Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

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Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 122

by Robert Southey


  Was that poor Queen’s that day.

  The festival is over,

  The sun hath sunk in the west;

  All the people in Coimbra

  Have betaken themselves to rest.

  Queen Orraca’s Father Confessor

  At midnight is awake;

  Kneeling at the Martyrs’ shrine,

  And praying for her sake.

  Just at the midnight hour, when all

  Was still as still could be,

  Into the Church of Santa Cruz,

  Came a saintly company:

  All in robes of russet grey,

  Poorly were they dight;

  Each one girdled with a cord,

  Like a Friar Minorite.

  But from those robes of russet grey,

  There flow’d a heavenly light;

  For each one was the blessed soul

  Of a Friar Minorite.

  Brighter than their brethren,

  Among the beautiful band;

  Five were there who each did bear

  A palm branch in his hand.

  He who led the brethren,

  A living man was he;

  And yet he shone the brightest

  Of all the company.

  Before the steps of the altar,

  Each one bow’d his head;

  And then with solemn voice they sung

  The Service of the Dead.

  “ — And who are ye, ye blessed Saints?”

  The Father Confessor said;

  “And for what happy soul sing ye

  The Service of the Dead?”

  “These are the souls of our brethren in bliss,

  The Martyrs five are we:

  And this is our father Francisco,

  Among us bodily.

  “We are come hither to perform

  Our promise to the Queen;

  Go thou to King Affonso,

  And say what thou hast seen.”

  There was loud knocking at the door,

  As the heavenly vision fled;

  And the porter called to the Confessor,

  To tell him the Queen was dead.

  Bristol, 1803.

  THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY, A BALLAD, SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER.

  THE Raven croak’d as she sate at her meal,

  And the Old Woman knew what he said,

  And she grew pale at the Raven’s tale,

  And sicken’d and went to her bed.

  “Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,”

  The Old Womanvof Berkeley said,

  “The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun,

  Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.”

  The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,

  Their way to Berkeley went,

  And they have brought with pious thought

  The holy sacrament.

  The Old Woman shriek’d as they enter’d her door

  And she cried with a voice of despair,

  “Now take away the sacrament,

  For its presence I cannot bear!”

  Her lip it trembled with agony,

  The sweat ran down her brow,

  “I have tortures in store for evermore,

  But spare me, my children, now!”

  Away they sent the sacrament,

  The fit it left her weak,

  She look’d at her children with ghastly eyes,

  - And faintly struggled to speak.

  “All kind of sin I have rioted in,

  And the judgement now must be,

  But I secured my children’s souls,

  Oh! pray, my children, for me!

  “I have ‘nointed myself with infant’s fat,

  The fiends have been my slaves,

  From sleeping babes I have suck’d the breath,

  And breaking by charms the sleep of death,

  I have call’d the dead from their graves.

  “ — And the Devil will fetch me now in fire,

  My witchcrafts to atone;

  And I who have troubled the dead man’s grave

  Shall never have rest in my own.

  “Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet,

  My children, I beg of you;

  And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,

  And sprinkle my coffin too.

  “And let me be chain’d in my coffin of stone,

  And fasten it strong, I implore,

  With iron bars, and with three chains,

  Chain it to the church floor.

  “And bless the chains and sprinkle them,

  And let fifty Priests stand round,

  Who night and day the mass may say,

  Where I lie on the ground.

  “And see that fifty Choristers

  Beside the bier attend me,

  And day and night by the tapers’ light,

  With holy hymns defend me.

  “Let the church bells all both great and small,

  Be toll’d by night and day,

  To drive from thence the fiends who come

  To bear my body away.

  “And ever have the church door barr’d

  After the even-song;

  And I beseech you, children dear,

  Let the bars and bolts be strong.

  “And let this be three days and nights

  My wretched corpse to save;

  Till the fourth morning keep me safe,

  And then I may rest in my grave.”

  The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,

  And her eyes grew deadly dim,

  Short came her breath, and the struggle of death

  Did loosen every limb.

  They blest the old woman’s winding sheet

  With rites and prayers due,

  With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,

  And they sprinkled her coffin too.

  And they chain’d her in her coffin of stone,

  And with iron barr’d it down,

  And in the church with three strong chains

  They chain’d it to the ground.

  And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,

  And fifty Priests stood round,

  By night and day the mass to say

  Where she lay on the ground.

  And fifty sacred Choristers

  Beside the bier attend her,

  Who day and night by the tapers’ light

  Should with holy hymns defend her.

  To see the Priests and Choristers

  It was a goodly sight,

  Each holding, as it were a staff,

  A taper burning bright.

  And the church bells all both great and small,

  Did toll so loud and long;

  And they have barr’d the church door hard,

  After the even-song.

  And the first night the tapers’ light

  Burnt steadily and clear,

  But they without a hideous rout

  Of angry fiends could hear;

  A hideous roar at the church door

  Like a long thunder peal;

  And the priests they pray’d, and the choristers sung

  Louder in fearful zeal.

  Loud toll’d the bell, the priests pray’d well,

  The tapers they burnt bright,

  The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun.

  They told their beads all night.

  The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew

  From the voice of the morning away;

  Then un disturb’d the Choristers sing,

  And the fifty Priests they pray;

  As they had sung and pray’d all night

  They pray’d and sung all day.

  The second night the tapers’ light

  Burnt dismally and blue,

  And every one saw his neighbour’s face

  Like a dead man’s face to view.

  And yells and cries without arise

  That the stoutest heart might shock,

  And a
deafening roaring like a cataract pouring

  Over a mountain rock.

  The Monk and Nun they told their beads

  As fast as they could tell,

  And aye as louder grew the noise

  The faster went the bell.

  Louder and louder the Choristers sung

  As they trembled more and more,

  And the Priests as they pray’d to heaven for aid,

  They smote their breasts full sore.

  The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew

  From the voice of the morning away;

  Then undisturb’d the Choristers sing,

  And the fifty Priests they pray;

  As they had sung and pray’d all night

  They pray’d and sung all day.

  The third night came, and the tapers’ flame

  A frightful stench did make;

  And they burnt as though they had been dipt

  In the burning brimstone lake.

  And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,

  Grew momently more and more;

  And strokes as of a battering ram,

  Did shake the strong church door.

  The bellmen, they for very fear

  Could toll the bell no longer;

  And still as louder grew the strokes,

  Their fear it grew the stronger.

  The Monk and Nun forgot their beads,

  They fell on the ground in dismay;

  There was not a single Saint in heaven

  To whom they did not pray.

  And the Choristers’ song, which late was so strong

  Falter’d with consternation,

  For the church did rock as an earthquake shock

  Uplifted its foundation.

  And a sound was heard like the trumpet’s blast,

  That shall one day wake the dead;

  The strong church door could bear no more,

  And the bolts and the bars they fled;

  And the tapers’ light was extinguish’d quite,

  And the choristers faintly sung,

  And the Priests dismay’d, panted and pray’d,

  And on all Saints in heaven for aid

  They call’d with trembling tongue.

  And in He came with eyes of flame,

  The Devil to fetch the dead,

  And all the church with his presence glow’d

  Like a fiery furnace red.

  He laid his hand on the iron chains,

  And like flax they moulder’d asunder,

  And the coffin lid, which was barr’d so firm,

  He burst with his voice of thunder.

  And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise,

  And come with her master away;

  A cold sweat started on that cold corpse,

  At the voice she was forced to obey.

  She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,

  Her dead flesh quiver’d with fear,

  And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave

  Never did mortal hear.

  She follow’d her Master to the church door,

  There stood a black horse there;

  His breath was red like furnace smoke,

  His eyes like a meteor’s glare.

  The Devil he flung her on the horse,

  And he leapt up before,

  And away like the lightning’s speed they went,

  And she was seen no more.

  They saw her no more, but her cries

  For four miles round they could hear,

  And children at rest at their mothers’ breast

  Started, and scream’d with fear.

  Hereford, 1798.

  THE SURGEON’S WARNING.

  THE Doctor whisper’d to the Nurse,

  And the Surgeon knew what he said;

  And he grew pale at the Doctor’s tale,

  And trembled in his sick-bed.

  “Now fetch me my brethren, and fetch them with speed,”

  The Surgeon affrighted said;

  “The Parson and the Undertaker,

  Let them hasten or I shall be dead.”

  The Parson and the Undertaker

  They hastily came complying,

  And the Surgeon’s Prentices ran up stairs

  When they heard that their Master was dying.

  The Prentices all they enter’d the room,

  By one, by two, by three;

  With a sly grin came Joseph in,

  First of the company.

  The Surgeon swore as they enter’d his door,

  ‘T was fearful his oaths to hear,..

  “Now send these scoundrels out of my sight,

  I beseech ye, my brethren dear!”

  He foam’d at the mouth with the rage he felt,

  And he wrinkled his black eye-brow,

  “That rascal Joe would be at me, I know,

  But zounds, let him spare me now!”

  Then out they sent the Prentices,

  The fit it left him weak,

  He look’d at his brothers with ghastly eyes.

  And faintly struggled to speak.

  “All kinds of carcases I have cat up,

  And now my turn will be;

  But, brothers, I took care of you,

  So pray take care of me.

  “I have made candles of dead men’s fat,

  The Sextons have been my slaves,

  I have bottled babes unborn, and dried

  Hearts and livers from rifled graves.

  “And my Prentices now will surely come

  And carve me bone from bone,

  And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave

  Shall never have rest in my own.

  “Bury me in lead when I am dead,

  My brethren, I entreat,

  And see the coffin weigh’d, I beg,

  Lest the plumber should be a cheat.

  “And let it be solder’d closely down,

  Strong as strong can be, I implore;

  And put it in a patent coffin,

  That I may rise no more.

  “If they carry me off in the patent coffin,

  Their labour will be in vain;

  Let the Undertaker see it bought of the mak

  Who lives by St. Martin’s Lane.

  “And bury me in my brother’s church,

  For that will safer be;

  And I implore, lock the church door,

  And pray take care of the key.

  “And all night long let three stout men

  The vestry watch within;

  To each man give a gallon of beer,

  And a keg of Holland’s gin;

  “Powder and ball and blunderbuss,

  To save me if he can,

  And eke five guineas if he shoot

  A Resurrection Man.

  “And let them watch me for three weeks,

  My wretched corpse to save;

  For then I think that I may stink

  Enough to rest in my grave.”

  The Surgeon laid him down in his bed,

  His eyes grew deadly dim,

  Short came his breath, and the struggle of death

  Did loosen every limb.

  They put him in lead when he was dead,

  And with precaution meet,

  First they the leaden coffin weigh,

  Lest the plumber should be a cheat.

  They had it solder’d closely down,

  And examin’d it o’er and o’er,

  And they put it in a patent coffin

  That he might rise no more.

  For to carry him off in a patent coffin,

  Would, they thought, be but labour in vain,

  So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker,

  Who lives by St. Martin’s Lane.

  In his brother’s church they buried him,

  That safer he might be;

  They lock’d the door, and would not trust

  The Sexton with the key.

  And three men in the vestry watch
>
  To save him if they can,

  And should he come there to shoot they swear

  A Resurrection Man.

  And the first night by lanthorn light

  Through the church-yard as they went,

  A guinea of gold the Sexton shew’d

  That Mister Joseph sent.

  But conscience was tough, it was not enough,

  And their honesty never swerved,

  And they bade him go with Mister Joe

  To the Devil as he deserved.

  So all night long by the vestry fire

  They quaff’d their gin and ale,

  And they did drink, as you may think,

  And told full many a tale.

  The Cock he crew cock-a-doodle-doo,

  Past five! the watchmen said;

  And they went away, for while it was day

  They might safely leave the dead.

  The second night by lanthorn light

  Through the church-yard as they went,

  He whisper’d anew, and shew’d them two

  That Mister Joseph sent

  The guineas were bright and attracted their sight,

  They look’d so heavy and new,

  And their fingers itch’d as they were bewitch’d,

  And they knew not what to do.

  But they waver’d not long, for conscience was strong

  And they thought they might get more,

  And they refused the gold, but not

  So rudely as before.

  So all night long by the vestry fire

  They quaff’d their gin and ale,

  And they did drink, as you may think,

  And told full many a take

 

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