Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall.
Westbury, 1798.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
1.
IT was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
2.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
3.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
“‘T is some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.
4.
“I find them in the garden,
For there’s many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in that great victory.”
5.
“Now tell us what’t was all about,”
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.”
6.
“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But every body said,” quoth he,
“That ‘t was a famous victory.
7.
“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
8.
“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
9.
“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
10.
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.”
“Why’t was a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay.. nay.. my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.
11.
“And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“ — Why that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But’t was a famous victory.”
Westbury, 1798.
A TRUE BALLAD OF ST. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND THE DEVIL.
IT is Antidius the Bishop
Who now at even tide,
Taking the air and saying a prayer,
Walks by the river side.
The Devil had business that evening,
And he upon earth would go;
For it was in the month of August,
And the weather was close below.
He had his books to settle,
And up to earth he hied,
To do it there in the evening air,
All by the river side.
His imps came flying around him,
Of his affairs to tell;
From the north, and the south, and the east, and the west;
They brought him the news that he liked best,
Of the things they had done,
And the souls they had won,
And how they sped well
In the service of Hell.
There came a devil posting in
Return’d from his employ,
Seven years had he been gone from Hell,
And now he came grinning for joy.
“Seven years,” quoth he, “of trouble and toil
Have I labour’d the Pope to win;
And I to-day have caught him,
He hath done a deadly sin!”
And then he took the Devil’s book,
And wrote the deed therein.
Oh, then King Beelzebub for joy,
He drew his mouth so wide,
You might have seen his iron teeth,
Four and forty from side to side.
He wagg’d his ears, he twisted his tail,
He knew not for joy what to do,
In his hoofs and his horns, in his heels and his corns,
It tickled him all through.
The Bishop who beheld all this,
Straight how to act bethought him;
He leapt upon the Devil’s back,
And by the horns he caught him.
And he said a Pater-noster
As fast as he could say,
And made a cross on the Devil’s head,
And bade him to Rome away.
Away, away, the Devil flew,
All through the clear moonlight;
I warrant who saw them on their way
He did not sleep that night.
Without bridle, or saddle, or whip, or spur,
Away they go like the wind;
The beads of the Bishop are hanging before,
And the tail of the Devil behind.
They met a Witch and she hail’d them
As soon as she came within call;
“Ave Maria!” the Bishop exclaim’d,
It frightened her broomstick and she got a fall.
He ran against a shooting star,
So fast for fear did he sail,
And he singed the beard of the Bishop
Against a Comet’s tail;
And be pass’d between the horns of the Moon,
With Antidius on his back;
And there was an eclipse that night,
Which was not in the Almanack.
The Bishop just as they set out,
To tell his beads begun;
And he was by the bed of the Pope
Before the string was done.
The Pope fell down upon his knees,
In terror and confusion,
And he confess’d the deadly sin,
And he had absolution.
And all the Popes in bliss that be,
Sung, O be joyful I then;
And all the Popes in bale that be,
They howl’d for envy then;
For they before kept jubilee,
Expecting his good company,
Down in the Devils den.
But what was this the Pope had done
To bind his soul to Hell?
Ah! that is the mystery of this wonderful history,
And I wish that I could tell!
But would you know, there you must go,
You can easily find the way;
It is a broad and a well-known road
That is travell’d by night and by day.
And you must look in the Devil’s book;
You will find one debt that was never paid yet
If you search the leaves throughout;
And that is the mystery of this wonderful history,
And the way to find it out.
Bristol, 1802.
GONZALO HERMIGUEZ.
This story is related at length by Bernardo de Brito in his Cr
onica de Cister., L. vi. C. 1., where he has preserved also part of a poem by Gonzalo Hermiguez. The verses are said to be the oldest in the Portugueze language, and Brito says there were more of them, but he thought it sufficient to cite these for his purpose. If they had been correctly printed, it might have been difficult to make out their meaning, but from a text so corrupted it is impossible.
1.
IN arms and in anger, in struggle and strife,
Gonzalo Hermiguez won his wife;
He slew the Moor who from the fray
Was rescuing Fatima that day;
In vain she shriek’d: Gonzalo prest
The Moorish prisoner to his breast;
That breast in iron was array’d,
The gauntlet was bloody that graspt the Maid;
Through the bever-sight his eye
Glared fierce and red and wrathfully,
And while he bore the captive away
His heart rejoiced, and he blest the day.
2.
Under the lemon walk’s odorous shade
Gonzalo Hermiguez wooed the Maid;
The ringlets of his raven hair
Waved upon the evening air,
And gentle thoughts that raise a sigh
Soften’d the warriors dark-brown eye,
When he with passion and sweet song
Wooed her to forgive the wrong;
Till she no more could say him nay,
And the Moorish Maiden blest the day
When Gonzalo bore her a captive away.
3.
To the holy Church with pomp and pride
Gonzalo Hermiguez led his bride.
In the sacred font that happy day
Her stain of sin was wash’d away;
There did the Moorish Maiden claim
Another faith, another name;
There as a Christian convert plight
Her faith unto the Christian Knight,
And Oriana blest the day
When Gonzalo bore her a captive away.
4.
Of Affonso Henriques’ court the pride
Were Gonzalo Hermiguez and his bride;
In battle strongest of the strong,
In peace the master of the song,
Gonzalo of all was first in fame,
The loveliest she and the happiest dame.
But ready for her heavenly birth
She was not left to fade on earth;
In that dread hour with Heaven in view,
The comfort of her faith she knew,
And blest on her death-bed the day
When Gonzalo bore her a captive away.
5.
Through a long and holy life
Gonzalo Hermiguez mourn’d his wife.
The arms wherewith he won his bride,
Sword shield and lance, were laid aside.
That head which the high-plumed helm had worn
Was now of its tresses shaven and shorn,
A Monk of Alcobaça he
Eminent for sanctity.
Contented in his humble cell
The meekest of the meek to dwell,
His business was by night and day
For Oriana’s soul to pray.
Never day did he let pass
But scored to her account a mass;
Devoutly for the dear one dead
With self-inflicted stripes he bled;
This was Gonzalo’s sole employ,
This was Gonzalo’s only joy;
Till love thus purified became
A holy, yea, a heavenly flame;
And now in Heaven both bless the day
When he bore the Moorish captive away.
Bristol, 1801.
QUEEN ORRACA, AND THE FIVE MARTYRS OF MOROCCO.
This Legend is related in the Chronicle of Affonso II., and in the Historia Serafica of Fr. Manoel da Esperança.
1.
THE Friars five have girt their loins,
And taken staff in hand;
And never shall those Friars again
Hear mass in Christian land.
They went to Queen Orraca,
To thank her and bless her then;
And Queen Orraca in tears
Knelt to the holy men.
“Three things, Queen Orraca,
We prophesy to you:
Hear us, in the name of God!
For time will prove them true.
“In Morocco we must martyr’d be;
Christ hath vouchsafed it thus:
We shall shed our blood for Him
Who shed his blood for us.
To Coimbra shall our bodies be brought,
Such being the will divine;
That Christians may behold and feel
Blessings at our shrine.
And when unto that place of rest
Our bodies shall draw nigh,
Tho sees us first, the King or you,
That one that night must die.
Fare thee well, Queen Orraca!
For thy soul a mass we will say every day as long as we live,
And on thy dying day.”
The Friars they blest her, one by one,
Where she knelt on her knee,
And they departed to the land
Of the Moors beyond the sea.
2.
“What news, O King Affonso,
What news of the Friars five?
Have they preach’d to the Miramamolin;
And are they still alive?”
“They have fought the fight, O Queen!
They have run the race;
In robes of white they hold the palm
Before the throne of Grace.
“All naked in the sun and air
Their mangled bodies He;
What Christian dared to bury them,
By the bloody Moors we old die.”
3.
“What news, O King Affonso,
Of the Martyrs five what news?
Doth the bloody Miramamolin
Their burial still refuse?”
“That on a dunghill they should rot,
The bloody Moot decreed;
That their dishonour’d bodies should
The dogs and vultures feed:
“But the thunder of God roll’d over them,
And the lightning of God flash’d round;
Nor thing impure, nor man impure,
Could approach the holy ground.
“A thousand miracles appall’d
The cruel Pagan’s mind;
Our brother Pedro brings them here,
In Coimbra to be shrined.”
4.
Every altar in Coimbra
Is drest for the festival day;
All the people in Coimbra
Are dight in their richest array;
Every bell in Coimbra
Doth merrily, merrily, ring;
The Clergy and the Knights await,
To go forth with the Queen and the King.
“Come forth, come forth, Queen Orraca!
We make the procession stay.”
“I beseech thee, King Affonso,
Go you alone to-day.
“I have pain in my head this morning,
I am ill at heart also:
Go without me, King Affonso,
For I am too faint to go.”
“The relics of the Martyrs five
All maladies can cure;
They will requite the charity
You shew’d them once, be sure:
“Come forth then, Queen Orraca
You make the procession stay:
It were a scandal and a sin
To abide at home to-day.”
Upon her palfrey she is set,
And forward then they go;
And over the long bridge they pass,
And up the long hill wind slow.
“Prick forward, King Affonso,
And do not wait for me;
To meet them close by Coimbra,
/> It were discourtesy;
“A little while I needs must wait,
Till this sore pain be gone;...
I will proceed the best I can,
But do you and your Knights prick on.”
The King and his Knights prick’d up the hill
Faster than before;
The King and his Knights have topt the hill,
And now they are seen no more.
As the King and his Knights went down the hill,
A wild boar crost the way;
“Follow him I follow him!” cried the King;
“We have time by the Queen’s delay!”
A-hunting of the boar astray
Is King Affonso gone:
Slowly, slowly, but straight the while,
Queen Orraca is coming on.
And winding now the train appears
Between the olive-trees:
Queen Orraca alighted then,
And fell upon her knees.
The Friars of Alanquer came first,
And next the relics past;...
Queen Orraca look’d to see
The King and his Knights come last.
She heard the horses tramp behind;
At that she turn’d her face:
King Affonso and his Knights came up
All panting from the chase.
“Have pity upon my poor soul,
Holy Martyrs five!” cried she:
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Virgin, pray for me!”
5.
That day in Coimbra
Many a heart was gay;
But the heaviest heart in Coimbra,
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 121