Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets Part 16

"Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go.

My love is dead, &c.

"See! the white moon shines on high-- Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead, &c.

"Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.

My love is dead, &c.

"With my hands I'll bend the briers Round his holy corse to gre:[11]

Elfin fairies, light your fires; Here my body still shall be.

My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

"Come with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.

My love is dead, &c.

"Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[12]

Bear me to your lethal tide.

I die! I come! my true love waits: Thus the damsel spoke, and died."

This roundelay has always, and most justly, been greatly admired for its true pathos, and that fine harmony which charms us so much in the fragments of similar songs preserved by Shakspeare. Not less beautiful is the chorus in G.o.dwin. There is something singularly great and majestic in its imagery.

CHORUS IN G.o.dWIN.

"When Freedom, dressed in blood-stained vest, To every knight her war-song sung, Upon her head wild weeds were spread; A gory anlace by her hung: She danced upon the heath; She heard the voice of death; Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue, In vain a.s.sailed her bosom to acale;[13]

She heard unmoved the shrieking voice of woe, And Sadness in the owlet shake the dale.

She shook the pointed spear, On high she reared her shield; Her foemen all appear, And fly along the field.

Power, with his head aloft unto the skies, His spear a sunbeam, and his shield a star, Like two fierce flaming meteors rolled his eyes, Chafes with his iron feet and sounds to war.

She sits upon a rock, She bends before his spear, She rises with the shock, Wielding her own in air.

Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on; Wit, closely mantled, guides it to his crown, His long, sharp spear, his spreading shield is gone: He falls, and falling, rolleth thousands down.

War, gore-faced War, by Envy armed, arist,[14]

His fiery helmet nodding to the air.

Ten b.l.o.o.d.y arrows in his straining fist."

Next let us take a poem whose truest criticism is contained in its own t.i.tle:

AN EXCELLENT BALLAD OF CHARITY.

"From Virgo did the sun diffuse his sheen, And hot upon the meads did cast his ray; Red grew the apple from its paly green, And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray; The pied goldfinch sung the livelong day: 'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year, And eke the ground was dight in its most deft aumere.[15]

"The sun was gleaming in the midst of day, Dead still the air, and eke the welkin blue, When from the sea arose in drear array A heap of clouds of sable, sullen hue; The which full fast unto the woodlands drew, Hiding at once the sun's rejoicing face, And the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.

"Beneath an holm fast by a pathway side, Which did unto St. G.o.dwin's convent lead, A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide; In aspect poor, and wretched in his weed.

Long filled with the miseries of need, Where from the hailstone could the almer[16] fly?

He had no house at hand, nor any convent nigh.

"Look in his gloomed face, his sprite there scan; How woe-begone, how withered, dry, and dead!

Haste to thy church-glebe-house,[17] unhappy man!

Haste to thy coffin, thy sole sleeping bed.

Cold as the clay which will lie on thy head Is charity and love among high elves; Now knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

"The gathered storm is rife; the big drops fall; The sun-burned meadows smoke and drink the rain; The coming _ghastness_[18] doth the cattle 'pall, And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain.

Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again; The welkin opes; the yellow levin flies, And the hot, fiery stream in the wide flashing dies.

"List! now the thunder's rattling, dinning sound Moves slowly on, and then augmented clangs, Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drowned, Still on the startled ear of terror hangs.

The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swings!

Again the levin, and the thunder pours, And the full clouds at once are burst in stony showers.

"Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain, The Abbot of St. G.o.dwin's convent came; His chapournette[19] was drenched with the rain, His painted girdle met with mickle shame; He backward told his bead-roll at the same; The storm grew stronger, and he drew aside With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.

"His cloak was all of Lincoln cloth so fine, A golden b.u.t.ton fastened near his chin; His _autremete_[20] was edged with golden twine, And his peaked shoes a n.o.ble's might have been; Full well it showed that he thought cost no sin; The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight, For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.[21]

"'An alms, Sir Priest!' the dropping pilgrim said; 'O! let me wait within your convent door, Till the sun shineth high above our head, And the loud tempest of the air is o'er; Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor; No house, nor friend, nor money in my pouch; All that I call my own is this my silver _crouche_.'[22]

"'Varlet!' replied the abbot, 'cease your din; This is no season alms and prayers to give; My porter never lets a stroller in; None touch my ring who not in honor live.'

And now the sun with the black clouds did strive, And shedding on the ground his glaring ray, The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.

"Again the sky was black, the thunder rolled; Fast hieing o'er the plain a priest was seen; Not dight full proud, nor b.u.t.toned up in gold; His cloak and cape were gray, and eke were clean; A limitor he was of order seen;[23]

And from the pathway side then turned he, Where the poor almer lay beneath the holmen tree.

"'An alms, Sir Priest,' the dropping pilgrim said, 'For sweet St. Mary and your order's sake.'

The limitor then loosed his pouch's thread, And did thereout a groat of silver take; The wretched pilgrim did for gladness shake.

'Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care; We are G.o.d's stewards all; naught of our own we bear.'

"'But oh! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me, Scarce any give a rent-roll to their Lord Here, take my semi-cape,[24] thou'rt bare, I see; 'Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.'

He left the pilgrim, and away he strode.

Virgin and holy saints, who sit in gloure,[25]

Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!"

The following presents a very living picture of the ceremony of church consecration formerly:

ON THE DEDICATION OF OUR LADY'S CHURCH.

"Soon as bright sun along the skies had sent his ruddy light, And fairies hid in oxlip cups till wished approach of night; The matin bell with shrilly sound re-echoed through the air; A troop of holy friars did for Jesus' ma.s.s prepare.

Around the high unsainted church with holy relics went, And every door and post about with G.o.dly things bespent Then Carpenter,[26] in scarlet dressed, and mitered holily, From Master Canynge, his great house, with rosary did hie.

Before him went a throng of friars, who did the ma.s.s song sing; Behind him Master Canynge came, tricked like a barbed king.

And then a row of holy friars who did the ma.s.s song sound; The procurators and church reeves next pressed the holy ground.

And when unto the church they came, a holy ma.s.s they sang, So loudly that their pleasant voice unto the heavens rang.

Then Carpenter did purify the church to G.o.d for aye, With holy ma.s.ses and good psalms which he therein did say.

Then was a sermon preached soon by Carpenter holily; And after that another one ypreached was by me.

Then all did go to Canynge's house an interlude to play, And drink his wines and ale so good, and pray for him for aye."

We will select just one short lyric more, because its stanza and rhythm seem to me to have communicated their peculiar music to one of the sweetest of our living poets: