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diff --git a/29722.txt b/29722.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..523cc34 --- /dev/null +++ b/29722.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: 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_." "LȚueth +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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