For a terrible shrew was she.
Richard Penlake a scolding would take,
Till patience avail’d no longer,
Then Richard Penlake his crab-stick would take,
And show her that he was the stronger.
Rebecca his wife had often wish’d
To sit in St. Michael’s chair;
For she should be the mistress then
If she had once sat there.
It chanced that Richard Penlake fell sick,
They thought he would have died;
Rebecca his wife made a vow for his life,
As she knelt by his bed-side.
“Now hear my prayer, St. Michael! and spare
My husband’s life,” quoth she;
“And to thine altar we will go,
Six marks to give to thee.”
Richard Penlake repeated the vow,
For woundily sick was he;
“Save me, St. Michael, and we Will go
Six marks to give to thee.”
When Richard grew well, Rebecca his wife
Teazed him by night and by day:
“O mine own dear! for you I fear,
If we the vow delay.”
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.
Six marks they on the altar laid,
And Richard knelt in prayer:
She left him to pray, and stole away
To sit in St Michael’s chair.
Up the tower Rebecca ran,
Round and round and round;
‘T was a giddy sight to stand a-top,
And look upon the ground.
“A ourse on the ringers for rocking
The tower!’’ Rebecca cried,
As over the church battlements
She strode with a long stride.
“A blessing on St. Michael’s chair!”
She said as she sat down:
Merrily, merrily rung the bells,
And out Rebecca was thrown.
Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought
That his good wife was dead:
“Now shall we toll for her poor soul
The great church bell?” they said.
“Toll at her burying,” quoth Richard Penlake,
“Toll at her burying,” quoth he;
“But don’t disturb the ringers now
In compliment to me.”
Westbury, 1798.
KING HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX.
While Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an honest Hermit, unknown to him, came and told him the great evils he brought on Christendom by his unjust ambition, who usurped the kingdom of France, against all manner of right, and contrary to the will of God; wherefore in his holy name he threatened him with a severe and sudden punishment if he desisted not from his enterprise. Henry took this exhortation either as an idle whimsey, or a suggestion of the dauphin’s, and was but the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed the threatening; for within some few months after he was smitten with a strange and incurable disease. — MEZERAY.
HE pass’d unquestion’d through the camp,
Their heads the soldiers bent
In silent reverence, or begg’d
A blessing as he went;
And so the Hermit pass’d along
And reached the royal tent
King Henry sate in his tent alone,
The map before him lay,
Fresh conquests he was planning there
To grace the future day.
King Henry lifted up his eyes
The intruder to behold;
With reverence he the hermit saw,
For the holy man was old,
His look was gentle as a Saint’s,
And yet his eye was bold.
“Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs
Which thou hast done this land!
O King, repent in time, for know
The judgement is at hand.
“I have pass’d forty years of peace
Beside the river Blaise,
But what a weight of woe hast thou
Laid on my latter days!
“I used to see along the stream
The white sail gliding down,
That wafted food in better times
To yonder peaceful town.
“Henry! I never now behold
The white sail gliding down;
Famine, Disease, and Death, and Thou
Destroy that wretched town.
“I used to hear the traveller’s voice
As here he pass’d along,
Or maiden as she loiter’d home
Singing her even-song.
“No traveller’s voice may now be heard,
In fear he hastens by;
But I have heard the village maid
In vain for succour cry.
“I used to see the youths row down
And watch the dripping oar,
As pleasantly their viol’s tones
Came soften’d to the shore.
“King Henry, many a blacken’d corpse
I now see floating down!
Thou man of blood! repent in time,
And leave this leaguer’d town.”
“I shall go on,” King Henry cried,
“And conquer this good land;
Seest thou not, Hermit, that the Lord
Hath given it to my hand?”
The Hermit heard King Henry speak,
And angrily look’d down;..
His face was gentle, and for that
More solemn was his frown.
“What if no miracle from Heaven
The murderer’s arm controul,
Think you for that the weight of blood
Lies lighter on his soul?
“Thou conqueror King, repent in time
Or dread the coming woe!
For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat,
And soon shalt feel the blow!”
King Henry forced a careless smile,
As the hermit went his way;
But Henry soon remember’d him
Upon his dying day.
Westbury, 1798.
OLD CHRISTOVAL’S ADVICE, AND THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT.
“IF thy debtor be poor,” old Christoval said,
“Exact not too hardly thy due;
For he who preserves a poor man from want
May preserve him from wickedness too.
“If thy neighbour should sin,” old Christoval said,
“Oh never unmerciful be;
But remember it is through the mercy of God
That thou art not as sinful as he.
“At sixty-and-seven the hope of Heaven
Is my comfort through God’s good grace;
My summons, in truth, had I perish’d in youth,
Must have been to a different place*’’
“You shall have the farm, young Christoval,’’
My master Henrique said;
“But a surety provide, in whom I can confide,
That duly the rent shall be paid.”
I was poor, and I had not a friend upon earth,
And I knew not what to say;
We stood in the porch of St. Andrew’s Church
And it was St. Isidro’s day.
“Take St Isidro for my pledge,”
I ventured to make reply,
“The Saint in Heaven may be my friend,
But friendless on earth am I.”
We enter’d the Church, and went to his shrine,
And I fell on my bended knee,
“I am friendless, holy Isidro,
And therefore I call upon thee!
“I call upon thee my surety to be,
My purpose is honest and true;
And if ever I break my plighted word,
O Saint, mayst thou make me ru
e!”
I was idle, and quarter-day came on,
And I had not the rent in store,
I fear’d St. Isidro’s anger,
But I dreaded my landlord more.
So on a dark night I took my flight
And stole like a thief away;
It happen’d that by St. Andrew’s Church
The road I had chosen lay.
As I past the Church door, I thought how I swore
Upon St Isidro’s day;
That the Saint was so near increased my fear,
And faster I hasten’d away.
So all night long I hurried on,
Pacing full many a mile,
And knew not his avenging hand
Was on me all the while.
Weary I was, yet safe, I thought;
But when it was day-light
I had I found been running round
And round the Church all night
I shook like a palsy, and fell on my knees,
And for pardon devoutly I pray’d;
When my master came up, “What, Christoval,
You are here betimes!” he said.
“I have been idle, good Master,” said I,
“Good Master, and I have done wrong;
And I have been running round the Church
In penance all night long.”
“If thou hast been idle,” Henrique replied,
“Henceforth thy fault amend!
I will not oppress thee, Christoval,
And the Saint may thy labour befriend.’*
Homeward I went a penitent,
And from that day I idled no more;
St Isidro bless’d my industry,
As he punish’d my sloth before.
“When my debtor was poor,” old Christoval said,
“I have never exacted my due;
But remembering my master was good to me,
I copied his goodness too.
“When my neighbour hath sinn’d,” old Christoval said,
“I judged not too hardly his sin,
But thought of the night by St. Andrew’s Church,
And consider’d what I might have been.”
Westbury, 1798.
CORNELIUS AGRIPPA
A BALLAD, OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD READ UNLAWFUL BOOKS,
HOW HE WAS PUNISHED.
VERY PITHY AND PROFITABLE.
CORNELIUS Agrippa went out one day,
His Study he lock’d ere he went away,
And he gave the key of the door to his wife,
And charged her to keep it lock’d on her life.
“And if any one ask my Study to see,
I charge you to trust them not with the key;
Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore,
On your life let nobody enter that door.”
There lived a young man in the house, who in
Access to that Study had sought to obtain;
And he begg’d and pray’d the books to see,
Till the foolish woman gave him the key.
On the Study-table a book there lay,
Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day;
The letters were written with blood therein,
And the leaves were made of dead men’s skin;
And these horrible leaves of magic between’
Were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen,
The likeness of things so foul to behold,
That what they were is not fit to be told.
The young man, he began to read
He knew not what, but he would proceed,
When there was heard a sound at the door
Which as he read on grew more and more.
And more and more the knocking grew,
The young man knew not what to do;
But trembling in fear he sat within,
Till the door was broke, and the Devil came in.
Two hideous horns on his head he had got,
Like iron heated nine times red-hot;
The breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue,
And his tail like a fiery serpent grew.
“What wouldst thou with me?” the Wicked One cried,
But not a word the young man replied;
Every hair on his head was standing upright,
And his limbs like a palsy shook with affright.
“What wouldst thou with me?” cried the Author of ill,
But the wretched young man was silent still;
Not a word had his lips the power to say,
And his marrow seem’d to be melting away.
“What wouldst thou with me?” the third time he cries»
And a flash of lightning came from his eyes.
And he lifted his griffin claw in the air,
And the young man had not strength for a prayer.
His eyes red fire and fury dart
As out he tore the young man’s heart;
He grinn’d a horrible grin at his prey,
And in a clap of thunder vanish’d away.
THE MORAL.
Henceforth let all young men take heed
How in a Conjuror’s books they read.
Westbury, 1798.
KING CHARLEMAIN.
1.
IT was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone by,
And the bloom of her beauty was fled:
’Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam’d in her eye,
And all but the Monarch could plainly descry
From whence came her white and her red.
2.
Yet he thought with Agatha none might compare,
And he gloried in wearing her chain;
The court was a desert if she were not there,
To him she alone among women seem’d fair,
Such dotage possess’d Charlemain.
3.
The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid,
Alike the proud leman detest;
And the good old Archbishop, who ceased to upbraid,
Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray’d
That he soon might consign her to rest.
4.
A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all,
For Agatha sickens and dies.
And now they are ready with bier and with pall,
The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall,
And the strains of the requiem arise.
5.
But Charlemain sent them in anger away,
For she should not be buried, he said;
And despite of all counsel, for many a day,
Where array’d in her costly apparel she lay,
The Monarch would sit by the dead.
6.
The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain,
And the army cry out for their Lord;
The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain,
Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemain,
And still he unsheathes not the sword.
7.
The Soldiers they clamour, the Monks bead In prayer
In the quiet retreats of the cell;
The Physicians to counsel together repair,
And with common consent, one and all they declare
That his senses are bound by a spell.
8.
Then with relics protected, and confident grows,
And telling devoutly his beads,
The good old Archbishop, when this was made known,
Steals in when he hears that the corpse is alone,
And to look for the spell he proceeds.
9.
He searches with care, though with tremulous haste,
For the spell that bewitches the King;
And under her tongue for security placed,
Its margin with mystical characters traced,
At length he discovers a ring.
10.
Rejoicing he seized it and hasten’d away,
The Mona
rch re-enter’d the room;
The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gay
He bade the attendants no longer delay,
But bear her with speed to the tomb.
11.
Now merriment, joyaunce, and feasting again
Enliven’d the palace of Aix;
And now by his heralds did King Charlemain
Invite to his palace the courtier train
To hold a high festival day.
12.
And anxiously now for the festival day
The highly-born Maidens prepare;
And now, all apparell’d in costly array,
Exulting they come to the palace of Aix,
Young and aged, the brave and the fair.
13.
Oh! happy the Damsel who ‘mid her compeers
For a moment engaged the King’s eye!
Now glowing with hopes and now fever’d with fears,
Each maid or triumphant, or jealous, appears,
As noticed by him, or past by.
14.
And now as the evening approach’d, to the ball
In anxious suspense they advance,
Hoping each on herself that the King’s choice might
fall,
When lo! to the utter confusion of all,
He ask’d the Archbishop to dance.
15.
The damsels they laugh, and the barons they stare,
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 117