to hear thee troll, + Again, some goodly love-lorn verse!-- + Begin thy ditty to rehearse, + And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe-- + Less thou wilt take red gold therewith!" + + Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth,-- + But, now the merry Yule returneth, + For love of Him whom angels sung, + And love of one his burning tongue + Is fain to name, but may not tell,-- + Once more, unto the harp's sweet swell, + A knightly chanson he will sing,-- + And, straight, he struck the throbbing string. + + +Sir Raymond and the False Palmer. + +THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S SECOND TALE. + + Sir Raymond de Clifford, a gallant band + Hath gathered to fight in the Holy Land; + And his lady's heart is sinking in sorrow,-- + For the knight and his lances depart on the morrow! + + "Oh, wherefore, noble Raymond, tell,"-- + His lovely ladye weeping said,-- + "With lonely sorrow must I dwell, + When but three bridal moons have fled?" + + Sir Raymond kissed her pale, pale cheek, + And strove, with a warrior's pride, + While an answer of love he essayed to speak, + His flooding tears to hide. + + But an image rose in his heated brain, + That shook his heart with vengeful pain, + And anger flashed in his rolling eye, + While his ladye looked on him tremblingly. + + Yet, he answered not in wrathful haste,-- + But clasped his bride to his manly breast; + And with words of tender yet stately dress, + Thus strove to banish her heart's distress:-- + + "De Burgh hath enrolled him with Philip of France,-- + Baron Hubert,--who challenged De Clifford's lance, + And made him the scoff of the burgher swine, + When he paid his vows at the Virgin's shrine. + + "Oh, ask me not, love, to tarry in shame,-- + Lest 'craven' be added to Raymond's name! + To Palestine hastens my mortal foe,-- + And I with our Lion's Heart will go! + + "Nay, Gertrude, repeat not thy sorrowing tale! + Behold in my casque the scallop-shell,-- + And see on my shoulder the Holy Rood-- + The pledge of my emprize--bedyed in blood! + + "Thou wouldst not, love, I should be forsworn, + Nor the stain on my honour be tamely borne: + Do thou to the saints, each passing day, + For Raymond and royal Richard pray,-- + + "While they rush to the rescue, for God's dear Son; + And soon, for thy Raymond, the conqu'ror's meed,-- + By the skill of this arm, and the strength of my steed,-- + From the Paynim swart shall be nobly won. + + "Thou shalt not long for De Clifford mourn, + Ere he to thy bosom of love return; + When blind to the lure of the red-cross bright, + He will bask, for life, in thy beauty's light!" + + The morn in the radiant east arose:-- + The Red-cross Knight hath spurred his steed + That courseth as swift as a falcon's speed:-- + To the salt-sea shore Sir Raymond goes. + + Soon, the sea he hath crossed, to Palestine; + And there his heart doth chafe and pine,-- + For Hubert de Burgh is not in that land: + He loitereth in France, with Philip's band. + + But De Clifford will never a recreant turn, + While the knightly badge on his arm is borne; + And long, beneath the Syrian sun, + He fasted and fought, and glory won. + + His Gertrude, alas! like a widow pines; + And though on her castle the bright sun shines, + She sees not its beams,--but in loneliness prays, + Through the live-long hours of her weeping days.-- + + Twelve moons have waned, and the morn is come + When, a year before, from his meed-won home + Sir Raymond went:--At the castle gate + A reverend Palmer now doth wait. + + He saith he hath words for the ladye's ear; + And he telleth, in accents dread and drear, + Of De Clifford's death in the Holy Land, + At Richard's side, by a Saracen's hand. + + And he gave to the ladye, when thus he had spoken,-- + Of Sir Raymond's fall a deathly token: + 'Twas a lock of his hair all stained with blood, + Entwined on a splinter of Holy Rood.-- + + Then the Palmer in haste from the castle sped; + And from gloomy morn to weary night, + Lorn Gertrude, in her widowed plight, + Weepeth and waileth the knightly dead.-- + + Three moons have waned, and the Palmer, again, + By Gertrude stands, and smileth fain; + Nor of haste, nor of death, speaks the Palmer, now; + Nor doth sadness or sorrow bedim his brow. + + He softly sits by the ladye's side, + And vaunteth his deeds of chivalrous pride; + Then lisps, in her secret ear, of things + Which deeply endanger the thrones of kings: + + From Philip of France, he saith, he came, + To treat with Prince John, whom she must not name; + And he, in fair France, hath goodly lands,-- + And a thousand vassals there wait his commands.-- + + The ladye liked her gallant guest,-- + For he kenned the themes that pleased her best; + And his tongue, in silken measures skilled, + With goodly ditties her memory filled. + + Thus the Palmer the ladye's ear beguiles,-- + Till Gertrude her sorrow exchangeth for smiles; + And when from the castle the Palmer went, + She watched his return, from the battlement.-- + + Another moon doth swell and wane:-- + But how slowly it waneth! + How her heart now paineth + For sight of the Palmer again! + + But the Palmer comes, and her healed heart + Derideth pain and sorrow: + She pledgeth the Palmer, and smirketh smart, + And saith, "we'll wed to-morrow!"-- + + The morrow is come, and at break of day, + 'Fore the altar, the abbot, in holy array, + Is joining the Palmer's and Gertrude's hands,-- + But, in sudden amazement the holy man stands! + + For, before the castle, a trumpet's blast + Rings so loud that the Palmer starts aghast; + And, at Gertrude's side, he sinks dismayed,-- + Is't with dread of the living, or fear of the dead? + + The doors of the chapel were open thrown, + And the beams through the pictured windows shone + On the face of De Clifford, with fury flushed,-- + And forth on the Palmer he wildly rushed!-- + + "False Hubert!" he cried; and his knightly sword + Was sheathed in the heart of the fiend-sold lord!-- + With a scream of terror, Gertrude fell-- + For she knew the pride of Sir Raymond well! + + He flew to raise her--but 'twas in vain: + Her spirit its flight in fear had ta'en!-- + And Sir Raymond kneels that his soul be shriven, + And the stain of this deed be by grace forgiven:-- + + But ere the Abbot his grace can dole, + De Clifford's truthful heart is breaking,-- + And his soul, also, its flight is taking!-- + Christ, speed it to a heavenly goal!-- + Oh, pray for the peace of Sir Raymond's soul! + + + + + THE + BARON'S YULE FEAST. + + A + Christmas Rhyme. + + + +CANTO IV. + + + What power can stay the burst of song + When throats with ale are mellow? + What wight with nieve so stout and strong + Dares lift it, jolly freres among, + And cry, "Knaves, cease to bellow?" + + "'Twas doleful drear,"--the gossips vowed,-- + To hear the minstrel's piteous tale! + But, when the swineherd tuned his crowd,[14] + And the gosherd began to grumble loud, + The gossips smiled, and sipped their ale! + + "A boon, bold Thorold!" boldly cried + The gosherd from Croyland fen; + "I crave to sing of the fen so wide, + And of geese and goosish men!" + + Loud loffe they all; and the baron, with glee, + Cried "begin, good Swithin! for men may see + Thou look'st so like a knowing fowl, + Of geese thou art skilled right well to troll!" + + Stout Swithin sware the baron spake well,-- + And his halting ditty began to tell: + The rhyme was lame, and dull the joke,-- + But it tickled the ears of clownish folk. + + +The Gosherd's Song. + + 'Tis a tale of merry Lincolnshire + I've heard my grannam tell; + And I'll tell it to you, my masters, here, + An' it likes you all, full well. + + A Gosherd on Croyland fen, one day, + Awoke, in haste, from slumber; + And on counting his geese, to his sad dismay, + He found there lacked one of the number. + + O the Gosherd looked west, and he looked east, + And he looked before and behind him; + And his eye from north to south he cast + For the gander--but couldn't find him! + + So the Gosherd he drave his geese to the cote, + And began, forthwith, to wander + Over the marshy wild remote, + In search of the old stray gander. + + O the Gosherd he wandered till twilight gray + Was throwing its mists around him; + But the gander seemed farther and farther astray-- + For the Gosherd had not yet found him. + + So the Gosherd, foredeeming his search in vain, + Resolved no farther to wander; + But to Croyland he turned him, in dudgeon, again, + Sore fretting at heart for the gander. + + Thus he footed the fens so dreary and dern, + While his brain, like the sky, was dark'ning; + And with dread to the scream o' the startled hern + And the bittern's boom he was heark'ning. + + But when the Gosherd the church-yard reached,-- + Forefearing the dead would be waking,-- + Like a craven upon the sward he stretched, + And could travel no farther for quaking! + + And there the Gosherd lay through the night, + Not daring to rise and go further: + For, in sooth, the Gosherd beheld a sight + That frighted him more than murther! + + From the old church clock the midnight hour + In hollow tones was pealing, + When a slim white ghost to the church porch door + Seemed up the footpath stealing! + + Stark staring upon the sward lay the clown, + And his heart went "pitter patter,"-- + Till the ghost in the clay-cold grave sunk down,-- + When he felt in a twitter-twatter! + + Soon--stretching aloft its long white arms-- + From the grave the ghost was peeping!-- + Cried the Gosherd, "Our Lady defend me from harms, + And Saint Guthlacke[15] have me in his keeping!" + + The white ghost hissed!--the Gosherd swooned! + In the morn,--on the truth 'tis no slander,-- + Near the church porch door a new grave he found, + And, therein, the white ghost--his stray gander! + + * * * * * + + The Gosherd, scarce, his mirthful meed + Had won, ere Tibbald of Stow,-- + With look as pert as the pouncing glede + When he eyeth the chick below,-- + Scraped his crowd, + And clear and loud, + As the merle-cock shrill, + Or the bell from the hill, + Thus tuned his throat to his rough sire's praise-- + His sire the swineherd of olden days:-- + + +The Swineherd's Song. + + I sing of a swineherd, in Lindsey, so bold, + Who tendeth his flock in the wide forest-fold: + He sheareth no wool from his snouted sheep: + He soweth no corn, and none he doth reap: + Yet the swineherd no lack of good living doth know: + Come jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + Like the jovial swineherd of Stow! + + He hedgeth no meadows to fatten his swine: + He renteth no joist for his snorting kine: + They rove through the forest, and browse on the mast,-- + Yet, he lifteth his horn, and bloweth a blast, + And they come at his call, blow he high, blow he low!-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And drink to the swineherd of Stow! + + He shunneth the heat 'mong the fern-stalks green,-- + Or dreameth of elves 'neath the forest treen: + He wrappeth him up when the oak leaves sere + And the ripe acorns fall, at the wane o' the year; + And he tippleth at Yule, by the log's cheery glow.-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And pledge the bold swineherd of Stow! + + The bishop he passeth the swineherd in scorn,-- + Yet, to mass wends the swineherd at Candlemas morn; + And he offereth his horn, at our Lady's hymn, + With bright silver pennies filled up to the brim:-- + Saith the bishop, "A very good fellow, I trow!"-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And honour the swineherd of Stow! + + And now the brave swineherd, in stone, ye may spy, + Holding his horn, on the Minster so high!-- + But the swineherd he laugheth, and cracketh his joke, + With his pig-boys that vittle beneath the old oak,-- + Saying, "Had I no pennies, they'd make me no show!"-- + Come, jollily trowl + The brown round bowl, + And laugh with the swineherd of Stow![16] + + * * * * * + + So merrily the chorus rose,-- + For every guest chimed in,-- + That, had the dead been there to doze, + They had surely waked with the din!-- + So the rustics said while their brains were mellow; + And all called the swineherd "a jolly good fellow!" + + "Come, hearty Snell!" said the Baron good; + "What sayest thou more of the merry greenwood?" + + "I remember no lay of the forest, now,"-- + Said Snell, with a glance at three maids in a row; + "Belike, I could whimper a love-lorn ditty,-- + If Tib, Doll, and Bell, would listen with pity!" + + "Then chaunt us thy love-song!" cried Baron and guests; + And Snell, looking shrewd, obeyed their behests. + + +The Woodman's Love Song. + + Along the meads a simple maid + One summer's day a musing strayed, + And, as the cowslips sweet she pressed, + This burthen to the breeze confessed-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + For, ever since so playfully + Young Robin trod this path with me, + I always feel more happy here + Than ever I have felt elsewhere:-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + And, ever since young Robin talked + So sweetly, while alone we walked, + Of truth, and faith, and constancy, + I've wished he always walked with me:-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + And, ever since that pleasing night + When, 'neath the lady moon's fair light, + He asked my hand, but asked in vain, + I've wished he'd walk, and ask again:-- + I fear that I'm in love! + + And yet, I greatly fear, alas! + That wish will ne'er be brought to pass!-- + What else to fear I cannot tell:-- + I hope that all will yet be well-- + But, surely, I'm in love! + + * * * * * + + Coy was their look, but true their pleasure, + While the maidens listed the woodman's measure; + Nor shrunk they at laughter of herdsman or hind, + But mixed with the mirth, and still looked kind. + + One maid there was who faintly smiled, + But never joined their laughter: + And why, by Yule-mirth unbeguiled, + Sits the Baron's beauteous daughter? + Why looks she downcast, yet so sweet, + And seeketh no eyes with mirth to greet? + + "My darling Edith,--hast no song?" + Saith Thorold, tenderly; + "Our guests have tarried to hear thee, long, + And looked with wistful eye!" + + Soft words the peerless damosel + Breathes of imperfect skill: + "Sweet birds," smiles the Baron, "all know--right well, + Can sweetly sing an' they will." + + And the stranger minstrel, on his knee, + Offers his harp, with courtesy + So rare and gentle, that the hall + Rings with applause which one and all + Render who share the festival. + + De Thorold smiled; and the maiden took + The harp, with grace in act and look,-- + But waked its echoes tremulously,-- + Singing no noisy jubilee,-- + But a chanson of sweetly stifled pain-- + So sweet--when ended all were fain + To hear her chaunt it o'er again. + + +The Baron's Daughter's Song. + + I own the gay lark is the blythest bird + That welcomes the purple dawn; + But a sweeter chorister far is heard + When the veil of eve is drawn: + + When the last lone traveller homeward wends + O'er the moorland, drowsily; + And the pale bright moon her crescent bends, + And silvers the soft gray sky; + + And in silence the wakeful starry crowd + Their vigil begin to keep; + And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud, + And their buds in dew-drops weep; + + Oh, then the nightingale's warbling wild, + In the depth of the forest dark, + Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow's child, + Than the song of the cheerful lark! + + * * * * * + + "'Twas sweet, but somewhat sad," said some; + And the Baron sought his daughter's eye,-- + But, now, there fell a shade of gloom + On the cheek of Edith;--and tearfully, + He thought she turned to shun his look. + + He would have asked his darling's woe,-- + But the harp, again, the minstrel took; + And with such prelude as awoke + Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe + In Thorold's soul,--the minstrel stranger-- + In spite of fear, in spite of danger,-- + In measures sweet and soft, but quaint,-- + Responded thus to Edith's plaint:-- + + +The Minstrel's Response. + + What meant that glancing of thine eye, + That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh? + Hast thou a thought of woe or weal, + Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel? + Why should'st thou, then, that thought conceal, + Or hide it from my mind, Love? + + Did'st thou e'er breathe a sigh to me, + And I not breathe as deep to thee? + Or hast thou whispered in mine ear + A word of sorrow or of fear,-- + Or have I seen thee shed a tear,-- + And looked a thought unkind, Love? + + Did e'er a gleam of Love's sweet ray + Across thy beaming countenance play,-- + Or joy its seriousness beguile, + And o'er it cast a radiant smile,-- + And mine with kindred joy, the while, + Not glow as bright as thine, Love? + + Why would'st thou, then, that something seek + To hide within thy breast,--nor speak, + Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear, + Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear,-- + Assured this heart would gladly bear + A burthen borne by thine, Love? + + * * * * * + + Sir Wilfrid sat in thoughtful mood, + When the youthful minstrel's song was ended; + While Edith by her loved sire stood, + And o'er his chair in sadness bended. + The guests were silent;--for the chaunt, + Where all, of late, were jubilant, + Had kindled quick imagining + Who he might be that thus dared sing-- + Breathing of deep and fervent feeling-- + His tender passion half-revealing. + + Soon, sportive sounds the silence broke: + Saint Leonard's lay-brother, + Who seldom could smother + Conception of mischief, or thought of a joke, + Drew forth his old rebeck from under his cloak,-- + And touching the chords + To brain-sick words,-- + While he mimicked a lover's phantasy, + Upward rolling his lustrous eye,-- + With warblings wild + He flourished and trilled,-- + Till mother and maiden aloud 'gan to laugh, + And clown challenged clown more good liquor to quaff. + + These freakish rhymes, in freakish measure, + He chaunted, for his wayward pleasure. + + +The Lay-Brother's Love Song. + + The lilies are fair, down by the green grove, + Where the brooklet glides through the dell; + But I view not a lily so fair, while I rove, + As the maid whose name I could tell. + + The roses are sweet that blush in the vale, + Where the thorn-bush grows by the well; + But they breathe not a perfume so sweet on the gale + As the maid whose name I could tell. + + The lark singeth sweetly up in the sky,-- + Over song-birds bearing the bell; + But one bird may for music the skylark defy,-- + 'Tis the maid whose name I could tell. + + The angels all brightly glitter and glow, + In the regions high where they dwell; + But they beam not so bright as one angel below,-- + 'Tis the maid whose name I could tell. + + * * * * * + + Sport may, a while, defy heart-cares, + And woo faint smiles from pain; + Jesting, a while, may keep down tears-- + But they will rise, again! + + And saddening thoughts of others' care, + Unwelcome, though they be, to share,-- + And though self-love would coldly say + "Let me laugh on, while others bear + Their own grief-fardels as they may!"-- + Yet, while in sadness droops a brother, + No brother-heart can sadness smother: + The tear of fellowship will start-- + The tongue seek comfort to impart. + + And English hearts, of old, were dull + To quell their yearnings pitiful:-- + The guests forgot the jester's strain, + To think upon the harp again, + And of the youth who, to its swell, + So late, his sighs did syllable. + + Natheless, no guest was skilled to find, + At once, fit words that might proclaim,-- + For one who seemed without a name,-- + Their sympathy;--and so, with kind + Intent, they urged some roundelay + The stranger minstrel would essay. + + He struck the harp, forthwith, but sung + Of passion still,--and still it clung + To Love--his full, melodious tongue! + + +The Minstrel's Avowal. + + O yes! I hold thee in my heart; + Nor shall thy cherished form depart + From its loved home: though sad I be,-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + My dawn of life is dimmed and dark; + Hope's flame is dwindled to a spark; + But, though I live thus dyingly,-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + Though short my summer's day hath been, + And now the winter's eve is keen,-- + Yet, while the storm descends on me,-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + No look of love upon me beams,-- + No tear of pity for me streams:-- + A thing forlorn--despairingly-- + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + Thine eye would pity wert thou free + To soothe my woe; and though I be + Condemned to helpless misery, + My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee! + + * * * * * + + The maidens wept--the clowns looked glum-- + Each rustic reveller was dumb: + Sir Wilfrid struggled hard to hide + Revengeful throes and ireful pride, + That, now, his wounded bosom swelled,-- + For in that youth he had beheld + An image which had overcast + His life with sorrow in the Past:-- + He struggled,--and besought the youth + To leave his strains of woe and ruth + For some light lay, or merry rhyme, + More fitting Yule's rejoicing time.-- + And, though it cost him dear, the while, + He eyed the minstrel with a smile. + + The stranger waited not to note + The Baron's speech: like one distraught + He struck the harp--a wild farewell + Thus breathing to its deepest swell:-- + + +The Minstrel's Farewell. + + Oh! smile not upon me--my heart is not smiling: + Too long it hath mourned, 'neath reproach and reviling: + Thy smile is a false one: it never can bless me: + It doth not relieve,--but more deeply distress me! + + I care not for beauty; I care not for riches: + I am not the slave whom their tinsel bewitches: + A bosom I seek + That is true, like mine own,-- + Though pale be the cheek, + And its roses all flown,-- + And the wearer be desolate, wretched, forlorn,-- + And alike from each soul-soothing solace be torn. + + That heart I would choose, which is stricken and slighted; + Whose joys are all fled, and whose hopes are all blighted; + For that heart alone + Would in sympathy thrill + With one like my own + That sorrow doth fill;-- + With a heart whose fond breathings have ever been spurned,-- + And hath long their rejection in solitude mourned. + + The harp of my heart is unstrung; and to gladness + Respond not its chords--but to sorrow and sadness:-- + Then speak not of mirth which my soul hath forsaken! + Why would ye my heart-breaking sorrows awaken? + + * * * * * + + It is the shriek of deathful danger! + None heed the heart-plaint of the stranger! + All start aghast, with deadly fear, + While they, again, that wild shriek hear! + + "He drowns--Sir Wilfrid!" cries a hind: + "The ferryman is weak: + He cannot stem the stream and wind: + Help, help! for Jesu's sake!" + + "Help one,--help all!" the Baron cries; + "Whatever boon he craves, + I swear, by Christ, that man shall win, + My ferryman who saves!"-- + + Out rush the guests: but one was forth + Who heard no word of boon: + His manly heart to deeds of worth + Needed no clarion. + + He dashed into the surging Trent-- + Nor feared the hurricane; + And, ere the breath of life was spent, + He seized the drowning man.-- + + "What is thy boon?" said Torksey's lord,-- + But his cheek was deadly pale; + "Tell forth thy heart,--and to keep his word + De Thorold will not fail."-- + + "I rushed to save my brother-man, + And not to win thy boon: + My just desert had been Heaven's ban-- + If thus I had not done!"-- + + Thus spake the minstrel, when the hall + The Baron's guests had gained: + And, now, De Thorold's noble soul + Spoke out, all unrestrained. + + "Then for thy own heart's nobleness + Tell forth thy boon," he said; + "Before thou tell'st thy thought, I guess + What wish doth it pervade."-- + + "Sweet Edith, his true, plighted love, + Romara asks of thee! + What though my kindred with thee strove, + And wrought thee misery? + + "Our Lord, for whom we keep this day, + When nailed upon the tree; + Did he foredoom his foes, or pray + That they might pardoned be?"-- + + "Son of my ancient foe!" replied + The Baron to the youth,-- + I glad me that my ireful pride + Already bows to truth: + + "Deep zeal to save our brother-man-- + Generous self-sacrifice + For other's weal--is nobler than + All blood-stained victories! + + "Take thy fair boon!--for thou hast spoiled + Death,--greedy Death--of prey-- + This poor man who for me hath toiled + Full many a stormy day! + + "I feel--to quell the heart's bad flame, + And bless an enemy, + Is richer than all earthly fame-- + Though the world should be its fee! + + "My sire was by thy kinsman slain;-- + Yet, as thy tale hath told, + Thy kinsman's usurping act was vain-- + He died in the dungeon cold. + + "Perish the memory of feud, + And deeds of savage strife! + Blood still hath led to deeds of blood, + And life hath paid for life! + + "My darling Edith shall be thine-- + My blood with thine shall blend-- + The Saxon with the Norman line-- + In love our feuds shall end. + + "In age I'll watch ye bless the poor, + And smile upon your love; + And, when my pilgrimage is o'er, + I hope to meet above + + "Him who on earth a Babe was born + In lowliness, as on this morn,-- + And tabernacled here below, + Lessons of brotherhood to show!" + + * * * * * + + High was the feast, and rich the song, + For many a day, that did prolong + The wedding-revelry: + + But more it needeth not to sing + Of our fathers' festive revelling:-- + How will the dream agree + With waking hours of famished throngs, + Brooding on daily deepening wrongs-- + A stern reality!-- + + With pictures, that exist in life, + Of thousands waging direful strife + With gaunt Starvation, in the holds + Where Mammon vauntingly unfolds + His boasted banner of success? + + Oh, that bruised hearts, in their distress, + May meet with hearts whose bounteousness + Helps them to keep their courage up,-- + "Bating no jot of heart or hope!"[17] + + My suffering brothers! still your hope + Hold fast, though hunger make ye droop! + Right--glorious Right--shall yet be done! + The Toilers' boon shall yet be won! + Wrong from its fastness shall be hurled-- + The World shall be a happy world!-- + It shall be filled with brother-men,-- + And merry Yule oft come again! + + + + +NOTES. + + +I. + +TORKSEY'S HALL. + +The remains of this ancient erection (of which a representation is given +in the accompanying vignette) form an interesting antiquarian object +beside the Trent, twelve miles from Lincoln, and seven from +Gainsborough. The entire absence of any authentic record, as to the date +of the foundation, or its former possessors, leaves the imagination at +full liberty to clothe it with poetic legend. Visits made to it, in my +childhood, and the hearing of wild narratives respecting the treasures +buried beneath its ruins, and the power of its lords in the times of +chivalry, fixed it, very early, in my mind, as the fit site for a tale +of romance. In addition to the beautiful fragment of a front on the +Trent bank, massive and extensive foundations in the back-ground show +that it must have been an important building in by-gone times. + +Torksey was, undoubtedly, one of the first towns in Lincolnshire, in the +Saxon period. Only three of the towns in the county are classed in +Domesday Book, and it is one of them: "Lincoln mans. 982; Stamford 317: +_Terchesey_ 102." (Turner's Hist. of the Anglo-Saxons, 1836, vol. iii. +page 251.) Writers of parts of the county history,--(for a complete +history of Lincolnshire has not yet been written,)--affirm that Torksey +is the _Tiovulfingacester_ of Venerable Bede; but Smith, the learned +editor of the Cambridge edition of Bede, inclines to the opinion that +Southwell is the town indicated by the pious and industrious monastic. +The passage in Bede leaves every thing to conjecture: he simply relates +that a truth-speaking presbyter and abbot of _Pearteneu_, (most likely, +Partney, near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire,) named Deda, said that an old +man had told him, that he, with a great multitude, was baptized by +Paulinus, in the presence of King Edwin, "in fluvio Treenta juxta +civitatem quae lingua Anglorum Tiovulfingacaestir vocatur"--in the river +Trent, near the city which in the language of the Angles is called +Tiovulfingacaestir (Smith's Bede: Cambr. 1722, page 97.)--This passage +occurs immediately after the relation of the Christian mission of +Paulinus into Lindsey, and his conversion of Blecca, governor of +Lincoln, and his family, while the good King Edwin reigned over East +Anglia, to which petty kingdom Lincolnshire seems sometimes to have +belonged, though it was generally comprehended in the kingdom of Mercia, +during the period of the Heptarchy. + +If Stukeley be correct in his supposition that the "Foss-dyke," or canal +which connects the Trent here with the Witham at Lincoln, be the work of +the Romans,--and I know no reason for doubting it,--Torksey, standing at +the junction of the artificial river with the Trent, must have been an +important station even before the Saxon times. These are Stukeley's +words relative to the commercial use of the Foss-Dyke: "By this means +the corn of Cambridgeshire, Bedfordshire, Huntingdonshire, +Northamptonshire, Rutland, and Lincolnshire, came in;--from the Trent, +that of Nottinghamshire; all easily conveyed northward to the utmost +limits of the Roman power there, by the river Ouse, which is navigable +to the imperial city of York. This city (York) was built and placed +there, in that spot, on the very account of the corn-boats coming +thither, and the emperors there resided, on that account; and the great +morass on the river Foss was the haven, or bason, where these corn-boats +unladed. The very name of the Foss at York, and Foss-dyke between +Lincoln and the Trent, are memorials of its being an artificial work, +even as the great Foss road, equally the work of the spade, though in a +different manner." (Stukeley's Palaeographia Britannica: Stamford, 1746: +No. 2, page 39.) + +In the superb edition of Dugdale's Monasticon Anglicanum, edited by Sir +Henry Ellis and others (1825), occurs the following note, also +evidencing the extent of ancient Torksey:--"Mr. T. Sympson, who +collected for a history of Lincoln, in a letter preserved in one of +Cole's manuscript volumes in the British Museum, dated January 20, 1741, +says, 'Yesterday, in Atwater's Memorandums, I met with a composition +between the prior of St. Leonard's in Torksey and the nuns of the Fosse, +by which it appears there were then three parishes in Torksey: viz. All +Saints, St. Mary's, and St Peter's." (Vol. iv. page 292.) + +At what date this "composition" took place between the prior and nuns, +we are not told: of course, it must have been before the dissolution of +the religious houses. Leland's account of Torksey, which is as follows, +applies to a period immediately succeeding that event. + +"The olde buildinges of Torkesey wer on the south of the new toune, +[that is, at the junction of the Trent with the Fosse] but ther now is +litle seene of olde buildinges, more than a chapelle, wher men say was +the paroch chirch of olde Torkesey; and on Trent side the Yerth so +balkith up that it shewith that there be likelihod hath beene sum +waulle, and by it is a hill of yerth cast up: they caulle it the Wynde +Mille Hille, but I thinke the dungeon of sum olde castelle was there. By +olde Torkesey standith southely the ruines of Fosse Nunnery, hard by the +stone-bridge over Fosse Dik; and there Fosse Dike hath his entering ynto +Trente. There be 2 smaul paroche chirches in new Torkesey and the Priory +of S. Leonard standith on theste [the East] side of it. The ripe [bank] +that Torkesey standith on is sumwhat higher ground than is by the west +ripe of Trent. Trent there devidith, and a good deale upward, +Lincolnshire from Nottinghamshire." (Itinerary: Oxon, 1745: vol. i. page +33.) + + +II. + +THOROLD. + +The high character for generousness and hospitality assigned to this +most ancient of Lincolnshire families, by history and tradition, was my +only reason for giving its name to an imaginary lord of Torksey. +Ingulphus, the Croyland chronicler, in a passage full of grateful +eloquence,--(commencing, "Tunc inter familiares nostri monasterii, et +benevolos amicos, erat praecipuus consiliarius quidam. Vicecomes +Lincolniae, dictus Thoroldus,"--but too long to quote entire,)--relates, +that in a dreadful famine, which occurred in the reign of Edward the +Confessor, Thorold, sheriff of Lincolnshire, gave his manor of Bokenhale +to the abbey of Croyland, and afterwards bestowed upon it his manor of +Spalding, with all its rents and profits. (Gale's Rer. Ang. Script. Vet. +Tom. i. page 65. Oxon, 1684.) + +Tanner thus briefly notices the latter circumstance: "Spalding. Thorold +de Bukenale, brother to the charitable countess Godiva, gave a place +here, A.D. 1052, for the habitation, and lands for the maintenance of a +prior and five monks from Croiland." (Notitia, page 251. fol. 1744.) The +generosity of the female Thorold, Godiva, is matter of notoriety in the +traditionary history of Coventry; and her name, and that of her husband, +are found in connection with the history of the very ancient town of +Stow, in Lincolnshire, as benefactors to its church. "Leofricus, comes +Merciae, et Godiva ejus uxor ecclesiam de S. Marie Stow, quam Eadnotus, +episcopus Lincolniae, construxit, pluribus ornamentis ditavit"--Leofric, +earl of Mercia, and Godiva his wife, enriched with many adornments the +church of St. Mary at Stow, which Eadnoth, bishop of Lincoln, built. +(Leland's Collectanea, vol. i. page 158. London, 1770.) + +In Kimber and Johnson's Baronetage (vol. i. page 470.) the Thorold of +the reign of Edward the Confessor is said to be descended from Thorold, +sheriff of Lincolnshire in the reign of Kenelph, king of Mercia. Betham, +in his "Baronetage of England" (Ipswich, 1801, vol. i. page 476) says +the pedigree of the Thorolds is a "very fine" one, and enumerates its +several branches of Marston, Blankney, Harmston, Morton, and Claythorp, +and of the "High Hall and Low Hall, in Hough, all within the said county +of Lincoln." Betham, and other writers of his class, enumerate Thorolds, +sheriffs of Lincolnshire, in the reigns of Philip and Mary, Elizabeth, +James I. and Charles I.; and Sir George Thorold of Harmston was sheriff +of London and Middlesex, in 1710,--and afterwards Lord Mayor. + +Sir John Thorold of Syston is now the chief representative of this Saxon +family; but report says that he delights to live abroad--rather than in +the midst of his tenantry and dependants, to gladden the hearts of the +poor, and receive happiness from diffusing it among others, after the +good example of his ancestors. + + +III. + +FOSSE NUNNERY. + +"The Nunnery of the Fosse was begun by the inhabitants of Torksey upon +some demesne lands belonging to the Crown, pretty early in King John's +time; but King Henry III. confirming it, is said to have been the +founder. The circumstance of the foundation by the men of Torksey is +mentioned in King Henry's charter. The Inspeximus of the 5th Edw. II., +which contains it, also contains a charter of King John, granting to the +nuns two marks of silver which they had been used to pay annually into +the Exchequer for the land at Torksey. In this charter King John calls +them the Nuns of Torkesey."--_Dugdale's Monasticon_, vol. iv. p. 292. + + +IV. + +SAINT LEONARD'S. + +Bishop Tanner, following Speed and Leland, says, "Torkesey. On the east +side of the new town stood a priory of Black Canons, built by K. John to +the honour of St. Leonard."--_Notitia_, p. 278. This priory was granted +to Sir Philip Hobby, after the Dissolution: the Fosse Nunnery to Edward +Lord Clinton. + + +V. + +THORNEY WOOD. + +In the neighbourhood of Torksey, and, traditionally, part of an +extensive forest, in past times. A branch of the Nevils, claiming +descent from the great earls of Warwick and Montagu, reside at Thorney. + + +VI. + +GRUNSEL. + +This old word for _threshold_ is still common in Lincolnshire; and with +Milton's meaning so plainly before his understanding (_Paradise Lost_, +book i. line 460.), it is strange that Dr. Johnson should have given +"the lower part of the building" as an explanation for _grunsel_. Lemon, +in his "Etymology," spells the word "ground-sill," and then derives the +last syllable from "soil." Nothing can be more stupid. Door-sill is as +common as grunsel, for threshold, in Staffordshire, as well as +Lincolnshire; and, in both counties, "window-sill" is frequent. I +remember, too, in my boyhood, having heard the part of the plough to +which the share is fitted--the frame of the harrows--and the frame of a +grindstone, each called "sill" by the farmers of Lindsey. + + +VII. + +ROMARA. + +In this instance I have also used a name associated with the ancient +history of Lincolnshire as an imaginary Norman lord of Torksey. "William +de Romara, lord of Bolingbroke, in Lincolnshire, was the first earl of +that county after the Conquest. He was the son of Roger, son of Gerold +de Romara; which Roger married Lucia, daughter of Algar, earl of +Chester, and sister and heir to Morcar, the Saxon earl of Northumberland +and Lincoln. In 1142 he founded the Abbey of Revesby, in com. Linc., +bearing then the title of Earl of Lincoln."--BANKES' _Extinct and +Dormant Peerage_. + + +VIII. + +THE TRENT. + + "Or Trent, who like some earth-born giant spreads + His thirty arms along the indented meads." + + MILTON. + + +IX. + +THE HEYGRE. + +The tide, at the equinoxes especially, presents a magnificent spectacle +on the Trent. It comes up even to Gainsborough, which is seventy miles +from the sea, in one overwhelming wave, spreading across the wide +river-channel, and frequently putting the sailors into some alarm for +the safety of their vessels, which are dashed to and fro, while "all +hands" are engaged in holding the cables and slackening them, so as to +relieve the ships. + +To be in a boat, under the guardianship of a sailor, and to hear the +shouts on every hand of "'Ware Heygre!"--as the grand wave is beheld +coming on,--and then to be tossed up and down in the boat, as the wave +is met,--form no slight excitements for a boy living by the side of +Trent. + +I find no key to the derivation of the word Heygre in the Etymologists. +The Keltic verb, Eigh, signifying, to cry, shout, sound, proclaim; or +the noun Eigin, signifying difficulty, distress, force, violence--may, +perhaps, be the root from whence came this name for the tide--so +dissimilar to any other English word of kindred meaning. It is scarcely +probable that the word by which the earliest inhabitants of Britain +would express their surprise at this striking phenomenon should ever be +lost, or changed for another. + + +X. + +THE PORPOISE. + +The appearance of a porpoise, at the season when his favourite prey, the +salmon, comes up the river to spawn, is another high excitement to +dwellers on the Trent. I remember well the almost appalling interest +with which, in childhood, I beheld some huge specimen of this marine +visitor, drawn up by crane on a wharf, after an enthusiastic contest for +his capture by the eager sailors. + + +XI. + +AGNES PLANTAGENET. + +The very interesting relic of the Old Hall at Gainsborough is +associated, in the mind of one who spent more than half his existence in +the old town, with much that is chivalrous. Mowbrays, Percys, De Burghs, +and other high names of the feudal era are in the list of its +possessors, as lords of the manor. None, however, of its former tenants +calls up such stirring associations as 'Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured +Lancaster,' who, with his earldom of Lincoln, held this castle and +enlarged and beautified it. Tradition confidently affirms that his +daughter was starved to death by him, in one of the rooms of the old +tower,--in consequence of her perverse attachment to her father's +foe,--the knight of Torksey. Often have I heard the recital, from some +aged gossip, by the fireside on a winter's night; and the rehearsal was +invariably delivered with so much of solemn and serious averment--that +the lady was still seen,--that she would point out treasure, to any one +who had the courage to speak to her,--and that some families _had been_ +enriched by her ghostly means, though they had kept the secret,--as to +awaken within me no little dread of leaving the fireside for bed in the +dark! + +With indescribable feeling I wandered along the carven galleries and +ruined rooms, or crept up the antique massive staircases, of this +crumbling mansion of departed state, in my boyhood,--deriving from these +stolen visits to its interior, mingled with my admiring gaze at its +battlemented turret, and rich octagonal window, (which tradition said +had lighted the chapel erected by John of Gaunt,) a passion for +chivalry and romance, that not even my Chartism can quench. Once, and +once only, I remember creeping, under the guidance of an elder boy, up +to the 'dark room' in the turret; but the fear that we should really see +the ghostly Lady caused us to run down the staircase, with beating +hearts, as soon as we had reached the door and had had one momentary +peep! + +Other traditions of high interest are connected with this ancient +mansion. One, says that Sweyn the Danish invader, (the remains of whose +camp exist at the distance of a mile from the town,) was killed at a +banquet, by his drunken nobles, in the field adjoining its precincts. +Another, avers that in the Saxon building believed to have stood on the +same spot, as the residence of the earls of Mercia, the glorious +Alfred's wedding-feast was held. Speed gives some little aid to the +imagination in its credent regard for the story: "Elswith, the wife of +king AElfred, was the daughter of Ethelfred, surnamed Muchel, that is, +the Great, an Earle of the Mercians, who inhabited about Gainesborough, +in Lincolnshire: her mother was Edburg, a lady borne of the Bloud roiall +of Mercia." (Historie of Great Britaine, 1632: page 333.) + + +XII. + +ROCHE. + +A visit to the beautiful ruins of Roche Abbey, near ancient Tickhill, +and to the scenery amidst which they lie, created a youthful desire to +depict them in verse. This doggrel ditty (I forestall the critics!) of +the Miller of Roche is all, however, that I preserved of the imperfect +piece. The ditty is a homely versification of a homely tale which was +often told by the fireside in Lincolnshire. I never saw anything +resembling it in print, until Mr. Dickens (whose kind attention I cannot +help acknowledging) pointed out to me a similar story in the Decameron. + +Roche Abbey, according to the "Monasticon Anglicanum," was founded by +Richard de Builli and Richard Fitz-Turgis, in 1147. "The architecture +bespeaks the time of Edward II. or III." (Edit. 1825: vol. v. p. 502.) + + +XIII. + +SCROGG AND CARR. + +Johnson says, "Scrog. A stunted shrub, bush, or branch; yet used in some +parts of the north." In Lincolnshire, however, the word is used to +designate wild ground on which "stunted shrub, bush, or branch" grows, +and _not_ as a synonyme with shrub or bush. + +_Carr_ I have looked for in vain among the etymologists. Johnson merely +quotes Gibson's Camden to show that, in the names of places, _Car_ +"seems to have relation to the British _caer_, a city;" and Junius, +Skinner, Lemon, Horne Tooke, Jamieson, &c. are silent about it. The word +is applied, in Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire, to the low lands, or +wide marsh pastures that border the Trent; and I feel little doubt that, +like the word _heygre_, and many others that might be collected, it has +been in use ever since it was given to these localities, by the primeval +tribes, the Kelts, when they first saw these beautiful tracts, so much +subject to inundation, like the flat borders of their own rivers in the +East. =HEBREW= (car) a pasture, is found in Isaiah, xxx. 23. Psalm +lxv. 14, &c., and although =HEBREW= (kicar) is simply translated +"plain" in the established version, and Gesenius would, still more +vaguely, render it "circuit, surrounding country," (from =HEBREW=, in +Arabic, _to be round_,) yet I suspect the words come from the same root, +and have the same meaning. Thus, Genesis xiii. 10. =HEBREW= might +literally be rendered "And Lot raised his eyes, and saw all the carr of +the Jordan, that it was well watered everywhere, before Jehovah +destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, like the garden of Jehovah; like the land +of Mitzraim, as thou approachest Zoar." How natural, that the Keltic or +Kymric tribes should behold, in the Trent pastures, the resemblance of +the plains on the banks of the Jordan, the Nile, the Tigris, and +Euphrates--(for the term =HEBREW= _garden of Jehovah_ most probably +denotes Mesopotamia, in the very ancient fragments collected by Moses to +form the book of Genesis)--and should denote them by the same name! + +=ARABIC=, khaw[=a]r, also signifies "low or sloping ground," in +Richardson's Arabic and Persian Dictionary; and "Carr, a bog, a fen, or +morass," occurs in Armstrong's Gaelic Dictionary. The word I conceive is +thus clearly traced to its Keltic or Eastern origin. + + +XIV. + +CROWD. + +Sir John Hawkins, in his highly curious "History of Music" (vol. ii. +page 274) says "The _Cruth_ or _Crowth_" was an instrument "formerly in +common use in the principality of Wales," and is the "prototype of the +whole fidicinal species of musical instruments." "It has six strings, +supported by a bridge, and is played on by a bow." "The word _Cruth_ is +pronounced in English _Crowth_, and corruptly _Crowd_." "LŽueth +is the Saxon appellation given by Leland, for the instrument +(Collectanea: vol. v.)" "A player on the _cruth_ was called a Crowther +or Crowder, and so also is a common fiddler to this day; and hence, +undoubtedly, Crowther, or Crowder, a common surname. Butler, with his +usual humour, has characterised a common fiddler, and given him the name +of Crowdero." + + "I'th' head of all this warlike rabble + Crowdero marched, expert and able." + + +XV. + +REBECK. + +Rebeck is a word well known from Milton's exquisite "L'Allegro." Sir +John Hawkins (vol. ii. page 86) traces it to the Moorish _Rebeb_; and +believes he finds this old three-stringed fiddle in the hands of +Chaucer's Absolon, the parish-clerk, who could "plaie songs on a smale +ribible." + + +XV. + +ST. GUTHLACKE. + +The patron saint of the ancient Abbey of Croyland. + + +XVI. + +THE SWINEHERD OF STOW. + +St. Remigius, the Norman bishop, is placed on the pinnacle of one +buttress that terminates the splendid facade, or west front of Lincoln +Cathedral, and the Swineherd of Stow, with his horn in his hand, on the +other. The tradition is in the mouth of every Lincolner, that this +effigied honour was conferred on the generous rudester because he gave +his horn filled with silver pennies towards the rebuilding or +beautifying of the Minster. + + +XVII. + + "Nor bate a jot of heart or hope." + + _Milton's Sonnet on his blindness._ + + +THE END. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + + Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. + + The original text includes Hebrew and Arabic characters. For this text + version these characters have been replaced with =HEBREW= and =ARABIC=. + + The original text includes one letter printed with a macron; this is + indicated by [=a]. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas +Rhyme, by Thomas Cooper + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARON'S YULE FEAST *** + +***** This file should be named 29722.txt or 29722.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/7/2/29722/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Stephanie Eason, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. 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