The third night as by Ianthom light
Through the church-yard they went,
He bade them see, and shew’d them three
That Mister Joseph sent.
They look’d askaunce with greedy glance,
The guineas they shone bright,
For the Sexton on the yellow gold
Let fall his lanthorn light.
And he look’d sly with his roguish eye,
And gave a well-timed wink,
And they could not stand the sound in his hand.
For he made the guineas chink.
And conscience, late that had such weight,
All in a moment fails,
For well they knew that it was true’
A dead man tells no tales.
And they gave all their powder and ball,
And took the gold so bright,
And they drank their beer and made good cheer
Till now it was midnight.
Then, though the key of the church-door
Was left with the Parson, his brother,
It open’d at the Sexton’s touch,...
Because he had another.
And in they go with that villain Joe,
To fetch the body by night,
And all the church look’d dismally
By his dark-lanthorn light.
They laid the pick-axe to the stones,
And they moved them soon asunder;
They shovell’d away the hard-prest clay,
And came to the coffin under.
They burst the patent coffin first,
And they cut through the lead;
And they laugh’d aloud when they saw the shroud,
Because they had got at the dead.
And they allow’d the Sexton the shroud,
And they put the coffin back;
And nose and knees they then did squeeze
The Surgeon in a sack.
The watchmen as they past along
Full four yards off could smell,
And a curse bestow’d upon the load
So disagreeable.
So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back,
And they carved him bone from bone,
But what became of the Surgeon’s soul
Was never to mortal known.
Westbury, 1798.
HENRY THE HERMIT.
IT was a little island where he dwelt,
A solitary islet, bleak and bare,
Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots
Its grey stone surface. Never mariner
Approach’d that rude and uninviting coast,
Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark
Anchor’d beside its shore. It was a place
Befitting well a rigid anchoret,
Dead to the hopes and vanities and joys,
And purposes of life: and he had dwelt
Many long years upon that lonely isle;
For in ripe manhood he abandon’d arms,
Honours and friends and country and the world,
And had grown old in solitude. That isle
Some solitary man in other times
Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found
The little chapel which his toil had built
Now by the storms unroof’d, his bed of leaves
Wind-scatter’d; and his grave o’ergrown with grass,
And thistles, whose white seeds there wing’d in vain,
Wither’d on rocks, or in the waves were lost.
So he repair’d the chapel’s ruin’d roof,
Clear’d the grey lichens from the altar-stone,
And underneath a rock that shelter’d him
From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage.
The peasants from the shore would bring him food,
And beg his prayers; but human converse else
He knew not in that utter solitude;
Nor ever visited the haunts of men,
Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed
Implored his blessing and his aid in death.
That summons he delay’d not to obey,
Though the night-tempest or autumnal wind
Madden’d the waves; and though the mariner,
Albeit relying on his saintly load,
Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived
A most austere and self-denying man,
Till abstinence and age and watchfulness
Had worn him down, and it was pain at last
To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves
And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less,
Though with reluctance of infirmity,
Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves
And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal,
More self-condemning fervour, raised his voice
Imploring pardon for the natural sin
Of that reluctance, till the atoning prayer
Had satisfied his heart, and given it peace,
And the repented fault became a joy.
One night upon the shore his chapel-bell
Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds
Over the water came, distinct and loud.
Alarm’d at that unusual hour to hear
Its toll irregular, a monk arose,
And crost to the island-chapel. On a stone
Henry was sitting there, dead, cold, and stiff,
The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet
The lamp that stream’d a long unsteady light
Westbury, 1799.
ST. GUALBERTO. ADDRESSED TO GEORGE BURNETT.
1.
THE work is done, the fabric is complete;
Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower,
Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat,
Must toil for many a league and many an hour.
Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows,
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose.
2.
Long were the tale that told Moscera’s pride,
Its columns cluster’d strength and lofty state,
How many a saint bedeck’d its sculptured side,
What intersecting arches graced its gate;
Its towers how high, its massy walls how strong,
These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song.
3.
Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground,
But little store of charity, I ween,
The passing pilgrim at Moscera found;
And often there the mendicant was seen
Hopeless to turn him from the convent-door,
Because this costly work still kept the brethren poor.
4.
Now all is finish’d, and from every side
They flock to view the fabric, young and old.
Who now can tell Rodulfo’s secret pride,
When on the Sabbath-day his eyes behold
The multitudes that crowd his church’s floor,
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more.
5.
So chanced it that Gualberto pass’d that way,
Since sainted for a life of saintly deeds.
He paused the new-rear’d convent to survey,
And o’er the structure whilst his eye proceeds,
Sorrowed, as one whose holier feelings deem
That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem.
6.
Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw,
And forth he came to greet the holy guest;
For him he knew as one who held the law
Of Benedict, and each severe behest
So duly kept with such religious care,
That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer.
7.
“Good brother, welcome!” thus Rodulfo cries,
“In sooth it glads me to behold you here;
It is Gualberto! and mine aged eyes
Did not decei
ve me: yet full many a year
Hath slipt away, since last you bade farewell
To me your host and my uncomfortable cell.
8.
“’Twas but a sorry welcome then you found,
And such as suited ill a guest so dear.
The pile was ruinous, the base unsound;
It glads me more to bid you welcome here,
For you can call to mind our former state;
Come, brother, pass with me the new Moscera’s gate.”
9.
So spake the cheerful Abbot, but no smile
Of answering joy relax’d Gualberto’s brow;
He raised his hand and pointed to the pile,
“Moscera better pleased me then, than now;
A palace this, befitting kingly pride!
Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide?”
10.
“Aye,” cries Rudolfo. “‘t is a stately place!
And pomp becomes the House of Worship well.
Nay, scowl not round with so severe a face!
When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell
Where art exhausted decks the sumptuous hall.
Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all?
11.
“And ye have rear’d these stately towers on high
To serve your God?” the Monk severe replied;
“It rose from zeal and earnest piety,
And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside?
Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere
However poor the cell, God will incline his ear.
12.
“Rodulfo I while this haughty building rose,
Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door?
Did charity relieve the orphan’s woes?
Clothed ye the naked? did ye feed the poor?
He who with alms most succours the distrest,
Proud Abbot! know he serves his heavenly Father best.
13.
“Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell
Who first abandon’d all to serve the Lord?
Their place of worship was the desart cell,
Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal board,
And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by,
They blest their gracious God, and ‘ thought it
luxury.’”
14.
Then anger darken’d in Rodulfo’s face;
“Enough of preaching,” sharply he replied,
“Thou art grown envious;..’ tis a common case,
Humility is made the cloak of pride.
Proud of our home’s magnificence are we,
But thou art far more proud in rags and beggary.”
15.
With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone,
“O, Father, hear me! If this costly pile
Was for thine honour rear’d, and thine alone,
Bless it, O Father, with thy fostering smile!
Still may it stand, and never evil know,
Long as beside its walls the endless stream shall flow.
16.
“But, Lord, if vain and worldly-minded men
Have wasted here the wealth which thou hast lent,
To pamper worldly pride; frown on it then!
Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent!
Let yonder brook, that gently flows beside,
Now from its base sweep down the unholy house of pride!”
17.
He said,.. and lo, the brook no longer flows!
The waters pause, and now they swell on high;
Erect in one collected heap they rose;
The affrighted brethren from Moscera fly,
And upon all the Saints in Heaven they call,
To save them in their flight from that impending fall,
18.
Down the heapt waters came, and with a sound
Like thunder, overthrown the fabric falls;
Swept far and wide its fragments strew the ground,
Prone lie its columns now, its high-arch’d walls,
‘ Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide,
That from its base swept down the unholy house of pride.
19.
Were old Gualberto’s reasons built on truth,
Dear George, or like Moscera’s base unsound?
This sure I know, that glad am I, in sooth,
He only play’d his pranks on foreign ground;
For had he turn’d the stream on England too,
The Vandal monk had spoilt full many a goodly view.
20.
Then Malmesbury’s arch had never met my sight.
Nor Battle’s vast and venerable pile;
I had not traversed then with such delight
The hallowed ruins of our Alfred’s isle,
Where many a pilgrim’s curse is well bestow’d
On those who rob its walls to mend the turnpike road
21.
Wells would have fallen, dear George, our country’s pride; —
And Canning’s stately church been rear’d in vain
Nor had the traveller Ely’s tower descried,
Which when thou seest far o’er the fenny plain,
Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way,
Its ancient beauties sure will well reward delay.
22.
And we should never then have heard, 1 think,
At evening hour, great Tom’s tremendous knell.
The fountain streams that now in Christ-church stink,
Had niagara’d o’er the quadrangle;
But as’t was beauty that deserved the flood,
I ween, dear George, thy own old Pompey might have stood.
23.
Then had not Westminster, the house of God,
Served for a concert-room, or signal-post;
Old Thames, obedient to the father’s nod,
Had swept down Greenwich,. England’s noblest boast;
And, eager to destroy the unholy walls,
Fleet-ditch had roll’d up hill to overwhelm St. Paul’s.
24.
George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds
Of saints like this but rubbish, a mere store
Of trash, that he flings time away who reads?
And would’st thou rather bid me puzzle o’er
Matter and Mind and all the eternal round,
Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless profound?
25.
Now do I bless the man who undertook
These Monks and Martyrs to biographize;
And love to ponder o’er his ponderous book,
The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies,
Where waking fancies mixt with dreams appear,
And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere.
26.
All is not truth; and yet, methinks, ‘t were hard
Of wilful fraud such fablers to accuse;
What if a Monk, from better themes debarred,
Should for an edifying story chuse,
How some great Saint the Flesh and Fiend overcame,
His taste I trow, and not his conscience, were to blame.
27.
No fault of his, if what he thus design’d,
Like pious novels for the use of youth,
Obtain’d such hold upon the simple mind,
That was received at length for gospel-truth.
A fair account! and should’st thou like the plea,
Thank thou our valued friend, dear George, who taught it me.
28.
All is not false which seems at first a lie.
Fernan Antolinez a Spanish knight,
Knelt at the mass, when lo! the troops hard by
Before the expected hour began the fight.
Though courage, duty, honour, summon’d there,
He chose to forfeit all, not leave the unfinish’d prayer.
29.
But whil
e devoutly thus the unarm’d knight
Waits till the holy service should be o’er,
Even then the foremost in the furious fight
Was he beheld to bathe his sword in gore;
First in the van his plumes were seen to play,
And all to him decreed the glory of the day.
30.
The truth is told, and men at once exclaim,
Heaven had his Guardian Angel deign’d to send;
And thus the tale is handed down to fame.
Now if our good Sir Fernan had a friend
Who in this critical season served him well,
Bear George, the tale is true, and yet no miracle.
31.
I am not one who scan with scornful eyes
The dreams which make the enthusiast’s best delight;
Nor thou the legendary lore despise
If of Gualberto yet again I write,
How first impell’d he sought the convent-cell;
A simple tale it is, but one that pleased me well.
* * *
32.
Fortune had smiled upon Gualberto’s birth,
The heir of Valdespesa’s rich domains;
An only child, he grew in years and worth,
And well repaid a father’s anxious pains.
In many a field that father had been tried,
Well for his valour known, and not less known for pride.
33.
It chanced that one in kindred near allied
Was slain by his hereditary foe;
Much by his sorrow moved and more by pride,
The father vow’d that blood for blood should flow,
And from his youth Gualberto had been taught
That with unceasing hate should just revenge be sought.
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 123