Ethics and Morality
Ezra Pound
Canto III
Another's a half-cracked fellow—John Heydon,
Worker of miracles, dealer in levitation,
In thoughts upon pure form, in alchemy,
Seer of pretty visions ('servant of God and secretary of nature');
Full of plaintive charm, like Botticelli's,
With half-transparent forms, lacking the vigor of gods.
Thus Heydon, in a trance, at Bulverton,
Had such a sight:
Decked all in green, with sleeves of yellow silk
Slit to the elbow, slashed with various purples.
Her eyes were green as glass, her foot was leaf-like.
She was adorned with choicest emeralds,
And promised him the way of holy wisdom.
'Pretty green bank,' began the half-lost poem.
Take the old way, say I met John Heydon,
Sought out the place,
Lay on the bank, was 'plungèd deep in swevyn;'
And saw the company—Layamon, Chaucer—
Pass each in his appropriate robes;
Conversed with each, observed the varying fashion.
And then comes Heydon.
'I have seen John Heydon.'
Let us hear John Heydon!
'Omniformis
Omnis intellectus est'—thus he begins, by spouting half of Psellus.
(Then comes a note, my assiduous commentator:
Not Psellus De Daemonibus, but Porphyry's Chances,
In the thirteenth chapter, that 'every intellect is omni-form.')
Magnifico Lorenzo used the dodge,
Says that he met Ficino
In some Wordsworthian, false-pastoral manner,
And that they walked along, stopped at a well-head,
And heard deep platitudes about contentment
From some old codger with an endless beard.
'A daemon is not a particular intellect,
But is a substance differed from intellect,'
Breaks in Ficino,
'Placed in the latitude or locus of souls'—
That's out of Proclus, take your pick of them.
Valla, more earth and sounder rhetoric—
Prefacing praise to his Pope Nicholas:
'A man of parts, skilled in the subtlest sciences;
A patron of the arts, of poetry; and of a fine discernment.'
Then comes a catalogue, his jewels of conversation.
No, you've not read your Elegantiae—
A dull book?—shook the church.
The prefaces, cut clear and hard:
'Know then the Roman speech, a sacrament,'
Spread for the nations, eucharist of wisdom,
Bread of the liberal arts.
Ha! Sir Blancatz,
Sordello would have your heart to give to all the princes;
Valla, the heart of Rome,
Sustaining speech, set out before the people.
'Nec bonus Christianus ac bonus
Tullianus.'
Marius, Du Bellay, wept for the buildings,
Baldassar Castiglione saw Raphael
'Lead back the soul into its dead, waste dwelling,'
Corpore laniato; and Lorenzo Valla,
'Broken in middle life? bent to submission?—
Took a fat living from the Papacy'
(That's in Villari, but Burckhardt's statement is different)—
'More than the Roman city, the Roman speech'
(Holds fast its part among the ever-living).
'Not by the eagles only was Rome measured.'
'Wherever the Roman speech was, there was Rome,'
Wherever the speech crept, there was mastery
Spoke with the law's voice while your Greek, logicians...
More Greeks than one! Doughty's 'divine Homeros'
Came before sophistry. Justinopolitan
Uncatalogued Andreas Divus,
Gave him in Latin, 1538 in my edition, the rest uncertain,
Caught up his cadence, word and syllable:
'Down to the ships we went, set mast and sail,
Black keel and beasts for bloody sacrifice,
Weeping we went.'
I've strained my ear for -ensa, -ombra, and -ensa
And cracked my wit on delicate canzoni—
Here's but rough meaning:
'And then went down to the ship, set keel to breakers,
Forth on the godly sea;
We set up mast and sail on the swarthy ship,
Sheep bore we aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping. And winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas—
Circe's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller.
Thus with stretched sail
We went over sea till day's end:
Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean.
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpiercèd ever
With glitter of sun-rays,
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven,
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there.
Thither we in that ship, unladed sheep there,
The ocean flowing backward, came we through to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin, poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine,
Water mixed with white flour.
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best,
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods.
Sheep, to Tiresias only,
Black, and a bell sheep;
Dark blood flowed in the fosse.
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead
Of brides, of youths, and of many passing old,
Virgins tender, souls stained with recent tears,
Many men mauled with bronze lance-heads,
Battle spoil, bearing yet dreary arms:
These many crowded about me,
With shouting, pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;
Slaughtered the herds—sheep slain of bronze,
Poured ointment, cried to the gods,
To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine.
Unsheathed the narrow steel,
I sat to keep off the impetuous, impotent dead
Till I should hear Tiresias.
But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,
Unburied, cast on the wide earth—
Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,
Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other,
Pitiful spirit—and I cried in hurried speech:
'Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?
Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?' And he in heavy speech:
'Ill fate and abundant wine! I slept in Circe's ingle,
Going down the long ladder unguarded, I fell against the buttress,
Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.
But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied!
Heap up mine arms, be tomb by the sea-board, and inscribed,
A man of no fortune and with a name to come;
And set my oar up, that I swung 'mid fellows.'
Came then another ghost, whom I beat off, Anticlea,
And then Tiresias, Theban,
Holding his golden wand, knew me and spoke first:
'Man of ill hour, why come a second time,
Leaving the sunlight, facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?
Stand from the fosse, move back, leave me my bloody bever,
And I will speak you true speeches.'
'And I stepped back,
Sheathing the yellow sword. Dark blood he drank then
And spoke: 'Lustrous Odysseus, shalt
Return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,
Lose all companions.' Foretold me the ways and the signs.
Came then Anticlea, to whom I answered:
'Fate drives me on through these deeps; I sought Tiresias.'
I told her news of Troy, and thrice her shadow
Faded in my embrace.
Then had I news of many faded women—
Tyro, Alcmena, Chloris—
Heard out their tales by that dark fosse, and sailed
By sirens and thence outward and away,
And unto Circe buried Elpenor's corpse.'
Lie quiet, Divus.
In Officina Wechli, Paris,
M. D. three X's, Eight, with Aldus on the Frogs,
And a certain Cretan's
Hymni Deorum:
(The thin clear Tuscan stuff
Gives way before the florid mellow phrase.)
Take we the Goddess, Venus:
Venerandam,
Aurean coronam habentem, pulchram,
Cypri munimenta sortita est, maritime,
Light on the foam, breathed on by zephyrs,
And air-tending hours. Mirthful, orichalci
, with golden
Girdles and breast bands.
Thou with dark eye-lids,
Bearing the golden bough of Argicida.
Worker of miracles, dealer in levitation,
In thoughts upon pure form, in alchemy,
Seer of pretty visions ('servant of God and secretary of nature');
Full of plaintive charm, like Botticelli's,
With half-transparent forms, lacking the vigor of gods.
Thus Heydon, in a trance, at Bulverton,
Had such a sight:
Decked all in green, with sleeves of yellow silk
Slit to the elbow, slashed with various purples.
Her eyes were green as glass, her foot was leaf-like.
She was adorned with choicest emeralds,
And promised him the way of holy wisdom.
'Pretty green bank,' began the half-lost poem.
Take the old way, say I met John Heydon,
Sought out the place,
Lay on the bank, was 'plungèd deep in swevyn;'
And saw the company—Layamon, Chaucer—
Pass each in his appropriate robes;
Conversed with each, observed the varying fashion.
And then comes Heydon.
'I have seen John Heydon.'
Let us hear John Heydon!
'Omniformis
Omnis intellectus est'—thus he begins, by spouting half of Psellus.
(Then comes a note, my assiduous commentator:
Not Psellus De Daemonibus, but Porphyry's Chances,
In the thirteenth chapter, that 'every intellect is omni-form.')
Magnifico Lorenzo used the dodge,
Says that he met Ficino
In some Wordsworthian, false-pastoral manner,
And that they walked along, stopped at a well-head,
And heard deep platitudes about contentment
From some old codger with an endless beard.
'A daemon is not a particular intellect,
But is a substance differed from intellect,'
Breaks in Ficino,
'Placed in the latitude or locus of souls'—
That's out of Proclus, take your pick of them.
Valla, more earth and sounder rhetoric—
Prefacing praise to his Pope Nicholas:
'A man of parts, skilled in the subtlest sciences;
A patron of the arts, of poetry; and of a fine discernment.'
Then comes a catalogue, his jewels of conversation.
No, you've not read your Elegantiae—
A dull book?—shook the church.
The prefaces, cut clear and hard:
'Know then the Roman speech, a sacrament,'
Spread for the nations, eucharist of wisdom,
Bread of the liberal arts.
Ha! Sir Blancatz,
Sordello would have your heart to give to all the princes;
Valla, the heart of Rome,
Sustaining speech, set out before the people.
'Nec bonus Christianus ac bonus
Tullianus.'
Marius, Du Bellay, wept for the buildings,
Baldassar Castiglione saw Raphael
'Lead back the soul into its dead, waste dwelling,'
Corpore laniato; and Lorenzo Valla,
'Broken in middle life? bent to submission?—
Took a fat living from the Papacy'
(That's in Villari, but Burckhardt's statement is different)—
'More than the Roman city, the Roman speech'
(Holds fast its part among the ever-living).
'Not by the eagles only was Rome measured.'
'Wherever the Roman speech was, there was Rome,'
Wherever the speech crept, there was mastery
Spoke with the law's voice while your Greek, logicians...
More Greeks than one! Doughty's 'divine Homeros'
Came before sophistry. Justinopolitan
Uncatalogued Andreas Divus,
Gave him in Latin, 1538 in my edition, the rest uncertain,
Caught up his cadence, word and syllable:
'Down to the ships we went, set mast and sail,
Black keel and beasts for bloody sacrifice,
Weeping we went.'
I've strained my ear for -ensa, -ombra, and -ensa
And cracked my wit on delicate canzoni—
Here's but rough meaning:
'And then went down to the ship, set keel to breakers,
Forth on the godly sea;
We set up mast and sail on the swarthy ship,
Sheep bore we aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping. And winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas—
Circe's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller.
Thus with stretched sail
We went over sea till day's end:
Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean.
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpiercèd ever
With glitter of sun-rays,
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven,
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there.
Thither we in that ship, unladed sheep there,
The ocean flowing backward, came we through to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin, poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine,
Water mixed with white flour.
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best,
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods.
Sheep, to Tiresias only,
Black, and a bell sheep;
Dark blood flowed in the fosse.
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead
Of brides, of youths, and of many passing old,
Virgins tender, souls stained with recent tears,
Many men mauled with bronze lance-heads,
Battle spoil, bearing yet dreary arms:
These many crowded about me,
With shouting, pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;
Slaughtered the herds—sheep slain of bronze,
Poured ointment, cried to the gods,
To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine.
Unsheathed the narrow steel,
I sat to keep off the impetuous, impotent dead
Till I should hear Tiresias.
But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,
Unburied, cast on the wide earth—
Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,
Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other,
Pitiful spirit—and I cried in hurried speech:
'Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?
Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?' And he in heavy speech:
'Ill fate and abundant wine! I slept in Circe's ingle,
Going down the long ladder unguarded, I fell against the buttress,
Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.
But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied!
Heap up mine arms, be tomb by the sea-board, and inscribed,
A man of no fortune and with a name to come;
And set my oar up, that I swung 'mid fellows.'
Came then another ghost, whom I beat off, Anticlea,
And then Tiresias, Theban,
Holding his golden wand, knew me and spoke first:
'Man of ill hour, why come a second time,
Leaving the sunlight, facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?
Stand from the fosse, move back, leave me my bloody bever,
And I will speak you true speeches.'
'And I stepped back,
Sheathing the yellow sword. Dark blood he drank then
And spoke: 'Lustrous Odysseus, shalt
Return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,
Lose all companions.' Foretold me the ways and the signs.
Came then Anticlea, to whom I answered:
'Fate drives me on through these deeps; I sought Tiresias.'
I told her news of Troy, and thrice her shadow
Faded in my embrace.
Then had I news of many faded women—
Tyro, Alcmena, Chloris—
Heard out their tales by that dark fosse, and sailed
By sirens and thence outward and away,
And unto Circe buried Elpenor's corpse.'
Lie quiet, Divus.
In Officina Wechli, Paris,
M. D. three X's, Eight, with Aldus on the Frogs,
And a certain Cretan's
Hymni Deorum:
(The thin clear Tuscan stuff
Gives way before the florid mellow phrase.)
Take we the Goddess, Venus:
Venerandam,
Aurean coronam habentem, pulchram,
Cypri munimenta sortita est, maritime,
Light on the foam, breathed on by zephyrs,
And air-tending hours. Mirthful, orichalci
, with golden
Girdles and breast bands.
Thou with dark eye-lids,
Bearing the golden bough of Argicida.
562
Anonymous
Cleanness
Clannesse who so kyndly cowþe comende
& rekken vp alle þe resounz þat ho by rit askez,
Fayre formez myt he fynde in for[þ]ering his speche
& in þe contrare kark & combraunce huge.
For wonder wroth is þe Wyþat wrot alle þinges
Wyth þe freke þat in fylþe foles Hym after,
As renkez of relygioun þat reden & syngen
& aprochen to hys presens & prestez arn called;
Thay teen vnto his temmple & temen to hym seluen,
Reken with reuerence þay rychen His auter;
Þay hondel þer his aune body & vsen hit boþe.
If þay in clannes be clos þay cleche gret mede;
Bot if þay conterfete crafte & cortaysye wont,
As be honest vtwyth & inwith alle fylþez,
Þen ar þay synful hemself & sulped altogeder
Boþe God & His gere, & hym to greme cachen.
He is so clene in His courte, þe Kyng þat al weldez,
& honeste in His housholde & hagherlych serued
With angelez enourled in alle þat is clene,
Boþ withine & withouten in wedez ful bryt;
Nif he nere scoymus & skyg & non scaþe louied,
Hit were a meruayl to much, hit mot not falle.
Kryst kydde hit Hymself in a carp onez,
Þeras He heuened at happez & hyt hem her medez.
Me mynez on one amonge oþer, as Maþew recordez,
Þat þus clanness vnclosez a ful cler speche:
Þe haþel clene of his hert hapenez ful fayre,
For he schal loke on oure Lorde with a bone chere';
As so saytz, to þat syt seche schal he neuer
Þat any vnclannesse hatz on, auwhere abowte;
For He þat flemus vch fylþe fer fro His hert
May not byde þat burre þat hit His body neen.
Forþy hynot to heuen in haterez totorne,
Ne in þe harlatez hod, & handez vnwaschen.
For what vrþly haþel þat hyhonour haldez
Wolde lyke if a ladde com lyþerly attyred,
When he were sette solempnely in a sete ryche,
Abof dukez on dece, with dayntys serued?
Þen þe harlot with haste helded to þe table,
With rent cokrez at þe kne & his clutte traschez,
& his tabarde totorne, & his totez oute,
Oþer ani on of alle þyse, he schulde be halden vtter,
With mony blame ful bygge, a boffet peraunter,
Hurled to þe halle dore & harde þeroute schowued,
& be forboden þat bore to bowe þider neuer,
On payne of enprysonment & puttyng in stokkez;
& þus schal he be schent for his schrowde feble,
Þaneuer in talle ne in tuch he trespas more.
& if vnwelcum he were to a worþlych prynce,
et hym is þe hye Kyng harder in her euen;
As Maþew melez in his masse of þat man ryche,
Þat made þe mukel mangerye to marie his here dere,
& sende his sonde þen to say þat þay samne schulde,
& in comly quoyntis to com to his feste:
'For my boles & my borez arn bayted & slayne,
& my fedde foulez fatted with sclat,
My polyle þat is penne-fed & partrykez boþe,
Wyth scheldez of wylde swyn, swanez & cronez,
Al is roþeled & rosted ryt to þe sete;
Comez cof to my corte, er hit colde worþe.'
When þay knewen his cal þat þider com schulde,
Alle excused hem by þe skyly he scape by mot.
On hade bot hym a bor, he sayde, by hys trawþe:
'Now turne I þeder als tyd þe toun to byholde.'
Anoþer nayed also & nurned þis cawse:
'I haf erned & at okkez of oxen,
& for my hyez hem bot; to bowe haf I mester,
To see hem pulle in þe plow aproche me byhouez.'
'& I haf wedded a wyf,' so wer hym þe þryd;
'Excuse me at þe court, I may not com þere.'
Þus þay drohem adrewith daunger vchone,
Þat non passed to þe plate þahe prayed were.
Thenne þe ludych lorde lyked ful ille,
& hade dedayn of þat dede; ful dryly he carpez.
He saytz: 'Now for her owne sore þay forsaken habbez;
More to wyte is her wrange þen any wylle gentyl.
Þenne gotz forth, my gomez, þe grete streetez,
& forsettz on vche a syde þe cete aboute;
Þe wayferande frekez, on fote & on hors,
Boþe burnez & burdez, þe better & þe wers,
Laþez hem alle luflyly to lenge at my fest,
& bryngez hem blyþly to bore as barounez þay were,
So þat my palays plat ful be pyt al aboute;
Þise oþer wrechez iwysse worþy not wern.'
Þen þay cayred & com þat þe cost waked,
Broten bachlerez hem wyth þat þay by bonkez metten,
Swyerez þat swyftly swyed on blonkez,
& als fele vpon fote, of fre & of bonde.
When þay com to þe courte keppte weren þay fayre,
Stytled with þe stewarde, stad in þe halle,
Ful manerly with marchal mad for to sitte,
As he watz dere of degre dressed his seete.
Þenne seggez to þe souerayn sayden þerafter:
'Lo! Lorde, with your leue, at your lege heste
& at þi banne we haf brot, as þou beden habbez,
Mony renischsche renkez, & et is roum more.'
Sayde þe lorde to þo ledez, 'Laytez et ferre,
Ferre out in þe felde, & fechez mo gestez;
Waytez gorstez & greuez, if ani gomez lyggez;
Whatkyn folk so þer fare, fechez hem hider;
Be þay fers, be þay feble, forlotez none,
Be þay hol, be þay halt, be þay onyed,
& þaþay ben boþe blynde & balterande cruppelez,
Þat my hous may holly by halkez by fylled.
For, certez, þyse ilk renkez þat me renayed habbe,
& denounced me not now at þis tyme,
Schul neuer sitte in my sale my soper to fele,
Ne suppe on sope of my seve, þaþaþay swelt schulde.'
Thenne þe sergauntez, at þat sawe, swengen þeroute,
& diden þe dede þat [watz] demed, as he deuised hade,
& with peple of alle plytez þe palays þay fyllen;
Hit weren not alle on wyuez sunez, wonen with on fader.
Wheþer þay wern worþy oþer wers, wel wern þay
stowed,
Ay þe best byfore & brytest atyred,
Þe derrest at þe hye dese, þat dubbed wer fayrest,
& syþen on lenþe bilooghe ledez inogh.
& ay a[s] segge[s] [serly] semed by her wedez,
So with marschal at her mete mensked þay were.
Clene men in compaynye forknowen wern lyte,
& et þe symplest in þat sale watz serued to þe fulle,
Boþe with menske & with mete & mynstrasy noble,
& alle þe laykez þat a lorde at in londe schewe.
& þay bigonne to be glad þat god drink haden.
& vch mon with his mach made hym at ese.
Now inmyddez þe mete þe mayster hym biþot
Þat he wolde se þe semble þat samned was þere,
& rehayte rekenly þe riche & þe pou[eren],
& cherisch hem alle with his cher, & chaufen her joye.
Þen he bowez fro his bour into þe brode halle
& to þe best on þe bench, & bede hym be myry,
Solased hem with semblaunt & syled fyrre,
Tron fro table to table & talkede ay myrþe.
Bot as he ferked ouer þe flor, he fande with his ye,
Hit watz not for a halyday honestly arayed,
A þral þryt in þe þrong vnþryuandely cloþed,
Ne no festiual frok, bot fyled with werkkez;
Þe gome watz vngarnyst with god men to dele.
& gremed þerwith þe grete lorde, & greue hym he þot.
'Say me, frende,' quoþ þe freke with a felle chere,
'Hov wan þou into þis won in wedez so fowle?
Þe abyt þat þou hatz vpon, no halyday hit menskez;
Þou, burne, for no brydale art busked in wedez.
How watz þou hardy þis hous for þyn vnhap [to] nee
In on so ratted a robe & rent at þe sydez?
Þow art a gome vngoderly in þat goun febele;
Þou praysed me & my place ful pouer & ful [g]nede,
Þat watz so prest to aproche my presens hereinne.
Hopez þou I be a harlot þi erigaut to prayse?'
Þat oper burne watz abayst of his broþe wordez,
& hurkelez doun with his hede, þe vrþe he biholdez;
He watz so scoumfit of his scylle, lest he skaþe hent,
Þat he ne wyst on worde what he warp schulde.
Þen þe lorde wonder loude laled & cryed,
& talkez to his tormenttourez: 'Takez hym,' he biddez,
'Byndez byhynde, at his bak, boþe two his handez,
& felle fetterez to his fete festenez bylyue;
Stik hym stifly in stokez, & stekez hym þerafter
Depe in my doungoun þer doel euer dwellez,
Greuing & gretyng & gryspyng harde
Of teþe tenfully togeder, to teche hym be quoynt.'
Thus comparisunez Kryst þe kyndom of heuen
To þis frelych feste þat fele arn to called;
For alle arn laþed luflyly, þe luþer & þe better,
Þat euer wern fuled in font, þat fest to haue.
Bot war þe wel, if þou wylt, þy wedez ben clene
& honest for þe halyday, lest þou harme lache,
For aproch þou to þat Prynce of parage noble,
He hates helle no more þen hem þat ar sowle.
Wich arn þenne þy wedez þou wrappez þe inne,
Þat schal schewe hem so schene schrowde of þe best?
Hit arn þy werkez, wyterly, þat þou wrot hauez,
& lyued with þe lykyng þat lye in þyn hert;
Þat þo be frely & fresch fonde in þy lyue,
& fetyse of a fayr forme to fote & to honde,
& syþen alle þyn oþer lymez lapped ful clene;
Þenne may þou se þy Sauior & His sete ryche.
For fele[r] fautez may a freke forfete his blysse,
Þat he þe Souerayn ne se, þen for slauþe one;
As for bobaunce & bost & bolnande priyde
Þroly into þe deuelez þrote man þryngez bylyue.
For couetyse & colwarde & croked dedez,
For monsworne & mensclat & to much drynk,
For þefte & for þrepyng, vnþonk may mon haue;
For roborrye & riboudrye & resounez vntrwe,
& dsyheriete & depryue dowrie of wydoez,
For marryng of maryagez & mayntnaunce of schrewez,
For traysoun & trichcherye & tyrauntyre boþe,
& for fals famacions & fayned lawez;
Man may mysse þe myrþe þat much is to prayse
For such vnþewez as þise, & þole much payne,
& in þe Creatores cort com neuermore,
Ne neuer see Hym with syt for such sour tournez.
Bot I haue herkned & herde of mony hye clerkez,
& als in resounez of ryt red hit myseluen,
Þat þat ilk proper Prynce þat paradys weldez
Is displesed at vch a poynt þat plyes to scaþe;
Bot neuer et in no boke breued I herde
Þat euer He wrek so wyþerly on werk þat He made,
Ne venged for no vilte of vice ne synne,
Ne so hastyfly watz hot for hatel of His wylle,
Ne neuer so sodenly sot vnsoundely to weng,
As for fylþe of þe flesch þat foles han vsed;
For, as I fynde, þer He foret alle His fre þewez,
& wex wod to þe wrache for wrath at His hert.
For þe fyrste felonye þe falce fende wrot
Whyl he watz hye in þe heuen houen vpon lofte,
Of alle þyse aþel aungelez attled þe fayrest:
& he vnkyndely, as a karle, kydde a reward.
He senot bot hymself how semly he were,
Bot his Souerayn he forsoke & sade þyse wordez:
`I schal telde vp my trone in þe tramountayne,
& by lyke to þat Lorde þat þe lyft made.'
With þis worde þat he warp, þe wrake on hym lyt:
Drytyn with His dere dom hym drof to þe abyme,
In þe mesure of His mode, His metz neuer þe lasse.
Bot þer He tynt þe tyþe dool of His tour ryche:
Þaþe feloun were so fers for his fayre wedez
& his glorious glem þat glent so bryt,
As sone as Drytynez dome drof to hymseluen,
Þikke þowsandez þro þrwen þeroute,
Fellen fro þe frymament fendez ful blake,
Sweued at þe fryst swap as þe snaw þikke,
Hurled into helle-hole as þe hyue swarmez.
Fylter fenden folk forty dayez lencþe,
Er þat styngande storme stynt ne myt;
Bot as smylt mele vnder smal siue smokez forþikke.
So fro heuen to helle þat hatel schor laste,
On vche syde of þe worlde aywhere ilyche.
is, hit watz a brem brest & a byge wrache,
& et wrathed not þe Wy; ne þe wrech satled,
Ne neuer wolde, for wyl[fulnes], his worþy God knawe,
Ne pray Hym for no pite, so proud watz his wylle.
Forþy þaþe rape were rank, þe rawþe watz lytt[el];
Þahe be kest into kare, he kepes no better.
Bot þat oper wrake þat wex, on wyez hit lyt
Þurþe faut of a freke þat fayled in trawþe,
Adam inobedyent, ordaynt to blysse.
Þer pryuely in paradys his place watz devised,
To lyue þer in lykyng þe lenþe of a terme,
& þenne enherite þat home þat aungelez forgart;
Bot þurþe eggyng of Eue he ete of an apple
Þat enpoysened alle peplez þat parted fro hem boþe,
For a defence þat watz dyt of Drytyn Seluen,
& a payne þeron put & pertly halden.
Þe defence watz þe fryt þat þe freke towched,
& þe dom is þe deþe þat drepez vus alle;
Al in mesure & meþe watz mad þe vengiaunce,
& efte amended with a mayden þat make had neuer.
Bot in þe þryd watz forþrast al þat þryue schuld:
Þer watz malys mercyles & mawgre much scheued,
Þat watz for fylþe vpon folde þat þe folk vsed,
Þat þen wonyed in þe worlde withouten any maysterz.
Hit wern þe fayrest of forme & of face als,
Þe most & þe myriest þat maked wern euer,
Þe styfest, þe stalworþest þat stod euer on fete,
& lengest lyf in hem lent of ledez alle oþer.
For hit was þe forme foster þat þe folde bred,
Þe aþel aunceterez sunez pat Adam watz called,
To wham God hade geuen alle þat gayn were,
Alle þe blysse boute blame þat bodi myt haue;
& þose lykkest to þe lede, þat lyued next after;
Forþy so semly to see syþen wern none.
Þer watz no law to hem layd bot loke to kynde,
& kepe to hit, & alle hit cors clanly fulfylle.
& þenne founden þay fylþe in fleschlych dedez,
& controeued agayn kynde contrare werkez,
& vsed hem vnþryftyly vchon on oþer,
& als with oþer, wylsfully, upon a wrange wyse:
So ferly fowled her flesch þat þe fende loked
How þe deter of þe douþe wern derelych fayre,
& fallen in felaschyp with hem on folken wyse,
& engendered on hem jeauntez with her japez ille.
Þose wern men meþelez & maty on vrþe,
Þat for her lodlych laykez alosed þay were;
He watz famed for fre þat fet loued best,
& ay þe bigest in bale þe best watz halden.
& þenne euelez on erþe ernestly grewen
& multyplyed monyfolde inmongez mankynde,
For þat þe maty on molde so marre þise oþer
Þat þe Wye þat al wrot ful wroþly bygynnez.
When He knew vche contre coruppte in hitseluen,
& vch freke forloyned fro þe ryt wayez,
Felle temptande tene towched His hert.
As wye wo hym withinne, werp to Hymseluen:
'Me forþynkez ful much þat euer I mon made,
Bot I schal delyuer & do away þat doten on þis molde,
& fleme out of þe folde al þat flesch werez,
Fro þe burne to þe best, fro bryddez to fyschez;
Al schal doun & be ded & dryuen out of erþe
Þat euer I sette saule inne; & sore hit Me rwez
Þat euer I made hem Myself; bot if I may herafter,
I schal wayte to be war her wrenchez to kepe.'
Þenne in worlde watz a wye wonyande on lyue,
Ful redy & ful rytwys, & rewled hym fayre,
In þe drede of Drytyn his dayez he vsez,
& ay glydande wyth his God, his grace watz þe more.
Hym watz þe nome Noe, as is innoghe knawen.
He had þre þryuen sunez, & þay þre wyuez:
Sem soþly þat on, þat oþer hyt Cam,
& þe jolef Japheth watz gendered þe þryd.
Now God in nwy to Noe con speke
Wylde wrakful wordez, in His wylle greued:
'Þe ende of alle kynez flesch þat on vrþe meuez
Is fallen forþwyth My face, & forþer hit I þenk.
With her vnworþelych werk Me wlatez withinne;
Þe gore þerof Me hatz greued & þe glette nwyed.
I schal strenkle My distresse, & strye al togeder,
Boþe ledez & londe & alle þat lyf habbez.
Bot make to þe a mancioun, & þat is My wylle,
A cofer closed of tres, clanlych planed.
Wyrk wonez þerinne for wylde & for tame,
& þenne cleme hit with clay comly within[n]e,
& alle þe endentur dryuen daube withouten.
& þus of lenþe & of large þat lome þou make:
Þre hundred of cupydez þou holde to þe lenþe,
Of fyfty fayre ouerþwert forme þe brede;
& loke euen þat þyn ark haue of heþe þrette,
& a wyndow wyd vpon[ande] wrot vpon lo[f]te,
In þe compas of a cubit kyndely sware;
A wel dutande dor, don on þe syde;
Haf hallez þerinne & halkez ful mony,
Boþe boske[n]z & bourez & wel bounden penez.
For I schal waken vp a water to wasch alle þe worlde,
& quelle alle þat is quik with quauende flodez,
Alle þat glydez & gotz & gost of lyf habbez;
I schal wast with My wrath þat wons vpon vrþe.
Bot My forwarde with þe I festen on þis wyse,
For þou in reysoun hatz rengned & rytwys ben euer:
Þou schal enter þis ark with þyn aþel barnez
& þy wedded wyf; with þe þou take
Þe makez of þy myry sunez; þis meyny of ate
I schal saue of monnez saulez, & swelt þose oþer.
Of vche best þat berez lyf busk þe a cupple,
Of vche clene comly kynde enclose seuen makez,
Of vche horwed in ark halde bot a payre,
For to saue Me þe sede of alle ser kyndez.
& ay þou meng with þe malez þe mete ho-bestez,
Vche payre by payre to plese ayþer oþer;
With alle þe fode þat may be founde frette þy cofer,
For sustnaunce to yowself & also þose oþer.'
Ful grayþely gotz þis god man & dos Godez hestes,
In drydred & daunger þat durst do non oþer.
Wen hit watz fettled & forged & to þe fulle grayþed,
Þenn con Dryttyn hym dele dryly þyse wordez.
'Now Noe,' quoþ oure Lorde, 'art þou al redy?
Hatz þou closed þy kyst with clay alle aboute?'
'e, Lorde, with þy leue,' sayde þe lede þenne,
Al is wrot at Þi worde, as Þou me wyt lantez.'
'Enter in, þenn,' quoþ He, & haf þi wyf with þe,
Þy þre sunez, withouten þrep, & her þre wyuez;
Bestez, as I bedene haue, bosk þerinne als,
& when e arn staued, styfly stekez yow þerinne.
Fro seuen dayez ben seyed I sende out bylyue
Such a rowtande ryge þat rayne schal swyþe
Þat schal wasch alle þe worlde of werkez of fylþe;
Schal no flesch vpon folde by fonden onlyue,
Outtaken yow at in þis ark staued
& sed þat I wyl saue of þyse ser bestez.'
Now Noe neuer sty[n]tez, þat niy[t] he bygynnez,
Er al wer stawed & stoken as þe steuen wolde.
Thenne sone com þe seuenþe day, when samned wern alle,
& alle woned in þe whichche, þe wylde & þe tame.
Þen bolned þe abyme, & bonkez con ryse,
Waltes out vch walle-heued in ful wode stremez;
Watz no brymme þat abod vnbrosten bylyue;
Þe mukel lauande loghe to þe lyfte rered.
Mony clustered clowde clef alle in clowtez;
Torent vch a rayn-ryfte & rusched to þe vrþe,
Fon neuer in forty dayez. & þen þe flod ryses,
Ouerwaltez vche a wod & þe wyde feldez.
For when þe water of þe welkyn with þe worlde mette,
Alle þat deth mot drye drowned þerinne.
Þer watz moon for to make when meschef was cnowen,
Þat not dowed bot þe deth in þe depe stremez;
Water wylger ay wax, wonez þat stryede,
Hurled into vch hous, hent þat þer dowelled.
Fryst feng to þe flyt alle þat fle myt;
Vuche burde with her barne þe byggyng þay leuez
& bowed to þe hybonk þer brentest hit wern,
& heterly to þe hye hyllez þay [h]aled on faste.
Bot al watz nedlez her note, for neuer cowþe stynt
Þe roe raynande ryg, þe raykande wawez,
Er vch boþom watz brurdful to þe bonkez eggez,
& vche a dale so depe þat demmed at þe brynkez.
Þe moste mountaynez on mor þenne watz no more drye,
& þeron flokked þe folke, for ferde of þe wrake.
Syþen þe wylde of þe wode on þe water flette;
Summe swymmed þeron þat saue hemself trawed,
Summe stye to a stud & stared to þe heuen,
Rwly wyth a loud rurd rored for drede.
Harez, herttez also, to þe hye runnen;
Bukkez, bausenez, & bulez to þe bonkkez hyed;
& alle cryed for care to þe Kyng of heuen,
Recouerer of þe Creator þay cryed vchone,
Þat amounted þe masse, þe mase His mercy watz passed,
& alle His pyte departed fro peple þat He hated.
Bi þat þe flod to her fete floed & waxed,
Þen vche a segge sewel þat synk hym byhoued.
Frendez fellen in fere & faþmed togeder,
To dryher delful deystyne & dyen alle samen;
Luf lokez to luf & his leue takez,
For to ende alle at onez & for euer twynne.
By forty dayez wern faren, on folde no flesch styryed
Þat þe flod nade al freten with fetande waez;
For hit clam vche a clyffe, cubites fyftene
Ouer þe hyest hylle þat hurkled on erþe.
Þenne mourkne in þe mudde most ful nede
Alle þat spyrakle inspranc, no sprawlyng awayled,
Saue þe haþel vnder hach & his here straunge,
Noe þat ofte neuened þe name of oure Lorde,
Hym atsum in þat ark, as aþel God lyked,
Þer alle ledez in lome lenged druye.
Þe arc houen watz on hye with hurlande gotez,
Kest to kythez vncouþe þe clowdez ful nere.
Hit waltered on þe wylde flod, went as hit lyste,
Drof vpon þe depe dam, in daunger hit semed,
Withouten mast, oþer myke, oþer myry bawelyne,
Kable, oþer capstan to clyppe to her ankrez,
Hurrok, oþer hande-helme hasped on roþer,
Oþer any sweande sayl to seche after hauen,
Bot flote forthe with þe flyt of þe felle wyndez.
Whederwarde so þe water wafte, hit rebounde;
Ofte hit roled on rounde & rered on ende;
Nyf oure Lorde hade ben her lodezmon hem had lumpen harde.
Of þe lenþe of Noe lyf to lay a lel date,
Þe sex hundreth of his age & none odde erez,
Of secounde monyth þe seuen[ten]þe day rytez,
Towalten alle þyse welle-hedez & þe water flowed;
& þryez fyfty þe flod of folwande dayez;
Vche hille watz þer hidde with y[þ]ez ful graye.
Al watz wasted þat þer wonyed þe worlde withinne,
Þ[at] euer flote, oþer flwe, oþer on fote ede,
That roly watz þe remnaunt þat þe rac dryuez
Þat alle gendrez so joyst wern joyned wythinne
Bot quen þe Lorde of þe lyfte lyked Hymseluen
For to mynne on His mon His meth þat abydez,
Þen He wakened a wynde on watterez to blowe;
Þenne lasned þe llak þat large watz are.
Þen He stac vp þe stangez, stoped þe wellez,
Bed blynne of þe rayn: hit batede as faste;
Þenne lasned þe lolowkande togeder.
After harde dayez wern out an hundreth & fyfte,
As þat lyftande lome luged aboute.
Where þe wynde & þe weder warpen hit wolde,
Hit satled on a softe day, synkande to grounde;
On a rasse of a rok hit rest at þe laste,
On þe mounte of Mararach of Armene hilles.
Þat oþerwayez on Ebrv hit hat þe Thanes.
Bot þaþe kyste in þe cragez wern closed to byde,
et fyned not þe flod ne fel to þe boþemez,
Bot þe hyest of þe eggez vnhuled weren a lyttel,
Þat þe burne bynne borde byhelde þe bare erþe.
Þenne wafte he vpon his wyndowe, & wysed þeroute
A message fro þat meyny hem moldez to seche:
Þat watz þe rauen so ronk, þat rebel watz euer;
He watz colored as þe cole, corbyal vntrwe.
& he fongez to þe flyt & fannez on þe wyndez,
Halez hye vpon hyt to herken tyþyngez.
He croukez for comfort when carayne he fyndez
Kast vp on a clyffe þer costese lay drye;
He hade þe smelle of þe smach & smoltes þeder sone,
Fallez on þe foule flesch & fyllez his wombe,
& sone ederly forete isterday steuen,
How þe cheuetayn hym charged þat þe kyst emed.
Þe rauen raykez hym forth, þat reches ful lyttel
How alle fodez þer fare, ellez he fynde mete;
Bot þe burne bynne borde þat bod to hys come
Banned hym ful bytterly with bestes alle samen.
He sechez anoþer sondezmon, & settez on þe dou[u]e,
Bryngez þat bryt vpon borde, blessed, & sayde:
'Wende, worþelych wyt, vus wonez to seche;
Dryf ouer þis dymme water; if þou druye fyndez
Bryng bodworde to bot blysse to vus alle.
Þaþat fowle be false, fre be þou euer.'
Ho wyrle out on þe weder on wyngez ful scharpe,
Drely alle alonge day þat dorst neuer lyt;
& when ho fyndez no folde her fote on to pyche,
Ho vmbekestez þe coste & þe kyst sechez.
Ho hittez on þe euentyde & on þe ark sittez;
Noe nymmes hir anon & naytly hir stauez.
Noe on anoþer day nymmez efte þe doveue,
& byddez hir bowe ouer þe borne efte bonkez to seche;
& ho skyrmez vnder skwe & skowtez aboute,
Tyl hit watz nye at þe nat, & Noe þen sechez.
On ark on an euentyde houez þe dowue;
On stamyn ho stod & stylle hym abydez.
What! ho brot in hir beke a bronch of olyue,
Gracyously vmbegrouen al with grene leuez;
Þat watz þe syngne of sauyte þat sende hem oure Lorde,
& þe satlyng of Hymself with þo sely bestez.
Þen watz þer joy on þat gyn where jumpred er dryed,
& much comfort in þat cofer þat watz clay-daubed.
Myryly on a fayr morn, monyth þe fyrst,
Þat fallez formast in þe er, & þe fyrst day,
Ledez loen in þat lome & loked þeroute,
How þat watterez wern woned & þe worlde dryed.
Vchon loued oure Lorde, bot lenged ay stylle
Tyl þay had tyþyng fro þe Tolke þat tyned hem
þerinne.
Þen Godez glam to hem glod þat gladed hem alle,
Bede hem drawe to þe dor: delyuer hem He wolde.
Þen went þay to þe wykket, hit walt vpon sone;
Boþe þe burne & his barnez bowed þeroute,
Her wyuez walkez hem wyth & þe wylde after,
Þroly þrublande in þronge, þrowen ful þykke.
Bot Noe of vche honest kynde nem out an odde,
& heuened vp an auter & haled hit fayre,
& sette a sakerfyse þeron of vch a ser kynde
Þat watz comly & clene: God kepez non oþer.
When bremly brened þose bestez, & þe breþe rysed,
Þe sauour of his sacrafyse sot to Hym euen
Þat al spedez & spyllez; He spekes with þat ilke
In comly comfort ful clos & cortays wordez:
'Now, Noe, no more nel I neuer wary
Alle þe mukel mayny [on] molde for no mannez synnez,
For I se wel þat hit is sothe þat alle mannez wyttez
To vnþryfte arn alle þrawen with þot of her herttez,
& ay hatz ben, & wyl be et; fro her barnage
Al is þe mynde of þe man to malyce enclyned.
Forþy schal I neuer schende so schortly at ones
As dysstrye al for manez synne, dayez of þis erþe.
Bot waxez now & wendez forth & worþez to monye,
Multyplyez on þis molde, & menske yow bytyde.
Sesounez schal yow neuer sese of sede ne of heruest,
Ne hete, ne no harde forst, vmbre ne droþe,
Ne þe swetnesse of somer, ne þe sadde wynter,
Ne þe nyt, ne þe day, ne þe newe erez,
Bot euer renne restlez: rengnez e þerinne.'
Þerwyth He blessez vch a best, & bytat hem þis erþe.
Þen watz a skylly skyualde, quen scaped alle þe wylde,
Vche fowle to þe flyt þat fyþerez myt serue,
Vche fysch to þe flod þat fynne couþe nayte.
Vche beste to þe bent þat þat bytes on erbez;
Wylde wormez to her won wryþez in þe erþe,
Þe fox & þe folmarde to þe fryth wyndez,
Herttes to hye heþe, harez to gorstez,
& lyounez & lebardez to þe lake-ryftes:
Hernez & hauekez to þe hye rochez,
Þe hole-foted fowle to þe flod hyez,
& vche best at a brayde þer hym best lykez;
Þe fowre frekez of þe folde fongez þe empyre.
Lo! suche a wrakful wo for wlatsum dedez
Parformed þe hye Fader on folke þat He made;
Þat He chysly hade cherisched He chastysed ful hardee,
In devoydynge þe vylanye þat venkquyst His þewez.
Forþy war þe now, wye þat worschyp desyres
In His comlych courte þat Kyng is of blysse,
In þe fylþe of þe flesch þat þou be founden neuer,
Tyl any water in þe worlde to wasche þe fayly.
For is no segge vnder sunne so seme of his craftez,
If he be sulped in synne, þat syttez vnclene;
On spec of spote may spede to mysse
Of þe syte of þe Souerayn þat syttez so hye;
For þat schewe me schale in þo schyre howsez,
As þe beryl bornyst byhouez be clene.
Þat is sounde on vche a syde & no sem habes,
Withouten maskle oþer mote, as margerye-perle.
Syþen þe Souerayn in sete so sore forþot
Þat euer He man vpon molde merked to lyuy,
For he in fylþe watz fallen, felly He uenged,
Quen fourferde alle þe flesch þat He formed hade.
Hym rwed þat He hem vprerde & rat hem lyflode;
& efte þat He hem vndyd, hard hit Hym þot.
For quen þe swemande sore sot to His hert,
He knyt a couenaunde cortaysly with monkynde þere,
In þe mesure of His mode & meþe of His wylle,
Þat He schulde neuer for no syt smyte al at onez,
As to quelle alle quykez for qued þat myt falle,
Whyl of þe lenþe of þe londe lastez þe terme.
Þat ilke skyl for no scaþe ascaped Hym neuer.
Wheder wonderly He wrak on wykked men after,
Ful felly for þat ilk faute forferde a kyth ryche,
In þe anger of His ire, þat ared mony;
& al watz for þis ilk euel, þat vnhappen glette,
Þe venym & þe vylanye & þe vycios fylþe
Þat bysulpez mannez saule in vnsounde hert,
Þat he his Saueour ne see with syt of his yen.
Alle illez He hates as helle þat alle stynkkez;
Bot non nuyez Hym on nat ne neuer vpon dayez
As harlottrye vnhonest, heþyng of seluen:
Þat schamez for no schrewedschyp, schent mot he worþe.
Bot sauyour, mon, in þyself, þaþou a sotte lyuie,
Þaþou bere þyself babel, byþenk þe sumtyme
Wheþer He þat stykked vche a stare in vche steppe ye,
if Hymsel[f] be bore blynde hit is a brod wonder;
& He þat fetly in face fettled alle eres,
If he hatz losed þe lysten hit lyftez meruayle:
Trave þou neuer þat tale, vntrwe þou hit fyndez.
Þer is no dede so derne þat dittez His yen;
Þer is no wye in his werk so war ne so stylle
Þat hit ne þrawez to Hym þr[o] er he hit þot haue.
For He is þe gropande God, þe grounde of alle dedez,
Rypande of vche a ring þe reynyez & hert.
& þere He fyndez al fayre a freke wythinne,
Þat hert honest & hol, þat haþel He honourez,
Sendez hym a sad syt: to se His auen face,
& harde honysez þise oþer, & of His erde flemez.
Bot of þe dome of þe douþe for dedez of schame,
He is so skoymos of þat skaþe, He scarrez bylyue;
He may not drye to draw allyt, bot drepez in hast:
& þat watz schewed schortly by a scaþe onez.
Olde Abraham in erde onez he syttez
Euen byfore his hous-dore, vnder an oke grene;
Bryt blykked þe bem of þe brode heuen;
In þe hye hete þerof Abraham bidez:
He watz schunt to þe schadow vnder schyre leuez.
Þenne watz he war on þe waye of wlonk Wyez þrynne;
If þay wer farande & fre & fayre to beholde
Hit is eþe to leue by þe last ende.
For þe lede þat þer laye þe leuez anvnder,
When he hade of Hem syt he hyez bylyue,
& as to God þe goodmon gos Hem agaynez
& haylsed Hem in onhede, & sayde: 'Hende Lorde,
if euer Þy mon vpon molde merit disserued,
Lenge a lyttel with Þy lede, I loly biseche;
Passe neuer fro Þi pouere, if I hit pray durst,
Er Þou haf biden with Þi burne & vnder boe restted,
& I schal wynne Yow wyt of water a lyttel,
& fast aboute schal I fare Your fette wer waschene.
Resttez here on þis rote & I schal rachche after
& brynge a morsel of bred to banne Your hertte.'
'Fare forthe,' quoþ þe Frekez, '& fech as þou seggez;
By bole of þis brode tre We byde þe here.'
Þenne orppedly into his hous he hyed to Sare,
Commaunded hir to be cof & quyk at þis onez:
'Þre mettez of mele menge & ma kakez;
Vnder askez ful hote happe hem byliue;
Quyl I fete sumquat fat, þou þe fyr bete,
Prestly at þis ilke poynte sum polment to make.'
He cached to his covhous & a calf bryngez,
Þat watz tender & not toe, bed tyrue of þe hyde,
& sayde to his seruaunt þat hit seþe faste;
& he deruely at his dome dyt hit bylyue.
Þe burne to be bare-heued buskez hym þenne,
Clechez to a clene cloþe & kestez on þe grene,
Þrwe þryftyly þeron þo þre þerue kakez,
& bryngez butter wythal & by þe bred settez;
Mete messez of mylke he merkkez bytwene,
Syþen potage & polment in plater honest.
As sewer in a god assyse he serued Hem fayre,
Wyth sadde semblaunt & swete of such as he hade;
& God as a glad gest mad god chere
Þat watz fayn of his frende, & his fest praysed.
Abraham, al hodlez, with armez vp-folden,
Mynystred mete byfore þo Men þat mytes al weldez.
Þenne Þay sayden as Þay sete samen alle þrynne,
When þe mete watz remued & Þay of mensk speken,
'I schal efte hereaway, Abram,' Þay sayden,
'et er þy lyuez lyt leþe vpon erþe,
& þenne schal Sare consayue & a sun bere,
Þat schal be Abrahamez ayre & after hym wynne
With wele & wyth worschyp þe worþely peple
Þat schal halde in heritage þat I haf men ark[ed].'
Þenne þe burde byhynde þe dor for busmar laed;
& sayde sothly to hirself Sare þe madde:
'May þou traw for tykle þat þou tonne motez,
& I so hye out of age, & also my lorde?'
For soþely, as says þe wryt, he wern of sadde elde,
Boþe þe wye & his wyf, such werk watz hem fayled
Fro mony a brod day byfore; ho barayn ay byene,
Þat selue Sare, withouten sede into þat same tyme.
Þenne sayde oure Syre þer He sete: 'Se! so Sare laes,
Not trawande þe tale þat I þe to schewed.
Hopez ho ot may be harde My hondez to work?
& et I avow verayly þe avaunt þat I made;
I schal eply aayn & elde þat I hyt,
& sothely send to Sare a soun & an hayre.'
Þenne swenged forth Sare & swer by hir trawþe
Þat for lot þat Þay laused ho laed neuer.
'Now innoghe: hit is not so,' þenne nurned þe Drytyn,
'For þou laed alo, bot let we hit one.'
With þat Þay ros vp radly, as Þay rayke schulde,
& setten toward Sodamas Her syt alle at onez;
For þat cite þerbysyde watz sette in a vale,
No mylez fro Mambre mo þen tweyne,
Whereso wonyed þis ilke wy, þat wendez with oure Lorde
For to tent Hym with tale & teche Hym þe gate.
Þen glydez forth God; þe godmon Hym folez;
Abraham heldez Hem wyth, Hem to conueye
In towarde þe cety of Sodamas þat synned had þenne
In þe faute of þis fylþe. Þe Fader hem þretes,
& sayde þus to þe segg þat sued Hym after:
'How myt I hyde Myn hert fro Habraham þe trwe,
Þat I ne dyscouered to his corse My counsayl so dere,
Syþen he is chosen to be chef chyldryn fader,
Þat so folk schal falle fro to flete alle þe worlde,
& vche blod in þat burne blessed schal worþe?
Me bos telle to þat tolk þe tene of My wylle,
& alle Myn atlyng to Abraham vnhaspe bilyue.
The grete soun of Sodamas synkkez in Myn erez,
& þe gult of Gomorre garez Me to wrath.
I schal lyt into þat led & loke Myseluen
[If] þay haf don as þe dyne dryuez on lofte.
Þay han lerned a lyst þat lykez me ille,
Þat þay han founden in her flesch of fautez þe werst:
Vch male matz his mach a man as hymseluen,
& fylter folyly in fere on femmalez wyse.
I compast hem a kynde crafte & kende hit hem derne,
& amed hit in Myn ordenaunce oddely dere,
& dyt drwry þerinne, doole alþer-swettest,
& þe play of paramorez I portrayed Myseluen,
& made þerto a maner myriest of oþer:
When two true togeder had tyed hemseluen,
Bytwene a male & his make such merþe schulde conne,
Welnye pure paradys mot preue no better;
Ellez þay mot honestly ayþer oþer welde,
At a stylle stollen steuen, vnstered wyth syt,
Luf-lowe hem bytwene lasched so hote
Þat alle þe meschefez on mold mot hit not sleke.
Now haf þay skyfted My skyl & scorned natwre,
& henttez hem in heþyng an vsage vnclene.
Hem to smyte for þat smod smartly I þenk,
Þat wyez schal be by hem war, worlde withouten ende.'
Þenne ared Abraham & alle his mod chaunge[d],
For hope of þe harde hate þat hyt hatz oure Lorde.
Al sykande he sayde: 'Sir, with Yor leue,
Schal synful & saklez suffer al on payne?
Weþer euer hit lyke my Lorde to lyfte such domez
Þat þe wykked & þe worþy schal on wrake suffer,
& weye vpon þe worre half þat wrathed Þe neuer?
Þat watz neuer Þy won þat wrotez vus alle.
Now fyfty fyn frendez wer founde in onde toune,
In þe cety of Sodamas & also Gomorre,
Þat neuer lakked Þy laue, bot loued ay trauþe,
& retful wern & resounable & redy Þe to serue,
Schal þay falle in þe faute þat oþer frekez wrot,
& joyne to her juggement, her juise to haue?
Þat nas neuer Þyn note, vnneuened hit worþe,
Þat art so gaynly a God & of goste mylde.'
'Nay, for fyfty,' quoþ þe Fader, '& þy fayre speche,
& þay be founden in þat folk of her fylþe clene,
I schal forgyue alle þe gylt þurMy grace one,
& let hem smolt al unsmyten smoþely at onez.'
'Aa! blessed be Þow,' quoþ þe burne, 'so boner & þewed,
& al haldez in Þy honde, þe heuen & þe erþe;
Bot, for I haf þis talke tatz to non ille
if I mele a lyttel more þat mul am & askez.
What if fyue faylen of fyfty þe noumbre,
& þe remnaunt be reken, how restes Þy wylle?'
'And fyue wont of fyfty,' quoþ God, 'I schal forete alle
& wythhalde My honde for hortyng on lede.'
'& quat if faurty be fre & fauty þyse oþer:
Schalt Þow schortly al schende & schape non oþer?'
'Nay, þafaurty forfete, et fryst I a whyle,
& voyde away My vengaunce, þaMe vyl þynk.'
Þen Abraham obeched Hym & loly Him þonkkez:
'Now sayned be Þou, Sauiour, so symple in Þy wrath!
I am bot erþe ful euel & vsle so blake,
For to mele wyth such a Mayster as mytez hatz alle.
Bot I haue bygonnen wyth my God, & He hit gayn þynkez;
if I forloyne as a fol Þy fraunchyse may serue.
What if þretty þryuande be þrad in on tounez,
What schal I leue of my Lorde, [i]f He hem leþe wolde?'
Þenne þe godlych God gef hym onsware:
'et for þretty in þrong I schal My þro steke,
& spare spakly of spyt in space of My þewez,
& My rankor refrayne four þy reken wordez.'
'What for twenty,' quoþ þe tolke, 'vntwynez Þou hem
þenne?'
'Nay, if þou ernez hit et, ark I hem grace;
If þat twenty be trwe, I tene hem no more,
Bot relece alle þat regioun of her ronk werkkez.'
'Now, aþel Lorde,' quoþ Abraham, 'onez a speche,
& I schal schape no more þo schalkkez to helpe.
If ten trysty in toune be tan in Þi werkkez,
Wylt Þou mese Þy mode & menddyng abyde?'
'I graunt,' quoþ þe grete God, 'Graunt mercy,' þat oþer;
& þenne arest þe renk & rat no fyrre.
& Godde glydez His gate by þose grene wayez,
& he conueyen Hym con with cast of his ye;
& als he loked along þereas oure Lorde passed,
et he cryed Hym after with careful steuen:
'Meke Mayster, on Þy mon to mynne if Þe lyked,
Loth lengez in on leede þat is my lef broþer;
He syttez þer in Sodomis, þy seruaunt so pouere,
Among þo mansed men þat han Þe much greued.
if Þou tynez þat toun, tempre Þyn yre,
As Þy mersy may malte, Þy meke to spare.'
Þen he wendez, wendez his way, wepande for care,
Towarde þe mere of Mambre, wepande for sorewe;
& þere in longyng al nyt he lengez in wones,
Whyl þe Souerayn to Sodamas sende to spye.
His sondes into Sodamas watz sende in þat tyme,
In þat ilk euentyde, by aungels tweyne,
Meuand meuande mekely togeder as myry men onge,
As Loot in a loge dor lened hym alone,
In a porche of þat place pyt to þe ates,
Þat watz ryal & ryche so watz þe renkes seluen.
As he stared into þe strete þer stout men played,
He sye þer swey in asent swete men tweyne;
Bolde burnez wer þay boþe with berdles chynnez,
Ryol rollande fax to raw sylk lyke,
Of ble as þe brere-flour whereso þe bare scheweed.
Ful clene watz þe countenaunce of her cler yen;
Wlonk whit watz her wede & wel hit hem semed.
Of alle feturez ful fyn & fautlez boþe;
Watz non autly in ouþer, for aungels hit wern,
& þat þe ep vnderede þat in þe ate syttez;
He ros vp ful radly & ran hem to mete,
& loe he loutez hem to, Loth, to þe grounde,
& syþen soberly: 'Syrez, I yow byseche
Þat e wolde lyt at my loge & lenge þerinne.
Comez to your knaues kote, I craue at þis onez;
I schal fette yow a fatte your fette for to wasche;
I norne yow bot for on nyt nee me to lenge,
& in þe myry mornyng e may your waye take.'
& þay nay þat þay nolde neno howsez,
Bot stylly þer in þe strete as þay stadde wern
Þay wolde lenge þe long nat & logge þeroute:
Hit watz hous innoe to hem þe heuen vpon lofte.
Loth laþed so longe wyth luflych wordez
Þat þay hym graunted to go & grut no lenger.
Þe bolde to his byggyng bryngez hem bylyue,
Þat [watz] ryally arayed, for he watz ryche euer.
Þe wyez wern welcom as þe wyf couþe;
His two dere doterez deuoutly hem haylsed,
Þat wer maydenez ful meke, maryed not et,
& þay wer semly & swete, & swyþe wel arayed.
Loth þenne ful lytly lokez hym aboute,
& his men amonestes mete for to dyt:
'Bot þenkkez on hit be þrefte what þynk so e make,
For wyth no sour no no salt seruez hym neuer.'
Bot et I wene þat þe wyf hit wroth to dyspyt,
& sayde softely to hirself: 'Þis vn[s]auere hyne
Louez no salt in her sauce; et hit no skyl were
Þat oþer burne be boute, þaboþe be nyse.'
Þenne ho sauerez with salt her seuez vchone,
Agayne þe bone of þe burne þat hit forboden hade,
& als ho scelt hem in scorne þat wel her skyl knewen.
Why watz ho, wrech, so wod? Ho wrathed oure Lorde.
Þenne seten þay at þe soper, wern serued bylyue,
Þe gestes gay & ful glad, of glam debonere,
Welawynnely wlonk, tyl þay waschen hade,
Þe trestes tylt to þe woe & þe table boþe.
Fro þe seggez haden souped & seten bot a whyle,
Er euer þay bosked to bedde, þe borwatz al vp,
Alle þat weppen myt welde, þe wakker & þe stronger,
To vmbelye Lothez hous þe ledez to take.
In grete flokkez of folk þay fallen to his atez;
As a scowte-wach scarred so þe asscry rysed;
With kene clobbez of þat clos þay clatz on þe wowez,
& wyth a schrylle scarp schout þay schewe þyse worde[z]:
'If þou louyez þy lyf, Loth, in þyse wones,
ete vus out þose ong men þat ore-whyle here entred,
Þat we may lere hym of lof, as oure lyst biddez,
As is þe asyse of Sodomas to seggez þat passen.'
Whatt! þay sputen & speken of so spitous fylþe,
What! þay eed & olped of estande sore,
Þat et þe wynd & þe weder & þe worlde stynkes
Of þe brych þat vpbraydez þose broþelych wordez.
Þe godman glyfte with þat glam & gloped for noyse;
So scharpe schame to hym schot, he schrank at þe hert.
For he knew þe costoum þat kyþed þose wrechez,
He doted neuer for no doel so depe in his mynde.
'Allas!' sayd hym þenne Loth, & lytly he rysez,
& bowez forth fro þe bench into þe brode ates.
What! he wonded no woþe of wekked knauez,
Þat he ne passed þe port þe p[er]il to abide.
He went forthe at þe wyket & waft hit hym after,
Þat a clyket hit clet clos hym byhynde.
Þenne he meled to þo men mesurable wordez,
For harlotez with his hendelayk he hoped to chast:
'Oo, my frendez so fre, your fare is to strange;
Dotz away your derf dyn & derez neuer my gestes.
Avoy! hit is your vylaynye, e vylen yourseluen;
& e are jolyf gentylmen, your japez ar ille
Bot I schal kenne yow by kynde a crafte þat is better:
I haf a tresor in my telde of tow my fayre deter,
Þat ar maydenez vnmard for alle men ette;
In Sodamas, þaI hit say, non semloker burdes;
Hit arn ronk, hit arn rype, & redy to manne;
To samen wyth þo semly þe solace is better.
I schal biteche yow þo two þat tayt arn & quoynt,
& laykez wyth hem as yow lyst, & letez my gestes one.'
Þenne þe rebaudez so ronk rerd such a noyse
Þat aly hurled in his erez her harlotez speche:
'Wost þou not wel þat þou wonez here a wye strange,
An outcomlyng, a carle? We kylle of þyn heued!
Who joyned þe be jostyse oure japez to blame,
Þat com a boy to þis bor, þaþou be burne ryche?'
Þus þay þrobled & þrong & þrwe vmbe his erez,
& distresed hym wonder strayt with strenkþe in þe prece,
Bot þat þe onge men, so epe, ornen þeroute,
Wapped vpon þe wyket & wonnen hem tylle,
& by þe hondez hym hent & horyed hym withinne,
& steken þe ates ston-harde wyth stalworth barrez.
Þay blwe a boffet inblande þat banned peple,
Þat þay blustered, as blynde as Bayard watz euer;
Þay lest of Lotez logging any lysoun to fynde,
Bot nyteled þer alle þe nyt for not at þe last.
Þenne vch tolke tyt hem, þat hade of tayt fayled,
& vchon roþeled to þe rest þat he reche mot;
Bot þay wern wakned al wrank þat þer in won lenged,
Of on þe vglokest vnhap þat euer on erd suffred.
Ruddon of þe day-rawe ros vpon vten,
When merk of þe mydnyt mot no more last.
Ful erly þose aungelez þis haþel þay ruþen,
& glopnedly on Godez halue gart hym vpryse;
Fast þe freke ferkez vp ful ferd at his hert;
Þay comaunded hym cof to cach þat he hade,
'Wyth þy wyf & þy wyez & þy wlonc detters,
For we laþe þe, sir Loth, þat þou þy lyf haue.
Cayre tid of þis kythe er combred þou worþe,
With alle þi here vpon haste, tyl þou a hil fynde;
Foundez faste on your fete; bifore your face lokes,
Bot bes neuer so bolde to blusch yow bihynde,
& loke e stemme no stepe, bot strechez on faste;
Til e reche to a reset, rest e neuer.
For we schal tyne þis toun & trayþely disstrye,
Wyth alle þise wyez so wykke wytly devoyde,
& alle þe londe with þise ledez we losen at onez;
Sodomas schal ful sodenly synk into grounde,
& þe grounde of Gomorre gorde into helle,
& vche a koste of þis kythe clater vpon hepes.'
Þen laled Loth: 'Lorde, what is best?
If I me fele vpon fote þat I fle mot,
Hov schulde I huyde me fro H[y]m þat hatz His hate kynned
In þe brath of His breth þat brennez alle þinkez?
To crepe fro my Creatour & know not wheder,
Ne wheþer His fooschip me folez bifore oþer bihynde.'
Þe freke sayde: 'No foschip oure Fader hatz þe schewed,
Bot hily heuened þi hele fro hem þat arn combred.
Nov wale þe a wonnyng þat þe warisch myt,
& He schal saue hit for þy sake þat hatz vus sende hider,
For þou art oddely þyn one out of þis fylþe,
& als Abraham þyn eme hit at Himself asked.'
'Lorde, loued He worþe,' quoþ Loth, 'vpon erþe!
Þen is a cite herbisyde þat Segor hit hatte,
Here vtter on a rounde hil hit houez hit one.
I wolde, if His wylle wore, to þat won scape.'
'Þenn fare forth,' quoþ þat fre, '& fyne þou neuer,
With þose ilk þat þow wylt þat þrenge þe after,
& ay goande on your gate, wythouten agayn-tote,
For alle þis londe schal be lorne longe er þe sonne rise.'
Þe wye wakened his wyf & his wlonk deteres,
& oþer two myri men þo maydenez schulde wedde;
& þay token hit as tyt & tented hit lyttel;
Þafast laþed hem Loth, þay leen ful stylle.
Þe aungelez hasted þise oþer & aly hem þratten,
& enforsed alle fawre forth at þe atez:
Þo wern Loth & his lef, his luflyche deter;
Þer sot no mo to sauement of cities aþel fyue.
Þise aungelez hade hem by hande out at þe atez,
Prechande hem þe perile, & beden hem passe fast:
'Lest e be taken in þe teche of tyrauntez here,
Loke e bowe now bi bot; bowez fast hence!'
& þay kayre ne con, & kenely flowen.
Erly, er any heuen-glem, þay to a hil comen.
Þe grete God in His greme bygynnez on lofte
To wakan wederez so wylde; þe wyndez He callez,
& þay wroþely vpwafte & wrastled togeder,
Fro fawre half of þe folde flytande loude.
Clowdez clustered bytwene kesten vp torres,
Þat þe þik þunder-þrast þirled hem ofte.
Þe rayn rueled adoun, ridlande þikke
Of felle flaunkes of fyr & flakes of soufre,
Al in smolderande smoke smachande ful ille,
Swe aboute Sodamas & hit sydez alle,
Gorde to Gomorra, þat þe grounde laused,
Abdama & Syboym, þise ceteis alle faure
Al birolled wyth þe rayn, rostted & brenned,
& ferly flayed þat folk þat in þose fees lenged.
For when þat þe Helle herde þe houndez of heuen,
He watz ferlyly fayn, vnfolded bylyue;
Þe grete barrez of þe abyme he barst vp at onez,
Þat alle þe regioun torof in riftes ful grete,
& clouen alle in lyttel cloutes þe clyffez aywhere,
As lauce leuez of þe boke þat lepes in twynne.
Þe brethe of þe brynston bi þat hit blende were,
Al þo citees & her sydes sunkken to helle.
Rydelles wern þo grete rowtes of renkkes withinne,
When þay wern war of þe wrake þat no wye achaped;
Such a omerly arm of ellyng þer rysed,
Þerof clatered þe cloudes, þat Kryst myt haf rawþe.
Þe segge herde þat soun to Segor þat ede,
& þe wenches hym wyth þat by þe way foled;
Ferly ferde watz her flesch þat flowen ay ilyche,
Trynande ay a hye trot, þat torne neuer dorsten.
Loth & þo luly-whit, his lefly two deter,
Ay foled here face, bifore her boþe yen;
Bot þe balleful burde, þat neuer bode keped,
Blusched byhynden her bak þat bale for to herkken.
Hit watz lusty Lothes wyf þat ouer he[r] lyfte schulder
Ones ho bluschet to þe bure, bot bod ho no lenger
Þat ho nas stadde a stiffe ston, a stalworth image,
Al so salt as ani se, & so ho et standez.
Þay slypped bi & sye hir not þat wern hir samen-feres,
Tyl þay in Segor wern sette, & sayned our Lorde;
Wyth lyt louez vplyfte þay loued Hym swyþe,
Þat so His seruauntes wolde see & saue of such woþe.
Al watz dampped & don & drowned by þenne;
Þe ledez of þat lyttel toun wern lopen out for drede
Into þat malscrande mere, marred bylyue,
Þat not saued watz bot Segor, þat sat on a lawe.
Þe þre ledez þerin, Loth & his deter;
For his make watz myst, þat on þe mount lenged
In a stonen statue þat salt sauor habbes,
For two fautes þat þe fol watz founde in mistrauþe:
On, ho serued at þe soper salt bifore Drytyn,
& syþen, ho blusched hir bihynde, þahir forboden were;
For on ho standes a ston, & salt for þat oþer,
& alle lyst on hir lik þat arn on launde bestes.
Abraham ful erly watz vp on þe morne,
Þat alle nat much niye hade no mon in his hert,
Al in longing for Loth leyen in a wache;
Þer he lafte hade oure Lorde he is on lofte wonnen;
He sende toward Sodomas þe syt of his yen,
Þat euer hade ben an erde of erþe þe swettest,
As aparaunt to paradis, þat plantted þe Drytyn;
Nov is hit plunged in a pit like of pich fylled.
Suche a roþun of a reche ros fro þe blake,
Askez vpe in þe arye & vsellez þer flowen,
As a fornes ful of flot þat vpon fyr boyles
When bryt brennande brondez ar bet þeranvnder.
Þis watz a uengaunce violent þat voyded þise places,
Þat foundered hatz so fayr a folk & þe folde sonkken.
Þer þe fyue citees wern set nov is a see called,
Þat ay is drouy & dym, & ded in hit kynde,
Blo, blubrande, & blak, vnblyþe to nee;
As a stynkande stanc þat stryed synne,
Þat euer of synne & of smach smart is to fele.
Forþy þe derk Dede See hit is demed euermore,
For hit dedez of deþe duren þere et;
For hit is brod & boþemlez, & bitter as þe galle,
& not may lenge in þat lake þat any lyf berez,
& alle þe costez of kynde hit combrez vchone.
For lay þeron a lump of led, & hit on loft fletez,
& folde þeron a lyt fyþer, & hit to founs synkkez;
& þer water may walter to wete any erþe
Schal neuer grene þeron growe, gresse ne wod nawþer.
If any schalke to be schent wer schowued þerinne,
Þahe bode in þat boþem broþely a monyth,
He most ay lyue in þat loe in losyng euermore,
& neuer drye no dethe to dayes of ende.
& as hit is corsed of kynde & hit coostez als,
Þe clay þat clenges þerby arn corsyes strong,
As alum & alkaran, þat angre arn boþe,
Soufre sour & saundyuer, & oþer such mony;
& þer waltez of þat water in waxlokes grete
Þe spuniande aspaltoun þat spyserez sellen;
& suche is alle þe soyle by þat se halues,
Þat fel fretes þe flesch & festred bones.
& þer ar tres by þat terne of traytoures,
& þay borgounez & beres blomez ful fayre,
& þe fayrest fryt þat may on folde growe,
As orenge & oþer fryt & apple-garnade,
Also red & so ripe & rychely hwed
As any dom myt deuice of dayntyez oute;
Bot quen hit is brused oþer broken, oþer byten in twynne,
No worldez goud hit wythinne, bot wyndowande askes.
Alle þyse ar teches & tokenes to trow vpon et,
& wittnesse of þat wykked werk, & þe wrake after
Þat oure Fader forferde for fylþe of þose ledes.
Þenne vch wye may wel wyt þat He þe wlonk louies;
& if He louyes clene layk þat is oure Lorde ryche,
& to be couþe in His courte þou coueytes þenne,
To se þat Semly in sete & His swete face,
Clerrer counseyl, counseyl con I non, bot þat þou clene
worþe.
For Clopyngnel in þe compas of his clene Rose,
Þer he expounez a speche to hym þat spede wolde
Of a lady to be loued: 'Loke to hir sone
Of wich beryng þat ho be, & wych ho best louyes,
& be ryt such in vch a bore of body & of dedes,
& folþe fet of þat fere þat þou fre haldes;
& if þou wyrkkes on þis wyse, þaho wyk were,
Hir schal lyke þat layk þat lyknes hir tylle.'
If þou wyl dele drwrye wyth Drytyn þenne,
& lelly louy þy Lorde & His leef worþe,
Þenne confourme þe to Kryst, & þe clene make,
Þat euer is polyced als playn as þe perle seluen.
For, loke, fro fyrst þat He lyt withinne þe lel mayden,
By how comly a kest He watz clos þere,
When venkkyst watz no vergynyte, ne vyolence maked,
Bot much clener watz hir corse, God kynned þerinne.
& efte when He borne watz in Beþelen þe ryche,
In wych puryte þay departed; þaþay pouer were,
Watz neuer so blysful a bour as watz a bos þenne,
Ne no schroude hous so schene as a schepon þare,
Ne non so glad vnder God as ho þat grone schulde.
For þer watz seknesse al sounde þat sarrest is halden,
& þer watz rose reflayr where rote hatz ben euer,
& þer watz solace & songe wher sorhatz ay cryed;
For aungelles with instrumentes of organes & pypes,
& rial ryngande rotes & þe reken fyþel,
& alle hende þat honestly mot an hert glade,
Aboutte my lady watz lent quen ho delyuer were.
Þenne watz her blyþe Barne burnyst so clene
Þat boþe þe ox & þe asse Hym hered at ones;
Þay knewe Hym by His clannes for Kyng of nature,
For non so clene of such a clos com neuer er þenne.
& if clanly He þenne com, ful cortays þerafter,
Þat alle þat longed to luþer ful lodly He hated,
By nobleye of His norture He nolde neuer towche
Ot þat watz vngoderly oþer ordure watz inne.
et comen lodly to þat Lede, as lazares monye,
Summe lepre, summe lome, & lomerande blynde,
Poysened, & parlatyk, & pyned in fyres,
Drye folk & ydropike, & dede at þe laste,
Alle called on þat Cortayse & claymed His grace.
He heled hem wyth hynde speche of þat þay ask after,
For whatso He towched also tyd tourned to hele,
Wel clanner þen any crafte cowþe devyse.
So clene watz His hondelyng vche ordure hit schonied,
& þe gropyng so goud of God & Man boþe,
Þat for fetys of His fyngeres fonded He neuer
Nauþer to cout ne to kerue with knyf ne wyth egge;
Forþy brek He þe bred blades wythouten,
For hit ferde freloker in fete in His fayre honde,
Displayed more pryuyly when He hit part schulde,
Þenne alle þe toles of Tolowse mot tyt hit to kerue.
Þus is He kyryous & clene þat þou His cort askes:
Hov schulde þou com to His kyth bot if þou clene were?
Nov ar we sore & synful & sovly vchone;
How schulde we se, þen may we say, þat Syre vpon throne?
is, þat Mayster is mercyable, þaþou be man fenny,
& al tomarred in myre whyle þou on molde lyuyes;
Þou may schyne þurschryfte, þaþou haf
schome serued,
& pure þe with penaunce tyl þou a perle worþe.
Perle praysed is prys þer perre is schewed,
Þahym not derrest be demed to dele for penies.
Quat may þe cause be called bot for hir clene hwes,
Þat wynnes worschyp abof alle whyte stones?
For ho schynes so schyr þat is of schap rounde,
Wythouten faut oþer fylþe if ho fyn were,
& wax euer in þe worlde in weryng so olde,
et þe perle payres not whyle ho in pyese lasttes;
& if hit cheue þe chaunce vncheryst ho worþe,
Þat ho blyndes of ble in bour þer ho lygges,
Nobot wasch hir wyth wourchyp in wyn as ho askes,
Ho by kynde schal becom clerer þen are.
So if folk be defowled by vnfre chaunce,
Þat he be sulped in sawle, seche to schryfte,
& he may polyce hym at þe prest, by penaunce taken,
Wel bryter þen þe beryl oþer browden perles.
Bot war þe wel, if þou be waschen wyth water of schryfte,
& polysed als playn as parchmen schauen,
Sulp no more þenne in synne þy saule þerafter,
For þenne þou Drytyn dyspleses with dedes ful sore,
& entyses Hym to tene more trayþly þen euer,
& wel hatter to hate þen hade þou no waschen.
For when a sawele is satled & sakred to Drytyn,
He holly haldes hit His & haue hit He wolde;
Þenne efte lastes hit likkes, He loses hit ille,
As hit were rafte wyth vnryt & robbed wyth þewes.
War þe þenne for þe wrake: His wrath is achaufed
For þat þat ones watz His schulde efte be vnclene,
Þahit be bot a bassyn, a bolle oþer a scole,
A dysche oþer a dobler, þat Drytyn onez serued.
To defowle hit euer vpon folde fast He forbedes,
So is He scoymus of scaþe þat scylful is euer.
& þat watz bared in Babyloyn in Baltazar tyme,
Hov harde vnhap þer hym hent & hastyly sone,
For he þe vesselles avyled þat vayled in þe temple
In seruyse of þe Souerayn sumtyme byfore.
if e wolde tyt me a tom telle hit I wolde,
Hov charged more watz his chaunce þat hem cherych nolde
Þen his fader forloyne þat feched hem wyth strenþe,
& robbed þe relygioun of relykes alle.
Danyel in his dialokez devysed sumtyme,
As et is proued expresse in his profecies,
Hov þe gentryse of Juise & Jherusalem þe ryche
Watz disstryed wyth distres, & drawen to þe erþe.
For þat folke in her fayth watz founden vntrwe,
Þat haden hyt þe hye God to halde of Hym euer;
& He hem haled for His & help at her nede
In mukel meschefes mony, þat meruayl [is] to here.
& þay forloyne her fayth & foled oþer goddes,
& þat wakned His wrath & wrast hit so hye
Þat He fylsened þe faythful in þe falce lawe
To forfare þe falce in þe faythe trwe.
Hit watz sen in þat syþe þat Zedethyas rengned
In Juda, þat justised þe Juyne kynges.
He sete on Salamones solie on solemne wyse,
Bot of leaute he watz lat to his Lorde hende:
He vsed abominaciones of idolatrye,
& lette lyt bi þe lawe þat he watz lege tylle.
Forþi oure Fader vpon folde a foman hym wakned:
Nabigodenozar nuyed hym swyþe.
He pursued into Palastyn with proude men mony,
& þer he wast wyth with werre þe wones of þorpes;
He hered vp alle Israel & hent of þe beste,
& þe gentylest of Judee in Jerusalem biseged,
Vmbewalt alle þe walles wyth wyes ful stronge,
At vche a dor a doty duk, & dutte hem wythinne;
For þe borwatz so bygge baytayled alofte,
& stoffed wythinne with stout men to stalle hem þeroute.
Þenne watz þe sege sette þe cete aboute,
Skete skarmoch skelt, much skaþe lached;
At vch brugge a berfray on basteles wyse
Þat seuen syþe vch a day asayled þe ates;
Trwe tulkkes in toures teueled wythinne,
In bigge brutage of borde bulde on þe walles;
Þay fet & þay fende of, & fylter togeder
Til two er ouertorned, et tok þay hit neuer.
At þe laste, vpon longe, þo ledes wythinne,
Faste fayled hem þe fode, enfannined monie;
Þe hote hunger wythinne hert hem wel sarre
Þen any dunt of þat douthe þat dowelled þeroute.
Þenne wern þo rowtes redles in þo ryche wones;
Fro þat mete watz myst, megre þay wexen,
& þay stoken so strayt þat þay ne stray myt
A fote fro þat forselet to forray no goudes.
Þenne þe kyng of þe kyth a counsayl hym takes
Wyth þe best of his burnes, a blench for to make;
Þay stel out on a stylle nyt er any steuen rysed,
& harde hurles þurþe oste er enmies hit wyste.
Bot er þay atwappe ne mot þe wach wythoute
Hie skelt watz þe askry þe skewes anvnder.
Loude alarom vpon launde lulted watz þenne;
Ryche, ruþed of her rest, ran to here wedes,
Hard hattes þay hent & on hors lepes;
Cler claryoun crak cryed on lofte.
By þat watz alle on a hepe hurlande swyþee,
Folande þat oþer flote, & fonde hem bilyue,
Ouertok hem as tyd, tult hem of sadeles,
Tyl vche prynce hade his per put to þe grounde.
& þer watz þe kyng kat wyth Calde prynces,
& alle hise gentyle forjusted on Jerico playnes,
& presented wern as presoneres to þe prynce rychest,
Nabigodenozar, noble in his chayer;
& he þe faynest freke þat he his fo hade,
& speke spitously hem to, & spylt þerafter.
Þe kynges sunnes in his syt he slow euervch one,
& holkked out his auen yen heterly boþe,
& bede þe burne to be brot to Babyloyn þe ryche,
& þere in dongoun be don to dree þer his wyrdes.
Now se, so þe Soueray[n] set hatz His wrake:
Nas hit not for Nabugo ne his noble nauþer
Þat oþer depryued watz of pryde with paynes stronge,
Bot for his beryng so badde agayn his blyþe Lorde;
For hade þe Fader ben his frende, þat hym bifore keped,
Ne neuer trespast to Him in teche of mysseleue,
To colde wer alle Calde & kythes of Ynde,
et take Torkye hem wyth, her tene hade ben little.
et nolde neuer Nabugo þis ilke note leue
Er he hade tuyred þis toun & torne hit to grounde.
He joyned vnto Jerusalem a gentyle duc þenne,
His name watz Nabuzardan, to noye þe Jues;
He watz mayster of his men & myty himseluen,
Þe chef of his cheualrye his chekkes to make;
He brek þe bareres as bylyue, & þe burafter,
& enteres in ful ernestly, in yre of his hert.
What! þe maysterry watz mene: þe men wern away,
Þe best boed wyth þe burne þat þe boremed,
& þo þat byden wer [s]o biten with þe bale hunger
Þat on wyf hade ben worþe þe welgest fourre.
Nabizardan not forþy nolde not spare,
Bot bede al to þe bronde vnder bare egge;
Þay slowen of swettest semlych burdes,
Baþed barnes in blod & her brayn spylled;
Prestes & prelates þay presed to deþe,
Wyues & wenches her wombes tocoruen,
Þat her boweles outborst aboute þe diches,
& al watz carfully kylde þat þay cach myt.
And alle swypped, vnswoled of þe sworde kene,
Þay wer cagged & kat on capeles al bare,
Festned fettres to her fete vnder fole wombes,
& broþely brot to Babyloyn þer bale to suffer,
To sytte in seruage & syte, þat sumtyme wer gentyle.
Now ar chaunged to chorles & charged wyth werkkes,
Boþe to cayre at þe kart & þe kuy mylke,
Þat sumtyme sete in her sale syres & burdes.
& et Nabuzardan nyl neuer stynt
Er he to þe tempple tee wyth his tulkkes alle;
Betes on þe barers, brestes vp þe ates,
Slouen alle at a slyp þat serued þerinne,
Pulden prestes bi þe polle & plat of her hedes,
Diten dekenes to deþe, dungen doun clerkkes,
& alle þe maydenes of þe munster matyly hokyllen
Wyth þe swayf of þe sworde þat swoled hem alle.
Þenne ran þay to þe relykes as robbors wylde,
& pyled alle þe apparement þat pented to þe kyrke,
Þe pure pyleres of bras pourtrayd in golde,
& þe chef chaundeler charged with þe lyt,
Þat ber þe lamp vpon lofte þat lemed euermore
Bifore þ[e] sancta sanctorumþer
selcouth watz ofte.
Þay cat away þat condelstik, & þe crowne als
Þat þe auter hade vpon, of aþel golde ryche,
Þe gredirne & þe goblotes garnyst of syluer,
Þe bases of þe bryt postes & bassynes so schyre,
Dere disches of golde & dubleres fayre,
Þe vyoles & þe vesselment of vertuous stones.
Now hatz Nabuzardan nomen alle þyse noble þynges,
& pyled þat precious place & pakked þose godes;
Þe golde of þe gazafylace to swyþe gret noumbre,
Wyth alle þe vrnmentes of þat hous, he hamppred togeder;
Alle he spoyled spitously in a sped whyle
Þat Salomon so mony a sadde er sot to make.
Wyth alle þe coyntyse þat he cowþe clene to wyrke,
Deuised he þe vesselment, þe vestures clene;
Wyth slyt of his ciences, his Souerayn to loue,
Þe hous & þe anournementes he hytled togedere.
Now hatz Nabuzardan numnend hit al samen,
& syþen bet doun þe bur& brend hit in askes.
Þenne wyth legiounes of ledes ouer londes he rydes,
Herez of Israel þe hyrne aboute;
Wyth charged chariotes þe cheftayn he fynde,
Bikennes þe catel to þe kyng, þat he cat hade;
Presented him þe prisoneres in pray þat þay token,
Moni a worþly wye whil her worlde laste,
Moni semly syre soun, & swyþe rych maydenes,
Þe pruddest of þe prouince, & prophetes childer,
As Ananie & Azarie & als Mizael,
& dere Daniel also, þat watz deuine noble,
With moni a modey moder-chylde mo þen innoghe.
& Nabugo_de_nozar makes much joye,
Nov he þe kyng hatz conquest & þe kyth wunnen,
& dreped alle þe dotyest & derrest in armes,
& þe lederes of her lawe layd to þe grounde,
& þe pryce of þe profetie prisoners maked.
Bot þe joy of þe juelrye so gentyle & ryche,
When hit watz schewed hym so schene, scharp watz his wonder;
Of such vessel auayed, þat vayled so huge,
Neuer et nas Nabugo_de_nozar er þenne.
He sesed hem with solemnete, þe Souerayn he praysed
Þat watz aþel ouer alle, Israel Drytyn:
Such god, such gomes, such gay vesselles,
Comen neuer out of kyth to Caldee reames.
He trussed hem in his tresorye in a tryed place,
Rekenly, wyth reuerens, as he ryt hade;
& þer he wrot as þe wyse, as e may wyt hereafter,
For hade he let of hem lyt, hym mot haf lumpen worse.
Þat ryche in gret rialte rengned his lyue,
As conquerour of vche a cost he cayser watz hatte,
Emperour of alle þe erþe & also þe saudan,
& als þe god of þe grounde watz grauen his name.
& al þurdome of Daniel, fro he deuised hade
Þat alle goudes com of God, & gef hit hym bi samples,
Þat he ful clanly bicnv his carp bi þe laste,
& ofte hit mekned his mynde, his maysterful werkkes.
Bot al drawes to dye with doel vp[o]n ende:
Bi a haþel neuer so hye, he heldes to grounde.
& so Nabugo_de_nozar, as he nedes moste,
For alle his empire so hie in erþe is he grauen.
Bot þenn þe bolde Baltazar, þat watz his barn aldest,
He watz stalled in his stud, & stabled þe rengne
In þe burof Babiloyne, þe biggest he trawed,
Þat nauþer in heuen ne [on] erþe hade no pere;
For he bigan in alle þe glori þat hym þe gome lafte,
Nabugo_de_nozar, þat watz his noble fader.
So kene a kyng in Caldee com neu[er] er þenne;
Bot honoured he not Hym þat in heuen wonies.
Bot fals fantummes of fendes, formed with handes,
Wyth tool out of harde tre, & telded on lofte,
& of stokkes & stones, he stoute goddes callz,
When þay ar gilde al with golde & gered wyth syluer;
& þere he kneles & callez & clepes after help.
& þay reden him ryt rewarde he hem hetes,
& if þay gruchen him his grace, to gremen his hert,
He cleches to a gret klubbe & knokkes hem to peces.
Þus in pryde & olipraunce his empyre he haldes,
In lust & in lecherye & loþelych werkkes,
& hade a wyf for to welde, a worþelych quene,
& mony a lemman, neuer þe later, þat ladis wer called.
In þe clernes of his concubines & curious wedez,
In notyng of nwe metes & of nice gettes,
Al watz þe mynde of þat man on misschapen þinges,
Til þe Lorde of þe lyfte liste hit abate.
Thenne þis bolde Baltazar biþenkkes hym ones
To vouche on avayment of his vayne g[l]orie;
Hit is not innoghe to þe nice al noty þink vse
Bot if alle þe worlde wyt his wykked dedes.
Baltazar þurBabiloyn his banne gart crye,
& þurþe cuntre of Caldee his callyng con spryng,
Þat alle þe grete vpon grounde schulde geder hem samen
& assemble at a set day at þe saudans fest.
Such a mangerie to make þe man watz auised,
Þat vche a kythyn kyng schuld com þider,
Vche duk wyth his duthe, & oþer dere lordes,
Schulde com to his court to kyþe hym for lege,
& to reche hym reuerens, & his reuel herkken,
To loke on his lemanes & ladis hem calle.
To rose hym in his rialty rych men sotten,
& mony a baroun ful bolde, to Babyloyn þe noble.
Þer bowed toward Babiloyn burnes so mony,
Kynges, cayseres ful kene, to þe court wonnen,
Mony ludisch lordes þat ladies broten,
Þat to neuen þe noumbre to much nye were.
For þe bourwatz so brod & so bigge alce,
Stalled in þe fayrest stud þe sterrez anvnder,
Prudly on a plat playn, plek alþer-fayrest,
Vmbesweyed on vch a syde with seuen grete wateres,
With a wonder wrot walle wruxeled ful hie,
With koynt carneles aboue, coruen ful clene,
Troched toures bitwene, twenty spere lenþe,
& þiker þrowen vmbeþour with ouerþwert palle.
Þe place þat plyed þe pursaunt wythinne
Watz longe & ful large & euer ilych sware,
& vch a syde vpon soyle helde seuen myle,
& þe saudans sete sette in þe myddes.
Þat watz a palayce of pryde passande alle oþer,
Boþe of werk & of wunder, & walle[d] al aboute;
Hee houses withinne, þe halle to hit med,
So brod bilde in a bay þat blonkkes myt renne.
When þe terme of þe tyde watz towched of þe feste,
Dere droen þerto & vpon des metten,
& Baltazar vpon bench was busked to sete,
Stepe stayred stones of his stoute throne.
Þenne watz alle þe halle flor hiled with knytes,
& barounes at þe sidebordes bounet aywhere,
For non watz dressed vpon dece bot þe dere seluen,
& his clere concubynes in cloþes ful bryt.
When alle segges were þet set þen seruyse bygynnes,
Sturnen trumpen strake steuen in halle,
Aywhere by þe wowes wrasten krakkes,
& brode baneres þerbi blusnande of gold,
Burnes berande þe bredes vpon brode skeles
Þat were of sylueren syt, & served þerwyth,
Lyfte logges þerouer & on lofte coruen,
Pared out of paper & poynted of golde,
Broþe baboynes abof, besttes anvnder,
Foles in foler flakerande bitwene,
& al in asure & ynde enaumayld ryche;
& al on blonkken bak bere hit on honde.
& ay þe nakeryn noyse, notes of pipes,
Tymbres & tabornes, tulket among,
Symbales & sonetez sware þe noyse,
& bougounz busch batered so þikke.
So watz serued fele syþe þe sale alle aboute,
With solace at þe sere course, bifore þe self lorde,
Þer þe lede & alle his loue lenged at þe table:
So faste þay weed to him wyne hit warmed his hert
& breyþed vppe into his brayn & blemyst his mynde,
& al waykned his wyt, & welnee he foles;
For he waytez on wyde, his wenches he byholdes,
& his bolde baronage aboute bi þe woes.
Þenne a dotage ful depe drof to his hert,
& a caytif counsayl he cat bi hymseluen;
Maynly his marschal þe mayster vpon calles,
& comaundes hym cofly coferes to lauce,
& fech forþ þe vessel þat his fader brot,
Nabugo_de_nozar, noble in his strenþe,
Conquered with his knytes & of kyrk rafte
In Jude, in Jerusalem, in gentyle wyse:
'Bryng hem now to my borde, of beuerage hem fylles,
Let þise ladyes of hem lape, I luf hem in hert;
Þat schal I cortaysly kyþe, & þay schin knawe sone,
Þer is no bounte in burne lyk Baltazar þewes.'
Þenne towched to þe tresour þis tale watz sone,
& he with keyes vncloses kystes ful mony;
Mony burþen ful bryt watz brot into halle,
& couered mony a cupborde with cloþes ful quite.
Þe jueles out of Jerusalem with gemmes ful bryt
Bi þe syde of þe sale were semely arayed;
Þe aþel auter of brasse watz hade into place,
Þe gay coroun of golde gered on lofte.
Þat hade ben blessed bifore wyth bischopes hondes
& wyth besten blod busily anoynted,
In þe solempne sacrefyce þat goud sauor hade
Bifore þe Lorde of þe lyfte in louyng Hymseluen,
Now is sette, for to serue Satanas þe blake,
Bifore þe bolde Baltazar wyth bost & wyth pryde;
Houen vpon þis auter watz aþel vessel
Þat wyth [s]o curious a crafte coruen watz wyly.
Salamon sete him s[eue]n ere & a syþe more,
With alle þe syence þat hym sende þe souerayn Lorde,
For to compas & kest to haf hem clene wrot.
For þer wer bassynes ful bryt of brende golde clere,
Enaumaylde with azer, & eweres of sute,
Couered cowpes foul clene, as casteles arayed,
Enbaned vnder batelment with bantelles quoynt,
& fyled out of fygures of ferlyle schappes.
Þe coperounes of þe canacles þat on þe cuppe reres
Wer fetysely formed out in fylyoles longe;
Pinacles pyt þer apert þat profert bitwene,
& al bolled abof with braunches & leues,
Pyes & papejayes purtrayed withinne,
As þay prudly hade piked of pomgarnades;
For alle þe blomes of þe boes wer blyknande perles,
& alle þe fruyt in þo formes of flaumbeande gemmes,
Ande safyres, & sardiners, & semely topace,
Alabaundarynes, & amaraunz, & amaffised stones,
Casydoynes, & crysolytes, & clere rubies,
Penitotes, & pynkardines, ay perles bitwene;
So trayled & tryfled atrauerce wer alle,
Bi vche bekyrande þe bolde, þe brurdes al vmbe;
Þe gobelotes of golde grauen aboute,
& fyoles fretted with flores & fleez of golde;
Vpon þat avter watz al aliche dresset.
Þe candelstik bi a cost watz cayred þider sone,
Vpon þe pyleres apyked, þat praysed hit mony,
Vpon hit basez of brasse þat ber vp þe werkes,
Þe boes bryt þerabof, brayden of golde,
Braunches bredande þeron, & bryddes þer seten
Of mony kyndes, of fele kyn hues,
As þay with wynge vpon wynde hade waged her fyþeres.
Inmong þe leues of þe lampes wer grayþed,
& oþer louflych lyt þat lemed ful fayre,
As mony morteres of wax merkked withoute
With mony a borlych best al of brende golde.
Hit watz not wonte in þat wone to wast no serges,
Bot in temple of þe trauþe trwly to stonde
Bifore þe sancta sanctorum, soþefast Drytyn
Expouned His speche spiritually to special prophetes.
Leue þou wel þat þe Lorde þat þe lyfte emes
Displesed much at þat play in þat plyt stronge,
Þat His jueles so gent wyth jaueles wer fouled,
Þat presyous in His presens wer proued sumwhyle.
Soberly in His sacrafyce summe wer anoynted,
Þurþe somones of Himselfe þat syttes so hye;
Now a boster on benche bibbes þerof
Tyl he be dronkken as þe deuel, & dotes þer he syttes.
So þe Worcher of þis worlde wlates þerwyth
Þat in þe poynt of her play He poruayes a mynde;
Bot er harme hem He wolde in haste of His yre,
He wayned hem a warnyng þat wonder hem þot.
Nov is alle þis guere geten glotounes to serue,
Stad in a ryche stal, & stared ful bryt[e];
Baltazar in a brayd: 'Bede vus þerof!
Wee wyn in þis won! Wassayl!' he cryes.
Swyfte swaynes ful swyþe swepen þertylle,
Kyppe kowpes in honde kyngez to serue;
In bryt bollez ful bayn birlen þise oþer,
& vche mon for his mayster machches alone.
Þer watz rynging, on ryt, of ryche metalles,
Quen renkkes in þat ryche rok rennen hit to cache;
Clatering of couaclez þat kesten þo burdes
As sonet out of sau[t]eray songe als myry.
Þen þe dotel on dece drank þat he myt;
& þenne arn dressed dukez & prynces,
Concubines & knytes, bi cause of þat merthe;
As vchon hade hym inhelde he haled of þe cuppe.
So long likked þise lordes þise lykores swete,
& gloryed on her falce goddes, & her grace calles,
Þat were of stokkes & stones, stille euermore,
Neuer steuen hem astel, so stoken [is] hor tonge.
Alle þe goude golden goddes þe gaulez et neuenen,
Belfagor & Belyal, & Belssabub als,
Heyred hem as hyly as heuen wer þayres,
Bot Hym þat alle goudes giues, þat God þay foreten.
For þer a ferly bifel þat fele folk seen;
Fryst knew hit þe kyng & alle þe cort after:
In þe palays pryncipale, vpon þe playn wowe,
In contrary of þe candelstik, þat clerest hit schyned,
Þer apered a paume, with poyntel in fyngres,
Þat watz grysly & gret, & grymly he wrytes;
Non oþer forme bot a fust faylande þe wryste
Pared on þe parget, purtrayed lettres.
When þat bolde Baltazar blusched to þat neue,
Such a dasande drede dusched to his hert
Þat al falewed his face & fayled þe chere;
Þe stronge strok of þe stonde strayned his joyntes,
His cnes cachches toclose, & cluchches his hommes,
& he with plattyng his paumes displayes his ler[e]s,
& romyes as a rad ryth þat rorez for drede,
Ay biholdand þe honde til hit hade al grauen
& rasped on þe rowoe runisch sauez.
When hit þe scrypture hade scraped wyth a strof penne,
As a coltour in clay cerues þo fores,
Þenne hit vanist verayly & voyded of syt,
Bt þe lettres bileued ful large vpon plaster.
Sone so þe kynge for his care carping myt wynne,
He bede his burnes boto þat were bok-lered,
To wayte þe wryt þat hit wolde, & wyter hym to say,
'For al hit frayes my flesche, þe fyngres so grymme.'
Scoleres skelten þeratte þe skyl for to fynde,
Bot þer watz neuer on so wyse couþe on worde rede,
Ne what ledisch lore ne langage nauþer,
What tyþyng ne tale tokened þo drates.
Þenne þe bolde Baltazar bred ner wode,
& ede þe cete to seche segges þurout
Þat wer wyse of wychecrafte, & warlaes oþer
Þat con dele wyth demerlayk & deuine lettres.
'Calle hem alle to my cort, þo Calde clerkkes,
Vnfolde hem alle þis ferly þat is bifallen here,
& calle wyth a hie cry: "He þat þe kyng wysses,
In expounyng of speche þat spredes in þise lettres,
& make þe mater to malt my mynde wythinne,
Þat I may wyterly wyt what þat wryt menes,
He schal be gered ful gaye in gounes of porpre,
& a coler of cler golde clos vmbe his þrote;
He schal be prymate & prynce of pure clergye,
& of my þreuenest lordez þe þrydde he schal,
& of my reme þe rychest to ryde wyth myseluen,
Outtaken bare two, & þenne he þe þrydde."'
Þis cry watz vpcaste, & þer comen mony
Clerkes out of Caldye þat kennest wer knauen,
As þe sage sathrapas þat sorsory couþe,
Wychez & walkyries wonnen to þat sale,
Deuinores of demorlaykes þat dremes cowþe rede,
Sorsers & exorsismus & fele such clerkes;
& alle þat loked on þat letter as lewed þay were
As þay had loked in þe leþer of my lyft bote.
Þenne cryes þe kyng & kerues his wedes.
What! he corsed his clerkes & calde hem chorles;
To henge þe harlotes he heed ful ofte:
So watz þe wye wytles he wed wel ner.
Ho herde hym chyde to þe chambre þat watz þe chef quene.
When ho watz wytered bi wyes what watz þe cause,
Suche a chaungande chaunce in þe chef halle,
Þe lady, to lauce þat los þat þe lorde hade,
Glydes doun by þe grece & gos to þe kyng.
Ho kneles on þe colde erþe & carpes to hymseluen
Wordes of worchyp wyth a wys speche.
'Kene kyng,' quoþ þe quene, 'kayser of vrþe,
Euer laste þy lyf in lenþe of dayes!
Why hatz þou rended þy robe for redles hereinne,
Þaþose ledes ben lewed lettres to rede,
& hatz a haþel in þy holde, as I haf herde ofte,
Þat hatz þe gostes of God þat gyes alle soþes?
His sawle is ful of syence, saes to schawe,
To open vch a hide þyng of aunteres vncowþe.
Þat is he þat ful ofte hatz heuened þy fader
Of mony anger ful hote with his holy speche.
When Nabugo_de_nozar watz nyed in stoundes,
He devysed his dremes to þe dere trawþe;
He keuered hym with his counsayl of caytyf wyrdes;
Alle þat he spured hym, in space he expowned clene,
Þurþe sped of þe spyryt, þat sprad hym withinne,
Of þe godelest goddez þat gaynes aywhere.
For his depe diuinite & his dere sawes,
Þy bolde fader Baltazar bede by his name,
Þat now is demed Danyel, of derne coninges,
Þat cat watz in þe captyuide in cuntre of Jues;
Nabuzardan hym nome, & now is he here,
A prophete of þat prouince & pryce of þe worlde.
Sende into þe cete to seche hym bylyue,
& wynne hym with þe worchyp to wayne þe bote;
& þaþe mater be merk þat merked is ender,
He schal declar hit also as hit on clay stande.'
Þat gode counseyl at þe quene watz cached as swyþe;
Þe burne byfore Baltazar watz brot in a whyle.
When he com bifore þe kyng & clanly had halsed,
Baltazar vmbebrayde hym, & 'Leue sir,' he sayde,
'Hit is tolde me bi tulkes þat þou trwe were
Profete of þat prouynce þat prayed my fader,
Ande þat þou hatz in þy hert holy connyng,
Of sapyence þi sawle ful, soþes to schawe;
Goddes gost is þe geuen þat gyes alle þynges,
& þou vnhyles vch hidde þat Heuen-Kyng myntes.
& here is a ferly byfallen, & I fayn wolde
Wyt þe wytte of þe wryt þat on þe wowe clyues,
For alle Calde clerkes han cowwardely fayled.
If þou with quayntyse con quere hit, I quyte þe þy mede:
For if þou redes hit by ryt & hit to resoun brynges,
Fyrst telle me þe tyxte of þe tede lettres,
& syþen þe mater of þe mode mene me þerafter,
& I schal halde þe þe hest þat I þe hyt haue,
Apyke þe in porpre cloþe, palle alþer-fynest,
& þe bye of bryt golde abowte þyn nekke,
& þe þryd þryuenest þat þrynges me after,
Þou schal be baroun vpon benche, bede I þe no lasse.'
Derfly þenne Danyel deles þyse wordes:
'Ryche kyng of þis rengne, rede þe oure Lorde!
Hit is surely soth þe Souerayn of heuen
Fylsened euer þy fader & vpon folde cheryched,
Gart hym grattest to be of gouernores alle,
& alle þe worlde in his wylle welde as hym lykes.
Whoso wolde wel do, wel hym bityde,
& quos deth so he dezyre, he dreped als fast;
Whoso hym lyked to lyft, on lofte watz he sone,
& quoso hym lyked to lay watz loed bylyue.
So watz noted þe note of Nabugo_de_nozar,
Styfly stabled þe rengne bi þe stronge Drytyn,
For of þe Hyest he hade a hope in his hert,
Þat vche pouer past out of þat Prynce euen.
& whyle þat watz clet clos in his hert
Þere watz no mon vpon molde of myt as hymseluen;
Til hit bitide on a tyme towched hym pryde
For his lordeschyp so large & his lyf ryche;
He hade so huge an insyt to his aune dedes
Þat þe power of þe hye Prynce he purely foretes.
Þenne blynnes he not of blasfemy on to blame þe Drytyn;
His myt mete to Goddes he made with his wordes:
"I am god of þe grounde, to gye as me lykes.
As He þat hye is in heuen, His aungeles þat weldes.
If He hatz formed þe folde & folk þervpone,
I haf bigged Babiloyne, buralþer-rychest,
Stabled þerinne vche a ston in strenkþe of myn armes;
Mot neuer myt bot myn make such anoþer."
Watz not þis ilke worde wonnen of his mowþe one
Er þenne þe Souerayn sae souned in his eres:
"Now Nabugo_de_nozar innoe hatz spoken,
Now is alle þy pryncipalte past at ones,
& þou, remued fro monnes sunes, on mor most abide
& in wasturne walk & wyth þe wylde dowelle,
As best, byte on þe bent of braken & erbes,
With wroþe wolfes to won & wyth wylde asses."
Inmydde þe poynt of his pryde departed he þere
Fro þe soly of his solempnete; his solace he leues,
& carfully is outkast to contre vnknawen,
Fer into a fyr fryth þere frekes neuer comen.
His hert heldet vnhole; he hoped non oþer
Bot a best þat he be, a bol oþer an oxe.
He fares forth on alle faure, fogge watz his mete,
& ete ay as a horce when erbes were fallen;
Þus he countes hym a kow þat watz a kyng ryche,
Quyle seuen syþez were ouerseyed, someres I trawe.
By þat mony þik thye þryt vmbe his lyre,
Þat alle watz dubbed & dyt in þe dew of heuen;
Faxe, fyltered & felt, flosed hym vmbe,
Þat schad fro his schulderes to his schyre wykes,
& twenty-folde twynande hit to his tos rat,
Þer mony clyuy as clyde hit clyt togeder.
His berde ibrad alle his brest to þe bare vrþe,
His browes bresed as breres aboute his brode chekes;
Hole were his yen & vnder campe hores,
& al watz gray as þe glede, with ful grymme clawres
Þat were croked & kene as þe kyte paune;
Erne-hwed he watz & al ouerbrawden,
Til he wyst ful wel who wrot alle mytes,
& cowþe vche kyndam tokerue & keuer when Hym lyked.
Þenne He wayned hym his wyt, þat hade wo soffered,
Þat he com to knawlach & kenned hymseluen;
Þenne he loued þat Lorde & leued in trawþe
Hit watz non oþer þen He þat hade al in honde.
Þenne sone watz he sende agayn, his sete restored;
His barounes boed hym to, blyþe of his come,
Haerly in his aune hwe his heued watz couered,
& so eply watz arked & olden his state.
Bot þou, Baltazar, his barne & his bolde ayre,
Seþese syngnes with syt & set hem at lyttel,
Bot ay hatz hofen þy hert agaynes þe hye Dryt[y]n,
With bobaunce & with blasfamye bost at Hym kest,
& now His vessayles avyled in vanyte vnclene,
Þat in His hows Hym to honour were heuened of fyrst;
Bifore þe barounz hatz hom brot, & byrled þerinne
Wale wyne to þy wenches in waryed stoundes;
Bifore þy borde hatz þou brot beuerage in þede,
Þat blyþely were fyrst blest with bischopes hondes,
Louande þeron lese goddez þat lyf haden neuer,
Made of stokkes & stonez þat neuer styry mot.
& for þat froþande fylþe, þe Fader of heuen
Hatz sende into þis sale þise sytes vncowþe,
Þe fyste with þe fyngeres þat flayed þi hert,
Þat rasped renyschly þe woe with þe ropenne.
Þise ar þe wordes here wryten, withoute werk more,
By vch fygure, as I fynde, as oure Fader lykes:
Mane, Techal, Phares: merked in þrynne,
Þat þretes þe of þyn vnþryfte vpon þre wyse.
Now expowne þe þis speche spedly I þenk:
Manemenes als much as "Maynful Gode
Hatz counted þy kyndam bi a clene noumbre,
& fulfylled hit in fayth to þe fyrre ende".
To teche þe of Techal, þat terme þus menes:
"þy wale rengne is walt in wetes to heng,
& is funde ful fewe of hit fayth-dedes."
& Pharesfoles for þose fawtes, to frayst þe trawþe;
In Phares fynde
I forsoþe þise felle saes:
"Departed is þy pryncipalte, depryued þou worpes,
Þy rengne rafte is þe fro, & rat is þe Perses;
Þe Medes schal be maysteres here, & þou of menske schowued."'
Þe kyng comaunded anon to cleþe þat wyse
In frokkes of fyn cloþ, as forward hit asked;
Þenne sone watz Danyel dubbed in ful dere porpor,
& a coler of cler golde kest vmbe his swyre.
Þen watz demed a decre bi þe duk seluen:
Bolde Baltazar bed þat hym bowe schulde
Þe comynes al of Calde þat to þe kyng longed,
As to þe prynce pryuyest preued þe þrydde,
Heest of alle oþer saf onelych tweyne,
To boafter Baltazar in bore & in felde.
Þys watz cryed & knawen in cort als fast,
& alle þe folk þerof fayn þat foled hym tylle.
Bot howso Danyel watz dyt, þat day ouerede;
Nyt need ryt now with nyes fol mony,
For daed neuer anoþer day, þat ilk derk after,
Er dalt were þat ilk dome þat Danyel deuysed.
Þe solace of þe solempnete in þat sale dured
Of þat farand fest, tyl fayled þe sunne;
Þenne blykned þe ble of þe bryt skwes,
Mourkenes þe mery weder, & þe myst dryues
Þorþe lyst of þe lyfte, bi þe lomedoes.
Vche haþel to his home hyes ful fast,
Seten at her soper & songen þerafter;
Þen foundez vch a felaschyp fyrre at forþ nates.
Baltazar to his bedd with blysse watz caryed;
Reche þe rest as hym lyst: he ros neuer þerafter.
For his foes in þe felde in flokkes ful grete,
Þat longe hade layted þat lede his londes to strye,
Now ar þay sodenly assembled at þe self tyme.
Of hem wyst no wye þat in þat won dowelled.
Hit watz þe dere Daryus, þe duk of þise Medes,
Þe prowde prynce of Perce, & Porros of Ynde,
With mony a legioun ful large, with ledes of armes,
Þat now hatz spyed a space to spoyle Caldeez.
Þay þrongen þeder in þe þester on þrawen
hepes,
Asscaped ouer þe skyre watteres & scaþed þe walles,
Lyfte laddres ful longe & vpon lofte wonen,
Stelen stylly þe toun er any steuen rysed.
Withinne an oure of þe niyt an entre þay hade,
et afrayed þay no freke. Fyrre þay passen,
& to þe palays pryncipal þay aproched ful stylle,
Þenne ran þay in on a res on rowtes ful grete;
Blastes out of bryt brasse brestes so hye,
Ascry scarred on þe scue, þat scomfyted mony.
Segges slepande were slayne er þay slyppe myt;
Vche hous heyred watz withinne a hondewhyle.
Baltazar in his bed watz beten to deþe,
Þat boþe his blod & his brayn blende on þe cloþes;
The kyng in his cortyn watz kat bi þe heles,
Feryed out bi þe fete & fowle dispysed.
Þat watz so doty þat day & drank of þe vessayl
Now is a dogge also dere þat in a dych lygges.
For þe mayster of þyse Medes on þe morne ryses,
Dere Daryous þat day dyt vpon trone,
Þat cete seses ful sounde, & satlyng makes
Wyth alle þe barounz þeraboute, þat bowed hym after.
& þus watz þat londe lost for þe lordes synne,
& þe fylþe of þe freke þat defowled hade
Þe ornementes of Goddez hous þat holy were maked.
He watz corsed for his vnclannes, & cached þerinne,
Done doun of his dyngnete for dedez vnfayre,
& of þyse worldes worchyp wrast out for euer,
& et of lykynges on lofte letted, I trowe:
To loke on oure lofly Lorde late bitydes.
Þus vpon þrynne wyses I haf yow þro schewed
Þat vnclannes tocleues in corage dere
Of þat wynnelych Lorde þat wonyes in heuen,
Entyses Hym to be tene, telled vp His wrake;
Ande clannes is His comfort, & coyntyse He louyes,
& þose þat seme arn & swete schyn se His face.
Þat we gon gay in oure gere þat grace He vus sende,
Þat we may serue in His syt, þer solace neuer blynnez.
Amen.
& rekken vp alle þe resounz þat ho by rit askez,
Fayre formez myt he fynde in for[þ]ering his speche
& in þe contrare kark & combraunce huge.
For wonder wroth is þe Wyþat wrot alle þinges
Wyth þe freke þat in fylþe foles Hym after,
As renkez of relygioun þat reden & syngen
& aprochen to hys presens & prestez arn called;
Thay teen vnto his temmple & temen to hym seluen,
Reken with reuerence þay rychen His auter;
Þay hondel þer his aune body & vsen hit boþe.
If þay in clannes be clos þay cleche gret mede;
Bot if þay conterfete crafte & cortaysye wont,
As be honest vtwyth & inwith alle fylþez,
Þen ar þay synful hemself & sulped altogeder
Boþe God & His gere, & hym to greme cachen.
He is so clene in His courte, þe Kyng þat al weldez,
& honeste in His housholde & hagherlych serued
With angelez enourled in alle þat is clene,
Boþ withine & withouten in wedez ful bryt;
Nif he nere scoymus & skyg & non scaþe louied,
Hit were a meruayl to much, hit mot not falle.
Kryst kydde hit Hymself in a carp onez,
Þeras He heuened at happez & hyt hem her medez.
Me mynez on one amonge oþer, as Maþew recordez,
Þat þus clanness vnclosez a ful cler speche:
Þe haþel clene of his hert hapenez ful fayre,
For he schal loke on oure Lorde with a bone chere';
As so saytz, to þat syt seche schal he neuer
Þat any vnclannesse hatz on, auwhere abowte;
For He þat flemus vch fylþe fer fro His hert
May not byde þat burre þat hit His body neen.
Forþy hynot to heuen in haterez totorne,
Ne in þe harlatez hod, & handez vnwaschen.
For what vrþly haþel þat hyhonour haldez
Wolde lyke if a ladde com lyþerly attyred,
When he were sette solempnely in a sete ryche,
Abof dukez on dece, with dayntys serued?
Þen þe harlot with haste helded to þe table,
With rent cokrez at þe kne & his clutte traschez,
& his tabarde totorne, & his totez oute,
Oþer ani on of alle þyse, he schulde be halden vtter,
With mony blame ful bygge, a boffet peraunter,
Hurled to þe halle dore & harde þeroute schowued,
& be forboden þat bore to bowe þider neuer,
On payne of enprysonment & puttyng in stokkez;
& þus schal he be schent for his schrowde feble,
Þaneuer in talle ne in tuch he trespas more.
& if vnwelcum he were to a worþlych prynce,
et hym is þe hye Kyng harder in her euen;
As Maþew melez in his masse of þat man ryche,
Þat made þe mukel mangerye to marie his here dere,
& sende his sonde þen to say þat þay samne schulde,
& in comly quoyntis to com to his feste:
'For my boles & my borez arn bayted & slayne,
& my fedde foulez fatted with sclat,
My polyle þat is penne-fed & partrykez boþe,
Wyth scheldez of wylde swyn, swanez & cronez,
Al is roþeled & rosted ryt to þe sete;
Comez cof to my corte, er hit colde worþe.'
When þay knewen his cal þat þider com schulde,
Alle excused hem by þe skyly he scape by mot.
On hade bot hym a bor, he sayde, by hys trawþe:
'Now turne I þeder als tyd þe toun to byholde.'
Anoþer nayed also & nurned þis cawse:
'I haf erned & at okkez of oxen,
& for my hyez hem bot; to bowe haf I mester,
To see hem pulle in þe plow aproche me byhouez.'
'& I haf wedded a wyf,' so wer hym þe þryd;
'Excuse me at þe court, I may not com þere.'
Þus þay drohem adrewith daunger vchone,
Þat non passed to þe plate þahe prayed were.
Thenne þe ludych lorde lyked ful ille,
& hade dedayn of þat dede; ful dryly he carpez.
He saytz: 'Now for her owne sore þay forsaken habbez;
More to wyte is her wrange þen any wylle gentyl.
Þenne gotz forth, my gomez, þe grete streetez,
& forsettz on vche a syde þe cete aboute;
Þe wayferande frekez, on fote & on hors,
Boþe burnez & burdez, þe better & þe wers,
Laþez hem alle luflyly to lenge at my fest,
& bryngez hem blyþly to bore as barounez þay were,
So þat my palays plat ful be pyt al aboute;
Þise oþer wrechez iwysse worþy not wern.'
Þen þay cayred & com þat þe cost waked,
Broten bachlerez hem wyth þat þay by bonkez metten,
Swyerez þat swyftly swyed on blonkez,
& als fele vpon fote, of fre & of bonde.
When þay com to þe courte keppte weren þay fayre,
Stytled with þe stewarde, stad in þe halle,
Ful manerly with marchal mad for to sitte,
As he watz dere of degre dressed his seete.
Þenne seggez to þe souerayn sayden þerafter:
'Lo! Lorde, with your leue, at your lege heste
& at þi banne we haf brot, as þou beden habbez,
Mony renischsche renkez, & et is roum more.'
Sayde þe lorde to þo ledez, 'Laytez et ferre,
Ferre out in þe felde, & fechez mo gestez;
Waytez gorstez & greuez, if ani gomez lyggez;
Whatkyn folk so þer fare, fechez hem hider;
Be þay fers, be þay feble, forlotez none,
Be þay hol, be þay halt, be þay onyed,
& þaþay ben boþe blynde & balterande cruppelez,
Þat my hous may holly by halkez by fylled.
For, certez, þyse ilk renkez þat me renayed habbe,
& denounced me not now at þis tyme,
Schul neuer sitte in my sale my soper to fele,
Ne suppe on sope of my seve, þaþaþay swelt schulde.'
Thenne þe sergauntez, at þat sawe, swengen þeroute,
& diden þe dede þat [watz] demed, as he deuised hade,
& with peple of alle plytez þe palays þay fyllen;
Hit weren not alle on wyuez sunez, wonen with on fader.
Wheþer þay wern worþy oþer wers, wel wern þay
stowed,
Ay þe best byfore & brytest atyred,
Þe derrest at þe hye dese, þat dubbed wer fayrest,
& syþen on lenþe bilooghe ledez inogh.
& ay a[s] segge[s] [serly] semed by her wedez,
So with marschal at her mete mensked þay were.
Clene men in compaynye forknowen wern lyte,
& et þe symplest in þat sale watz serued to þe fulle,
Boþe with menske & with mete & mynstrasy noble,
& alle þe laykez þat a lorde at in londe schewe.
& þay bigonne to be glad þat god drink haden.
& vch mon with his mach made hym at ese.
Now inmyddez þe mete þe mayster hym biþot
Þat he wolde se þe semble þat samned was þere,
& rehayte rekenly þe riche & þe pou[eren],
& cherisch hem alle with his cher, & chaufen her joye.
Þen he bowez fro his bour into þe brode halle
& to þe best on þe bench, & bede hym be myry,
Solased hem with semblaunt & syled fyrre,
Tron fro table to table & talkede ay myrþe.
Bot as he ferked ouer þe flor, he fande with his ye,
Hit watz not for a halyday honestly arayed,
A þral þryt in þe þrong vnþryuandely cloþed,
Ne no festiual frok, bot fyled with werkkez;
Þe gome watz vngarnyst with god men to dele.
& gremed þerwith þe grete lorde, & greue hym he þot.
'Say me, frende,' quoþ þe freke with a felle chere,
'Hov wan þou into þis won in wedez so fowle?
Þe abyt þat þou hatz vpon, no halyday hit menskez;
Þou, burne, for no brydale art busked in wedez.
How watz þou hardy þis hous for þyn vnhap [to] nee
In on so ratted a robe & rent at þe sydez?
Þow art a gome vngoderly in þat goun febele;
Þou praysed me & my place ful pouer & ful [g]nede,
Þat watz so prest to aproche my presens hereinne.
Hopez þou I be a harlot þi erigaut to prayse?'
Þat oper burne watz abayst of his broþe wordez,
& hurkelez doun with his hede, þe vrþe he biholdez;
He watz so scoumfit of his scylle, lest he skaþe hent,
Þat he ne wyst on worde what he warp schulde.
Þen þe lorde wonder loude laled & cryed,
& talkez to his tormenttourez: 'Takez hym,' he biddez,
'Byndez byhynde, at his bak, boþe two his handez,
& felle fetterez to his fete festenez bylyue;
Stik hym stifly in stokez, & stekez hym þerafter
Depe in my doungoun þer doel euer dwellez,
Greuing & gretyng & gryspyng harde
Of teþe tenfully togeder, to teche hym be quoynt.'
Thus comparisunez Kryst þe kyndom of heuen
To þis frelych feste þat fele arn to called;
For alle arn laþed luflyly, þe luþer & þe better,
Þat euer wern fuled in font, þat fest to haue.
Bot war þe wel, if þou wylt, þy wedez ben clene
& honest for þe halyday, lest þou harme lache,
For aproch þou to þat Prynce of parage noble,
He hates helle no more þen hem þat ar sowle.
Wich arn þenne þy wedez þou wrappez þe inne,
Þat schal schewe hem so schene schrowde of þe best?
Hit arn þy werkez, wyterly, þat þou wrot hauez,
& lyued with þe lykyng þat lye in þyn hert;
Þat þo be frely & fresch fonde in þy lyue,
& fetyse of a fayr forme to fote & to honde,
& syþen alle þyn oþer lymez lapped ful clene;
Þenne may þou se þy Sauior & His sete ryche.
For fele[r] fautez may a freke forfete his blysse,
Þat he þe Souerayn ne se, þen for slauþe one;
As for bobaunce & bost & bolnande priyde
Þroly into þe deuelez þrote man þryngez bylyue.
For couetyse & colwarde & croked dedez,
For monsworne & mensclat & to much drynk,
For þefte & for þrepyng, vnþonk may mon haue;
For roborrye & riboudrye & resounez vntrwe,
& dsyheriete & depryue dowrie of wydoez,
For marryng of maryagez & mayntnaunce of schrewez,
For traysoun & trichcherye & tyrauntyre boþe,
& for fals famacions & fayned lawez;
Man may mysse þe myrþe þat much is to prayse
For such vnþewez as þise, & þole much payne,
& in þe Creatores cort com neuermore,
Ne neuer see Hym with syt for such sour tournez.
Bot I haue herkned & herde of mony hye clerkez,
& als in resounez of ryt red hit myseluen,
Þat þat ilk proper Prynce þat paradys weldez
Is displesed at vch a poynt þat plyes to scaþe;
Bot neuer et in no boke breued I herde
Þat euer He wrek so wyþerly on werk þat He made,
Ne venged for no vilte of vice ne synne,
Ne so hastyfly watz hot for hatel of His wylle,
Ne neuer so sodenly sot vnsoundely to weng,
As for fylþe of þe flesch þat foles han vsed;
For, as I fynde, þer He foret alle His fre þewez,
& wex wod to þe wrache for wrath at His hert.
For þe fyrste felonye þe falce fende wrot
Whyl he watz hye in þe heuen houen vpon lofte,
Of alle þyse aþel aungelez attled þe fayrest:
& he vnkyndely, as a karle, kydde a reward.
He senot bot hymself how semly he were,
Bot his Souerayn he forsoke & sade þyse wordez:
`I schal telde vp my trone in þe tramountayne,
& by lyke to þat Lorde þat þe lyft made.'
With þis worde þat he warp, þe wrake on hym lyt:
Drytyn with His dere dom hym drof to þe abyme,
In þe mesure of His mode, His metz neuer þe lasse.
Bot þer He tynt þe tyþe dool of His tour ryche:
Þaþe feloun were so fers for his fayre wedez
& his glorious glem þat glent so bryt,
As sone as Drytynez dome drof to hymseluen,
Þikke þowsandez þro þrwen þeroute,
Fellen fro þe frymament fendez ful blake,
Sweued at þe fryst swap as þe snaw þikke,
Hurled into helle-hole as þe hyue swarmez.
Fylter fenden folk forty dayez lencþe,
Er þat styngande storme stynt ne myt;
Bot as smylt mele vnder smal siue smokez forþikke.
So fro heuen to helle þat hatel schor laste,
On vche syde of þe worlde aywhere ilyche.
is, hit watz a brem brest & a byge wrache,
& et wrathed not þe Wy; ne þe wrech satled,
Ne neuer wolde, for wyl[fulnes], his worþy God knawe,
Ne pray Hym for no pite, so proud watz his wylle.
Forþy þaþe rape were rank, þe rawþe watz lytt[el];
Þahe be kest into kare, he kepes no better.
Bot þat oper wrake þat wex, on wyez hit lyt
Þurþe faut of a freke þat fayled in trawþe,
Adam inobedyent, ordaynt to blysse.
Þer pryuely in paradys his place watz devised,
To lyue þer in lykyng þe lenþe of a terme,
& þenne enherite þat home þat aungelez forgart;
Bot þurþe eggyng of Eue he ete of an apple
Þat enpoysened alle peplez þat parted fro hem boþe,
For a defence þat watz dyt of Drytyn Seluen,
& a payne þeron put & pertly halden.
Þe defence watz þe fryt þat þe freke towched,
& þe dom is þe deþe þat drepez vus alle;
Al in mesure & meþe watz mad þe vengiaunce,
& efte amended with a mayden þat make had neuer.
Bot in þe þryd watz forþrast al þat þryue schuld:
Þer watz malys mercyles & mawgre much scheued,
Þat watz for fylþe vpon folde þat þe folk vsed,
Þat þen wonyed in þe worlde withouten any maysterz.
Hit wern þe fayrest of forme & of face als,
Þe most & þe myriest þat maked wern euer,
Þe styfest, þe stalworþest þat stod euer on fete,
& lengest lyf in hem lent of ledez alle oþer.
For hit was þe forme foster þat þe folde bred,
Þe aþel aunceterez sunez pat Adam watz called,
To wham God hade geuen alle þat gayn were,
Alle þe blysse boute blame þat bodi myt haue;
& þose lykkest to þe lede, þat lyued next after;
Forþy so semly to see syþen wern none.
Þer watz no law to hem layd bot loke to kynde,
& kepe to hit, & alle hit cors clanly fulfylle.
& þenne founden þay fylþe in fleschlych dedez,
& controeued agayn kynde contrare werkez,
& vsed hem vnþryftyly vchon on oþer,
& als with oþer, wylsfully, upon a wrange wyse:
So ferly fowled her flesch þat þe fende loked
How þe deter of þe douþe wern derelych fayre,
& fallen in felaschyp with hem on folken wyse,
& engendered on hem jeauntez with her japez ille.
Þose wern men meþelez & maty on vrþe,
Þat for her lodlych laykez alosed þay were;
He watz famed for fre þat fet loued best,
& ay þe bigest in bale þe best watz halden.
& þenne euelez on erþe ernestly grewen
& multyplyed monyfolde inmongez mankynde,
For þat þe maty on molde so marre þise oþer
Þat þe Wye þat al wrot ful wroþly bygynnez.
When He knew vche contre coruppte in hitseluen,
& vch freke forloyned fro þe ryt wayez,
Felle temptande tene towched His hert.
As wye wo hym withinne, werp to Hymseluen:
'Me forþynkez ful much þat euer I mon made,
Bot I schal delyuer & do away þat doten on þis molde,
& fleme out of þe folde al þat flesch werez,
Fro þe burne to þe best, fro bryddez to fyschez;
Al schal doun & be ded & dryuen out of erþe
Þat euer I sette saule inne; & sore hit Me rwez
Þat euer I made hem Myself; bot if I may herafter,
I schal wayte to be war her wrenchez to kepe.'
Þenne in worlde watz a wye wonyande on lyue,
Ful redy & ful rytwys, & rewled hym fayre,
In þe drede of Drytyn his dayez he vsez,
& ay glydande wyth his God, his grace watz þe more.
Hym watz þe nome Noe, as is innoghe knawen.
He had þre þryuen sunez, & þay þre wyuez:
Sem soþly þat on, þat oþer hyt Cam,
& þe jolef Japheth watz gendered þe þryd.
Now God in nwy to Noe con speke
Wylde wrakful wordez, in His wylle greued:
'Þe ende of alle kynez flesch þat on vrþe meuez
Is fallen forþwyth My face, & forþer hit I þenk.
With her vnworþelych werk Me wlatez withinne;
Þe gore þerof Me hatz greued & þe glette nwyed.
I schal strenkle My distresse, & strye al togeder,
Boþe ledez & londe & alle þat lyf habbez.
Bot make to þe a mancioun, & þat is My wylle,
A cofer closed of tres, clanlych planed.
Wyrk wonez þerinne for wylde & for tame,
& þenne cleme hit with clay comly within[n]e,
& alle þe endentur dryuen daube withouten.
& þus of lenþe & of large þat lome þou make:
Þre hundred of cupydez þou holde to þe lenþe,
Of fyfty fayre ouerþwert forme þe brede;
& loke euen þat þyn ark haue of heþe þrette,
& a wyndow wyd vpon[ande] wrot vpon lo[f]te,
In þe compas of a cubit kyndely sware;
A wel dutande dor, don on þe syde;
Haf hallez þerinne & halkez ful mony,
Boþe boske[n]z & bourez & wel bounden penez.
For I schal waken vp a water to wasch alle þe worlde,
& quelle alle þat is quik with quauende flodez,
Alle þat glydez & gotz & gost of lyf habbez;
I schal wast with My wrath þat wons vpon vrþe.
Bot My forwarde with þe I festen on þis wyse,
For þou in reysoun hatz rengned & rytwys ben euer:
Þou schal enter þis ark with þyn aþel barnez
& þy wedded wyf; with þe þou take
Þe makez of þy myry sunez; þis meyny of ate
I schal saue of monnez saulez, & swelt þose oþer.
Of vche best þat berez lyf busk þe a cupple,
Of vche clene comly kynde enclose seuen makez,
Of vche horwed in ark halde bot a payre,
For to saue Me þe sede of alle ser kyndez.
& ay þou meng with þe malez þe mete ho-bestez,
Vche payre by payre to plese ayþer oþer;
With alle þe fode þat may be founde frette þy cofer,
For sustnaunce to yowself & also þose oþer.'
Ful grayþely gotz þis god man & dos Godez hestes,
In drydred & daunger þat durst do non oþer.
Wen hit watz fettled & forged & to þe fulle grayþed,
Þenn con Dryttyn hym dele dryly þyse wordez.
'Now Noe,' quoþ oure Lorde, 'art þou al redy?
Hatz þou closed þy kyst with clay alle aboute?'
'e, Lorde, with þy leue,' sayde þe lede þenne,
Al is wrot at Þi worde, as Þou me wyt lantez.'
'Enter in, þenn,' quoþ He, & haf þi wyf with þe,
Þy þre sunez, withouten þrep, & her þre wyuez;
Bestez, as I bedene haue, bosk þerinne als,
& when e arn staued, styfly stekez yow þerinne.
Fro seuen dayez ben seyed I sende out bylyue
Such a rowtande ryge þat rayne schal swyþe
Þat schal wasch alle þe worlde of werkez of fylþe;
Schal no flesch vpon folde by fonden onlyue,
Outtaken yow at in þis ark staued
& sed þat I wyl saue of þyse ser bestez.'
Now Noe neuer sty[n]tez, þat niy[t] he bygynnez,
Er al wer stawed & stoken as þe steuen wolde.
Thenne sone com þe seuenþe day, when samned wern alle,
& alle woned in þe whichche, þe wylde & þe tame.
Þen bolned þe abyme, & bonkez con ryse,
Waltes out vch walle-heued in ful wode stremez;
Watz no brymme þat abod vnbrosten bylyue;
Þe mukel lauande loghe to þe lyfte rered.
Mony clustered clowde clef alle in clowtez;
Torent vch a rayn-ryfte & rusched to þe vrþe,
Fon neuer in forty dayez. & þen þe flod ryses,
Ouerwaltez vche a wod & þe wyde feldez.
For when þe water of þe welkyn with þe worlde mette,
Alle þat deth mot drye drowned þerinne.
Þer watz moon for to make when meschef was cnowen,
Þat not dowed bot þe deth in þe depe stremez;
Water wylger ay wax, wonez þat stryede,
Hurled into vch hous, hent þat þer dowelled.
Fryst feng to þe flyt alle þat fle myt;
Vuche burde with her barne þe byggyng þay leuez
& bowed to þe hybonk þer brentest hit wern,
& heterly to þe hye hyllez þay [h]aled on faste.
Bot al watz nedlez her note, for neuer cowþe stynt
Þe roe raynande ryg, þe raykande wawez,
Er vch boþom watz brurdful to þe bonkez eggez,
& vche a dale so depe þat demmed at þe brynkez.
Þe moste mountaynez on mor þenne watz no more drye,
& þeron flokked þe folke, for ferde of þe wrake.
Syþen þe wylde of þe wode on þe water flette;
Summe swymmed þeron þat saue hemself trawed,
Summe stye to a stud & stared to þe heuen,
Rwly wyth a loud rurd rored for drede.
Harez, herttez also, to þe hye runnen;
Bukkez, bausenez, & bulez to þe bonkkez hyed;
& alle cryed for care to þe Kyng of heuen,
Recouerer of þe Creator þay cryed vchone,
Þat amounted þe masse, þe mase His mercy watz passed,
& alle His pyte departed fro peple þat He hated.
Bi þat þe flod to her fete floed & waxed,
Þen vche a segge sewel þat synk hym byhoued.
Frendez fellen in fere & faþmed togeder,
To dryher delful deystyne & dyen alle samen;
Luf lokez to luf & his leue takez,
For to ende alle at onez & for euer twynne.
By forty dayez wern faren, on folde no flesch styryed
Þat þe flod nade al freten with fetande waez;
For hit clam vche a clyffe, cubites fyftene
Ouer þe hyest hylle þat hurkled on erþe.
Þenne mourkne in þe mudde most ful nede
Alle þat spyrakle inspranc, no sprawlyng awayled,
Saue þe haþel vnder hach & his here straunge,
Noe þat ofte neuened þe name of oure Lorde,
Hym atsum in þat ark, as aþel God lyked,
Þer alle ledez in lome lenged druye.
Þe arc houen watz on hye with hurlande gotez,
Kest to kythez vncouþe þe clowdez ful nere.
Hit waltered on þe wylde flod, went as hit lyste,
Drof vpon þe depe dam, in daunger hit semed,
Withouten mast, oþer myke, oþer myry bawelyne,
Kable, oþer capstan to clyppe to her ankrez,
Hurrok, oþer hande-helme hasped on roþer,
Oþer any sweande sayl to seche after hauen,
Bot flote forthe with þe flyt of þe felle wyndez.
Whederwarde so þe water wafte, hit rebounde;
Ofte hit roled on rounde & rered on ende;
Nyf oure Lorde hade ben her lodezmon hem had lumpen harde.
Of þe lenþe of Noe lyf to lay a lel date,
Þe sex hundreth of his age & none odde erez,
Of secounde monyth þe seuen[ten]þe day rytez,
Towalten alle þyse welle-hedez & þe water flowed;
& þryez fyfty þe flod of folwande dayez;
Vche hille watz þer hidde with y[þ]ez ful graye.
Al watz wasted þat þer wonyed þe worlde withinne,
Þ[at] euer flote, oþer flwe, oþer on fote ede,
That roly watz þe remnaunt þat þe rac dryuez
Þat alle gendrez so joyst wern joyned wythinne
Bot quen þe Lorde of þe lyfte lyked Hymseluen
For to mynne on His mon His meth þat abydez,
Þen He wakened a wynde on watterez to blowe;
Þenne lasned þe llak þat large watz are.
Þen He stac vp þe stangez, stoped þe wellez,
Bed blynne of þe rayn: hit batede as faste;
Þenne lasned þe lolowkande togeder.
After harde dayez wern out an hundreth & fyfte,
As þat lyftande lome luged aboute.
Where þe wynde & þe weder warpen hit wolde,
Hit satled on a softe day, synkande to grounde;
On a rasse of a rok hit rest at þe laste,
On þe mounte of Mararach of Armene hilles.
Þat oþerwayez on Ebrv hit hat þe Thanes.
Bot þaþe kyste in þe cragez wern closed to byde,
et fyned not þe flod ne fel to þe boþemez,
Bot þe hyest of þe eggez vnhuled weren a lyttel,
Þat þe burne bynne borde byhelde þe bare erþe.
Þenne wafte he vpon his wyndowe, & wysed þeroute
A message fro þat meyny hem moldez to seche:
Þat watz þe rauen so ronk, þat rebel watz euer;
He watz colored as þe cole, corbyal vntrwe.
& he fongez to þe flyt & fannez on þe wyndez,
Halez hye vpon hyt to herken tyþyngez.
He croukez for comfort when carayne he fyndez
Kast vp on a clyffe þer costese lay drye;
He hade þe smelle of þe smach & smoltes þeder sone,
Fallez on þe foule flesch & fyllez his wombe,
& sone ederly forete isterday steuen,
How þe cheuetayn hym charged þat þe kyst emed.
Þe rauen raykez hym forth, þat reches ful lyttel
How alle fodez þer fare, ellez he fynde mete;
Bot þe burne bynne borde þat bod to hys come
Banned hym ful bytterly with bestes alle samen.
He sechez anoþer sondezmon, & settez on þe dou[u]e,
Bryngez þat bryt vpon borde, blessed, & sayde:
'Wende, worþelych wyt, vus wonez to seche;
Dryf ouer þis dymme water; if þou druye fyndez
Bryng bodworde to bot blysse to vus alle.
Þaþat fowle be false, fre be þou euer.'
Ho wyrle out on þe weder on wyngez ful scharpe,
Drely alle alonge day þat dorst neuer lyt;
& when ho fyndez no folde her fote on to pyche,
Ho vmbekestez þe coste & þe kyst sechez.
Ho hittez on þe euentyde & on þe ark sittez;
Noe nymmes hir anon & naytly hir stauez.
Noe on anoþer day nymmez efte þe doveue,
& byddez hir bowe ouer þe borne efte bonkez to seche;
& ho skyrmez vnder skwe & skowtez aboute,
Tyl hit watz nye at þe nat, & Noe þen sechez.
On ark on an euentyde houez þe dowue;
On stamyn ho stod & stylle hym abydez.
What! ho brot in hir beke a bronch of olyue,
Gracyously vmbegrouen al with grene leuez;
Þat watz þe syngne of sauyte þat sende hem oure Lorde,
& þe satlyng of Hymself with þo sely bestez.
Þen watz þer joy on þat gyn where jumpred er dryed,
& much comfort in þat cofer þat watz clay-daubed.
Myryly on a fayr morn, monyth þe fyrst,
Þat fallez formast in þe er, & þe fyrst day,
Ledez loen in þat lome & loked þeroute,
How þat watterez wern woned & þe worlde dryed.
Vchon loued oure Lorde, bot lenged ay stylle
Tyl þay had tyþyng fro þe Tolke þat tyned hem
þerinne.
Þen Godez glam to hem glod þat gladed hem alle,
Bede hem drawe to þe dor: delyuer hem He wolde.
Þen went þay to þe wykket, hit walt vpon sone;
Boþe þe burne & his barnez bowed þeroute,
Her wyuez walkez hem wyth & þe wylde after,
Þroly þrublande in þronge, þrowen ful þykke.
Bot Noe of vche honest kynde nem out an odde,
& heuened vp an auter & haled hit fayre,
& sette a sakerfyse þeron of vch a ser kynde
Þat watz comly & clene: God kepez non oþer.
When bremly brened þose bestez, & þe breþe rysed,
Þe sauour of his sacrafyse sot to Hym euen
Þat al spedez & spyllez; He spekes with þat ilke
In comly comfort ful clos & cortays wordez:
'Now, Noe, no more nel I neuer wary
Alle þe mukel mayny [on] molde for no mannez synnez,
For I se wel þat hit is sothe þat alle mannez wyttez
To vnþryfte arn alle þrawen with þot of her herttez,
& ay hatz ben, & wyl be et; fro her barnage
Al is þe mynde of þe man to malyce enclyned.
Forþy schal I neuer schende so schortly at ones
As dysstrye al for manez synne, dayez of þis erþe.
Bot waxez now & wendez forth & worþez to monye,
Multyplyez on þis molde, & menske yow bytyde.
Sesounez schal yow neuer sese of sede ne of heruest,
Ne hete, ne no harde forst, vmbre ne droþe,
Ne þe swetnesse of somer, ne þe sadde wynter,
Ne þe nyt, ne þe day, ne þe newe erez,
Bot euer renne restlez: rengnez e þerinne.'
Þerwyth He blessez vch a best, & bytat hem þis erþe.
Þen watz a skylly skyualde, quen scaped alle þe wylde,
Vche fowle to þe flyt þat fyþerez myt serue,
Vche fysch to þe flod þat fynne couþe nayte.
Vche beste to þe bent þat þat bytes on erbez;
Wylde wormez to her won wryþez in þe erþe,
Þe fox & þe folmarde to þe fryth wyndez,
Herttes to hye heþe, harez to gorstez,
& lyounez & lebardez to þe lake-ryftes:
Hernez & hauekez to þe hye rochez,
Þe hole-foted fowle to þe flod hyez,
& vche best at a brayde þer hym best lykez;
Þe fowre frekez of þe folde fongez þe empyre.
Lo! suche a wrakful wo for wlatsum dedez
Parformed þe hye Fader on folke þat He made;
Þat He chysly hade cherisched He chastysed ful hardee,
In devoydynge þe vylanye þat venkquyst His þewez.
Forþy war þe now, wye þat worschyp desyres
In His comlych courte þat Kyng is of blysse,
In þe fylþe of þe flesch þat þou be founden neuer,
Tyl any water in þe worlde to wasche þe fayly.
For is no segge vnder sunne so seme of his craftez,
If he be sulped in synne, þat syttez vnclene;
On spec of spote may spede to mysse
Of þe syte of þe Souerayn þat syttez so hye;
For þat schewe me schale in þo schyre howsez,
As þe beryl bornyst byhouez be clene.
Þat is sounde on vche a syde & no sem habes,
Withouten maskle oþer mote, as margerye-perle.
Syþen þe Souerayn in sete so sore forþot
Þat euer He man vpon molde merked to lyuy,
For he in fylþe watz fallen, felly He uenged,
Quen fourferde alle þe flesch þat He formed hade.
Hym rwed þat He hem vprerde & rat hem lyflode;
& efte þat He hem vndyd, hard hit Hym þot.
For quen þe swemande sore sot to His hert,
He knyt a couenaunde cortaysly with monkynde þere,
In þe mesure of His mode & meþe of His wylle,
Þat He schulde neuer for no syt smyte al at onez,
As to quelle alle quykez for qued þat myt falle,
Whyl of þe lenþe of þe londe lastez þe terme.
Þat ilke skyl for no scaþe ascaped Hym neuer.
Wheder wonderly He wrak on wykked men after,
Ful felly for þat ilk faute forferde a kyth ryche,
In þe anger of His ire, þat ared mony;
& al watz for þis ilk euel, þat vnhappen glette,
Þe venym & þe vylanye & þe vycios fylþe
Þat bysulpez mannez saule in vnsounde hert,
Þat he his Saueour ne see with syt of his yen.
Alle illez He hates as helle þat alle stynkkez;
Bot non nuyez Hym on nat ne neuer vpon dayez
As harlottrye vnhonest, heþyng of seluen:
Þat schamez for no schrewedschyp, schent mot he worþe.
Bot sauyour, mon, in þyself, þaþou a sotte lyuie,
Þaþou bere þyself babel, byþenk þe sumtyme
Wheþer He þat stykked vche a stare in vche steppe ye,
if Hymsel[f] be bore blynde hit is a brod wonder;
& He þat fetly in face fettled alle eres,
If he hatz losed þe lysten hit lyftez meruayle:
Trave þou neuer þat tale, vntrwe þou hit fyndez.
Þer is no dede so derne þat dittez His yen;
Þer is no wye in his werk so war ne so stylle
Þat hit ne þrawez to Hym þr[o] er he hit þot haue.
For He is þe gropande God, þe grounde of alle dedez,
Rypande of vche a ring þe reynyez & hert.
& þere He fyndez al fayre a freke wythinne,
Þat hert honest & hol, þat haþel He honourez,
Sendez hym a sad syt: to se His auen face,
& harde honysez þise oþer, & of His erde flemez.
Bot of þe dome of þe douþe for dedez of schame,
He is so skoymos of þat skaþe, He scarrez bylyue;
He may not drye to draw allyt, bot drepez in hast:
& þat watz schewed schortly by a scaþe onez.
Olde Abraham in erde onez he syttez
Euen byfore his hous-dore, vnder an oke grene;
Bryt blykked þe bem of þe brode heuen;
In þe hye hete þerof Abraham bidez:
He watz schunt to þe schadow vnder schyre leuez.
Þenne watz he war on þe waye of wlonk Wyez þrynne;
If þay wer farande & fre & fayre to beholde
Hit is eþe to leue by þe last ende.
For þe lede þat þer laye þe leuez anvnder,
When he hade of Hem syt he hyez bylyue,
& as to God þe goodmon gos Hem agaynez
& haylsed Hem in onhede, & sayde: 'Hende Lorde,
if euer Þy mon vpon molde merit disserued,
Lenge a lyttel with Þy lede, I loly biseche;
Passe neuer fro Þi pouere, if I hit pray durst,
Er Þou haf biden with Þi burne & vnder boe restted,
& I schal wynne Yow wyt of water a lyttel,
& fast aboute schal I fare Your fette wer waschene.
Resttez here on þis rote & I schal rachche after
& brynge a morsel of bred to banne Your hertte.'
'Fare forthe,' quoþ þe Frekez, '& fech as þou seggez;
By bole of þis brode tre We byde þe here.'
Þenne orppedly into his hous he hyed to Sare,
Commaunded hir to be cof & quyk at þis onez:
'Þre mettez of mele menge & ma kakez;
Vnder askez ful hote happe hem byliue;
Quyl I fete sumquat fat, þou þe fyr bete,
Prestly at þis ilke poynte sum polment to make.'
He cached to his covhous & a calf bryngez,
Þat watz tender & not toe, bed tyrue of þe hyde,
& sayde to his seruaunt þat hit seþe faste;
& he deruely at his dome dyt hit bylyue.
Þe burne to be bare-heued buskez hym þenne,
Clechez to a clene cloþe & kestez on þe grene,
Þrwe þryftyly þeron þo þre þerue kakez,
& bryngez butter wythal & by þe bred settez;
Mete messez of mylke he merkkez bytwene,
Syþen potage & polment in plater honest.
As sewer in a god assyse he serued Hem fayre,
Wyth sadde semblaunt & swete of such as he hade;
& God as a glad gest mad god chere
Þat watz fayn of his frende, & his fest praysed.
Abraham, al hodlez, with armez vp-folden,
Mynystred mete byfore þo Men þat mytes al weldez.
Þenne Þay sayden as Þay sete samen alle þrynne,
When þe mete watz remued & Þay of mensk speken,
'I schal efte hereaway, Abram,' Þay sayden,
'et er þy lyuez lyt leþe vpon erþe,
& þenne schal Sare consayue & a sun bere,
Þat schal be Abrahamez ayre & after hym wynne
With wele & wyth worschyp þe worþely peple
Þat schal halde in heritage þat I haf men ark[ed].'
Þenne þe burde byhynde þe dor for busmar laed;
& sayde sothly to hirself Sare þe madde:
'May þou traw for tykle þat þou tonne motez,
& I so hye out of age, & also my lorde?'
For soþely, as says þe wryt, he wern of sadde elde,
Boþe þe wye & his wyf, such werk watz hem fayled
Fro mony a brod day byfore; ho barayn ay byene,
Þat selue Sare, withouten sede into þat same tyme.
Þenne sayde oure Syre þer He sete: 'Se! so Sare laes,
Not trawande þe tale þat I þe to schewed.
Hopez ho ot may be harde My hondez to work?
& et I avow verayly þe avaunt þat I made;
I schal eply aayn & elde þat I hyt,
& sothely send to Sare a soun & an hayre.'
Þenne swenged forth Sare & swer by hir trawþe
Þat for lot þat Þay laused ho laed neuer.
'Now innoghe: hit is not so,' þenne nurned þe Drytyn,
'For þou laed alo, bot let we hit one.'
With þat Þay ros vp radly, as Þay rayke schulde,
& setten toward Sodamas Her syt alle at onez;
For þat cite þerbysyde watz sette in a vale,
No mylez fro Mambre mo þen tweyne,
Whereso wonyed þis ilke wy, þat wendez with oure Lorde
For to tent Hym with tale & teche Hym þe gate.
Þen glydez forth God; þe godmon Hym folez;
Abraham heldez Hem wyth, Hem to conueye
In towarde þe cety of Sodamas þat synned had þenne
In þe faute of þis fylþe. Þe Fader hem þretes,
& sayde þus to þe segg þat sued Hym after:
'How myt I hyde Myn hert fro Habraham þe trwe,
Þat I ne dyscouered to his corse My counsayl so dere,
Syþen he is chosen to be chef chyldryn fader,
Þat so folk schal falle fro to flete alle þe worlde,
& vche blod in þat burne blessed schal worþe?
Me bos telle to þat tolk þe tene of My wylle,
& alle Myn atlyng to Abraham vnhaspe bilyue.
The grete soun of Sodamas synkkez in Myn erez,
& þe gult of Gomorre garez Me to wrath.
I schal lyt into þat led & loke Myseluen
[If] þay haf don as þe dyne dryuez on lofte.
Þay han lerned a lyst þat lykez me ille,
Þat þay han founden in her flesch of fautez þe werst:
Vch male matz his mach a man as hymseluen,
& fylter folyly in fere on femmalez wyse.
I compast hem a kynde crafte & kende hit hem derne,
& amed hit in Myn ordenaunce oddely dere,
& dyt drwry þerinne, doole alþer-swettest,
& þe play of paramorez I portrayed Myseluen,
& made þerto a maner myriest of oþer:
When two true togeder had tyed hemseluen,
Bytwene a male & his make such merþe schulde conne,
Welnye pure paradys mot preue no better;
Ellez þay mot honestly ayþer oþer welde,
At a stylle stollen steuen, vnstered wyth syt,
Luf-lowe hem bytwene lasched so hote
Þat alle þe meschefez on mold mot hit not sleke.
Now haf þay skyfted My skyl & scorned natwre,
& henttez hem in heþyng an vsage vnclene.
Hem to smyte for þat smod smartly I þenk,
Þat wyez schal be by hem war, worlde withouten ende.'
Þenne ared Abraham & alle his mod chaunge[d],
For hope of þe harde hate þat hyt hatz oure Lorde.
Al sykande he sayde: 'Sir, with Yor leue,
Schal synful & saklez suffer al on payne?
Weþer euer hit lyke my Lorde to lyfte such domez
Þat þe wykked & þe worþy schal on wrake suffer,
& weye vpon þe worre half þat wrathed Þe neuer?
Þat watz neuer Þy won þat wrotez vus alle.
Now fyfty fyn frendez wer founde in onde toune,
In þe cety of Sodamas & also Gomorre,
Þat neuer lakked Þy laue, bot loued ay trauþe,
& retful wern & resounable & redy Þe to serue,
Schal þay falle in þe faute þat oþer frekez wrot,
& joyne to her juggement, her juise to haue?
Þat nas neuer Þyn note, vnneuened hit worþe,
Þat art so gaynly a God & of goste mylde.'
'Nay, for fyfty,' quoþ þe Fader, '& þy fayre speche,
& þay be founden in þat folk of her fylþe clene,
I schal forgyue alle þe gylt þurMy grace one,
& let hem smolt al unsmyten smoþely at onez.'
'Aa! blessed be Þow,' quoþ þe burne, 'so boner & þewed,
& al haldez in Þy honde, þe heuen & þe erþe;
Bot, for I haf þis talke tatz to non ille
if I mele a lyttel more þat mul am & askez.
What if fyue faylen of fyfty þe noumbre,
& þe remnaunt be reken, how restes Þy wylle?'
'And fyue wont of fyfty,' quoþ God, 'I schal forete alle
& wythhalde My honde for hortyng on lede.'
'& quat if faurty be fre & fauty þyse oþer:
Schalt Þow schortly al schende & schape non oþer?'
'Nay, þafaurty forfete, et fryst I a whyle,
& voyde away My vengaunce, þaMe vyl þynk.'
Þen Abraham obeched Hym & loly Him þonkkez:
'Now sayned be Þou, Sauiour, so symple in Þy wrath!
I am bot erþe ful euel & vsle so blake,
For to mele wyth such a Mayster as mytez hatz alle.
Bot I haue bygonnen wyth my God, & He hit gayn þynkez;
if I forloyne as a fol Þy fraunchyse may serue.
What if þretty þryuande be þrad in on tounez,
What schal I leue of my Lorde, [i]f He hem leþe wolde?'
Þenne þe godlych God gef hym onsware:
'et for þretty in þrong I schal My þro steke,
& spare spakly of spyt in space of My þewez,
& My rankor refrayne four þy reken wordez.'
'What for twenty,' quoþ þe tolke, 'vntwynez Þou hem
þenne?'
'Nay, if þou ernez hit et, ark I hem grace;
If þat twenty be trwe, I tene hem no more,
Bot relece alle þat regioun of her ronk werkkez.'
'Now, aþel Lorde,' quoþ Abraham, 'onez a speche,
& I schal schape no more þo schalkkez to helpe.
If ten trysty in toune be tan in Þi werkkez,
Wylt Þou mese Þy mode & menddyng abyde?'
'I graunt,' quoþ þe grete God, 'Graunt mercy,' þat oþer;
& þenne arest þe renk & rat no fyrre.
& Godde glydez His gate by þose grene wayez,
& he conueyen Hym con with cast of his ye;
& als he loked along þereas oure Lorde passed,
et he cryed Hym after with careful steuen:
'Meke Mayster, on Þy mon to mynne if Þe lyked,
Loth lengez in on leede þat is my lef broþer;
He syttez þer in Sodomis, þy seruaunt so pouere,
Among þo mansed men þat han Þe much greued.
if Þou tynez þat toun, tempre Þyn yre,
As Þy mersy may malte, Þy meke to spare.'
Þen he wendez, wendez his way, wepande for care,
Towarde þe mere of Mambre, wepande for sorewe;
& þere in longyng al nyt he lengez in wones,
Whyl þe Souerayn to Sodamas sende to spye.
His sondes into Sodamas watz sende in þat tyme,
In þat ilk euentyde, by aungels tweyne,
Meuand meuande mekely togeder as myry men onge,
As Loot in a loge dor lened hym alone,
In a porche of þat place pyt to þe ates,
Þat watz ryal & ryche so watz þe renkes seluen.
As he stared into þe strete þer stout men played,
He sye þer swey in asent swete men tweyne;
Bolde burnez wer þay boþe with berdles chynnez,
Ryol rollande fax to raw sylk lyke,
Of ble as þe brere-flour whereso þe bare scheweed.
Ful clene watz þe countenaunce of her cler yen;
Wlonk whit watz her wede & wel hit hem semed.
Of alle feturez ful fyn & fautlez boþe;
Watz non autly in ouþer, for aungels hit wern,
& þat þe ep vnderede þat in þe ate syttez;
He ros vp ful radly & ran hem to mete,
& loe he loutez hem to, Loth, to þe grounde,
& syþen soberly: 'Syrez, I yow byseche
Þat e wolde lyt at my loge & lenge þerinne.
Comez to your knaues kote, I craue at þis onez;
I schal fette yow a fatte your fette for to wasche;
I norne yow bot for on nyt nee me to lenge,
& in þe myry mornyng e may your waye take.'
& þay nay þat þay nolde neno howsez,
Bot stylly þer in þe strete as þay stadde wern
Þay wolde lenge þe long nat & logge þeroute:
Hit watz hous innoe to hem þe heuen vpon lofte.
Loth laþed so longe wyth luflych wordez
Þat þay hym graunted to go & grut no lenger.
Þe bolde to his byggyng bryngez hem bylyue,
Þat [watz] ryally arayed, for he watz ryche euer.
Þe wyez wern welcom as þe wyf couþe;
His two dere doterez deuoutly hem haylsed,
Þat wer maydenez ful meke, maryed not et,
& þay wer semly & swete, & swyþe wel arayed.
Loth þenne ful lytly lokez hym aboute,
& his men amonestes mete for to dyt:
'Bot þenkkez on hit be þrefte what þynk so e make,
For wyth no sour no no salt seruez hym neuer.'
Bot et I wene þat þe wyf hit wroth to dyspyt,
& sayde softely to hirself: 'Þis vn[s]auere hyne
Louez no salt in her sauce; et hit no skyl were
Þat oþer burne be boute, þaboþe be nyse.'
Þenne ho sauerez with salt her seuez vchone,
Agayne þe bone of þe burne þat hit forboden hade,
& als ho scelt hem in scorne þat wel her skyl knewen.
Why watz ho, wrech, so wod? Ho wrathed oure Lorde.
Þenne seten þay at þe soper, wern serued bylyue,
Þe gestes gay & ful glad, of glam debonere,
Welawynnely wlonk, tyl þay waschen hade,
Þe trestes tylt to þe woe & þe table boþe.
Fro þe seggez haden souped & seten bot a whyle,
Er euer þay bosked to bedde, þe borwatz al vp,
Alle þat weppen myt welde, þe wakker & þe stronger,
To vmbelye Lothez hous þe ledez to take.
In grete flokkez of folk þay fallen to his atez;
As a scowte-wach scarred so þe asscry rysed;
With kene clobbez of þat clos þay clatz on þe wowez,
& wyth a schrylle scarp schout þay schewe þyse worde[z]:
'If þou louyez þy lyf, Loth, in þyse wones,
ete vus out þose ong men þat ore-whyle here entred,
Þat we may lere hym of lof, as oure lyst biddez,
As is þe asyse of Sodomas to seggez þat passen.'
Whatt! þay sputen & speken of so spitous fylþe,
What! þay eed & olped of estande sore,
Þat et þe wynd & þe weder & þe worlde stynkes
Of þe brych þat vpbraydez þose broþelych wordez.
Þe godman glyfte with þat glam & gloped for noyse;
So scharpe schame to hym schot, he schrank at þe hert.
For he knew þe costoum þat kyþed þose wrechez,
He doted neuer for no doel so depe in his mynde.
'Allas!' sayd hym þenne Loth, & lytly he rysez,
& bowez forth fro þe bench into þe brode ates.
What! he wonded no woþe of wekked knauez,
Þat he ne passed þe port þe p[er]il to abide.
He went forthe at þe wyket & waft hit hym after,
Þat a clyket hit clet clos hym byhynde.
Þenne he meled to þo men mesurable wordez,
For harlotez with his hendelayk he hoped to chast:
'Oo, my frendez so fre, your fare is to strange;
Dotz away your derf dyn & derez neuer my gestes.
Avoy! hit is your vylaynye, e vylen yourseluen;
& e are jolyf gentylmen, your japez ar ille
Bot I schal kenne yow by kynde a crafte þat is better:
I haf a tresor in my telde of tow my fayre deter,
Þat ar maydenez vnmard for alle men ette;
In Sodamas, þaI hit say, non semloker burdes;
Hit arn ronk, hit arn rype, & redy to manne;
To samen wyth þo semly þe solace is better.
I schal biteche yow þo two þat tayt arn & quoynt,
& laykez wyth hem as yow lyst, & letez my gestes one.'
Þenne þe rebaudez so ronk rerd such a noyse
Þat aly hurled in his erez her harlotez speche:
'Wost þou not wel þat þou wonez here a wye strange,
An outcomlyng, a carle? We kylle of þyn heued!
Who joyned þe be jostyse oure japez to blame,
Þat com a boy to þis bor, þaþou be burne ryche?'
Þus þay þrobled & þrong & þrwe vmbe his erez,
& distresed hym wonder strayt with strenkþe in þe prece,
Bot þat þe onge men, so epe, ornen þeroute,
Wapped vpon þe wyket & wonnen hem tylle,
& by þe hondez hym hent & horyed hym withinne,
& steken þe ates ston-harde wyth stalworth barrez.
Þay blwe a boffet inblande þat banned peple,
Þat þay blustered, as blynde as Bayard watz euer;
Þay lest of Lotez logging any lysoun to fynde,
Bot nyteled þer alle þe nyt for not at þe last.
Þenne vch tolke tyt hem, þat hade of tayt fayled,
& vchon roþeled to þe rest þat he reche mot;
Bot þay wern wakned al wrank þat þer in won lenged,
Of on þe vglokest vnhap þat euer on erd suffred.
Ruddon of þe day-rawe ros vpon vten,
When merk of þe mydnyt mot no more last.
Ful erly þose aungelez þis haþel þay ruþen,
& glopnedly on Godez halue gart hym vpryse;
Fast þe freke ferkez vp ful ferd at his hert;
Þay comaunded hym cof to cach þat he hade,
'Wyth þy wyf & þy wyez & þy wlonc detters,
For we laþe þe, sir Loth, þat þou þy lyf haue.
Cayre tid of þis kythe er combred þou worþe,
With alle þi here vpon haste, tyl þou a hil fynde;
Foundez faste on your fete; bifore your face lokes,
Bot bes neuer so bolde to blusch yow bihynde,
& loke e stemme no stepe, bot strechez on faste;
Til e reche to a reset, rest e neuer.
For we schal tyne þis toun & trayþely disstrye,
Wyth alle þise wyez so wykke wytly devoyde,
& alle þe londe with þise ledez we losen at onez;
Sodomas schal ful sodenly synk into grounde,
& þe grounde of Gomorre gorde into helle,
& vche a koste of þis kythe clater vpon hepes.'
Þen laled Loth: 'Lorde, what is best?
If I me fele vpon fote þat I fle mot,
Hov schulde I huyde me fro H[y]m þat hatz His hate kynned
In þe brath of His breth þat brennez alle þinkez?
To crepe fro my Creatour & know not wheder,
Ne wheþer His fooschip me folez bifore oþer bihynde.'
Þe freke sayde: 'No foschip oure Fader hatz þe schewed,
Bot hily heuened þi hele fro hem þat arn combred.
Nov wale þe a wonnyng þat þe warisch myt,
& He schal saue hit for þy sake þat hatz vus sende hider,
For þou art oddely þyn one out of þis fylþe,
& als Abraham þyn eme hit at Himself asked.'
'Lorde, loued He worþe,' quoþ Loth, 'vpon erþe!
Þen is a cite herbisyde þat Segor hit hatte,
Here vtter on a rounde hil hit houez hit one.
I wolde, if His wylle wore, to þat won scape.'
'Þenn fare forth,' quoþ þat fre, '& fyne þou neuer,
With þose ilk þat þow wylt þat þrenge þe after,
& ay goande on your gate, wythouten agayn-tote,
For alle þis londe schal be lorne longe er þe sonne rise.'
Þe wye wakened his wyf & his wlonk deteres,
& oþer two myri men þo maydenez schulde wedde;
& þay token hit as tyt & tented hit lyttel;
Þafast laþed hem Loth, þay leen ful stylle.
Þe aungelez hasted þise oþer & aly hem þratten,
& enforsed alle fawre forth at þe atez:
Þo wern Loth & his lef, his luflyche deter;
Þer sot no mo to sauement of cities aþel fyue.
Þise aungelez hade hem by hande out at þe atez,
Prechande hem þe perile, & beden hem passe fast:
'Lest e be taken in þe teche of tyrauntez here,
Loke e bowe now bi bot; bowez fast hence!'
& þay kayre ne con, & kenely flowen.
Erly, er any heuen-glem, þay to a hil comen.
Þe grete God in His greme bygynnez on lofte
To wakan wederez so wylde; þe wyndez He callez,
& þay wroþely vpwafte & wrastled togeder,
Fro fawre half of þe folde flytande loude.
Clowdez clustered bytwene kesten vp torres,
Þat þe þik þunder-þrast þirled hem ofte.
Þe rayn rueled adoun, ridlande þikke
Of felle flaunkes of fyr & flakes of soufre,
Al in smolderande smoke smachande ful ille,
Swe aboute Sodamas & hit sydez alle,
Gorde to Gomorra, þat þe grounde laused,
Abdama & Syboym, þise ceteis alle faure
Al birolled wyth þe rayn, rostted & brenned,
& ferly flayed þat folk þat in þose fees lenged.
For when þat þe Helle herde þe houndez of heuen,
He watz ferlyly fayn, vnfolded bylyue;
Þe grete barrez of þe abyme he barst vp at onez,
Þat alle þe regioun torof in riftes ful grete,
& clouen alle in lyttel cloutes þe clyffez aywhere,
As lauce leuez of þe boke þat lepes in twynne.
Þe brethe of þe brynston bi þat hit blende were,
Al þo citees & her sydes sunkken to helle.
Rydelles wern þo grete rowtes of renkkes withinne,
When þay wern war of þe wrake þat no wye achaped;
Such a omerly arm of ellyng þer rysed,
Þerof clatered þe cloudes, þat Kryst myt haf rawþe.
Þe segge herde þat soun to Segor þat ede,
& þe wenches hym wyth þat by þe way foled;
Ferly ferde watz her flesch þat flowen ay ilyche,
Trynande ay a hye trot, þat torne neuer dorsten.
Loth & þo luly-whit, his lefly two deter,
Ay foled here face, bifore her boþe yen;
Bot þe balleful burde, þat neuer bode keped,
Blusched byhynden her bak þat bale for to herkken.
Hit watz lusty Lothes wyf þat ouer he[r] lyfte schulder
Ones ho bluschet to þe bure, bot bod ho no lenger
Þat ho nas stadde a stiffe ston, a stalworth image,
Al so salt as ani se, & so ho et standez.
Þay slypped bi & sye hir not þat wern hir samen-feres,
Tyl þay in Segor wern sette, & sayned our Lorde;
Wyth lyt louez vplyfte þay loued Hym swyþe,
Þat so His seruauntes wolde see & saue of such woþe.
Al watz dampped & don & drowned by þenne;
Þe ledez of þat lyttel toun wern lopen out for drede
Into þat malscrande mere, marred bylyue,
Þat not saued watz bot Segor, þat sat on a lawe.
Þe þre ledez þerin, Loth & his deter;
For his make watz myst, þat on þe mount lenged
In a stonen statue þat salt sauor habbes,
For two fautes þat þe fol watz founde in mistrauþe:
On, ho serued at þe soper salt bifore Drytyn,
& syþen, ho blusched hir bihynde, þahir forboden were;
For on ho standes a ston, & salt for þat oþer,
& alle lyst on hir lik þat arn on launde bestes.
Abraham ful erly watz vp on þe morne,
Þat alle nat much niye hade no mon in his hert,
Al in longing for Loth leyen in a wache;
Þer he lafte hade oure Lorde he is on lofte wonnen;
He sende toward Sodomas þe syt of his yen,
Þat euer hade ben an erde of erþe þe swettest,
As aparaunt to paradis, þat plantted þe Drytyn;
Nov is hit plunged in a pit like of pich fylled.
Suche a roþun of a reche ros fro þe blake,
Askez vpe in þe arye & vsellez þer flowen,
As a fornes ful of flot þat vpon fyr boyles
When bryt brennande brondez ar bet þeranvnder.
Þis watz a uengaunce violent þat voyded þise places,
Þat foundered hatz so fayr a folk & þe folde sonkken.
Þer þe fyue citees wern set nov is a see called,
Þat ay is drouy & dym, & ded in hit kynde,
Blo, blubrande, & blak, vnblyþe to nee;
As a stynkande stanc þat stryed synne,
Þat euer of synne & of smach smart is to fele.
Forþy þe derk Dede See hit is demed euermore,
For hit dedez of deþe duren þere et;
For hit is brod & boþemlez, & bitter as þe galle,
& not may lenge in þat lake þat any lyf berez,
& alle þe costez of kynde hit combrez vchone.
For lay þeron a lump of led, & hit on loft fletez,
& folde þeron a lyt fyþer, & hit to founs synkkez;
& þer water may walter to wete any erþe
Schal neuer grene þeron growe, gresse ne wod nawþer.
If any schalke to be schent wer schowued þerinne,
Þahe bode in þat boþem broþely a monyth,
He most ay lyue in þat loe in losyng euermore,
& neuer drye no dethe to dayes of ende.
& as hit is corsed of kynde & hit coostez als,
Þe clay þat clenges þerby arn corsyes strong,
As alum & alkaran, þat angre arn boþe,
Soufre sour & saundyuer, & oþer such mony;
& þer waltez of þat water in waxlokes grete
Þe spuniande aspaltoun þat spyserez sellen;
& suche is alle þe soyle by þat se halues,
Þat fel fretes þe flesch & festred bones.
& þer ar tres by þat terne of traytoures,
& þay borgounez & beres blomez ful fayre,
& þe fayrest fryt þat may on folde growe,
As orenge & oþer fryt & apple-garnade,
Also red & so ripe & rychely hwed
As any dom myt deuice of dayntyez oute;
Bot quen hit is brused oþer broken, oþer byten in twynne,
No worldez goud hit wythinne, bot wyndowande askes.
Alle þyse ar teches & tokenes to trow vpon et,
& wittnesse of þat wykked werk, & þe wrake after
Þat oure Fader forferde for fylþe of þose ledes.
Þenne vch wye may wel wyt þat He þe wlonk louies;
& if He louyes clene layk þat is oure Lorde ryche,
& to be couþe in His courte þou coueytes þenne,
To se þat Semly in sete & His swete face,
Clerrer counseyl, counseyl con I non, bot þat þou clene
worþe.
For Clopyngnel in þe compas of his clene Rose,
Þer he expounez a speche to hym þat spede wolde
Of a lady to be loued: 'Loke to hir sone
Of wich beryng þat ho be, & wych ho best louyes,
& be ryt such in vch a bore of body & of dedes,
& folþe fet of þat fere þat þou fre haldes;
& if þou wyrkkes on þis wyse, þaho wyk were,
Hir schal lyke þat layk þat lyknes hir tylle.'
If þou wyl dele drwrye wyth Drytyn þenne,
& lelly louy þy Lorde & His leef worþe,
Þenne confourme þe to Kryst, & þe clene make,
Þat euer is polyced als playn as þe perle seluen.
For, loke, fro fyrst þat He lyt withinne þe lel mayden,
By how comly a kest He watz clos þere,
When venkkyst watz no vergynyte, ne vyolence maked,
Bot much clener watz hir corse, God kynned þerinne.
& efte when He borne watz in Beþelen þe ryche,
In wych puryte þay departed; þaþay pouer were,
Watz neuer so blysful a bour as watz a bos þenne,
Ne no schroude hous so schene as a schepon þare,
Ne non so glad vnder God as ho þat grone schulde.
For þer watz seknesse al sounde þat sarrest is halden,
& þer watz rose reflayr where rote hatz ben euer,
& þer watz solace & songe wher sorhatz ay cryed;
For aungelles with instrumentes of organes & pypes,
& rial ryngande rotes & þe reken fyþel,
& alle hende þat honestly mot an hert glade,
Aboutte my lady watz lent quen ho delyuer were.
Þenne watz her blyþe Barne burnyst so clene
Þat boþe þe ox & þe asse Hym hered at ones;
Þay knewe Hym by His clannes for Kyng of nature,
For non so clene of such a clos com neuer er þenne.
& if clanly He þenne com, ful cortays þerafter,
Þat alle þat longed to luþer ful lodly He hated,
By nobleye of His norture He nolde neuer towche
Ot þat watz vngoderly oþer ordure watz inne.
et comen lodly to þat Lede, as lazares monye,
Summe lepre, summe lome, & lomerande blynde,
Poysened, & parlatyk, & pyned in fyres,
Drye folk & ydropike, & dede at þe laste,
Alle called on þat Cortayse & claymed His grace.
He heled hem wyth hynde speche of þat þay ask after,
For whatso He towched also tyd tourned to hele,
Wel clanner þen any crafte cowþe devyse.
So clene watz His hondelyng vche ordure hit schonied,
& þe gropyng so goud of God & Man boþe,
Þat for fetys of His fyngeres fonded He neuer
Nauþer to cout ne to kerue with knyf ne wyth egge;
Forþy brek He þe bred blades wythouten,
For hit ferde freloker in fete in His fayre honde,
Displayed more pryuyly when He hit part schulde,
Þenne alle þe toles of Tolowse mot tyt hit to kerue.
Þus is He kyryous & clene þat þou His cort askes:
Hov schulde þou com to His kyth bot if þou clene were?
Nov ar we sore & synful & sovly vchone;
How schulde we se, þen may we say, þat Syre vpon throne?
is, þat Mayster is mercyable, þaþou be man fenny,
& al tomarred in myre whyle þou on molde lyuyes;
Þou may schyne þurschryfte, þaþou haf
schome serued,
& pure þe with penaunce tyl þou a perle worþe.
Perle praysed is prys þer perre is schewed,
Þahym not derrest be demed to dele for penies.
Quat may þe cause be called bot for hir clene hwes,
Þat wynnes worschyp abof alle whyte stones?
For ho schynes so schyr þat is of schap rounde,
Wythouten faut oþer fylþe if ho fyn were,
& wax euer in þe worlde in weryng so olde,
et þe perle payres not whyle ho in pyese lasttes;
& if hit cheue þe chaunce vncheryst ho worþe,
Þat ho blyndes of ble in bour þer ho lygges,
Nobot wasch hir wyth wourchyp in wyn as ho askes,
Ho by kynde schal becom clerer þen are.
So if folk be defowled by vnfre chaunce,
Þat he be sulped in sawle, seche to schryfte,
& he may polyce hym at þe prest, by penaunce taken,
Wel bryter þen þe beryl oþer browden perles.
Bot war þe wel, if þou be waschen wyth water of schryfte,
& polysed als playn as parchmen schauen,
Sulp no more þenne in synne þy saule þerafter,
For þenne þou Drytyn dyspleses with dedes ful sore,
& entyses Hym to tene more trayþly þen euer,
& wel hatter to hate þen hade þou no waschen.
For when a sawele is satled & sakred to Drytyn,
He holly haldes hit His & haue hit He wolde;
Þenne efte lastes hit likkes, He loses hit ille,
As hit were rafte wyth vnryt & robbed wyth þewes.
War þe þenne for þe wrake: His wrath is achaufed
For þat þat ones watz His schulde efte be vnclene,
Þahit be bot a bassyn, a bolle oþer a scole,
A dysche oþer a dobler, þat Drytyn onez serued.
To defowle hit euer vpon folde fast He forbedes,
So is He scoymus of scaþe þat scylful is euer.
& þat watz bared in Babyloyn in Baltazar tyme,
Hov harde vnhap þer hym hent & hastyly sone,
For he þe vesselles avyled þat vayled in þe temple
In seruyse of þe Souerayn sumtyme byfore.
if e wolde tyt me a tom telle hit I wolde,
Hov charged more watz his chaunce þat hem cherych nolde
Þen his fader forloyne þat feched hem wyth strenþe,
& robbed þe relygioun of relykes alle.
Danyel in his dialokez devysed sumtyme,
As et is proued expresse in his profecies,
Hov þe gentryse of Juise & Jherusalem þe ryche
Watz disstryed wyth distres, & drawen to þe erþe.
For þat folke in her fayth watz founden vntrwe,
Þat haden hyt þe hye God to halde of Hym euer;
& He hem haled for His & help at her nede
In mukel meschefes mony, þat meruayl [is] to here.
& þay forloyne her fayth & foled oþer goddes,
& þat wakned His wrath & wrast hit so hye
Þat He fylsened þe faythful in þe falce lawe
To forfare þe falce in þe faythe trwe.
Hit watz sen in þat syþe þat Zedethyas rengned
In Juda, þat justised þe Juyne kynges.
He sete on Salamones solie on solemne wyse,
Bot of leaute he watz lat to his Lorde hende:
He vsed abominaciones of idolatrye,
& lette lyt bi þe lawe þat he watz lege tylle.
Forþi oure Fader vpon folde a foman hym wakned:
Nabigodenozar nuyed hym swyþe.
He pursued into Palastyn with proude men mony,
& þer he wast wyth with werre þe wones of þorpes;
He hered vp alle Israel & hent of þe beste,
& þe gentylest of Judee in Jerusalem biseged,
Vmbewalt alle þe walles wyth wyes ful stronge,
At vche a dor a doty duk, & dutte hem wythinne;
For þe borwatz so bygge baytayled alofte,
& stoffed wythinne with stout men to stalle hem þeroute.
Þenne watz þe sege sette þe cete aboute,
Skete skarmoch skelt, much skaþe lached;
At vch brugge a berfray on basteles wyse
Þat seuen syþe vch a day asayled þe ates;
Trwe tulkkes in toures teueled wythinne,
In bigge brutage of borde bulde on þe walles;
Þay fet & þay fende of, & fylter togeder
Til two er ouertorned, et tok þay hit neuer.
At þe laste, vpon longe, þo ledes wythinne,
Faste fayled hem þe fode, enfannined monie;
Þe hote hunger wythinne hert hem wel sarre
Þen any dunt of þat douthe þat dowelled þeroute.
Þenne wern þo rowtes redles in þo ryche wones;
Fro þat mete watz myst, megre þay wexen,
& þay stoken so strayt þat þay ne stray myt
A fote fro þat forselet to forray no goudes.
Þenne þe kyng of þe kyth a counsayl hym takes
Wyth þe best of his burnes, a blench for to make;
Þay stel out on a stylle nyt er any steuen rysed,
& harde hurles þurþe oste er enmies hit wyste.
Bot er þay atwappe ne mot þe wach wythoute
Hie skelt watz þe askry þe skewes anvnder.
Loude alarom vpon launde lulted watz þenne;
Ryche, ruþed of her rest, ran to here wedes,
Hard hattes þay hent & on hors lepes;
Cler claryoun crak cryed on lofte.
By þat watz alle on a hepe hurlande swyþee,
Folande þat oþer flote, & fonde hem bilyue,
Ouertok hem as tyd, tult hem of sadeles,
Tyl vche prynce hade his per put to þe grounde.
& þer watz þe kyng kat wyth Calde prynces,
& alle hise gentyle forjusted on Jerico playnes,
& presented wern as presoneres to þe prynce rychest,
Nabigodenozar, noble in his chayer;
& he þe faynest freke þat he his fo hade,
& speke spitously hem to, & spylt þerafter.
Þe kynges sunnes in his syt he slow euervch one,
& holkked out his auen yen heterly boþe,
& bede þe burne to be brot to Babyloyn þe ryche,
& þere in dongoun be don to dree þer his wyrdes.
Now se, so þe Soueray[n] set hatz His wrake:
Nas hit not for Nabugo ne his noble nauþer
Þat oþer depryued watz of pryde with paynes stronge,
Bot for his beryng so badde agayn his blyþe Lorde;
For hade þe Fader ben his frende, þat hym bifore keped,
Ne neuer trespast to Him in teche of mysseleue,
To colde wer alle Calde & kythes of Ynde,
et take Torkye hem wyth, her tene hade ben little.
et nolde neuer Nabugo þis ilke note leue
Er he hade tuyred þis toun & torne hit to grounde.
He joyned vnto Jerusalem a gentyle duc þenne,
His name watz Nabuzardan, to noye þe Jues;
He watz mayster of his men & myty himseluen,
Þe chef of his cheualrye his chekkes to make;
He brek þe bareres as bylyue, & þe burafter,
& enteres in ful ernestly, in yre of his hert.
What! þe maysterry watz mene: þe men wern away,
Þe best boed wyth þe burne þat þe boremed,
& þo þat byden wer [s]o biten with þe bale hunger
Þat on wyf hade ben worþe þe welgest fourre.
Nabizardan not forþy nolde not spare,
Bot bede al to þe bronde vnder bare egge;
Þay slowen of swettest semlych burdes,
Baþed barnes in blod & her brayn spylled;
Prestes & prelates þay presed to deþe,
Wyues & wenches her wombes tocoruen,
Þat her boweles outborst aboute þe diches,
& al watz carfully kylde þat þay cach myt.
And alle swypped, vnswoled of þe sworde kene,
Þay wer cagged & kat on capeles al bare,
Festned fettres to her fete vnder fole wombes,
& broþely brot to Babyloyn þer bale to suffer,
To sytte in seruage & syte, þat sumtyme wer gentyle.
Now ar chaunged to chorles & charged wyth werkkes,
Boþe to cayre at þe kart & þe kuy mylke,
Þat sumtyme sete in her sale syres & burdes.
& et Nabuzardan nyl neuer stynt
Er he to þe tempple tee wyth his tulkkes alle;
Betes on þe barers, brestes vp þe ates,
Slouen alle at a slyp þat serued þerinne,
Pulden prestes bi þe polle & plat of her hedes,
Diten dekenes to deþe, dungen doun clerkkes,
& alle þe maydenes of þe munster matyly hokyllen
Wyth þe swayf of þe sworde þat swoled hem alle.
Þenne ran þay to þe relykes as robbors wylde,
& pyled alle þe apparement þat pented to þe kyrke,
Þe pure pyleres of bras pourtrayd in golde,
& þe chef chaundeler charged with þe lyt,
Þat ber þe lamp vpon lofte þat lemed euermore
Bifore þ[e] sancta sanctorumþer
selcouth watz ofte.
Þay cat away þat condelstik, & þe crowne als
Þat þe auter hade vpon, of aþel golde ryche,
Þe gredirne & þe goblotes garnyst of syluer,
Þe bases of þe bryt postes & bassynes so schyre,
Dere disches of golde & dubleres fayre,
Þe vyoles & þe vesselment of vertuous stones.
Now hatz Nabuzardan nomen alle þyse noble þynges,
& pyled þat precious place & pakked þose godes;
Þe golde of þe gazafylace to swyþe gret noumbre,
Wyth alle þe vrnmentes of þat hous, he hamppred togeder;
Alle he spoyled spitously in a sped whyle
Þat Salomon so mony a sadde er sot to make.
Wyth alle þe coyntyse þat he cowþe clene to wyrke,
Deuised he þe vesselment, þe vestures clene;
Wyth slyt of his ciences, his Souerayn to loue,
Þe hous & þe anournementes he hytled togedere.
Now hatz Nabuzardan numnend hit al samen,
& syþen bet doun þe bur& brend hit in askes.
Þenne wyth legiounes of ledes ouer londes he rydes,
Herez of Israel þe hyrne aboute;
Wyth charged chariotes þe cheftayn he fynde,
Bikennes þe catel to þe kyng, þat he cat hade;
Presented him þe prisoneres in pray þat þay token,
Moni a worþly wye whil her worlde laste,
Moni semly syre soun, & swyþe rych maydenes,
Þe pruddest of þe prouince, & prophetes childer,
As Ananie & Azarie & als Mizael,
& dere Daniel also, þat watz deuine noble,
With moni a modey moder-chylde mo þen innoghe.
& Nabugo_de_nozar makes much joye,
Nov he þe kyng hatz conquest & þe kyth wunnen,
& dreped alle þe dotyest & derrest in armes,
& þe lederes of her lawe layd to þe grounde,
& þe pryce of þe profetie prisoners maked.
Bot þe joy of þe juelrye so gentyle & ryche,
When hit watz schewed hym so schene, scharp watz his wonder;
Of such vessel auayed, þat vayled so huge,
Neuer et nas Nabugo_de_nozar er þenne.
He sesed hem with solemnete, þe Souerayn he praysed
Þat watz aþel ouer alle, Israel Drytyn:
Such god, such gomes, such gay vesselles,
Comen neuer out of kyth to Caldee reames.
He trussed hem in his tresorye in a tryed place,
Rekenly, wyth reuerens, as he ryt hade;
& þer he wrot as þe wyse, as e may wyt hereafter,
For hade he let of hem lyt, hym mot haf lumpen worse.
Þat ryche in gret rialte rengned his lyue,
As conquerour of vche a cost he cayser watz hatte,
Emperour of alle þe erþe & also þe saudan,
& als þe god of þe grounde watz grauen his name.
& al þurdome of Daniel, fro he deuised hade
Þat alle goudes com of God, & gef hit hym bi samples,
Þat he ful clanly bicnv his carp bi þe laste,
& ofte hit mekned his mynde, his maysterful werkkes.
Bot al drawes to dye with doel vp[o]n ende:
Bi a haþel neuer so hye, he heldes to grounde.
& so Nabugo_de_nozar, as he nedes moste,
For alle his empire so hie in erþe is he grauen.
Bot þenn þe bolde Baltazar, þat watz his barn aldest,
He watz stalled in his stud, & stabled þe rengne
In þe burof Babiloyne, þe biggest he trawed,
Þat nauþer in heuen ne [on] erþe hade no pere;
For he bigan in alle þe glori þat hym þe gome lafte,
Nabugo_de_nozar, þat watz his noble fader.
So kene a kyng in Caldee com neu[er] er þenne;
Bot honoured he not Hym þat in heuen wonies.
Bot fals fantummes of fendes, formed with handes,
Wyth tool out of harde tre, & telded on lofte,
& of stokkes & stones, he stoute goddes callz,
When þay ar gilde al with golde & gered wyth syluer;
& þere he kneles & callez & clepes after help.
& þay reden him ryt rewarde he hem hetes,
& if þay gruchen him his grace, to gremen his hert,
He cleches to a gret klubbe & knokkes hem to peces.
Þus in pryde & olipraunce his empyre he haldes,
In lust & in lecherye & loþelych werkkes,
& hade a wyf for to welde, a worþelych quene,
& mony a lemman, neuer þe later, þat ladis wer called.
In þe clernes of his concubines & curious wedez,
In notyng of nwe metes & of nice gettes,
Al watz þe mynde of þat man on misschapen þinges,
Til þe Lorde of þe lyfte liste hit abate.
Thenne þis bolde Baltazar biþenkkes hym ones
To vouche on avayment of his vayne g[l]orie;
Hit is not innoghe to þe nice al noty þink vse
Bot if alle þe worlde wyt his wykked dedes.
Baltazar þurBabiloyn his banne gart crye,
& þurþe cuntre of Caldee his callyng con spryng,
Þat alle þe grete vpon grounde schulde geder hem samen
& assemble at a set day at þe saudans fest.
Such a mangerie to make þe man watz auised,
Þat vche a kythyn kyng schuld com þider,
Vche duk wyth his duthe, & oþer dere lordes,
Schulde com to his court to kyþe hym for lege,
& to reche hym reuerens, & his reuel herkken,
To loke on his lemanes & ladis hem calle.
To rose hym in his rialty rych men sotten,
& mony a baroun ful bolde, to Babyloyn þe noble.
Þer bowed toward Babiloyn burnes so mony,
Kynges, cayseres ful kene, to þe court wonnen,
Mony ludisch lordes þat ladies broten,
Þat to neuen þe noumbre to much nye were.
For þe bourwatz so brod & so bigge alce,
Stalled in þe fayrest stud þe sterrez anvnder,
Prudly on a plat playn, plek alþer-fayrest,
Vmbesweyed on vch a syde with seuen grete wateres,
With a wonder wrot walle wruxeled ful hie,
With koynt carneles aboue, coruen ful clene,
Troched toures bitwene, twenty spere lenþe,
& þiker þrowen vmbeþour with ouerþwert palle.
Þe place þat plyed þe pursaunt wythinne
Watz longe & ful large & euer ilych sware,
& vch a syde vpon soyle helde seuen myle,
& þe saudans sete sette in þe myddes.
Þat watz a palayce of pryde passande alle oþer,
Boþe of werk & of wunder, & walle[d] al aboute;
Hee houses withinne, þe halle to hit med,
So brod bilde in a bay þat blonkkes myt renne.
When þe terme of þe tyde watz towched of þe feste,
Dere droen þerto & vpon des metten,
& Baltazar vpon bench was busked to sete,
Stepe stayred stones of his stoute throne.
Þenne watz alle þe halle flor hiled with knytes,
& barounes at þe sidebordes bounet aywhere,
For non watz dressed vpon dece bot þe dere seluen,
& his clere concubynes in cloþes ful bryt.
When alle segges were þet set þen seruyse bygynnes,
Sturnen trumpen strake steuen in halle,
Aywhere by þe wowes wrasten krakkes,
& brode baneres þerbi blusnande of gold,
Burnes berande þe bredes vpon brode skeles
Þat were of sylueren syt, & served þerwyth,
Lyfte logges þerouer & on lofte coruen,
Pared out of paper & poynted of golde,
Broþe baboynes abof, besttes anvnder,
Foles in foler flakerande bitwene,
& al in asure & ynde enaumayld ryche;
& al on blonkken bak bere hit on honde.
& ay þe nakeryn noyse, notes of pipes,
Tymbres & tabornes, tulket among,
Symbales & sonetez sware þe noyse,
& bougounz busch batered so þikke.
So watz serued fele syþe þe sale alle aboute,
With solace at þe sere course, bifore þe self lorde,
Þer þe lede & alle his loue lenged at þe table:
So faste þay weed to him wyne hit warmed his hert
& breyþed vppe into his brayn & blemyst his mynde,
& al waykned his wyt, & welnee he foles;
For he waytez on wyde, his wenches he byholdes,
& his bolde baronage aboute bi þe woes.
Þenne a dotage ful depe drof to his hert,
& a caytif counsayl he cat bi hymseluen;
Maynly his marschal þe mayster vpon calles,
& comaundes hym cofly coferes to lauce,
& fech forþ þe vessel þat his fader brot,
Nabugo_de_nozar, noble in his strenþe,
Conquered with his knytes & of kyrk rafte
In Jude, in Jerusalem, in gentyle wyse:
'Bryng hem now to my borde, of beuerage hem fylles,
Let þise ladyes of hem lape, I luf hem in hert;
Þat schal I cortaysly kyþe, & þay schin knawe sone,
Þer is no bounte in burne lyk Baltazar þewes.'
Þenne towched to þe tresour þis tale watz sone,
& he with keyes vncloses kystes ful mony;
Mony burþen ful bryt watz brot into halle,
& couered mony a cupborde with cloþes ful quite.
Þe jueles out of Jerusalem with gemmes ful bryt
Bi þe syde of þe sale were semely arayed;
Þe aþel auter of brasse watz hade into place,
Þe gay coroun of golde gered on lofte.
Þat hade ben blessed bifore wyth bischopes hondes
& wyth besten blod busily anoynted,
In þe solempne sacrefyce þat goud sauor hade
Bifore þe Lorde of þe lyfte in louyng Hymseluen,
Now is sette, for to serue Satanas þe blake,
Bifore þe bolde Baltazar wyth bost & wyth pryde;
Houen vpon þis auter watz aþel vessel
Þat wyth [s]o curious a crafte coruen watz wyly.
Salamon sete him s[eue]n ere & a syþe more,
With alle þe syence þat hym sende þe souerayn Lorde,
For to compas & kest to haf hem clene wrot.
For þer wer bassynes ful bryt of brende golde clere,
Enaumaylde with azer, & eweres of sute,
Couered cowpes foul clene, as casteles arayed,
Enbaned vnder batelment with bantelles quoynt,
& fyled out of fygures of ferlyle schappes.
Þe coperounes of þe canacles þat on þe cuppe reres
Wer fetysely formed out in fylyoles longe;
Pinacles pyt þer apert þat profert bitwene,
& al bolled abof with braunches & leues,
Pyes & papejayes purtrayed withinne,
As þay prudly hade piked of pomgarnades;
For alle þe blomes of þe boes wer blyknande perles,
& alle þe fruyt in þo formes of flaumbeande gemmes,
Ande safyres, & sardiners, & semely topace,
Alabaundarynes, & amaraunz, & amaffised stones,
Casydoynes, & crysolytes, & clere rubies,
Penitotes, & pynkardines, ay perles bitwene;
So trayled & tryfled atrauerce wer alle,
Bi vche bekyrande þe bolde, þe brurdes al vmbe;
Þe gobelotes of golde grauen aboute,
& fyoles fretted with flores & fleez of golde;
Vpon þat avter watz al aliche dresset.
Þe candelstik bi a cost watz cayred þider sone,
Vpon þe pyleres apyked, þat praysed hit mony,
Vpon hit basez of brasse þat ber vp þe werkes,
Þe boes bryt þerabof, brayden of golde,
Braunches bredande þeron, & bryddes þer seten
Of mony kyndes, of fele kyn hues,
As þay with wynge vpon wynde hade waged her fyþeres.
Inmong þe leues of þe lampes wer grayþed,
& oþer louflych lyt þat lemed ful fayre,
As mony morteres of wax merkked withoute
With mony a borlych best al of brende golde.
Hit watz not wonte in þat wone to wast no serges,
Bot in temple of þe trauþe trwly to stonde
Bifore þe sancta sanctorum, soþefast Drytyn
Expouned His speche spiritually to special prophetes.
Leue þou wel þat þe Lorde þat þe lyfte emes
Displesed much at þat play in þat plyt stronge,
Þat His jueles so gent wyth jaueles wer fouled,
Þat presyous in His presens wer proued sumwhyle.
Soberly in His sacrafyce summe wer anoynted,
Þurþe somones of Himselfe þat syttes so hye;
Now a boster on benche bibbes þerof
Tyl he be dronkken as þe deuel, & dotes þer he syttes.
So þe Worcher of þis worlde wlates þerwyth
Þat in þe poynt of her play He poruayes a mynde;
Bot er harme hem He wolde in haste of His yre,
He wayned hem a warnyng þat wonder hem þot.
Nov is alle þis guere geten glotounes to serue,
Stad in a ryche stal, & stared ful bryt[e];
Baltazar in a brayd: 'Bede vus þerof!
Wee wyn in þis won! Wassayl!' he cryes.
Swyfte swaynes ful swyþe swepen þertylle,
Kyppe kowpes in honde kyngez to serue;
In bryt bollez ful bayn birlen þise oþer,
& vche mon for his mayster machches alone.
Þer watz rynging, on ryt, of ryche metalles,
Quen renkkes in þat ryche rok rennen hit to cache;
Clatering of couaclez þat kesten þo burdes
As sonet out of sau[t]eray songe als myry.
Þen þe dotel on dece drank þat he myt;
& þenne arn dressed dukez & prynces,
Concubines & knytes, bi cause of þat merthe;
As vchon hade hym inhelde he haled of þe cuppe.
So long likked þise lordes þise lykores swete,
& gloryed on her falce goddes, & her grace calles,
Þat were of stokkes & stones, stille euermore,
Neuer steuen hem astel, so stoken [is] hor tonge.
Alle þe goude golden goddes þe gaulez et neuenen,
Belfagor & Belyal, & Belssabub als,
Heyred hem as hyly as heuen wer þayres,
Bot Hym þat alle goudes giues, þat God þay foreten.
For þer a ferly bifel þat fele folk seen;
Fryst knew hit þe kyng & alle þe cort after:
In þe palays pryncipale, vpon þe playn wowe,
In contrary of þe candelstik, þat clerest hit schyned,
Þer apered a paume, with poyntel in fyngres,
Þat watz grysly & gret, & grymly he wrytes;
Non oþer forme bot a fust faylande þe wryste
Pared on þe parget, purtrayed lettres.
When þat bolde Baltazar blusched to þat neue,
Such a dasande drede dusched to his hert
Þat al falewed his face & fayled þe chere;
Þe stronge strok of þe stonde strayned his joyntes,
His cnes cachches toclose, & cluchches his hommes,
& he with plattyng his paumes displayes his ler[e]s,
& romyes as a rad ryth þat rorez for drede,
Ay biholdand þe honde til hit hade al grauen
& rasped on þe rowoe runisch sauez.
When hit þe scrypture hade scraped wyth a strof penne,
As a coltour in clay cerues þo fores,
Þenne hit vanist verayly & voyded of syt,
Bt þe lettres bileued ful large vpon plaster.
Sone so þe kynge for his care carping myt wynne,
He bede his burnes boto þat were bok-lered,
To wayte þe wryt þat hit wolde, & wyter hym to say,
'For al hit frayes my flesche, þe fyngres so grymme.'
Scoleres skelten þeratte þe skyl for to fynde,
Bot þer watz neuer on so wyse couþe on worde rede,
Ne what ledisch lore ne langage nauþer,
What tyþyng ne tale tokened þo drates.
Þenne þe bolde Baltazar bred ner wode,
& ede þe cete to seche segges þurout
Þat wer wyse of wychecrafte, & warlaes oþer
Þat con dele wyth demerlayk & deuine lettres.
'Calle hem alle to my cort, þo Calde clerkkes,
Vnfolde hem alle þis ferly þat is bifallen here,
& calle wyth a hie cry: "He þat þe kyng wysses,
In expounyng of speche þat spredes in þise lettres,
& make þe mater to malt my mynde wythinne,
Þat I may wyterly wyt what þat wryt menes,
He schal be gered ful gaye in gounes of porpre,
& a coler of cler golde clos vmbe his þrote;
He schal be prymate & prynce of pure clergye,
& of my þreuenest lordez þe þrydde he schal,
& of my reme þe rychest to ryde wyth myseluen,
Outtaken bare two, & þenne he þe þrydde."'
Þis cry watz vpcaste, & þer comen mony
Clerkes out of Caldye þat kennest wer knauen,
As þe sage sathrapas þat sorsory couþe,
Wychez & walkyries wonnen to þat sale,
Deuinores of demorlaykes þat dremes cowþe rede,
Sorsers & exorsismus & fele such clerkes;
& alle þat loked on þat letter as lewed þay were
As þay had loked in þe leþer of my lyft bote.
Þenne cryes þe kyng & kerues his wedes.
What! he corsed his clerkes & calde hem chorles;
To henge þe harlotes he heed ful ofte:
So watz þe wye wytles he wed wel ner.
Ho herde hym chyde to þe chambre þat watz þe chef quene.
When ho watz wytered bi wyes what watz þe cause,
Suche a chaungande chaunce in þe chef halle,
Þe lady, to lauce þat los þat þe lorde hade,
Glydes doun by þe grece & gos to þe kyng.
Ho kneles on þe colde erþe & carpes to hymseluen
Wordes of worchyp wyth a wys speche.
'Kene kyng,' quoþ þe quene, 'kayser of vrþe,
Euer laste þy lyf in lenþe of dayes!
Why hatz þou rended þy robe for redles hereinne,
Þaþose ledes ben lewed lettres to rede,
& hatz a haþel in þy holde, as I haf herde ofte,
Þat hatz þe gostes of God þat gyes alle soþes?
His sawle is ful of syence, saes to schawe,
To open vch a hide þyng of aunteres vncowþe.
Þat is he þat ful ofte hatz heuened þy fader
Of mony anger ful hote with his holy speche.
When Nabugo_de_nozar watz nyed in stoundes,
He devysed his dremes to þe dere trawþe;
He keuered hym with his counsayl of caytyf wyrdes;
Alle þat he spured hym, in space he expowned clene,
Þurþe sped of þe spyryt, þat sprad hym withinne,
Of þe godelest goddez þat gaynes aywhere.
For his depe diuinite & his dere sawes,
Þy bolde fader Baltazar bede by his name,
Þat now is demed Danyel, of derne coninges,
Þat cat watz in þe captyuide in cuntre of Jues;
Nabuzardan hym nome, & now is he here,
A prophete of þat prouince & pryce of þe worlde.
Sende into þe cete to seche hym bylyue,
& wynne hym with þe worchyp to wayne þe bote;
& þaþe mater be merk þat merked is ender,
He schal declar hit also as hit on clay stande.'
Þat gode counseyl at þe quene watz cached as swyþe;
Þe burne byfore Baltazar watz brot in a whyle.
When he com bifore þe kyng & clanly had halsed,
Baltazar vmbebrayde hym, & 'Leue sir,' he sayde,
'Hit is tolde me bi tulkes þat þou trwe were
Profete of þat prouynce þat prayed my fader,
Ande þat þou hatz in þy hert holy connyng,
Of sapyence þi sawle ful, soþes to schawe;
Goddes gost is þe geuen þat gyes alle þynges,
& þou vnhyles vch hidde þat Heuen-Kyng myntes.
& here is a ferly byfallen, & I fayn wolde
Wyt þe wytte of þe wryt þat on þe wowe clyues,
For alle Calde clerkes han cowwardely fayled.
If þou with quayntyse con quere hit, I quyte þe þy mede:
For if þou redes hit by ryt & hit to resoun brynges,
Fyrst telle me þe tyxte of þe tede lettres,
& syþen þe mater of þe mode mene me þerafter,
& I schal halde þe þe hest þat I þe hyt haue,
Apyke þe in porpre cloþe, palle alþer-fynest,
& þe bye of bryt golde abowte þyn nekke,
& þe þryd þryuenest þat þrynges me after,
Þou schal be baroun vpon benche, bede I þe no lasse.'
Derfly þenne Danyel deles þyse wordes:
'Ryche kyng of þis rengne, rede þe oure Lorde!
Hit is surely soth þe Souerayn of heuen
Fylsened euer þy fader & vpon folde cheryched,
Gart hym grattest to be of gouernores alle,
& alle þe worlde in his wylle welde as hym lykes.
Whoso wolde wel do, wel hym bityde,
& quos deth so he dezyre, he dreped als fast;
Whoso hym lyked to lyft, on lofte watz he sone,
& quoso hym lyked to lay watz loed bylyue.
So watz noted þe note of Nabugo_de_nozar,
Styfly stabled þe rengne bi þe stronge Drytyn,
For of þe Hyest he hade a hope in his hert,
Þat vche pouer past out of þat Prynce euen.
& whyle þat watz clet clos in his hert
Þere watz no mon vpon molde of myt as hymseluen;
Til hit bitide on a tyme towched hym pryde
For his lordeschyp so large & his lyf ryche;
He hade so huge an insyt to his aune dedes
Þat þe power of þe hye Prynce he purely foretes.
Þenne blynnes he not of blasfemy on to blame þe Drytyn;
His myt mete to Goddes he made with his wordes:
"I am god of þe grounde, to gye as me lykes.
As He þat hye is in heuen, His aungeles þat weldes.
If He hatz formed þe folde & folk þervpone,
I haf bigged Babiloyne, buralþer-rychest,
Stabled þerinne vche a ston in strenkþe of myn armes;
Mot neuer myt bot myn make such anoþer."
Watz not þis ilke worde wonnen of his mowþe one
Er þenne þe Souerayn sae souned in his eres:
"Now Nabugo_de_nozar innoe hatz spoken,
Now is alle þy pryncipalte past at ones,
& þou, remued fro monnes sunes, on mor most abide
& in wasturne walk & wyth þe wylde dowelle,
As best, byte on þe bent of braken & erbes,
With wroþe wolfes to won & wyth wylde asses."
Inmydde þe poynt of his pryde departed he þere
Fro þe soly of his solempnete; his solace he leues,
& carfully is outkast to contre vnknawen,
Fer into a fyr fryth þere frekes neuer comen.
His hert heldet vnhole; he hoped non oþer
Bot a best þat he be, a bol oþer an oxe.
He fares forth on alle faure, fogge watz his mete,
& ete ay as a horce when erbes were fallen;
Þus he countes hym a kow þat watz a kyng ryche,
Quyle seuen syþez were ouerseyed, someres I trawe.
By þat mony þik thye þryt vmbe his lyre,
Þat alle watz dubbed & dyt in þe dew of heuen;
Faxe, fyltered & felt, flosed hym vmbe,
Þat schad fro his schulderes to his schyre wykes,
& twenty-folde twynande hit to his tos rat,
Þer mony clyuy as clyde hit clyt togeder.
His berde ibrad alle his brest to þe bare vrþe,
His browes bresed as breres aboute his brode chekes;
Hole were his yen & vnder campe hores,
& al watz gray as þe glede, with ful grymme clawres
Þat were croked & kene as þe kyte paune;
Erne-hwed he watz & al ouerbrawden,
Til he wyst ful wel who wrot alle mytes,
& cowþe vche kyndam tokerue & keuer when Hym lyked.
Þenne He wayned hym his wyt, þat hade wo soffered,
Þat he com to knawlach & kenned hymseluen;
Þenne he loued þat Lorde & leued in trawþe
Hit watz non oþer þen He þat hade al in honde.
Þenne sone watz he sende agayn, his sete restored;
His barounes boed hym to, blyþe of his come,
Haerly in his aune hwe his heued watz couered,
& so eply watz arked & olden his state.
Bot þou, Baltazar, his barne & his bolde ayre,
Seþese syngnes with syt & set hem at lyttel,
Bot ay hatz hofen þy hert agaynes þe hye Dryt[y]n,
With bobaunce & with blasfamye bost at Hym kest,
& now His vessayles avyled in vanyte vnclene,
Þat in His hows Hym to honour were heuened of fyrst;
Bifore þe barounz hatz hom brot, & byrled þerinne
Wale wyne to þy wenches in waryed stoundes;
Bifore þy borde hatz þou brot beuerage in þede,
Þat blyþely were fyrst blest with bischopes hondes,
Louande þeron lese goddez þat lyf haden neuer,
Made of stokkes & stonez þat neuer styry mot.
& for þat froþande fylþe, þe Fader of heuen
Hatz sende into þis sale þise sytes vncowþe,
Þe fyste with þe fyngeres þat flayed þi hert,
Þat rasped renyschly þe woe with þe ropenne.
Þise ar þe wordes here wryten, withoute werk more,
By vch fygure, as I fynde, as oure Fader lykes:
Mane, Techal, Phares: merked in þrynne,
Þat þretes þe of þyn vnþryfte vpon þre wyse.
Now expowne þe þis speche spedly I þenk:
Manemenes als much as "Maynful Gode
Hatz counted þy kyndam bi a clene noumbre,
& fulfylled hit in fayth to þe fyrre ende".
To teche þe of Techal, þat terme þus menes:
"þy wale rengne is walt in wetes to heng,
& is funde ful fewe of hit fayth-dedes."
& Pharesfoles for þose fawtes, to frayst þe trawþe;
In Phares fynde
I forsoþe þise felle saes:
"Departed is þy pryncipalte, depryued þou worpes,
Þy rengne rafte is þe fro, & rat is þe Perses;
Þe Medes schal be maysteres here, & þou of menske schowued."'
Þe kyng comaunded anon to cleþe þat wyse
In frokkes of fyn cloþ, as forward hit asked;
Þenne sone watz Danyel dubbed in ful dere porpor,
& a coler of cler golde kest vmbe his swyre.
Þen watz demed a decre bi þe duk seluen:
Bolde Baltazar bed þat hym bowe schulde
Þe comynes al of Calde þat to þe kyng longed,
As to þe prynce pryuyest preued þe þrydde,
Heest of alle oþer saf onelych tweyne,
To boafter Baltazar in bore & in felde.
Þys watz cryed & knawen in cort als fast,
& alle þe folk þerof fayn þat foled hym tylle.
Bot howso Danyel watz dyt, þat day ouerede;
Nyt need ryt now with nyes fol mony,
For daed neuer anoþer day, þat ilk derk after,
Er dalt were þat ilk dome þat Danyel deuysed.
Þe solace of þe solempnete in þat sale dured
Of þat farand fest, tyl fayled þe sunne;
Þenne blykned þe ble of þe bryt skwes,
Mourkenes þe mery weder, & þe myst dryues
Þorþe lyst of þe lyfte, bi þe lomedoes.
Vche haþel to his home hyes ful fast,
Seten at her soper & songen þerafter;
Þen foundez vch a felaschyp fyrre at forþ nates.
Baltazar to his bedd with blysse watz caryed;
Reche þe rest as hym lyst: he ros neuer þerafter.
For his foes in þe felde in flokkes ful grete,
Þat longe hade layted þat lede his londes to strye,
Now ar þay sodenly assembled at þe self tyme.
Of hem wyst no wye þat in þat won dowelled.
Hit watz þe dere Daryus, þe duk of þise Medes,
Þe prowde prynce of Perce, & Porros of Ynde,
With mony a legioun ful large, with ledes of armes,
Þat now hatz spyed a space to spoyle Caldeez.
Þay þrongen þeder in þe þester on þrawen
hepes,
Asscaped ouer þe skyre watteres & scaþed þe walles,
Lyfte laddres ful longe & vpon lofte wonen,
Stelen stylly þe toun er any steuen rysed.
Withinne an oure of þe niyt an entre þay hade,
et afrayed þay no freke. Fyrre þay passen,
& to þe palays pryncipal þay aproched ful stylle,
Þenne ran þay in on a res on rowtes ful grete;
Blastes out of bryt brasse brestes so hye,
Ascry scarred on þe scue, þat scomfyted mony.
Segges slepande were slayne er þay slyppe myt;
Vche hous heyred watz withinne a hondewhyle.
Baltazar in his bed watz beten to deþe,
Þat boþe his blod & his brayn blende on þe cloþes;
The kyng in his cortyn watz kat bi þe heles,
Feryed out bi þe fete & fowle dispysed.
Þat watz so doty þat day & drank of þe vessayl
Now is a dogge also dere þat in a dych lygges.
For þe mayster of þyse Medes on þe morne ryses,
Dere Daryous þat day dyt vpon trone,
Þat cete seses ful sounde, & satlyng makes
Wyth alle þe barounz þeraboute, þat bowed hym after.
& þus watz þat londe lost for þe lordes synne,
& þe fylþe of þe freke þat defowled hade
Þe ornementes of Goddez hous þat holy were maked.
He watz corsed for his vnclannes, & cached þerinne,
Done doun of his dyngnete for dedez vnfayre,
& of þyse worldes worchyp wrast out for euer,
& et of lykynges on lofte letted, I trowe:
To loke on oure lofly Lorde late bitydes.
Þus vpon þrynne wyses I haf yow þro schewed
Þat vnclannes tocleues in corage dere
Of þat wynnelych Lorde þat wonyes in heuen,
Entyses Hym to be tene, telled vp His wrake;
Ande clannes is His comfort, & coyntyse He louyes,
& þose þat seme arn & swete schyn se His face.
Þat we gon gay in oure gere þat grace He vus sende,
Þat we may serue in His syt, þer solace neuer blynnez.
Amen.
568
Ezra Pound
Ballad for Gloom
For God, our God is a gallant foe
That playeth behind the veil.
I have loved my God as a child at heart
That seeketh deep bosoms for rest,
I have loved my God as a maid to man—
But lo, this thing is best:
To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind the veil;
To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale.
I have played with God for a woman,
I have staked with my God for truth,
I have lost to my God as a man, clear-eyed—
His dice be not of ruth.
For I am made as a naked blade,
But hear ye this thing in sooth:
Who loseth to God as man to man
Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet
But the ending is the same:
Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose
Shall win at the end of the game.
For God, our God is a gallant foe that playeth behind the veil.
Whom God deigns not to overthrow hath need of triple mail.
That playeth behind the veil.
I have loved my God as a child at heart
That seeketh deep bosoms for rest,
I have loved my God as a maid to man—
But lo, this thing is best:
To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind the veil;
To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale.
I have played with God for a woman,
I have staked with my God for truth,
I have lost to my God as a man, clear-eyed—
His dice be not of ruth.
For I am made as a naked blade,
But hear ye this thing in sooth:
Who loseth to God as man to man
Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet
But the ending is the same:
Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose
Shall win at the end of the game.
For God, our God is a gallant foe that playeth behind the veil.
Whom God deigns not to overthrow hath need of triple mail.
566
William Butler Yeats
A Prayer On Going Into My House
GOD grant a blessing on this tower and cottage
And on my heirs, if all remain unspoiled,
No table or chair or stool not simple enough
For shepherd lads in Galilee; and grant
That I myself for portions of the year
May handle nothing and set eyes on nothing
But what the great and passionate have used
Throughout so many varying centuries
We take it for the norm; yet should I dream
Sinbad the sailor's brought a painted chest,
Or image, from beyond the Loadstone Mountain,
That dream is a norm; and should some limb of the Devil
Destroy the view by cutting down an ash
That shades the road, or setting up a cottage
Planned in a government office, shorten his life,
Manacle his soul upon the Red Sea bottom.
And on my heirs, if all remain unspoiled,
No table or chair or stool not simple enough
For shepherd lads in Galilee; and grant
That I myself for portions of the year
May handle nothing and set eyes on nothing
But what the great and passionate have used
Throughout so many varying centuries
We take it for the norm; yet should I dream
Sinbad the sailor's brought a painted chest,
Or image, from beyond the Loadstone Mountain,
That dream is a norm; and should some limb of the Devil
Destroy the view by cutting down an ash
That shades the road, or setting up a cottage
Planned in a government office, shorten his life,
Manacle his soul upon the Red Sea bottom.
570
Arthur Rimbaud
LINES, an excerpt from
When the world comes down to this one dark wood
Before our four astonished eyes...
To a beach for two faithful children...
To a house of music, for our clear accord...
I will find you.
Let there be no one here below but one old man,
Beautiful and calm, surrounded with 'unimagined luxury'...
I will be at your feet.
Let me penetrate all of your memories...
Let me be that woman who can bind you hand and foot...
I will strangle you.
When we are very strong - who can hold us back?
And very gay - how can ridicule harm us?
When we are very bad - what can they do to us?
Dress yourself up,
And dance,
And laugh.
I could never throw Love out the window.
(translated by Paul Schmidt)
Before our four astonished eyes...
To a beach for two faithful children...
To a house of music, for our clear accord...
I will find you.
Let there be no one here below but one old man,
Beautiful and calm, surrounded with 'unimagined luxury'...
I will be at your feet.
Let me penetrate all of your memories...
Let me be that woman who can bind you hand and foot...
I will strangle you.
When we are very strong - who can hold us back?
And very gay - how can ridicule harm us?
When we are very bad - what can they do to us?
Dress yourself up,
And dance,
And laugh.
I could never throw Love out the window.
(translated by Paul Schmidt)
567
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Dedication
Dedication
These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself--I dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears--
These Idylls.
And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,
`Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
Who loved one only and who clave to her--'
Her--over all whose realms to their last isle,
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone:
We know him now: all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly;
Not swaying to this faction or to that;
Not making his high place the lawless perch
Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
And blackens every blot: for where is he,
Who dares foreshadow for an only son
A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his?
Or how should England dreaming of HIS sons
Hope more for these than some inheritance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,
Laborious for her people and her poor--
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day-
Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace--
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art,
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name,
Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good.
Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure;
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,
Remembering all the beauty of that star
Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made
One light together, but has past and leaves
The Crown a lonely splendour.
May all love,
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee,
The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee,
The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee,
The love of all Thy people comfort Thee,
Till God's love set Thee at his side again!
These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself--I dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears--
These Idylls.
And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,
`Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
Who loved one only and who clave to her--'
Her--over all whose realms to their last isle,
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone:
We know him now: all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly;
Not swaying to this faction or to that;
Not making his high place the lawless perch
Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
And blackens every blot: for where is he,
Who dares foreshadow for an only son
A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his?
Or how should England dreaming of HIS sons
Hope more for these than some inheritance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,
Laborious for her people and her poor--
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day-
Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace--
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art,
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name,
Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good.
Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure;
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,
Remembering all the beauty of that star
Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made
One light together, but has past and leaves
The Crown a lonely splendour.
May all love,
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee,
The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee,
The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee,
The love of all Thy people comfort Thee,
Till God's love set Thee at his side again!
556
Arthur Rimbaud
Working People
O that warm February morning!
The untimely south came
to stir up our absurd paupers' memories,
our young distress.
Henrika had on a brown
and white checked cotton skirt
which must have been worn in the last century,
a bonnet with ribbons and a silk scarf.
It was much sadder than any mourning.
We were taking a stroll in the suburbs.
The weather was overcast
and that wind from the south
excited all the evil odors of the desolate
garden and the dried fields.
It did not seem to weary my wife as it did me.
In a puddle left by the rains of the preceding month,
on a fairly high path,
she called my attention to some very little fishes.
The city with its smoke and its factory noises
followed us far out along the roads.
O other world, habituation
blessed by sky and shade!
The south brought black miserable memories
of my childhood, my summer despairs,
the horrible quantity of strength
and of knowledge that fate has always kept from me.
No! we will not spend the summer
in this avaricious country
where we shall never be anything
but affianced orphans.
I want this hardened arm
to stop dragging _a cherished image._
The untimely south came
to stir up our absurd paupers' memories,
our young distress.
Henrika had on a brown
and white checked cotton skirt
which must have been worn in the last century,
a bonnet with ribbons and a silk scarf.
It was much sadder than any mourning.
We were taking a stroll in the suburbs.
The weather was overcast
and that wind from the south
excited all the evil odors of the desolate
garden and the dried fields.
It did not seem to weary my wife as it did me.
In a puddle left by the rains of the preceding month,
on a fairly high path,
she called my attention to some very little fishes.
The city with its smoke and its factory noises
followed us far out along the roads.
O other world, habituation
blessed by sky and shade!
The south brought black miserable memories
of my childhood, my summer despairs,
the horrible quantity of strength
and of knowledge that fate has always kept from me.
No! we will not spend the summer
in this avaricious country
where we shall never be anything
but affianced orphans.
I want this hardened arm
to stop dragging _a cherished image._
554
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Gareth And Lynette
The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
Or evil king before my lance if lance
Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
Linger with vacillating obedience,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
In ever-highering eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the summertime,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
For he is alway sullen: what care I?'
And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'
And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunting round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw
The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought
"An I could climb and lay my hand upon it,
Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings."
But ever when he reached a hand to climb,
One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught
And stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck,
I charge thee by my love," and so the boy,
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck,
But brake his very heart in pining for it,
And past away.'
To whom the mother said,
'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,
And handed down the golden treasure to him.'
And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she,
Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world
Had ventured--HAD the thing I spake of been
Mere gold--but this was all of that true steel,
Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur,
And lightnings played about it in the storm,
And all the little fowl were flurried at it,
And there were cries and clashings in the nest,
That sent him from his senses: let me go.'
Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said,
'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness?
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth
Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out!
For ever since when traitor to the King
He fought against him in the Barons' war,
And Arthur gave him back his territory,
His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable,
No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows.
And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall,
Albeit neither loved with that full love
I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love:
Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird,
And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars,
Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang
Of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance
In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls,
Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer
By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;
So make thy manhood mightier day by day;
Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out
Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace
Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year,
Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness
I know not thee, myself, nor anything.
Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.'
Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child,
Hear yet once more the story of the child.
For, mother, there was once a King, like ours.
The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable,
Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King
Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed--
But to be won by force--and many men
Desired her; one good lack, no man desired.
And these were the conditions of the King:
That save he won the first by force, he needs
Must wed that other, whom no man desired,
A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile,
That evermore she longed to hide herself,
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye-Yea--
some she cleaved to, but they died of her.
And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother,
How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame.
Man am I grown, a man's work must I do.
Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King,
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King--
Else, wherefore born?'
To whom the mother said
'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not,
Or will not deem him, wholly proven King--
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King,
When I was frequent with him in my youth,
And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him
No more than he, himself; but felt him mine,
Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave
Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all,
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King?
Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.'
And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour,
So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire,
Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go.
Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome
From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed
The Idolaters, and made the people free?
Who should be King save him who makes us free?'
So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain
To break him from the intent to which he grew,
Found her son's will unwaveringly one,
She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire?
Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke.
Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof,
Before thou ask the King to make thee knight,
Of thine obedience and thy love to me,
Thy mother,--I demand.
And Gareth cried,
'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go.
Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!'
But slowly spake the mother looking at him,
'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall,
And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks
Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves,
And those that hand the dish across the bar.
Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone.
And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.'
For so the Queen believed that when her son
Beheld his only way to glory lead
Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage,
Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud
To pass thereby; so should he rest with her,
Closed in her castle from the sound of arms.
Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied,
'The thrall in person may be free in soul,
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I,
And since thou art my mother, must obey.
I therefore yield me freely to thy will;
For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself
To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves;
Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.'
Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye
Full of the wistful fear that he would go,
And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned,
Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour,
When wakened by the wind which with full voice
Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn,
He rose, and out of slumber calling two
That still had tended on him from his birth,
Before the wakeful mother heard him, went.
The three were clad like tillers of the soil.
Southward they set their faces. The birds made
Melody on branch, and melody in mid air.
The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green,
And the live green had kindled into flowers,
For it was past the time of Easterday.
So, when their feet were planted on the plain
That broadened toward the base of Camelot,
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn
Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount,
That rose between the forest and the field.
At times the summit of the high city flashed;
At times the spires and turrets half-way down
Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone
Only, that opened on the field below:
Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared.
Then those who went with Gareth were amazed,
One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord.
Here is a city of Enchanters, built
By fairy Kings.' The second echoed him,
'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home
To Northward, that this King is not the King,
But only changeling out of Fairyland,
Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery
And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again,
'Lord, there is no such city anywhere,
But all a vision.'
Gareth answered them
With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow
In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes,
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea;
So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate.
And there was no gate like it under heaven.
For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined
And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave,
The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress
Wept from her sides as water flowing away;
But like the cross her great and goodly arms
Stretched under the cornice and upheld:
And drops of water fell from either hand;
And down from one a sword was hung, from one
A censer, either worn with wind and storm;
And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish;
And in the space to left of her, and right,
Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done,
New things and old co-twisted, as if Time
Were nothing, so inveterately, that men
Were giddy gazing there; and over all
High on the top were those three Queens, the friends
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need.
Then those with Gareth for so long a space
Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed
The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings
Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called
To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.'
And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes
So long, that even to him they seemed to move.
Out of the city a blast of music pealed.
Back from the gate started the three, to whom
From out thereunder came an ancient man,
Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?'
Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil,
Who leaving share in furrow come to see
The glories of our King: but these, my men,
(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist)
Doubt if the King be King at all, or come
From Fairyland; and whether this be built
By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens;
Or whether there be any city at all,
Or all a vision: and this music now
Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.'
Then that old Seer made answer playing on him
And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail
Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air:
And here is truth; but an it please thee not,
Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.
For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King
And Fairy Queens have built the city, son;
They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft
Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,
And built it to the music of their harps.
And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,
For there is nothing in it as it seems
Saving the King; though some there be that hold
The King a shadow, and the city real:
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become
A thrall to his enchantments, for the King
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame
A man should not be bound by, yet the which
No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,
Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide
Without, among the cattle of the field.
For an ye heard a music, like enow
They are building still, seeing the city is built
To music, therefore never built at all,
And therefore built for ever.'
Gareth spake
Angered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beard
That looks as white as utter truth, and seems
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall!
Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been
To thee fair-spoken?'
But the Seer replied,
'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?
"Confusion, and illusion, and relation,
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"?
I mock thee not but as thou mockest me,
And all that see thee, for thou art not who
Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.
And now thou goest up to mock the King,
Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.'
Unmockingly the mocker ending here
Turned to the right, and past along the plain;
Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men,
Our one white lie sits like a little ghost
Here on the threshold of our enterprise.
Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I:
Well, we will make amends.'
With all good cheer
He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces
And stately, rich in emblem and the work
Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court,
Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak
And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.
And ever and anon a knight would pass
Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms
Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear.
And out of bower and casement shyly glanced
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love;
And all about a healthful people stept
As in the presence of a gracious king.
Then into hall Gareth ascending heard
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld
Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall
The splendour of the presence of the King
Throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more--
But felt his young heart hammering in his ears,
And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lie
The truthful King will doom me when I speak.'
Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes
Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne,
Clear honour shining like the dewy star
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure
Affection, and the light of victory,
And glory gained, and evermore to gain.
Then came a widow crying to the King,
'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft
From my dead lord a field with violence:
For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold,
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes,
We yielded not; and then he reft us of it
Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.'
Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?'
To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord,
The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.'
And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again,
And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof,
According to the years. No boon is here,
But justice, so thy say be proven true.
Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did
Would shape himself a right!'
And while she past,
Came yet another widow crying to him,
'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I.
With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord,
A knight of Uther in the Barons' war,
When Lot and many another rose and fought
Against thee, saying thou wert basely born.
I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught.
Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son
Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead;
And standeth seized of that inheritance
Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son.
So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate,
Grant me some knight to do the battle for me,
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.'
Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him,
'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I.
Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.'
Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried,
'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none,
This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall--
None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.'
But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wronged
Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord.
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates!
The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames,
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead,
And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence--
Lest that rough humour of the kings of old
Return upon me! Thou that art her kin,
Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not,
But bring him here, that I may judge the right,
According to the justice of the King:
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King
Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.'
Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,
A name of evil savour in the land,
The Cornish king. In either hand he bore
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines
A field of charlock in the sudden sun
Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold,
Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,
Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king,
Was even upon his way to Camelot;
For having heard that Arthur of his grace
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight,
And, for himself was of the greater state,
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord
Would yield him this large honour all the more;
So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold,
In token of true heart and felty.
Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.
An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight!
What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?'
For, midway down the side of that long hall
A stately pile,--whereof along the front,
Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank,
There ran a treble range of stony shields,--
Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth.
And under every shield a knight was named:
For this was Arthur's custom in his hall;
When some good knight had done one noble deed,
His arms were carven only; but if twain
His arms were blazoned also; but if none,
The shield was blank and bare without a sign
Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw
The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright,
And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried
To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth.
'More like are we to reave him of his crown
Than make him knight because men call him king.
The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands
From war among themselves, but left them kings;
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful,
Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled
Among us, and they sit within our hall.
But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king,
As Mark would sully the low state of churl:
And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold,
Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes,
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead,
Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots,
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings-
No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal
Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied--
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!'
And many another suppliant crying came
With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man,
And evermore a knight would ride away.
Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily
Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men,
Approached between them toward the King, and asked,
'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed),
For see ye not how weak and hungerworn
I seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve
For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name.
Hereafter I will fight.'
To him the King,
'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon!
But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay,
The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.'
He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself
Root-bitten by white lichen,
'Lo ye now!
This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where,
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow,
However that might chance! but an he work,
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop,
And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.'
Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal,
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds;
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know:
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine,
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands
Large, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery--
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace,
Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.'
Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery?
Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish?
Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery!
Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked
For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth!
Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it
That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day
Undo thee not--and leave my man to me.'
So Gareth all for glory underwent
The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage;
Ate with young lads his portion by the door,
And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves.
And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly,
But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not,
Would hustle and harry him, and labour him
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set
To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood,
Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself
With all obedience to the King, and wrought
All kind of service with a noble ease
That graced the lowliest act in doing it.
And when the thralls had talk among themselves,
And one would praise the love that linkt the King
And Lancelot--how the King had saved his life
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's--
For Lancelot was the first in Tournament,
But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field--
Gareth was glad. Or if some other told,
How once the wandering forester at dawn,
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas,
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King,
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake,
'He passes to the Isle Avilion,
He passes and is healed and cannot die'--
Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul,
Then would he whistle rapid as any lark,
Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud
That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him.
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way
Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held
All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands,
Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come
Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind
Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart.
Or when the thralls had sport among themselves,
So there were any trial of mastery,
He, by two yards in casting bar or stone
Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust,
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go,
Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights
Clash like the coming and retiring wave,
And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy.
So for a month he wrought among the thralls;
But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen,
Repentant of the word she made him swear,
And saddening in her childless castle, sent,
Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon,
Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow.
This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot
With whom he used to play at tourney once,
When both were children, and in lonely haunts
Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand,
And each at either dash from either end--
Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy.
He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at once
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee--
These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's--
Descend into the city:' whereon he sought
The King alone, and found, and told him all.
'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt
For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I.
Make me thy knight--in secret! let my name
Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring
Like flame from ashes.'
Here the King's calm eye
Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him,
'Son, the good mother let me know thee here,
And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine.
Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness,
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love,
And uttermost obedience to the King.'
Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees,
'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee.
For uttermost obedience make demand
Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal,
No mellow master of the meats and drinks!
And as for love, God wot, I love not yet,
But love I shall, God willing.'
And the King
'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he,
Our noblest brother, and our truest man,
And one with me in all, he needs must know.'
'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know,
Thy noblest and thy truest!'
And the King-'
But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you?
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King,
And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed,
Than to be noised of.'
Merrily Gareth asked,
'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it?
Let be my name until I make my name!
My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.'
So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm
Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly
Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him.
Then, after summoning Lancelot privily,
'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven.
Look therefore when he calls for this in hall,
Thou get to horse and follow him far away.
Cover the lions on thy shield, and see
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.'
Then that same day there past into the hall
A damsel of high lineage, and a brow
May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom,
Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose
Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower;
She into hall past with her page and cried,
'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without,
See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset
By bandits, everyone that owns a tower
The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there?
Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king,
Till even the lonest hold were all as free
From cursd bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth
From that best blood it is a sin to spill.'
'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mine
Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore,
The wastest moorland of our realm shall be
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall.
What is thy name? thy need?'
'My name?' she said-'
Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight
To combat for my sister, Lyonors,
A lady of high lineage, of great lands,
And comely, yea, and comelier than myself.
She lives in Castle Perilous: a river
Runs in three loops about her living-place;
And o'er it are three passings, and three knights
Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth
And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed
In her own castle, and so besieges her
To break her will, and make her wed with him:
And but delays his purport till thou send
To do the battle with him, thy chief man
Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow,
Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed
Save whom she loveth, or a holy life.
Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.'
Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked,
'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush
All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four,
Who be they? What the fashion of the men?'
'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King,
The fashion of that old knight-errantry
Who ride abroad, and do but what they will;
Courteous or bestial from the moment, such
As have nor law nor king; and three of these
Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day,
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star,
Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise
The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black,
A huge man-beast of boundless savagery.
He names himself the Night and oftener Death,
And wears a helmet mounted with a skull,
And bears a skeleton figured on his arms,
To show that who may slay or scape the three,
Slain by himself, shall enter endless night.
And all these four be fools, but mighty men,
And therefore am I come for Lancelot.'
Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose,
A head with kindling eyes above the throng,
'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he marked
Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull-'
Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I,
And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I,
And I can topple over a hundred such.
Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him,
Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden,
And pardonable, worthy to be knight--
Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed.
But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath
Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm,
'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight,
And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.'
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned,
Fled down the lane of access to the King,
Took horse, descended the slope street, and past
The weird white gate, and paused without, beside
The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.'
Now two great entries opened from the hall,
At one end one, that gave upon a range
Of level pavement where the King would pace
At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood;
And down from this a lordly stairway sloped
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers;
And out by this main doorway past the King.
But one was counter to the hearth, and rose
High that the highest-crested helm could ride
Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled
The damsel in her wrath, and on to this
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town,
A warhorse of the best, and near it stood
The two that out of north had followed him:
This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held
The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel,
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down,
And from it like a fuel-smothered fire,
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those
Dull-coated things, that making slide apart
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns
A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly.
So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms.
Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield
And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain
Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt
With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest
The people, while from out of kitchen came
The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked
Lustier than any, and whom they could but love,
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried,
'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!'
And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode
Down the slope street, and past without the gate.
So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause
Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named,
His owner, but remembers all, and growls
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door
Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used
To harry and hustle.
'Bound upon a quest
With horse and arms--the King hath past his time--
My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!
Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?
Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow
Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth
So shook his wits they wander in his prime--
Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.
Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,
Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing.
Well--I will after my loud knave, and learn
Whether he know me for his master yet.
Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire--
Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,
Into the smoke again.'
But Lancelot said,
'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,
For that did never he whereon ye rail,
But ever meekly served the King in thee?
Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.'
'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfine
To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:'
Then mounted, on through silent faces rode
Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.
But by the field of tourney lingering yet
Muttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the King
Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least
He might have yielded to me one of those
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here,
Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him--
His kitchen-knave.'
To whom Sir Gareth drew
(And there were none but few goodlier than he)
Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine.
Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one
That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,
And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,
Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose
With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence!
Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.
And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay.
'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.
We lack thee by the hearth.'
And Gareth to him,
'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay--
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.'
'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and Kay
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,
'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled.
But after sod and shingle ceased to fly
Behind her, and the heart of her good horse
Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,
Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.
'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more
Or love thee better, that by some device
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!-Dish-
washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.'
'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'say
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say,
I leave not till I finish this fair quest,
Or die therefore.'
'Ay, wilt thou finish it?
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!
The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,
And then by such a one that thou for all
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt
Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.'
'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile
That maddened her, and away she flashed again
Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,
And Gareth following was again beknaved.
'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way
Where Arthur's men are set along the wood;
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:
If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?
Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.'
So till the dusk that followed evensong
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;
Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,
Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink
To westward--in the deeps whereof a mere,
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,
Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts
Ascended, and there brake a servingman
Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,
'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.'
Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged,
But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.'
And when the damsel spake contemptuously,
'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again,
'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pines
He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,
Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,
A stone about his neck to drown him in it.
Three with good blows he quieted, but three
Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone
From off his neck, then in the mere beside
Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend.
'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues
Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs
To hate me, for my wont hath ever been
To catch my thief, and then like vermin here
Drown him, and with a stone about his neck;
And under this wan water many of them
Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone,
And rise, and flickering in a grimly light
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life
Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.
And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.
What guerdon will ye?'
Gareth sharply spake,
'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed,
In uttermost obedience to the King.
But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?'
Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believe
You be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh
Broke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth,
And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!--
But deem not I accept thee aught the more,
Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit
Down on a rout of craven foresters.
A thresher with his flail had scattered them.
Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still.
But an this lord will yield us harbourage,
Well.'
So she spake. A league beyond the wood,
All in a full-fair manor and a rich,
His towers where that day a feast had been
Held in high hall, and many a viand left,
And many a costly cate, received the three.
And there they placed a peacock in his pride
Before the damsel, and the Baron set
Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.
'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,
Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.
Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall,
And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot
To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night--
The last a monster unsubduable
Of any save of him for whom I called--
Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,
"The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,
And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I."
Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies,
"Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him-Him--
here--a villain fitter to stick swine
Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong,
Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.'
Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord
Now looked at one and now at other, left
The damsel by the peacock in his pride,
And, seating Gareth at another board,
Sat down beside him, ate and then began.
'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not,
Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy,
And whether she be mad, or else the King,
Or both or neither, or thyself be mad,
I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke,
For strong thou art and goodly therewithal,
And saver of my life; and therefore now,
For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh
Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back
To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King.
Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail,
The saver of my life.'
And Gareth said,
'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest,
Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.'
So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved
Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way
And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake,
'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied.
'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour.
Lion and stout have isled together, knave,
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?
For hard by here is one will overthrow
And slay thee: then will I to court again,
And shame the King for only yielding me
My champion from the ashes of his hearth.'
To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously,
'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find
My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay
Among the ashes and wedded the King's son.'
Then to the shore of one of those long loops
Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.
Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream
Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc
Took at a leap; and on the further side
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,
Save that the dome was purple, and above,
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.
And therebefore the lawless warrior paced
Unarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he,
The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall?
For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said,
'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here
His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:
See that he fall not on thee suddenly,
And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.'
Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn,
And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,
Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls
In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet
In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair
All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine.
These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield
Blue also, and thereon the morning star.
And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,
Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,
Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone
Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly,
The gay pavilion and the naked feet,
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star.
Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so?
Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time:
Flee down the valley before he get to horse.
Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.'
Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight,
Far liefer had I fight a score of times
Than hear thee so missay me and revile.
Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;
But truly foul are better, for they send
That strength of anger through mine arms, I know
That I shall overthrow him.'
And he that bore
The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge,
'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.
For this were shame to do him further wrong
Than set him on his feet, and take his horse
And arms, and so return him to the King.
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.
Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave
To ride with such a lady.'
'Dog, thou liest.
I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.'
He spake; and all at fiery speed the two
Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear
Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,
Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult
Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge,
Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,
And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand
He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,
The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!'
Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke
Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground.
Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.'
And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of me
Good--I accord it easily as a grace.'
She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee?
I bound to thee for any favour asked!'
'Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlaced
His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked,
'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay
One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy charge
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws.
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee.
Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou,
Lead, and I follow.'
And fast away she fled.
Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought,
Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge
The savour of thy kitchen came upon me
A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:
I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang,
'"O morning star" (not that tall felon there
Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness
Or some device, hast foully overthrown),
"O morning star that smilest in the blue,
O star, my morning dream hath proven true,
Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me."
'But thou begone, take counsel, and away,
For hard by here is one that guards a ford--
The second brother in their fool's parable--
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot.
Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.'
To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly,
'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave.
When I was kitchen-knave among the rest
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates
Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat,
"Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it.
And such a coat art thou, and thee the King
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I,
To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave--
The knave that doth thee service as full knight
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight
Toward thy sister's freeing.'
'Ay, Sir Knave!
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight,
Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.'
'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more,
That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.'
'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.'
So when they touched the second river-loop,
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail
Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower,
That blows a globe of after arrowlets,
Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield,
All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots
Before them when he turned from watching him.
He from beyond the roaring shallow roared,
'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?'
And she athwart the shallow shrilled again,
'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall
Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.'
'Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red
And cipher face of rounded foolishness,
Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford,
Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there
For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck
With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight
Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth,
The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream
Descended, and the Sun was washed away.
Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford;
So drew him home; but he that fought no more,
As being all bone-battered on the rock,
Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King,
'Myself when I return will plead for thee.'
'Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led.
'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?'
'Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here.
There lies a ridge of slate across the ford;
His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it.
'"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave,
Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness),
"O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,
O moon, that layest all to sleep again,
Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
What knowest thou of lovesong or of love?
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born,
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,-
'"O dewy flowers that open to the sun,
O dewy flowers that close when day is done,
Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike,
To garnish meats with? hath not our good King
Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom,
A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round
The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head?
Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay.
'"O birds, that warble to the morning sky,
O birds that warble as the day goes by,
Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle,
Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth
May-music growing with the growing light,
Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit,
Larding and basting. See thou have not now
Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly.
There stands the third fool of their allegory.'
For there beyond a bridge of treble bow,
All in a rose-red from the west, and all
Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight,
That named himself the Star of Evening, stood.
And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman there
Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried,
'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins
That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave
His armour off him, these will turn the blade.'
Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge,
'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low?
Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain
The damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried,
'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven
With all disaster unto thine and thee!
For both thy younger brethren have gone down
Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star;
Art thou not old?'
'Old, damsel, old and hard,
Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.'
Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag!
But that same strength which threw the Morning Star
Can throw the Evening.'
Then that other blew
A hard and deadly note upon the horn.
'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from out
An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,
And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm
With but a drying evergreen for crest,
And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even
Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone.
But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow,
They madly hurled together on the bridge;
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew,
There met him drawn, and overthrew him again,
But up like fire he started: and as oft
As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees,
So many a time he vaulted up again;
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart,
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain,
Laboured within him, for he seemed as one
That all in later, sadder age begins
To war against ill uses of a life,
But these from all his life arise, and cry,
'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!'
He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike
Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while,
'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave--
O knave, as noble as any of all the knights-
Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied--
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round--
His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin-Strike--
strike--the wind will never change again.'
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,
And hewed great pieces of his armour off him,
But lashed in vain against the hardened skin,
And could not wholly bring him under, more
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs
For ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brand
Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.
'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang,
And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms
Around him, till he felt, despite his mail,
Strangled, but straining even his uttermost
Cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge
Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried,
'Lead, and I follow.'
But the damsel said,
'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side;
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves.
'"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain,
O rainbow with three colours after rain,
Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me."
'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight,
But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,--
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled,
Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King
Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,
For thou hast ever answered courteously,
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal
As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave,
Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.'
'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame,
Saving that you mistrusted our good King
Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one
Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say;
Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold
He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets
His heart be stirred with any foolish heat
At any gentle damsel's waywardness.
Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:
And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,
Hath force to quell me.'
Nigh upon that hour
When the lone hern forgets his melancholy,
Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams
Of goodly supper in the distant pool,
Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him,
And told him of a cavern hard at hand,
Where bread and baken meats and good red wine
Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors
Had sent her coming champion, waited him.
Anon they past a narrow comb wherein
Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.
'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,
Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock
The war of Time against the soul of man.
And yon four fools have sucked their allegory
From these damp walls, and taken but the form.
Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read--
In letters like to those the vexillary
Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt-'
PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'-'
NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armd men,
Slab after slab, their faces forward all,
And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled
With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair,
For help and shelter to the hermit's cave.
'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,
Who comes behind?'
For one--delayed at first
Through helping back the dislocated Kay
To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,
The damsel's headlong error through the wood--
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops--
His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew
Behind the twain, and when he saw the star
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried,
'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.'
And Gareth crying pricked against the cry;
But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch
Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world--
Went sliding down so easily, and fell,
That when he found the grass within his hands
He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette:
Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown,
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,
Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?'
'Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,
And victor of the bridges and the ford,
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom
I know not, all through mere unhappiness-
Device and sorcery and unhappiness--
Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince,
O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness
Of one who came to help thee, not to harm,
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole,
As on the day when Arthur knighted him.'
Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand
That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast
Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance--
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,
Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!'
Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot,
Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now
Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave,
Who being still rebuked, would answer still
Courteous as any knight--but now, if knight,
The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked,
And only wondering wherefore played upon:
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned.
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall,
In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool,
I hate thee and for ever.'
And Lancelot said,
'Blessd be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou
To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise
To call him shamed, who is but overthrown?
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.
Victor from vanquished issues at the last,
And overthrower from being overthrown.
With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse
And thou are weary; yet not less I felt
Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.
Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,
And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes,
And when reviled, hast answered graciously,
And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!'
And then when turning to Lynette he told
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said,
'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled
Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave,
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks
And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.
But all about it flies a honeysuckle.
Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found,
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life
Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.
'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.
Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him
As any mother? Ay, but such a one
As all day long hath rated at her child,
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep--
Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle
In the hushed night, as if the world were one
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!
O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands-'
Full merry am I to find my goodly knave
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,
Else yon black felon had not let me pass,
To bring thee back to do the battle with him.
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;
Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave
Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.'
Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name,
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,
Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,
Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well
As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said,
'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.'
And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield;
'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears
Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!--
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these
Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.
Hence: let us go.'
Silent the silent field
They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan,
In counter motion to the clouds, allured
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.
A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!'
An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!'
Suddenly she that rode upon his left
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying,
'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight:
I curse the tongue that all through yesterday
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now
To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done;
Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow
In having flung the three: I see thee maimed,
Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.'
'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.
You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery
Appal me from the quest.'
'Nay, Prince,' she cried,
'God wot, I never looked upon the face,
Seeing he never rides abroad by day;
But watched him have I like a phantom pass
Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page
Who came and went, and still reported him
As closing in himself the strength of ten,
And when his anger tare him, massacring
Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe!
Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh,
Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,
The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.'
Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this,
Belike he wins it as the better man:
Thus--and not else!'
But Lancelot on him urged
All the devisings of their chivalry
When one might meet a mightier than himself;
How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield,
And so fill up the gap where force might fail
With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.
Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one--
To dash against mine enemy and win.
Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust,
And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette.
Then for a space, and under cloud that grew
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode
In converse till she made her palfrey halt,
Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.'
And all the three were silent seeing, pitched
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field,
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak
Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge,
Black, with black banner, and a long black horn
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,
And so, before the two could hinder him,
Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.
Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon
Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;
Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down
And muffled voices heard, and shadows past;
Till high above him, circled with her maids,
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,
Beautiful among lights, and waving to him
White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince
Three times had blown--after long hush--at last--
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,
Through those black foldings, that which housed therein.
High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms,
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,
And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps--
In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced
The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.
But Gareth spake and all indignantly,
'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,
But must, to make the terror of thee more,
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries
Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,
Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers
As if for pity?' But he spake no word;
Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned;
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,
As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death;
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm;
And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt
Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast.
At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed,
And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him.
Then those that did not blink the terror, saw
That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.
Half fell to right and half to left and lay.
Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm
As throughly as the skull; and out from this
Issued the bright face of a blooming boy
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight,
Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,
To make a horror all about the house,
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.
They never dreamed the passes would be past.'
Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one
Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child,
What madness made thee challenge the chief knight
Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it.
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend,
They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,
They never dreamed the passes could be past.'
Then sprang the happier day from underground;
And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance
And revel and song, made merry over Death,
As being after all their foolish fears
And horrors only proven a blooming boy.
So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.
And he that told the tale in older times
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors,
But he, that told it later, says Lynette.
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
Or evil king before my lance if lance
Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
Linger with vacillating obedience,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
In ever-highering eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the summertime,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
For he is alway sullen: what care I?'
And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'
And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunting round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw
The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought
"An I could climb and lay my hand upon it,
Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings."
But ever when he reached a hand to climb,
One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught
And stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck,
I charge thee by my love," and so the boy,
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck,
But brake his very heart in pining for it,
And past away.'
To whom the mother said,
'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,
And handed down the golden treasure to him.'
And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she,
Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world
Had ventured--HAD the thing I spake of been
Mere gold--but this was all of that true steel,
Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur,
And lightnings played about it in the storm,
And all the little fowl were flurried at it,
And there were cries and clashings in the nest,
That sent him from his senses: let me go.'
Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said,
'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness?
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth
Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out!
For ever since when traitor to the King
He fought against him in the Barons' war,
And Arthur gave him back his territory,
His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable,
No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows.
And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall,
Albeit neither loved with that full love
I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love:
Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird,
And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars,
Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang
Of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance
In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls,
Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer
By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;
So make thy manhood mightier day by day;
Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out
Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace
Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year,
Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness
I know not thee, myself, nor anything.
Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.'
Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child,
Hear yet once more the story of the child.
For, mother, there was once a King, like ours.
The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable,
Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King
Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed--
But to be won by force--and many men
Desired her; one good lack, no man desired.
And these were the conditions of the King:
That save he won the first by force, he needs
Must wed that other, whom no man desired,
A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile,
That evermore she longed to hide herself,
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye-Yea--
some she cleaved to, but they died of her.
And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother,
How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame.
Man am I grown, a man's work must I do.
Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King,
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King--
Else, wherefore born?'
To whom the mother said
'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not,
Or will not deem him, wholly proven King--
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King,
When I was frequent with him in my youth,
And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him
No more than he, himself; but felt him mine,
Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave
Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all,
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King?
Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.'
And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour,
So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire,
Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go.
Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome
From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed
The Idolaters, and made the people free?
Who should be King save him who makes us free?'
So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain
To break him from the intent to which he grew,
Found her son's will unwaveringly one,
She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire?
Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke.
Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof,
Before thou ask the King to make thee knight,
Of thine obedience and thy love to me,
Thy mother,--I demand.
And Gareth cried,
'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go.
Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!'
But slowly spake the mother looking at him,
'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall,
And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks
Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves,
And those that hand the dish across the bar.
Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone.
And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.'
For so the Queen believed that when her son
Beheld his only way to glory lead
Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage,
Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud
To pass thereby; so should he rest with her,
Closed in her castle from the sound of arms.
Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied,
'The thrall in person may be free in soul,
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I,
And since thou art my mother, must obey.
I therefore yield me freely to thy will;
For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself
To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves;
Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.'
Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye
Full of the wistful fear that he would go,
And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned,
Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour,
When wakened by the wind which with full voice
Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn,
He rose, and out of slumber calling two
That still had tended on him from his birth,
Before the wakeful mother heard him, went.
The three were clad like tillers of the soil.
Southward they set their faces. The birds made
Melody on branch, and melody in mid air.
The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green,
And the live green had kindled into flowers,
For it was past the time of Easterday.
So, when their feet were planted on the plain
That broadened toward the base of Camelot,
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn
Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount,
That rose between the forest and the field.
At times the summit of the high city flashed;
At times the spires and turrets half-way down
Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone
Only, that opened on the field below:
Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared.
Then those who went with Gareth were amazed,
One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord.
Here is a city of Enchanters, built
By fairy Kings.' The second echoed him,
'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home
To Northward, that this King is not the King,
But only changeling out of Fairyland,
Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery
And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again,
'Lord, there is no such city anywhere,
But all a vision.'
Gareth answered them
With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow
In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes,
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea;
So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate.
And there was no gate like it under heaven.
For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined
And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave,
The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress
Wept from her sides as water flowing away;
But like the cross her great and goodly arms
Stretched under the cornice and upheld:
And drops of water fell from either hand;
And down from one a sword was hung, from one
A censer, either worn with wind and storm;
And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish;
And in the space to left of her, and right,
Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done,
New things and old co-twisted, as if Time
Were nothing, so inveterately, that men
Were giddy gazing there; and over all
High on the top were those three Queens, the friends
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need.
Then those with Gareth for so long a space
Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed
The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings
Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called
To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.'
And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes
So long, that even to him they seemed to move.
Out of the city a blast of music pealed.
Back from the gate started the three, to whom
From out thereunder came an ancient man,
Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?'
Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil,
Who leaving share in furrow come to see
The glories of our King: but these, my men,
(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist)
Doubt if the King be King at all, or come
From Fairyland; and whether this be built
By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens;
Or whether there be any city at all,
Or all a vision: and this music now
Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.'
Then that old Seer made answer playing on him
And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail
Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air:
And here is truth; but an it please thee not,
Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.
For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King
And Fairy Queens have built the city, son;
They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft
Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,
And built it to the music of their harps.
And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,
For there is nothing in it as it seems
Saving the King; though some there be that hold
The King a shadow, and the city real:
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become
A thrall to his enchantments, for the King
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame
A man should not be bound by, yet the which
No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,
Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide
Without, among the cattle of the field.
For an ye heard a music, like enow
They are building still, seeing the city is built
To music, therefore never built at all,
And therefore built for ever.'
Gareth spake
Angered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beard
That looks as white as utter truth, and seems
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall!
Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been
To thee fair-spoken?'
But the Seer replied,
'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?
"Confusion, and illusion, and relation,
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"?
I mock thee not but as thou mockest me,
And all that see thee, for thou art not who
Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.
And now thou goest up to mock the King,
Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.'
Unmockingly the mocker ending here
Turned to the right, and past along the plain;
Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men,
Our one white lie sits like a little ghost
Here on the threshold of our enterprise.
Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I:
Well, we will make amends.'
With all good cheer
He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces
And stately, rich in emblem and the work
Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court,
Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak
And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.
And ever and anon a knight would pass
Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms
Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear.
And out of bower and casement shyly glanced
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love;
And all about a healthful people stept
As in the presence of a gracious king.
Then into hall Gareth ascending heard
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld
Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall
The splendour of the presence of the King
Throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more--
But felt his young heart hammering in his ears,
And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lie
The truthful King will doom me when I speak.'
Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes
Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne,
Clear honour shining like the dewy star
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure
Affection, and the light of victory,
And glory gained, and evermore to gain.
Then came a widow crying to the King,
'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft
From my dead lord a field with violence:
For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold,
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes,
We yielded not; and then he reft us of it
Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.'
Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?'
To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord,
The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.'
And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again,
And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof,
According to the years. No boon is here,
But justice, so thy say be proven true.
Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did
Would shape himself a right!'
And while she past,
Came yet another widow crying to him,
'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I.
With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord,
A knight of Uther in the Barons' war,
When Lot and many another rose and fought
Against thee, saying thou wert basely born.
I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught.
Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son
Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead;
And standeth seized of that inheritance
Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son.
So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate,
Grant me some knight to do the battle for me,
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.'
Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him,
'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I.
Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.'
Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried,
'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none,
This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall--
None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.'
But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wronged
Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord.
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates!
The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames,
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead,
And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence--
Lest that rough humour of the kings of old
Return upon me! Thou that art her kin,
Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not,
But bring him here, that I may judge the right,
According to the justice of the King:
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King
Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.'
Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,
A name of evil savour in the land,
The Cornish king. In either hand he bore
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines
A field of charlock in the sudden sun
Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold,
Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,
Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king,
Was even upon his way to Camelot;
For having heard that Arthur of his grace
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight,
And, for himself was of the greater state,
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord
Would yield him this large honour all the more;
So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold,
In token of true heart and felty.
Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.
An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight!
What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?'
For, midway down the side of that long hall
A stately pile,--whereof along the front,
Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank,
There ran a treble range of stony shields,--
Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth.
And under every shield a knight was named:
For this was Arthur's custom in his hall;
When some good knight had done one noble deed,
His arms were carven only; but if twain
His arms were blazoned also; but if none,
The shield was blank and bare without a sign
Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw
The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright,
And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried
To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth.
'More like are we to reave him of his crown
Than make him knight because men call him king.
The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands
From war among themselves, but left them kings;
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful,
Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled
Among us, and they sit within our hall.
But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king,
As Mark would sully the low state of churl:
And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold,
Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes,
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead,
Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots,
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings-
No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal
Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied--
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!'
And many another suppliant crying came
With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man,
And evermore a knight would ride away.
Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily
Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men,
Approached between them toward the King, and asked,
'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed),
For see ye not how weak and hungerworn
I seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve
For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name.
Hereafter I will fight.'
To him the King,
'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon!
But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay,
The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.'
He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself
Root-bitten by white lichen,
'Lo ye now!
This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where,
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow,
However that might chance! but an he work,
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop,
And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.'
Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal,
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds;
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know:
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine,
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands
Large, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery--
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace,
Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.'
Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery?
Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish?
Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery!
Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked
For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth!
Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it
That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day
Undo thee not--and leave my man to me.'
So Gareth all for glory underwent
The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage;
Ate with young lads his portion by the door,
And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves.
And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly,
But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not,
Would hustle and harry him, and labour him
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set
To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood,
Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself
With all obedience to the King, and wrought
All kind of service with a noble ease
That graced the lowliest act in doing it.
And when the thralls had talk among themselves,
And one would praise the love that linkt the King
And Lancelot--how the King had saved his life
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's--
For Lancelot was the first in Tournament,
But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field--
Gareth was glad. Or if some other told,
How once the wandering forester at dawn,
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas,
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King,
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake,
'He passes to the Isle Avilion,
He passes and is healed and cannot die'--
Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul,
Then would he whistle rapid as any lark,
Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud
That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him.
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way
Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held
All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands,
Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come
Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind
Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart.
Or when the thralls had sport among themselves,
So there were any trial of mastery,
He, by two yards in casting bar or stone
Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust,
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go,
Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights
Clash like the coming and retiring wave,
And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy.
So for a month he wrought among the thralls;
But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen,
Repentant of the word she made him swear,
And saddening in her childless castle, sent,
Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon,
Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow.
This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot
With whom he used to play at tourney once,
When both were children, and in lonely haunts
Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand,
And each at either dash from either end--
Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy.
He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at once
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee--
These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's--
Descend into the city:' whereon he sought
The King alone, and found, and told him all.
'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt
For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I.
Make me thy knight--in secret! let my name
Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring
Like flame from ashes.'
Here the King's calm eye
Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him,
'Son, the good mother let me know thee here,
And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine.
Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness,
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love,
And uttermost obedience to the King.'
Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees,
'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee.
For uttermost obedience make demand
Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal,
No mellow master of the meats and drinks!
And as for love, God wot, I love not yet,
But love I shall, God willing.'
And the King
'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he,
Our noblest brother, and our truest man,
And one with me in all, he needs must know.'
'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know,
Thy noblest and thy truest!'
And the King-'
But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you?
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King,
And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed,
Than to be noised of.'
Merrily Gareth asked,
'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it?
Let be my name until I make my name!
My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.'
So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm
Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly
Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him.
Then, after summoning Lancelot privily,
'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven.
Look therefore when he calls for this in hall,
Thou get to horse and follow him far away.
Cover the lions on thy shield, and see
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.'
Then that same day there past into the hall
A damsel of high lineage, and a brow
May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom,
Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose
Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower;
She into hall past with her page and cried,
'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without,
See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset
By bandits, everyone that owns a tower
The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there?
Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king,
Till even the lonest hold were all as free
From cursd bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth
From that best blood it is a sin to spill.'
'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mine
Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore,
The wastest moorland of our realm shall be
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall.
What is thy name? thy need?'
'My name?' she said-'
Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight
To combat for my sister, Lyonors,
A lady of high lineage, of great lands,
And comely, yea, and comelier than myself.
She lives in Castle Perilous: a river
Runs in three loops about her living-place;
And o'er it are three passings, and three knights
Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth
And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed
In her own castle, and so besieges her
To break her will, and make her wed with him:
And but delays his purport till thou send
To do the battle with him, thy chief man
Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow,
Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed
Save whom she loveth, or a holy life.
Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.'
Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked,
'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush
All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four,
Who be they? What the fashion of the men?'
'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King,
The fashion of that old knight-errantry
Who ride abroad, and do but what they will;
Courteous or bestial from the moment, such
As have nor law nor king; and three of these
Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day,
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star,
Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise
The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black,
A huge man-beast of boundless savagery.
He names himself the Night and oftener Death,
And wears a helmet mounted with a skull,
And bears a skeleton figured on his arms,
To show that who may slay or scape the three,
Slain by himself, shall enter endless night.
And all these four be fools, but mighty men,
And therefore am I come for Lancelot.'
Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose,
A head with kindling eyes above the throng,
'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he marked
Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull-'
Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I,
And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I,
And I can topple over a hundred such.
Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him,
Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden,
And pardonable, worthy to be knight--
Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed.
But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath
Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm,
'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight,
And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.'
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned,
Fled down the lane of access to the King,
Took horse, descended the slope street, and past
The weird white gate, and paused without, beside
The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.'
Now two great entries opened from the hall,
At one end one, that gave upon a range
Of level pavement where the King would pace
At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood;
And down from this a lordly stairway sloped
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers;
And out by this main doorway past the King.
But one was counter to the hearth, and rose
High that the highest-crested helm could ride
Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled
The damsel in her wrath, and on to this
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town,
A warhorse of the best, and near it stood
The two that out of north had followed him:
This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held
The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel,
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down,
And from it like a fuel-smothered fire,
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those
Dull-coated things, that making slide apart
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns
A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly.
So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms.
Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield
And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain
Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt
With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest
The people, while from out of kitchen came
The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked
Lustier than any, and whom they could but love,
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried,
'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!'
And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode
Down the slope street, and past without the gate.
So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause
Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named,
His owner, but remembers all, and growls
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door
Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used
To harry and hustle.
'Bound upon a quest
With horse and arms--the King hath past his time--
My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!
Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?
Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow
Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth
So shook his wits they wander in his prime--
Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.
Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,
Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing.
Well--I will after my loud knave, and learn
Whether he know me for his master yet.
Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire--
Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,
Into the smoke again.'
But Lancelot said,
'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,
For that did never he whereon ye rail,
But ever meekly served the King in thee?
Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.'
'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfine
To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:'
Then mounted, on through silent faces rode
Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.
But by the field of tourney lingering yet
Muttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the King
Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least
He might have yielded to me one of those
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here,
Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him--
His kitchen-knave.'
To whom Sir Gareth drew
(And there were none but few goodlier than he)
Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine.
Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one
That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,
And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,
Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose
With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence!
Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.
And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay.
'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.
We lack thee by the hearth.'
And Gareth to him,
'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay--
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.'
'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and Kay
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,
'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled.
But after sod and shingle ceased to fly
Behind her, and the heart of her good horse
Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,
Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.
'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more
Or love thee better, that by some device
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!-Dish-
washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.'
'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'say
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say,
I leave not till I finish this fair quest,
Or die therefore.'
'Ay, wilt thou finish it?
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!
The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,
And then by such a one that thou for all
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt
Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.'
'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile
That maddened her, and away she flashed again
Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,
And Gareth following was again beknaved.
'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way
Where Arthur's men are set along the wood;
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:
If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?
Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.'
So till the dusk that followed evensong
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;
Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,
Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink
To westward--in the deeps whereof a mere,
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,
Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts
Ascended, and there brake a servingman
Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,
'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.'
Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged,
But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.'
And when the damsel spake contemptuously,
'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again,
'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pines
He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,
Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,
A stone about his neck to drown him in it.
Three with good blows he quieted, but three
Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone
From off his neck, then in the mere beside
Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend.
'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues
Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs
To hate me, for my wont hath ever been
To catch my thief, and then like vermin here
Drown him, and with a stone about his neck;
And under this wan water many of them
Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone,
And rise, and flickering in a grimly light
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life
Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.
And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.
What guerdon will ye?'
Gareth sharply spake,
'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed,
In uttermost obedience to the King.
But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?'
Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believe
You be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh
Broke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth,
And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!--
But deem not I accept thee aught the more,
Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit
Down on a rout of craven foresters.
A thresher with his flail had scattered them.
Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still.
But an this lord will yield us harbourage,
Well.'
So she spake. A league beyond the wood,
All in a full-fair manor and a rich,
His towers where that day a feast had been
Held in high hall, and many a viand left,
And many a costly cate, received the three.
And there they placed a peacock in his pride
Before the damsel, and the Baron set
Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.
'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,
Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.
Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall,
And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot
To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night--
The last a monster unsubduable
Of any save of him for whom I called--
Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,
"The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,
And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I."
Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies,
"Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him-Him--
here--a villain fitter to stick swine
Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong,
Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.'
Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord
Now looked at one and now at other, left
The damsel by the peacock in his pride,
And, seating Gareth at another board,
Sat down beside him, ate and then began.
'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not,
Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy,
And whether she be mad, or else the King,
Or both or neither, or thyself be mad,
I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke,
For strong thou art and goodly therewithal,
And saver of my life; and therefore now,
For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh
Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back
To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King.
Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail,
The saver of my life.'
And Gareth said,
'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest,
Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.'
So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved
Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way
And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake,
'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied.
'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour.
Lion and stout have isled together, knave,
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?
For hard by here is one will overthrow
And slay thee: then will I to court again,
And shame the King for only yielding me
My champion from the ashes of his hearth.'
To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously,
'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find
My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay
Among the ashes and wedded the King's son.'
Then to the shore of one of those long loops
Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.
Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream
Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc
Took at a leap; and on the further side
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,
Save that the dome was purple, and above,
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.
And therebefore the lawless warrior paced
Unarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he,
The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall?
For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said,
'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here
His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:
See that he fall not on thee suddenly,
And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.'
Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn,
And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,
Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls
In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet
In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair
All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine.
These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield
Blue also, and thereon the morning star.
And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,
Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,
Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone
Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly,
The gay pavilion and the naked feet,
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star.
Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so?
Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time:
Flee down the valley before he get to horse.
Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.'
Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight,
Far liefer had I fight a score of times
Than hear thee so missay me and revile.
Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;
But truly foul are better, for they send
That strength of anger through mine arms, I know
That I shall overthrow him.'
And he that bore
The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge,
'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.
For this were shame to do him further wrong
Than set him on his feet, and take his horse
And arms, and so return him to the King.
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.
Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave
To ride with such a lady.'
'Dog, thou liest.
I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.'
He spake; and all at fiery speed the two
Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear
Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,
Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult
Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge,
Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,
And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand
He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,
The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!'
Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke
Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground.
Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.'
And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of me
Good--I accord it easily as a grace.'
She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee?
I bound to thee for any favour asked!'
'Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlaced
His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked,
'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay
One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy charge
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws.
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee.
Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou,
Lead, and I follow.'
And fast away she fled.
Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought,
Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge
The savour of thy kitchen came upon me
A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:
I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang,
'"O morning star" (not that tall felon there
Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness
Or some device, hast foully overthrown),
"O morning star that smilest in the blue,
O star, my morning dream hath proven true,
Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me."
'But thou begone, take counsel, and away,
For hard by here is one that guards a ford--
The second brother in their fool's parable--
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot.
Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.'
To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly,
'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave.
When I was kitchen-knave among the rest
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates
Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat,
"Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it.
And such a coat art thou, and thee the King
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I,
To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave--
The knave that doth thee service as full knight
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight
Toward thy sister's freeing.'
'Ay, Sir Knave!
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight,
Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.'
'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more,
That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.'
'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.'
So when they touched the second river-loop,
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail
Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower,
That blows a globe of after arrowlets,
Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield,
All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots
Before them when he turned from watching him.
He from beyond the roaring shallow roared,
'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?'
And she athwart the shallow shrilled again,
'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall
Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.'
'Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red
And cipher face of rounded foolishness,
Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford,
Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there
For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck
With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight
Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth,
The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream
Descended, and the Sun was washed away.
Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford;
So drew him home; but he that fought no more,
As being all bone-battered on the rock,
Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King,
'Myself when I return will plead for thee.'
'Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led.
'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?'
'Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here.
There lies a ridge of slate across the ford;
His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it.
'"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave,
Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness),
"O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,
O moon, that layest all to sleep again,
Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
What knowest thou of lovesong or of love?
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born,
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,-
'"O dewy flowers that open to the sun,
O dewy flowers that close when day is done,
Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike,
To garnish meats with? hath not our good King
Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom,
A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round
The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head?
Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay.
'"O birds, that warble to the morning sky,
O birds that warble as the day goes by,
Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle,
Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth
May-music growing with the growing light,
Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit,
Larding and basting. See thou have not now
Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly.
There stands the third fool of their allegory.'
For there beyond a bridge of treble bow,
All in a rose-red from the west, and all
Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight,
That named himself the Star of Evening, stood.
And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman there
Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried,
'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins
That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave
His armour off him, these will turn the blade.'
Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge,
'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low?
Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain
The damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried,
'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven
With all disaster unto thine and thee!
For both thy younger brethren have gone down
Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star;
Art thou not old?'
'Old, damsel, old and hard,
Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.'
Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag!
But that same strength which threw the Morning Star
Can throw the Evening.'
Then that other blew
A hard and deadly note upon the horn.
'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from out
An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,
And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm
With but a drying evergreen for crest,
And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even
Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone.
But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow,
They madly hurled together on the bridge;
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew,
There met him drawn, and overthrew him again,
But up like fire he started: and as oft
As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees,
So many a time he vaulted up again;
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart,
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain,
Laboured within him, for he seemed as one
That all in later, sadder age begins
To war against ill uses of a life,
But these from all his life arise, and cry,
'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!'
He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike
Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while,
'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave--
O knave, as noble as any of all the knights-
Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied--
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round--
His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin-Strike--
strike--the wind will never change again.'
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,
And hewed great pieces of his armour off him,
But lashed in vain against the hardened skin,
And could not wholly bring him under, more
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs
For ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brand
Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.
'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang,
And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms
Around him, till he felt, despite his mail,
Strangled, but straining even his uttermost
Cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge
Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried,
'Lead, and I follow.'
But the damsel said,
'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side;
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves.
'"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain,
O rainbow with three colours after rain,
Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me."
'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight,
But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,--
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled,
Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King
Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,
For thou hast ever answered courteously,
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal
As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave,
Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.'
'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame,
Saving that you mistrusted our good King
Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one
Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say;
Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold
He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets
His heart be stirred with any foolish heat
At any gentle damsel's waywardness.
Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:
And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,
Hath force to quell me.'
Nigh upon that hour
When the lone hern forgets his melancholy,
Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams
Of goodly supper in the distant pool,
Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him,
And told him of a cavern hard at hand,
Where bread and baken meats and good red wine
Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors
Had sent her coming champion, waited him.
Anon they past a narrow comb wherein
Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.
'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,
Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock
The war of Time against the soul of man.
And yon four fools have sucked their allegory
From these damp walls, and taken but the form.
Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read--
In letters like to those the vexillary
Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt-'
PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'-'
NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armd men,
Slab after slab, their faces forward all,
And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled
With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair,
For help and shelter to the hermit's cave.
'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,
Who comes behind?'
For one--delayed at first
Through helping back the dislocated Kay
To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,
The damsel's headlong error through the wood--
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops--
His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew
Behind the twain, and when he saw the star
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried,
'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.'
And Gareth crying pricked against the cry;
But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch
Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world--
Went sliding down so easily, and fell,
That when he found the grass within his hands
He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette:
Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown,
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,
Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?'
'Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,
And victor of the bridges and the ford,
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom
I know not, all through mere unhappiness-
Device and sorcery and unhappiness--
Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince,
O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness
Of one who came to help thee, not to harm,
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole,
As on the day when Arthur knighted him.'
Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand
That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast
Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance--
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,
Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!'
Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot,
Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now
Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave,
Who being still rebuked, would answer still
Courteous as any knight--but now, if knight,
The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked,
And only wondering wherefore played upon:
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned.
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall,
In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool,
I hate thee and for ever.'
And Lancelot said,
'Blessd be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou
To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise
To call him shamed, who is but overthrown?
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.
Victor from vanquished issues at the last,
And overthrower from being overthrown.
With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse
And thou are weary; yet not less I felt
Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.
Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,
And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes,
And when reviled, hast answered graciously,
And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!'
And then when turning to Lynette he told
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said,
'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled
Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave,
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks
And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.
But all about it flies a honeysuckle.
Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found,
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life
Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.
'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.
Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him
As any mother? Ay, but such a one
As all day long hath rated at her child,
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep--
Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle
In the hushed night, as if the world were one
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!
O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands-'
Full merry am I to find my goodly knave
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,
Else yon black felon had not let me pass,
To bring thee back to do the battle with him.
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;
Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave
Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.'
Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name,
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,
Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,
Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well
As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said,
'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.'
And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield;
'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears
Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!--
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these
Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.
Hence: let us go.'
Silent the silent field
They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan,
In counter motion to the clouds, allured
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.
A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!'
An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!'
Suddenly she that rode upon his left
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying,
'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight:
I curse the tongue that all through yesterday
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now
To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done;
Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow
In having flung the three: I see thee maimed,
Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.'
'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.
You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery
Appal me from the quest.'
'Nay, Prince,' she cried,
'God wot, I never looked upon the face,
Seeing he never rides abroad by day;
But watched him have I like a phantom pass
Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page
Who came and went, and still reported him
As closing in himself the strength of ten,
And when his anger tare him, massacring
Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe!
Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh,
Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,
The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.'
Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this,
Belike he wins it as the better man:
Thus--and not else!'
But Lancelot on him urged
All the devisings of their chivalry
When one might meet a mightier than himself;
How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield,
And so fill up the gap where force might fail
With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.
Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one--
To dash against mine enemy and win.
Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust,
And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette.
Then for a space, and under cloud that grew
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode
In converse till she made her palfrey halt,
Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.'
And all the three were silent seeing, pitched
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field,
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak
Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge,
Black, with black banner, and a long black horn
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,
And so, before the two could hinder him,
Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.
Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon
Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;
Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down
And muffled voices heard, and shadows past;
Till high above him, circled with her maids,
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,
Beautiful among lights, and waving to him
White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince
Three times had blown--after long hush--at last--
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,
Through those black foldings, that which housed therein.
High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms,
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,
And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps--
In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced
The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.
But Gareth spake and all indignantly,
'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,
But must, to make the terror of thee more,
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries
Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,
Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers
As if for pity?' But he spake no word;
Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned;
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,
As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death;
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm;
And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt
Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast.
At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed,
And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him.
Then those that did not blink the terror, saw
That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.
Half fell to right and half to left and lay.
Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm
As throughly as the skull; and out from this
Issued the bright face of a blooming boy
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight,
Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,
To make a horror all about the house,
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.
They never dreamed the passes would be past.'
Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one
Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child,
What madness made thee challenge the chief knight
Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it.
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend,
They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,
They never dreamed the passes could be past.'
Then sprang the happier day from underground;
And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance
And revel and song, made merry over Death,
As being after all their foolish fears
And horrors only proven a blooming boy.
So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.
And he that told the tale in older times
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors,
But he, that told it later, says Lynette.
558
Lord Byron
The Island: Canto III.
I.
The fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom,
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb,
Had ceased; and sulphury vapours upward driven
Had left the Earth, and but polluted Heaven:
The rattling roar which rung in every volley
Had left the echoes to their melancholy;
No more they shrieked their horror, boom for boom;
The strife was done, the vanquished had their doom;
The mutineers were crushed, dispersed, or ta'en,
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain.
Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er
The isle they loved beyond their native shore.
No further home was theirs, it seemed, on earth,
Once renegades to that which gave them birth;
Tracked like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild,
As to a Mother's bosom flies the child;
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den,
And still more vainly men escape from men,
II.
Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes
Far over Ocean in its fiercest moods,
When scaling his enormous crag the wave
Is hurled down headlong, like the foremost brave,
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind,
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind,
But now at rest, a little remnant drew
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few;
But still their weapons in their hands, and still
With something of the pride of former will,
As men not all unused to meditate,
And strive much more than wonder at their fate.
Their present lot was what they had foreseen,
And dared as what was likely to have been;
Yet still the lingering hope, which deemed their lot
Not pardoned, but unsought for or forgot,
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves
Might still be missed amidst the world of waves,
Had weaned their thoughts in part from what they saw
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law.
Their seagreen
isle, their guiltwon
Paradise,
No more could shield their Virtue or their Vice:
Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown
Back on themselves,their
sins remained alone.
Proscribed even in their second country, they
Were lost; in vain the World before them lay;
All outlets seemed secured. Their new allies
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice;
But what availed the club and spear, and arm
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm,
The magic of the thunder, which destroyed
The warrior ere his strength could be employed?
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave
No less of human bravery than the brave!
Their own scant numbers acted all the few
Against the many oft will dare and do;
But though the choice seems native to die free,
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae,
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again!
III.
Beside the jutting rock the few appeared,
Like the last remnant of the reddeer's
herd;
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn,
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn.
A little stream came tumbling from the height,
And straggling into ocean as it might,
Its bounding crystal frolicked in the ray,
And gushed from cliff to crag with saltless spray;
Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure
And fresh as Innocettce, and more secure,
Its silver torrent glittered o'er the deep,
As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep,
While far below the vast and sullen swell
Of Ocean's alpine azure rose and fell.
To this young spring they rushed,all
feelings first
Absorbed in Passion's and in Nature's thirst,
Drank
as they do who drink their last, and threw
Their arms aside to revel in its dew;
Cooled their scorched throats, and washed the gory stains
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains;
Then,when their drought was quenched, looked sadly round,
As wondering how so many still were found
Alive and fetterless:but
silent all,
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call
On him for language which his lips denied,
As though their voices with their cause had died.
IV.
Stern, and aloof a little from the rest,
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest.
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread
Along his cheek was livid now as lead;
His lightbrown
locks, so graceful in their flow,
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow.
Still as a statue, with his lips coinprest
To stifle even the breath within his breast,
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute,
He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot,
Which deepened now and then the sandy dint
Beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to flint.
Some paces further Torquil leaned his head
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled,
Not
mortally:his
worst wound was within;
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in,too
And blooddrops,
sprinkled o'er his yellow hair,
Showed that his faintness came not from despair,
But Nature's ebb. Beside him was another,
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother,
Ben
Bunting, who essayed to wash, and wipe,
And bind his woundthen
calmly lit his pipe,
A trophy which survived a hundred fights,
A beacon which had cheered ten thousand nights.
The fourth and last of this deserted group
Walked up and downat
times would stand, then stoop
To pick a pebble upthen
let it drop
Then
hurry as in hastethen
quickly stop
Then
cast his eyes on his companionsthen
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again
And
then his former movements would redouble,
With something between carelessness and trouble.
This is a long description, but applies
To scarce five minutes passed before the eyes;
But yet what minutes! Moments like to these
Rend men's lives into immortalities.
V.
At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man,
Who fluttered over all things like a fan,
More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare
And die at once than wrestle with despair,
Exclaimed, 'Gd
damn I'those
syllables intense,
Nucleus
of England's native eloquence,
As the Turk's 'Allah!' or the Roman's more
Pagan 'Proh Jupiter!' was wont of yore
To give their first impressions such a vent,
By way of echo to embarrassment.
Jack was embarrassed,never
hero more,
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play,
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray;
Now
perching on the wave's high curl, and now
Dashed downward in the thundering foam below,
Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on sheet,
And slings its high flakes, shivered into sleet:
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh
The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky.
Their art seemed naturesuch
the skill to sweep
The wave of these born playmates of the deep.
VIII.
And who the first that, springing on the strand,
Leaped like a Nereid from her shell to land,
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye
Shining with love, and, hope, and constancy?
Neuhathe
fond, the faithful, the adored
Her
heart on Torquil's like a torrent poured;
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasped,
As if to be assured 'twas him she grasped;
Shuddered to see his yet warm wound, and then,
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again.
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair.
Her lover lived,nor
foes nor fears could blight
That fullblown
moment in its all delight:
Joy trickled in her tears, joy filled the sob
That rocked her heart till almost HEARD to throb;
And Paradise was breathing in the sigh
Of Nature's child in Nature's ecstasy.
IX.
The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting
Were not unmoved; who are, when hearts are greeting?
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy
With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy
Mixed with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays
In hopeless visions of our better days,
When all 's goneto
the rainbow's latest ray.
'And but for me!' he said, and turned away;
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den
A lion looks upon his cubs again;
And then relapsed into his sullen guise,
As heedless of his further destinies.
X.
But brief their time for good or evil thought;
The billows round the promontory brought
The plash of hostile oars.
Alas!
who made
That sound a dread? All around them seemed arrayed
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay
Of the armed boats, which hurried to complete
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet,
Beckoned the natives round her to their prows,
Embarked their guests and launched their light canoes;
In one placed Christian and his comrades twain
But
she and Torquil must not part again.
She fixed him in her own.
Away!
away!
They cleared the breakers, dart along the bay,
And towards a group of islets, such as bear
The seabird's
nest and seal's surfhollowed
lair,
They skim the blue tops of the billows; fast
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased.
They gain upon themnow
they lose again,
Again
make way and menace o'er the main;
And now the two canoes in chase divide,
Arid follow different courses o'er the tide,
To baffle the pursuit.
Away!
away!
As Life is on each paddle's flight today,
And more than Life or lives to Neuha: Love
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove;
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh
Yet,
yet a moment! Fly, thou light ark, fly!
The fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom,
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb,
Had ceased; and sulphury vapours upward driven
Had left the Earth, and but polluted Heaven:
The rattling roar which rung in every volley
Had left the echoes to their melancholy;
No more they shrieked their horror, boom for boom;
The strife was done, the vanquished had their doom;
The mutineers were crushed, dispersed, or ta'en,
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain.
Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er
The isle they loved beyond their native shore.
No further home was theirs, it seemed, on earth,
Once renegades to that which gave them birth;
Tracked like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild,
As to a Mother's bosom flies the child;
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den,
And still more vainly men escape from men,
II.
Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes
Far over Ocean in its fiercest moods,
When scaling his enormous crag the wave
Is hurled down headlong, like the foremost brave,
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind,
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind,
But now at rest, a little remnant drew
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few;
But still their weapons in their hands, and still
With something of the pride of former will,
As men not all unused to meditate,
And strive much more than wonder at their fate.
Their present lot was what they had foreseen,
And dared as what was likely to have been;
Yet still the lingering hope, which deemed their lot
Not pardoned, but unsought for or forgot,
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves
Might still be missed amidst the world of waves,
Had weaned their thoughts in part from what they saw
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law.
Their seagreen
isle, their guiltwon
Paradise,
No more could shield their Virtue or their Vice:
Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown
Back on themselves,their
sins remained alone.
Proscribed even in their second country, they
Were lost; in vain the World before them lay;
All outlets seemed secured. Their new allies
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice;
But what availed the club and spear, and arm
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm,
The magic of the thunder, which destroyed
The warrior ere his strength could be employed?
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave
No less of human bravery than the brave!
Their own scant numbers acted all the few
Against the many oft will dare and do;
But though the choice seems native to die free,
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae,
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again!
III.
Beside the jutting rock the few appeared,
Like the last remnant of the reddeer's
herd;
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn,
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn.
A little stream came tumbling from the height,
And straggling into ocean as it might,
Its bounding crystal frolicked in the ray,
And gushed from cliff to crag with saltless spray;
Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure
And fresh as Innocettce, and more secure,
Its silver torrent glittered o'er the deep,
As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep,
While far below the vast and sullen swell
Of Ocean's alpine azure rose and fell.
To this young spring they rushed,all
feelings first
Absorbed in Passion's and in Nature's thirst,
Drank
as they do who drink their last, and threw
Their arms aside to revel in its dew;
Cooled their scorched throats, and washed the gory stains
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains;
Then,when their drought was quenched, looked sadly round,
As wondering how so many still were found
Alive and fetterless:but
silent all,
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call
On him for language which his lips denied,
As though their voices with their cause had died.
IV.
Stern, and aloof a little from the rest,
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest.
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread
Along his cheek was livid now as lead;
His lightbrown
locks, so graceful in their flow,
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow.
Still as a statue, with his lips coinprest
To stifle even the breath within his breast,
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute,
He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot,
Which deepened now and then the sandy dint
Beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to flint.
Some paces further Torquil leaned his head
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled,
Not
mortally:his
worst wound was within;
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in,too
And blooddrops,
sprinkled o'er his yellow hair,
Showed that his faintness came not from despair,
But Nature's ebb. Beside him was another,
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother,
Ben
Bunting, who essayed to wash, and wipe,
And bind his woundthen
calmly lit his pipe,
A trophy which survived a hundred fights,
A beacon which had cheered ten thousand nights.
The fourth and last of this deserted group
Walked up and downat
times would stand, then stoop
To pick a pebble upthen
let it drop
Then
hurry as in hastethen
quickly stop
Then
cast his eyes on his companionsthen
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again
And
then his former movements would redouble,
With something between carelessness and trouble.
This is a long description, but applies
To scarce five minutes passed before the eyes;
But yet what minutes! Moments like to these
Rend men's lives into immortalities.
V.
At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man,
Who fluttered over all things like a fan,
More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare
And die at once than wrestle with despair,
Exclaimed, 'Gd
damn I'those
syllables intense,
Nucleus
of England's native eloquence,
As the Turk's 'Allah!' or the Roman's more
Pagan 'Proh Jupiter!' was wont of yore
To give their first impressions such a vent,
By way of echo to embarrassment.
Jack was embarrassed,never
hero more,
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play,
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray;
Now
perching on the wave's high curl, and now
Dashed downward in the thundering foam below,
Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on sheet,
And slings its high flakes, shivered into sleet:
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh
The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky.
Their art seemed naturesuch
the skill to sweep
The wave of these born playmates of the deep.
VIII.
And who the first that, springing on the strand,
Leaped like a Nereid from her shell to land,
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye
Shining with love, and, hope, and constancy?
Neuhathe
fond, the faithful, the adored
Her
heart on Torquil's like a torrent poured;
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasped,
As if to be assured 'twas him she grasped;
Shuddered to see his yet warm wound, and then,
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again.
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair.
Her lover lived,nor
foes nor fears could blight
That fullblown
moment in its all delight:
Joy trickled in her tears, joy filled the sob
That rocked her heart till almost HEARD to throb;
And Paradise was breathing in the sigh
Of Nature's child in Nature's ecstasy.
IX.
The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting
Were not unmoved; who are, when hearts are greeting?
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy
With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy
Mixed with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays
In hopeless visions of our better days,
When all 's goneto
the rainbow's latest ray.
'And but for me!' he said, and turned away;
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den
A lion looks upon his cubs again;
And then relapsed into his sullen guise,
As heedless of his further destinies.
X.
But brief their time for good or evil thought;
The billows round the promontory brought
The plash of hostile oars.
Alas!
who made
That sound a dread? All around them seemed arrayed
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay
Of the armed boats, which hurried to complete
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet,
Beckoned the natives round her to their prows,
Embarked their guests and launched their light canoes;
In one placed Christian and his comrades twain
But
she and Torquil must not part again.
She fixed him in her own.
Away!
away!
They cleared the breakers, dart along the bay,
And towards a group of islets, such as bear
The seabird's
nest and seal's surfhollowed
lair,
They skim the blue tops of the billows; fast
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased.
They gain upon themnow
they lose again,
Again
make way and menace o'er the main;
And now the two canoes in chase divide,
Arid follow different courses o'er the tide,
To baffle the pursuit.
Away!
away!
As Life is on each paddle's flight today,
And more than Life or lives to Neuha: Love
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove;
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh
Yet,
yet a moment! Fly, thou light ark, fly!
558
Rudyard Kipling
A Pilgrim's Way
I do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,
Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.
If these are added, I rejoice---if not, I shall not mind,
So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.
For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright
(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),
And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred
(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head).
And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,
Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.
And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;
Since I myself have done no less and---sometimes pulled it off.
Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they work me random wrong, as oftentimes hath been,
I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).
And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise.
No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.
But, as we give and as we take---whate'er our takings be---
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declare
There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare
Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have
Show nothing irredeemable on either side of the grave.
For as we live and as we die---if utter Death there be---
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Deliver me from every pride---the Middle, High, and Low---
That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.
And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen
That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!
That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,
That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,
To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly
(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbor be)
This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:
``The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!''
Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.
If these are added, I rejoice---if not, I shall not mind,
So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.
For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright
(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),
And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred
(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head).
And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,
Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.
And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;
Since I myself have done no less and---sometimes pulled it off.
Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they work me random wrong, as oftentimes hath been,
I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).
And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise.
No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.
But, as we give and as we take---whate'er our takings be---
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declare
There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare
Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have
Show nothing irredeemable on either side of the grave.
For as we live and as we die---if utter Death there be---
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Deliver me from every pride---the Middle, High, and Low---
That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.
And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen
That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!
That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,
That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,
To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly
(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbor be)
This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:
``The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!''
554
Rudyard Kipling
The King's Job
The Tudor Monarchy
Once on a time was a King anxious to understand
What was the wisest thing a man could do for his land.
Most of his population hurried to answer the question,
Each with a long oration, each with a new suggestion.
They interrupted his meals--he wasn't safe in his bed from 'em--
They hung round his neck and heels, and at last His Majesty fled
from 'em.
He put on a leper's cloak (people leave lepers alone),
Out of the window he broke, and abdicated his throne.
All that rapturous day, while his Court and his ministers mourn
him,
He danced on his own highway till his own Policeman warned
him.
Gay and cheerful he ran (lepers don't cheer as a rule)
Till he found a philosopher-man teaching an infant-school.
The windows were open wide, the King sat down on the grass,
And heard the children inside reciting "Our King is an ass."
The King popped in his head: "Some people would call this
treason,
But I think you are right," he said; "Will you kindly give me your
reason?"
Lepers in school are as rare as kings with a leper's dress on,
But the class didn't stop or stare; it calmly went on with the
lesson:
"The wisest thing, we suppose, that a man can do for his land.
Is the work that lies under his nose, with the tools that lie under
his hand."
The King whipped off his cloak, and stood in his crown before
'em.
He said: "My dear little folk, Ex ore parvulorum--."
(Which is Latin for "Children know more than grown-ups would
credit")
You have shown me the road to go, and I propose to tread it."
Back to his Kingdom he ran, and issued a Proclamation,
"Let every living man return to his occupation!"
Then he explained to the mob who cheered in his palace and round it,
"I've been to look for a job, and Heaven be praised I've found it!"
Once on a time was a King anxious to understand
What was the wisest thing a man could do for his land.
Most of his population hurried to answer the question,
Each with a long oration, each with a new suggestion.
They interrupted his meals--he wasn't safe in his bed from 'em--
They hung round his neck and heels, and at last His Majesty fled
from 'em.
He put on a leper's cloak (people leave lepers alone),
Out of the window he broke, and abdicated his throne.
All that rapturous day, while his Court and his ministers mourn
him,
He danced on his own highway till his own Policeman warned
him.
Gay and cheerful he ran (lepers don't cheer as a rule)
Till he found a philosopher-man teaching an infant-school.
The windows were open wide, the King sat down on the grass,
And heard the children inside reciting "Our King is an ass."
The King popped in his head: "Some people would call this
treason,
But I think you are right," he said; "Will you kindly give me your
reason?"
Lepers in school are as rare as kings with a leper's dress on,
But the class didn't stop or stare; it calmly went on with the
lesson:
"The wisest thing, we suppose, that a man can do for his land.
Is the work that lies under his nose, with the tools that lie under
his hand."
The King whipped off his cloak, and stood in his crown before
'em.
He said: "My dear little folk, Ex ore parvulorum--."
(Which is Latin for "Children know more than grown-ups would
credit")
You have shown me the road to go, and I propose to tread it."
Back to his Kingdom he ran, and issued a Proclamation,
"Let every living man return to his occupation!"
Then he explained to the mob who cheered in his palace and round it,
"I've been to look for a job, and Heaven be praised I've found it!"
554
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Make Islam strong, O God!
Make Islam strong, O God,
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
let the Muslim world again prosper.
Give it back its sultanate of old,
its ancient prowess and generous soul.
Once again bless Islam
with heroic Ali's sharp-edged Zulfiquar,
give it back its old Caliphs and hashmat,
its glorious Medina and Baghdad.
Bless it with Hamza and the mighty Walid,
give it back its Omar and its Harun-a!-Rashid,
bless it again with a noble Salahuddin,
let once more a holy war be waged
against this sinful world.
Give Islam again its Roomi and Saadi and Hafiz,
once more bless it with Khayyam and Tabriz,
give it again its Akbar and its Shahjehan,
bless it again with that dream in white marble,
the Tajmahal!
Give it a sense of fellow-feeling and unity,
its spirit of self-sacrifice and heroic mind,
let the Muslims of the world form a single community,
let its crescent-bedecked flag fly once again
in the sky.
[Original: Taufiq dao khoda islame; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
554
Paul Laurence Dunbar
The Haunted Oak
Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?
My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I say in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim's pains.
They'd charged him with the old, old crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail?
He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
And the steady tread drew nigh.
Who is it rides by night, by night,
Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
What is the galling goad?
And now they beat at the prison door,
"Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
And we fain would take him away
"From those who ride fast on our heels
With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
And the rope they bear is long."
They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
And the great door open flies.
Now they have taken him from the jail,
And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
As they halt my trunk beside.
Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
Was curiously bedight.
Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
'Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
The mem'ry of your face.
I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.
And never more shall leaves come forth
On the bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.
And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.
And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
On the trunk of a haunted tree.
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?
My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I say in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim's pains.
They'd charged him with the old, old crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail?
He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
And the steady tread drew nigh.
Who is it rides by night, by night,
Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
What is the galling goad?
And now they beat at the prison door,
"Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
And we fain would take him away
"From those who ride fast on our heels
With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
And the rope they bear is long."
They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
And the great door open flies.
Now they have taken him from the jail,
And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
As they halt my trunk beside.
Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
Was curiously bedight.
Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
'Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
The mem'ry of your face.
I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.
And never more shall leaves come forth
On the bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.
And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.
And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
On the trunk of a haunted tree.
556
Boris Pasternak
Craft
When, having finished, I shall move my armchair,
The page will gasp, awakened from the strain.
Delirious, she is half asleep at present,
Obedient to suspense and to the rain.
The heaviness of burnt-out ships has numbed her,
Prostrated, weighted down her senseless form;
You cannot dupe this one by false pretences-
It is the poet who will keep her warm.
I told her at an hour (its secret shudder
Vouchsafed by fancy) when the winter will
Light up green screeching ice, fed up with waiting
Behind an office worker's window sill,
And clocks in banks and other public places,
While drinking in the snow and outside's dark,
Will suddenly jump up and strike-their faces
Crossed by the clockhands at the 'seven' mark-
At such a deep, at such a fateful hour,
I made the page wake up and take her chance,
To put on hood and scarf, and venture out to
Descendants, strangers, shaking off her trance.
The page will gasp, awakened from the strain.
Delirious, she is half asleep at present,
Obedient to suspense and to the rain.
The heaviness of burnt-out ships has numbed her,
Prostrated, weighted down her senseless form;
You cannot dupe this one by false pretences-
It is the poet who will keep her warm.
I told her at an hour (its secret shudder
Vouchsafed by fancy) when the winter will
Light up green screeching ice, fed up with waiting
Behind an office worker's window sill,
And clocks in banks and other public places,
While drinking in the snow and outside's dark,
Will suddenly jump up and strike-their faces
Crossed by the clockhands at the 'seven' mark-
At such a deep, at such a fateful hour,
I made the page wake up and take her chance,
To put on hood and scarf, and venture out to
Descendants, strangers, shaking off her trance.
555
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Faith and Hope
Don't look up to them-those
who have lost faith and hope.
They move-yet they're dead-the living dead,
the devil has finished them, robbed them
of their integrity.
Out of fear, their souls have escaped
to the land of Death.
If there are wants, poverty, debt, disease,
suffering, humiliation-don't just succumb
to hopelessness-fight them!
The real enemy is within-fear; and
only the ones who will accept defeat out of confusion,
lies and unnecessary fear will go on suffering every day.
'Oh, what is going to happen? '-those who just sit at home
trembling in fear, are the ones already defeated
in the battle of life.
They are the captives in the prison
of humiliation and subjugation.
They are repu
Isive-allowing the help
Iess
to be treated with injustice.
They are afraid for no reason, weak and ignorant.
More than pity, I feel infuriated by them.
They lie dead with their tongues stuck out.
Flowers blossom in burial grounds, but
in these dead trees, blossoms nothing.
They are fatalists-sitting alone they think,
'This is my fate, you can't change that! '
They deny their own power,
accepting defeat without a fight.
They are senile, morbid-.don't mix with them.
They are the death's leftover garbage in this world.
They are diseased from the inside,
they see only darkness around them.
With eyes closed, even when they see light,
they say, 'This is not light.'
For those with intense, unshakeable confidence,
waves of youth and life flow melodiously.
They enliven the dead earth-bountiful
with crops, flowers and fruits.
Nothing can block their way.
Fearless-any defeat is their ladder to heaven.
The darker the days, the more they see the light of hope.
Go to them-they wear the amulets
of fearlessness and victory over death.
Those who can imagine loftily, dream nobly,
they are the ones who bring welfare to the earth.
They show the paths of exploring the impossible,
even angels abide by them.
Possessing soul, yet allowing themselves
to suffer bodily pain,
not vowing their lives against the oppressorthey
are like caged animals, not human beings,
their hopelessness leads all human hopes and faith
to dissolution.
Possessing hands and feet, yet sitting inert
hiding faces in a dark muddy hole out of fearthey
have disavowed their humanity.
They belong to burial and cremation groundsnot
amongst us.
I say, listen people, lead a life of fulfillment.
You'll see, the earth is shaken by its power!
This is the message of God: 'Human beings get
what they wish for.'
Their hands, feet, eyes become God's own.
If hopes are lofty, and so are the efforts to achieve them,
then victory awaits at the door.
Impatience never overtakes that soldier
even at times of great difficulties.
Determined, calm, engrossed is the pioneer hero.
He replaces gloom with divine joy.
Like the moon, his love moves the sea of humanity.
His heart is filled with courage.
March along with him on that path of victory!
Have faith- you will get what you hope for!
And don't touch him-he's dead-one
who has lost faith.
[Original: Bishshash o Asha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]
who have lost faith and hope.
They move-yet they're dead-the living dead,
the devil has finished them, robbed them
of their integrity.
Out of fear, their souls have escaped
to the land of Death.
If there are wants, poverty, debt, disease,
suffering, humiliation-don't just succumb
to hopelessness-fight them!
The real enemy is within-fear; and
only the ones who will accept defeat out of confusion,
lies and unnecessary fear will go on suffering every day.
'Oh, what is going to happen? '-those who just sit at home
trembling in fear, are the ones already defeated
in the battle of life.
They are the captives in the prison
of humiliation and subjugation.
They are repu
Isive-allowing the help
Iess
to be treated with injustice.
They are afraid for no reason, weak and ignorant.
More than pity, I feel infuriated by them.
They lie dead with their tongues stuck out.
Flowers blossom in burial grounds, but
in these dead trees, blossoms nothing.
They are fatalists-sitting alone they think,
'This is my fate, you can't change that! '
They deny their own power,
accepting defeat without a fight.
They are senile, morbid-.don't mix with them.
They are the death's leftover garbage in this world.
They are diseased from the inside,
they see only darkness around them.
With eyes closed, even when they see light,
they say, 'This is not light.'
For those with intense, unshakeable confidence,
waves of youth and life flow melodiously.
They enliven the dead earth-bountiful
with crops, flowers and fruits.
Nothing can block their way.
Fearless-any defeat is their ladder to heaven.
The darker the days, the more they see the light of hope.
Go to them-they wear the amulets
of fearlessness and victory over death.
Those who can imagine loftily, dream nobly,
they are the ones who bring welfare to the earth.
They show the paths of exploring the impossible,
even angels abide by them.
Possessing soul, yet allowing themselves
to suffer bodily pain,
not vowing their lives against the oppressorthey
are like caged animals, not human beings,
their hopelessness leads all human hopes and faith
to dissolution.
Possessing hands and feet, yet sitting inert
hiding faces in a dark muddy hole out of fearthey
have disavowed their humanity.
They belong to burial and cremation groundsnot
amongst us.
I say, listen people, lead a life of fulfillment.
You'll see, the earth is shaken by its power!
This is the message of God: 'Human beings get
what they wish for.'
Their hands, feet, eyes become God's own.
If hopes are lofty, and so are the efforts to achieve them,
then victory awaits at the door.
Impatience never overtakes that soldier
even at times of great difficulties.
Determined, calm, engrossed is the pioneer hero.
He replaces gloom with divine joy.
Like the moon, his love moves the sea of humanity.
His heart is filled with courage.
March along with him on that path of victory!
Have faith- you will get what you hope for!
And don't touch him-he's dead-one
who has lost faith.
[Original: Bishshash o Asha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]
561
Rabindranath Tagore
Stray Birds 81 - 90
WHAT is this unseen flame of darkness
whose sparks are the stars?
82
LET life be beautiful like summer flowers
and death like autumn leaves.
88
HE who wants to do good knocks at the gate;
he who loves
finds the gate open.
84
IN death the many becomes one;
in life the one becomes many.
Religion will be one
when God is dead.
85
THE artist is the lover of Nature,
therefore he is her slave
and her master.
86
'HOW far are you from me, O Fruit?'
'I am hidden in your heart, O Flower.'
87
THIS longing is for the one who is felt in the dark,
but not seen in the day.
88
'YOU are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf,
I am the smaller one on its upper side,
' said the dewdrop to the lake.
89
THE scabbard is content to be dull
when it protects the keenness of the sword.
90
IN darkness
the One appears as uniform;
in the light
the One appears as manifold.
whose sparks are the stars?
82
LET life be beautiful like summer flowers
and death like autumn leaves.
88
HE who wants to do good knocks at the gate;
he who loves
finds the gate open.
84
IN death the many becomes one;
in life the one becomes many.
Religion will be one
when God is dead.
85
THE artist is the lover of Nature,
therefore he is her slave
and her master.
86
'HOW far are you from me, O Fruit?'
'I am hidden in your heart, O Flower.'
87
THIS longing is for the one who is felt in the dark,
but not seen in the day.
88
'YOU are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf,
I am the smaller one on its upper side,
' said the dewdrop to the lake.
89
THE scabbard is content to be dull
when it protects the keenness of the sword.
90
IN darkness
the One appears as uniform;
in the light
the One appears as manifold.
560
Edgar Albert Guest
Grace At Evening
For all the beauties of the day,
The innocence of childhood’s play,
For health and strength and laughter sweet,
Dear Lord, our thanks we now repeat.
For this our daily gift of food
We offer now our gratitude,
For all the blessings we have known
Our debt of gratefulness we own.
Here at the table now we pray,
Keep us together down the way;
May this, our family circle, be
Held fast by love and unity.
Grant, when the shades of night shall fall,
Sweet be the dreams of one and all;
And when another day shall break
Unto Thy service may we wake.
The innocence of childhood’s play,
For health and strength and laughter sweet,
Dear Lord, our thanks we now repeat.
For this our daily gift of food
We offer now our gratitude,
For all the blessings we have known
Our debt of gratefulness we own.
Here at the table now we pray,
Keep us together down the way;
May this, our family circle, be
Held fast by love and unity.
Grant, when the shades of night shall fall,
Sweet be the dreams of one and all;
And when another day shall break
Unto Thy service may we wake.
559
John Milton
Sonnet XVI: Cromwell, our chief of men
To the Lord General Cromwell
On the Proposals of Certain Ministers of the Committee
for the Propagation of the Gospel
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued,
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war: new foes arise,
Threat'ning to bind our souls with secular chains:
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.
On the Proposals of Certain Ministers of the Committee
for the Propagation of the Gospel
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued,
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war: new foes arise,
Threat'ning to bind our souls with secular chains:
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.
551
John Milton
Sonnet 22
XXII
Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, t' have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, t' have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
548
Henry Lawson
Out Back
The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track -With
stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.
He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.
He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.
In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.
He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' -
in the heaviest hours of life -'
Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.
And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.
It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.
A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
must carry their swags Out Back.
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track -With
stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.
He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.
He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.
In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.
He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' -
in the heaviest hours of life -'
Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.
And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.
It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.
A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
must carry their swags Out Back.
552
Rudyard Kipling
The Young British Soldier
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!
Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .
First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .
When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .
But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .
If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .
When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .
When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .
When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!
Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .
First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .
When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .
But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .
If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .
When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .
When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .
When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
548
Robert Browning
Love Among The Ruins
I.
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop---
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.
II.
Now,---the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
Twelve abreast.
III.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone---
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.
IV.
Now,---the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Through the chinks---
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.
V.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away---
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.
VI.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,---and then,
All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.
VII.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force---
Gold, of course.
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop---
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.
II.
Now,---the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
Twelve abreast.
III.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone---
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.
IV.
Now,---the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Through the chinks---
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.
V.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away---
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.
VI.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,---and then,
All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.
VII.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force---
Gold, of course.
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.
550
William Butler Yeats
A Man Young And Old
I
First Love
THOUGH nurtured like the sailing moon
In beauty's murderous brood,
She walked awhile and blushed awhile
And on my pathway stood
Until I thought her body bore
A heart of flesh and blood.
But since I laid a hand thereon
And found a heart of stone
I have attempted many things
And not a thing is done,
For every hand is lunatic
That travels on the moon.
She smiled and that transfigured me
And left me but a lout,
Maundering here, and maundering there,
Emptier of thought
Than the heavenly circuit of its stars
When the moon sails out.
II
Human Dignity
Like the moon her kindness is,
If kindness I may call
What has no comprehension in't,
But is the same for all
As though my sorrow were a scene
Upon a painted wall.
So like a bit of stone I lie
Under a broken tree.
I could recover if I shrieked
My heart's agony
To passing bird, but I am dumb
From human dignity.
III
The Mermaid
A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.
IV
The Death of the Hare
I have pointed out the yelling pack,
The hare leap to the wood,
And when I pass a compliment
Rejoice as lover should
At the drooping of an eye,
At the mantling of the blood.
Then' suddenly my heart is wrung
By her distracted air
And I remember wildness lost
And after, swept from there,
Am set down standing in the wood
At the death of the hare.
V
The Empty Cup
A crazy man that found a cup,
When all but dead of thirst,
Hardly dared to wet his mouth
Imagining, moon-accursed,
That another mouthful
And his beating heart would burst.
October last I found it too
But found it dry as bone,
And for that reason am I crazed
And my sleep is gone.
VI
His Memories
We should be hidden from their eyes,
Being but holy shows
And bodies broken like a thorn
Whereon the bleak north blows,
To think of buried Hector
And that none living knows.
The women take so little stock
In what I do or say
They'd sooner leave their cosseting
To hear a jackass bray;
My arms are like the twisted thorn
And yet there beauty lay;
The first of all the tribe lay there
And did such pleasure take --
She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck --
That she cried into this ear,
'Strike me if I shriek.'
VII
The Friends of his Youth
Laughter not time destroyed my voice
And put that crack in it,
And when the moon's pot-bellied
I get a laughing fit,
For that old Madge comes down the lane,
A stone upon her breast,
And a cloak wrapped about the stone,
And she can get no rest
With singing hush and hush-a-bye;
She that has been wild
And barren as a breaking wave
Thinks that the stone's a child.
And Peter that had great affairs
And was a pushing man
Shrieks, 'I am King of the Peacocks,'
And perches on a stone;
And then I laugh till tears run down
And the heart thumps at my side,
Remembering that her shriek was love
And that he shrieks from pride.
VIII
Summer and Spring
We sat under an old thorn-tree
And talked away the night,
Told all that had been said or done
Since first we saw the light,
And when we talked of growing up
Knew that we'd halved a soul
And fell the one in t'other's arms
That we might make it whole;
Then peter had a murdering look,
For it seemed that he and she
Had spoken of their childish days
Under that very tree.
O what a bursting out there was,
And what a blossoming,
When we had all the summer-time
And she had all the spring!
IX
The Secrets of the Old
I have old women's sectets now
That had those of the young;
Madge tells me what I dared not think
When my blood was strong,
And what had drowned a lover once
Sounds like an old song.
Though Margery is stricken dumb
If thrown in Madge's way,
We three make up a solitude;
For none alive to-day
Can know the stories that we know
Or say the things we say:
How such a man pleased women most
Of all that are gone,
How such a pair loved many years
And such a pair but one,
Stories of the bed of straw
Or the bed of down.
X
His Wildness
O bid me mount and sail up there
Amid the cloudy wrack,
For peg and Meg and Paris' love
That had so straight a back,
Are gone away, and some that stay
Have changed their silk for sack.
Were I but there and none to hear
I'd have a peacock cry,
For that is natural to a man
That lives in memory,
Being all alone I'd nurse a stone
And sing it lullaby.
XI
From 'Oedipus at Colonus'
Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span;
Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man;
Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
Even from that delight memory treasures so,
Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,
As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know.
In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng,
The bride is catried to the bridegroom's chamber
through torchlight and tumultuous song;
I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life or long.
Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say;
Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have
looked into the eye of day;
The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.
First Love
THOUGH nurtured like the sailing moon
In beauty's murderous brood,
She walked awhile and blushed awhile
And on my pathway stood
Until I thought her body bore
A heart of flesh and blood.
But since I laid a hand thereon
And found a heart of stone
I have attempted many things
And not a thing is done,
For every hand is lunatic
That travels on the moon.
She smiled and that transfigured me
And left me but a lout,
Maundering here, and maundering there,
Emptier of thought
Than the heavenly circuit of its stars
When the moon sails out.
II
Human Dignity
Like the moon her kindness is,
If kindness I may call
What has no comprehension in't,
But is the same for all
As though my sorrow were a scene
Upon a painted wall.
So like a bit of stone I lie
Under a broken tree.
I could recover if I shrieked
My heart's agony
To passing bird, but I am dumb
From human dignity.
III
The Mermaid
A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.
IV
The Death of the Hare
I have pointed out the yelling pack,
The hare leap to the wood,
And when I pass a compliment
Rejoice as lover should
At the drooping of an eye,
At the mantling of the blood.
Then' suddenly my heart is wrung
By her distracted air
And I remember wildness lost
And after, swept from there,
Am set down standing in the wood
At the death of the hare.
V
The Empty Cup
A crazy man that found a cup,
When all but dead of thirst,
Hardly dared to wet his mouth
Imagining, moon-accursed,
That another mouthful
And his beating heart would burst.
October last I found it too
But found it dry as bone,
And for that reason am I crazed
And my sleep is gone.
VI
His Memories
We should be hidden from their eyes,
Being but holy shows
And bodies broken like a thorn
Whereon the bleak north blows,
To think of buried Hector
And that none living knows.
The women take so little stock
In what I do or say
They'd sooner leave their cosseting
To hear a jackass bray;
My arms are like the twisted thorn
And yet there beauty lay;
The first of all the tribe lay there
And did such pleasure take --
She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck --
That she cried into this ear,
'Strike me if I shriek.'
VII
The Friends of his Youth
Laughter not time destroyed my voice
And put that crack in it,
And when the moon's pot-bellied
I get a laughing fit,
For that old Madge comes down the lane,
A stone upon her breast,
And a cloak wrapped about the stone,
And she can get no rest
With singing hush and hush-a-bye;
She that has been wild
And barren as a breaking wave
Thinks that the stone's a child.
And Peter that had great affairs
And was a pushing man
Shrieks, 'I am King of the Peacocks,'
And perches on a stone;
And then I laugh till tears run down
And the heart thumps at my side,
Remembering that her shriek was love
And that he shrieks from pride.
VIII
Summer and Spring
We sat under an old thorn-tree
And talked away the night,
Told all that had been said or done
Since first we saw the light,
And when we talked of growing up
Knew that we'd halved a soul
And fell the one in t'other's arms
That we might make it whole;
Then peter had a murdering look,
For it seemed that he and she
Had spoken of their childish days
Under that very tree.
O what a bursting out there was,
And what a blossoming,
When we had all the summer-time
And she had all the spring!
IX
The Secrets of the Old
I have old women's sectets now
That had those of the young;
Madge tells me what I dared not think
When my blood was strong,
And what had drowned a lover once
Sounds like an old song.
Though Margery is stricken dumb
If thrown in Madge's way,
We three make up a solitude;
For none alive to-day
Can know the stories that we know
Or say the things we say:
How such a man pleased women most
Of all that are gone,
How such a pair loved many years
And such a pair but one,
Stories of the bed of straw
Or the bed of down.
X
His Wildness
O bid me mount and sail up there
Amid the cloudy wrack,
For peg and Meg and Paris' love
That had so straight a back,
Are gone away, and some that stay
Have changed their silk for sack.
Were I but there and none to hear
I'd have a peacock cry,
For that is natural to a man
That lives in memory,
Being all alone I'd nurse a stone
And sing it lullaby.
XI
From 'Oedipus at Colonus'
Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span;
Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man;
Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
Even from that delight memory treasures so,
Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,
As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know.
In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng,
The bride is catried to the bridegroom's chamber
through torchlight and tumultuous song;
I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life or long.
Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say;
Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have
looked into the eye of day;
The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.
549
Kazi Nazrul Islam
Forgive us, O Prophet!
We haven't embraced your message,
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
We have forgotten your ideals
And the path for us that you did set.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
You trampled like dust
Luxury and wealth, O master!
You never dreamed that
We will be kings or lords of disaster!
In this world's resource and treasure
Everyone has right of due measure;
You proclaimed, on this earth,
Equal son's treatment all will get.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
In your religion, toward the unbelievers
You did not direct any hate;
You served them as your fellows,
For all of them was open your hospitable gate.
To demolish temples of others anywhere on land,
O valiant, you did not ever command;
Now even difference in opinion from others
We can't bear or tolerate.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
You did not seek in the name of faith
Meaningless and shameful killing or fight;
You did not place sword in our hand,
Rather gave us guidance, so noble and upright.
Ignoring your tolerance and magnanimity
We have elevated fanaticism to a new nobility;
Is that why, from the heavenly fountain,
Does not flow that mercy, so divine and great?
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
We haven't embraced your message
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
We have forgotten your ideals
And the path for us that you did set.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
[Translation: Mohammad Omar Farooq]
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
We have forgotten your ideals
And the path for us that you did set.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
You trampled like dust
Luxury and wealth, O master!
You never dreamed that
We will be kings or lords of disaster!
In this world's resource and treasure
Everyone has right of due measure;
You proclaimed, on this earth,
Equal son's treatment all will get.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
In your religion, toward the unbelievers
You did not direct any hate;
You served them as your fellows,
For all of them was open your hospitable gate.
To demolish temples of others anywhere on land,
O valiant, you did not ever command;
Now even difference in opinion from others
We can't bear or tolerate.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
You did not seek in the name of faith
Meaningless and shameful killing or fight;
You did not place sword in our hand,
Rather gave us guidance, so noble and upright.
Ignoring your tolerance and magnanimity
We have elevated fanaticism to a new nobility;
Is that why, from the heavenly fountain,
Does not flow that mercy, so divine and great?
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
We haven't embraced your message
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
We have forgotten your ideals
And the path for us that you did set.
Please forgive us, O Prophet!
[Translation: Mohammad Omar Farooq]
552