Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 116
Sing sweetly on her grave.
13.
“I have past by about that hour
When ghosts their freedom have;
But here I saw no ghastly sight,
And quietly the glow-worm’s light
Was shining on her grave.
14.
“There’s one who like a Christian lies
Beneath the church-tree’s shade;
I ‘d rather go a long mile round
Than pass at evening through the ground
Wherein that man is laid.
15.
“A decent burial that man had,
The bell was heard to toll,
When he was laid in holy ground,
But for all the wealth in Bristol town
I would not be with his soul!
16.
“Did’st see a house below the hill
Which the winds and the rains destroy?
In that farm-house did that man dwell,
And I remember it full well
When I was a growing boy.
17.
“But she was a poor parish girl
Who came up from the west:
From service hard she ran away,
And at that house in evil day
Was taken in to rest.
18.
“A man of a bad name was he,
An evil life he led;
Passion made his dark face turn white,
And his grey eyes were large and light,
And in anger they grew red.
19.
“The man was bad, the mother worse,
Bad fruit of evil stem;
‘T would make your hair to stand on end
If I should tell to you, my friend,
The things that were told of them!
20.
“Did’st see an out-house standing by?
The walls alone remain;
It was a stable then, but now
Its mossy roof has fallen through
All rotted by the rain.
21.
“This poor girl she had served with them
Some half-a-year or more,
When she was found hung up one day,
Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay,
Behind that stable door.
22.
“It is a wild and lonesome place,
No hut or house is near;
Should one meet a murderer there alone,
‘T were vain to scream, and the dying groan
Would never reach mortal ear.
23.
“And there were strange reports about;
But still the coroner found
That she by her own hand had died,
And should buried be by the way-side,
And not in Christian ground.
24.
“This was the very place he chose,
Just where these four roads meet;
And I was one among the throng
That hither follow’d them along,
I shall never the sight forget I
25.
“They carried her upon a board
In the clothes in which she died;
I saw the cap blown off her head,
Her face was of a dark dark red,
Her eyes were starting wide:
26.
“I think they could not have been closed,
So widely did they strain.
O Lord, it was a ghastly sight,
And it often made me wake at night,
When I saw it in dreams again.
27.
“They laid her where these four roads meet,
Here in this very place.
The earth upon her corpse was prest,
This post was driven into her breast,
And a stone is on her face.”
Westbury, 1798.
GOD’S JUDGEMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.
THE summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet,
‘T was a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door,
For he had a plentiful last-year s store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish’d well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great Barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter then
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock’d from far and near;
The great Barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the Bara and burnt them all.
“I’ faith ‘t is an excellent bonfire!” quoth he,
“And the country is greatly obliged to me.
For ridding it in these times forlorn
Of Rats that only consume the corn.”
So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning as he enter’d the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he look’d there came a man from his farm,
He had a countenance white with alarm;
“My Lord, I open’d your granaries this morn,
And the Rats had eaten all your corn.”
Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,
“Fly Î my Lord Bishop, fly,” quoth he,
“Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,...
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!”
“I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine,” replied he,
“‘T is the safest place in Germany;
The walls are high and the shores are steep,
And the stream is strong and the water deep.”
Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten’d away,
And he crost the Rhine without delay,
And reach’d his tower, and barr’d with care
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes;..
But soon a scream made him arise,
He started and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow from whence the screaming came.
He listen’d and look’d;... it was only the Cat;
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the Army of Rats that were drawing near.
For they have swam over the river so deep.
And they have climb’d the shores so steep,
And up the Tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were sent.
They are not to be told by the dozen or score,
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more,
Such numbers had never been heard of before,
Such a judgement had never been witness’d of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
And in at the windows and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,
And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at
once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the Bishop’s bones;
They gnaw’d the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgement on him!
Westbury, 1799
THE PIOUS PAINTER.
The legend of the Pious Painter is related in the Pia Hilaria of Gazæus; but the Pious Poet has omitted the second part of the story, though it rests upon quite as good authority as the first. It is to be found in the Fabliaux of Le Grand.
THE FIRST PART.
1.
THERE once was a painter in Catholic days,
Like JOB who eschewed all evil;
Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze
With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise
And delight was in painting the Devil.
2.
They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew,
Who besieged poor St Anthony’s cell;
Such burning hot eyes, such a furnace-like hue!
And round them a sulphurous colouring he threw
That their breath seem’d of brimstone to smell.
3.
And now had the artist a picture begun,
‘T was over the Virgin’s church-door;
She stood on the Dragon embracing her Son;
Many Devils already the artist had done,
But this must out-do all before.
4.
The Old Dragon s imps as they fled through the air
At seeing it paused on the wing;
For he had the likeness so just to a hair,
That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,
To pay their respects to their King.
5.
Every child at beholding it trembled with dread,
And scream’d as he turn’d away quick.
Not an old woman saw it, but, raising her head,
Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said,
Lord keep me from ugly Old Nick!
6.
What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day,
He sometimes would dream of by night;
But once he was startled as sleeping he lay;
‘T was no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey
That the Devil himself was in sight
7.
“You rascally dauber!” old Beelzebub cries,
“Take heed how you wrong me again!
Though your caricatures for myself I despise,
Make me handsomer now in the multitude’s eyes,
Or see if I threaten in vain!”
8.
Now the Painter was bold, and religious beside,
And on faith he had certain reliance;
So carefully he the grim countenance eyed,
And thank’d him for sitting with Catholic pride,
And sturdily bade him defiance.
9.
Betimes in the morning the Painter arose,
He is ready as soon as ‘t is light.
Every look, every line, every feature he knows,
‘T is fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,
And he has the old Wicked One quite.
10.
Happy man! he is sure the resemblance can’t fail;
The tip of the nose is like fire,
There’s his grin and his fangs, and his dragon-like mail,
And the very identical curl of his tail,..
So that nothing is left to desire.
11.
He looks and retouches again with delight;
‘T is a portrait complete to his mind;
And exulting again and again at the sight,
He looks round for applause, and he sees with affright
The Original standing behind.
12.
“Fool! Idiot!” old Beelzebub grinn’d as he spoke,
And stampt on the scaffold in ire;
The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke;
‘T was a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke,
The Devil could wish it no higher.
13.
“Help.. help! Blessed Mary!” he cried in alarm,
As the scaffold sunk under his feet.
From the canvass the Virgin extended her arm,
She caught the good Painter, she saved him from harm;
There were hundreds who saw in the street.
14.
The Old Dragon fled when the wonder he spied,
And cursed his own fruitless endeavour;
While the Painter call’d after his rage to deride,
Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph and cried,
“I’ll paint thee more ugly than ever!”
THE SECOND PART.
1.
THE Painter so pious all praise had acquired
For defying the malice of Hell;
The Monks the unerring resemblance admired;
Not a Lady lived near but her portrait desired
From a hand that succeeded so well.
2.
One there was to be painted the number among
Of features most fair to behold;
The country around of fair Marguerite rung,
Marguerite she was lovely and lively and young,
Her husband was ugly and old.
3.
O Painter, avoid her! O Painter, take care,
For Satan is watchful for you!
Take heed lest you fall in the Wicked One’s snare,
The net is made ready, O Painter, beware
Of Satan and Marguerite too.
4.
She seats herself now, now she lifts up her head,
On the artist she fixes her eyes;
The colours are ready, the canvass is spread.
He lays on the white, and he lays on the red,
And the features of beauty arise.
5.
He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue!
There’s a look which he cannot express;..
His colours are dull to their quick-sparkling hue;
More and more on the lady he fixes his view,
On the canvass he looks less and less.
6.
In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more,
And that look which fair Marguerite gave!
Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore,
But he never had tried a live Angel before,..
St Anthony, help him and save!
7.
He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told,
To the Woman, the Tempter, and Fate.
It was settled the Lady so fair to behold,
Should elope from her Husband so ugly and old,
With the Painter so pious of late.
8.
Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete,
To the Husband he makes the scheme known;
Night comes and the lovers impatiently meet;
Together they fly, they are seized in the street,
And in prison the Painter is thrown.
9.
With Repentance, his only companion, he lies,
And a dismal companion is she!
On a sudden he saw the Old Enemy rise,
“Now, you villanous dauber!” Sir Beelzebub cries,
“You are paid for your insults to me!
10.
“But my tender heart you may easily move
If to what I propose you agree;
That picture,.. be just! the resemblance improve;
Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I’ll remove,
And you shall this instant be free.”
11.
Overjoy’d, the conditions so easy he hears,
“I’ll make you quite handsome!” he said.
He said, and his chain on the Devil appears;
Released from his prison, released from his fears,
The Painter is
snug in his bed.
12.
At morn he arises, composes his look,
And proceeds to his work as before;
The people beheld him, the culprit they took;
They thought that the Painter his prison had broke,
And to prison they led him once more.
13.
They open the dungeon;.. behold in his place
In the corner old Beelzebub lay;
He smirks and he smiles and he leers with a grace,
That the Painter might catchall the charms of his face,
Then vanish’d in lightning away.
14.
Quoth the Painter, “I trust you’ll suspect me no more.
Since you find my assertions were true.
But I’ll alter the picture above the Church-door,
For he never vouchsafed me a sitting before.
And I must give the Devil his due.”
Westbury, 1798.
ST. MICHAEL’S CHAIR.
MERRILY, merrily rung the bells,
The bells of St. Michael’s tower,
When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife
Arrived at St. Michael’s door.
Richard Penlake was a cheerful man,
Cheerful and frank and free,
But he led a sad life with Rebecca his wife,