Читать книгу My Commonplace Book - Various - Страница 9
ОглавлениеLet us hope that the present war will be a successful “Crusade” and that the Turks will disappear from the land which is sacred to the memory of our Lord.
Discedant nunc amores; maneat Amor.
(Loves, farewell; let Love, the sole, remain.)
Author not traced.
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Christina Rossetti
Compare Shakespeare’s sonnet LXXI:
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
... for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
I saw a son weep o’er a mother’s grave:
“Ay, weep, poor boy—weep thy most bitter tears
That thou shalt smile so soon. We bury Love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is the thing to weep for, not the dead.”
Alexander Smith (A Boy’s Poem)
UNTIL DEATH
If thou canst love another, be it so.
I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go.
Love shall not be a slave....
It would not make me sleep more peacefully,
That thou wert waiting all thy life in woe
For my poor sake. What love thou hast for me
Bestow it ere I go....
Forget me when I die. The violets
Above my rest will blossom just as blue
Nor miss thy tears—E’en Nature’s self forgets—
But while I live be true.
F. A. Westbury.
These verses are by a South Australian writer. “Forget me when I die” is an unpleasing sentiment; yet in “When I am dead, my dearest,” Christina Rossetti says:
If thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
As regards the latter poem, the curious fact is that it is read as an exquisite piece of music, and not for any poetic thought it contains. If it has any coherent meaning, it is that the speaker is indifferent whether or not “her dearest” will remember her or she will remember him. Yet the haunting music of the lines has made it a favourite poem, and it finds a place in all the leading anthologies. Christina Rossetti is by no means a great poet. (Mr. Gosse’s estimate in the Britannica is exaggerated), but she had a wonderful gift of language and metre. Take, for example, the pretty lilt contained in the simplest words in “Maiden-Song”:
Long ago and long ago,
And long ago still,
There dwelt three merry maidens
Upon a distant hill.
One was tall Meggan,
And one was dainty May,
But one was fair Margaret,
More fair than I can say,
Long ago and long ago.
And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,
Am I not richer than of old?
Safe in thy immortality,
What change can reach the wealth I hold?
What chance can mar the pearl and gold
Thy love hath left in trust for me?
And while in life’s long afternoon,
Where cool and long the shadows grow,
I walk to meet the night that soon
Shall shape and shadow overflow,
I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;
And when the sunset gates unbar,
Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
The welcome of thy beckoning hand?
John Greenleaf Whittier (Snow-Bound).
I have a dream—that some day I shall go
At break of dawn adown a rainy street,
A grey old street, and I shall come in the end
To the little house I have known, and stand; and you,
Mother of mine, who watch and wait for me.
Will you not hear my footstep in the street,
And, as of old, be ready at the door,
To give me rest again?... I shall come home.
H. D. Lowry.
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
William Wordsworth
Written of the poet’s child Catherine, who died in 1812 at three years of age, and of whom Wordsworth had also written, “Loving she is, and tractable, though wild.” Forty years after the death of this child and her brother, who died about the same time, the poet spoke of them to Aubrey de Vere with the same acute sense of bereavement as if they had only recently died.
DEATH
It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;
That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright
Be lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;
It is not death to know this,—but to know
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
So duly and so oft—and when grass waves
Over the passed-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men.
Thomas Hood.
A little pain, a little fond regret,
A little shame, and we are living yet,
While love, that should outlive us, lieth dead.
W. Morris.
O never rudely will I blame his faith
In the might of stars and angels!...
... For the stricken heart of Love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import
Lurks in the legend told my infant years
Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn,
For fable is Love’s world, his home, his birth-place:
Delightedly dwells he ’mong fays and talismans,
And spirits; and delightedly believes
Divinities, being himself divine.
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,
The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,
That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and wat’ry depths; all these have vanished.
They live no longer in the faith of reason!
But still the heart doth need a language, still
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,
And to yon starry world they now are gone,
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
With man as with their friend; and to the lover
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
Shoot influence down: and even at this day
’Tis Jupiter who brings whate’er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that’s fair.
S. T. Coleridge (Wallenstein—The Piccolomini).
His faith.—Wallenstein, the great German soldier and statesman (1583-1634) believed in astrology.
The “intelligible forms of ancient poets” and “fair humanities of old religion” are the gods and inferior divinities that please our fancy. Thus the Greeks peopled the heavens (not very distant heavens to them) with their gods who visited earth and mingled with men. There were also the lesser deities, as the Hours and the Graces; and also the Nymphs—the Nereïds, Naiads, Orcades and Dryads—who inhabited seas, springs, rivers, and trees respectively. The Nymphs would correspond somewhat to the elves, gnomes and fairies of Northern religions.
Coleridge’s translation of “Wallenstein” (of which “The Piccolomini” is a portion) is considered a masterpiece. Schiller was fortunate in having a finer poet than himself to translate his drama. In the above passage Coleridge greatly improved on the original; the seven splendid lines beginning “The intelligible forms of ancient poets” are his and not Schiller’s; and, therefore, this passage may fairly be ascribed to him as author.
By rose-hung river and light-foot rill
There are who rest not; who think long
Till they discern as from a hill
At the sun’s hour of morning song.
Known of souls only, and those souls free,
The sacred spaces of the sea.
A. C. Swinburne (Prelude—Songs before Sunrise).
The sea typifies the wider, nobler life of the soul.
Je prends mon bien où je le trouve.
(I take my property wherever I find it.)
Molière (1622-1673).
This famous saying is quoted in French literature as though Molière had said, “I admit plagiarism, but I so improve what I borrow from others that it becomes my own” (see Larousse, under “Bien”).
“Tho’ old the thought and oft expressed,
’Tis his at last who says it best.”
It is, however, an interesting question whether this was the true meaning intended by Molière.
The story is told by Grimarest, the first biographer of the great dramatist. In 1671 Molière produced Les Fourberies de Scapin, in which he had inserted two scenes taken from Le Pedant Joué, of Cyrano de Bergerac (1619-1655). (They are the amusing scenes where Geronte repeatedly says, Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère, “What the deuce was he doing in that Turkish galley?”) Grimarest says that Cyrano had used in these scenes what he had overheard from Molière, and that the latter, when taxed with the plagiarism, replied, “Je reprends mon bien où je le trouve” (“I take back my property, wherever I find it”). That is to say, he definitely denied the plagiarism.
Voltaire, in a “Life of Molière,” makes a general assertion (not referring specially to this incident) that all Grimarest’s stories are false. This must, of course, be far too sweeping an assertion, and Grimarest is in fact quoted as an authority. Voltaire himself (1694-1778) uses the saying in the sense given by Grimarest (La Pucelle, Chant III.):
Cette culotte est mienne; et je prendrai
Ce que fut mien où je le trouverai.
(“These breeches are mine, and I shall take what was mine wherever I find it.”) Agnès Sorel had been captured dressed as a man and wearing the garment in question, which had been previously stolen from the speaker.
It seems to me that Grimarest’s story must be accepted, that Molière claimed the scenes as originally his and denied plagiarism. There is no evidence to the contrary, and the saying is given its obvious meaning. (It is word for word as in the Digest, Ubi rem meam invenio, ibi vindico, “Where I find my own property, I appropriate it.”) But the question then arises, Why should so commonplace a statement have attained such notoriety?
The explanation seems simple. Molière had many jealous and bitter enemies, who laid every charge they could against him. He was well known to have borrowed ideas, characters and scenes in all directions—and his enemies constantly and persistently attacked him on this ground. Then came his most glaring plagiarism from a comparatively recent play, written by a man whose dare-devil exploits had made him a perfect hero of romance. Molière’s story that Cyrano had previously stolen the scenes from him would not been have accepted for a moment. Cyrano had never been known to plagiarize, nor would it have been natural for a man of his character to do anything clandestine. Also Molière would have had nothing to support his statement—and Cyrano was not alive to contradict him. The conclusion, therefore, seems to be that the dramatist’s statement was received in Paris with such incredulity, indignation, and ridicule that it became a byword.
But if this is so, why have the words been given an entirely fictitious meaning? The answer seems to lie in the fact that as Molière’s great genius became realized the desire arose to remove a blemish from his character. His is the greatest name in French literature, and almost anything would be excused in him. (We ourselves pass lightly over plagiarisms by Shakespeare.) Also, whether morally justified or not, Molière enriched the world’s literature by his borrowings. It was, therefore, no serious matter to Frenchmen that he should have borrowed from Cyrano, but it was a distinct blemish on his character that he should have denied the fact and also slandered a dead man. Ordinarily, in such a case, the story is ignored and forgotten, just as the one improper act of Sir Walter Scott, his borrowing from Coleridge of the “Christabel” metre, is usually ignored or slurred over. But the saying had become rooted in literature and this course was not practicable. However, there is little that enthusiasm cannot accomplish by some means or other, and the object in this instance has been achieved by reversing the meaning of Molière’s words. If this conjecture is correct, it is an illustration of what has occurred on a far greater scale in connection with the Greeks (see Index of Subjects).
As regards the meaning now given to the saying, Seneca claimed the same right to borrow at will. Quidquid bene dictum est ab ullo, meum est (Ep. XVI). After advising his reader to consider the Epistle carefully and see what value it had for him, he says, “You need not be surprised if I am still free with other people’s property. But why do I say ‘other people’s property’? Whatever has been well said by anyone belongs to me.”[13]
So also the late Samuel Butler said, “Appropriate things are meant to be appropriated.”
Our finest hope is finest memory,
As they who love in age think youth is blest
Because it has a life to fill with love.
George Eliot (A Minor Poet).
The disposition to judge every enterprise by its event, and believe in no wisdom that is not endorsed by success, is apt to grow upon us with years, till we sympathize with nothing for which we cannot take out a policy of assurance.
James Martineau (Hours of Thought I, 87).
If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination. Once begin upon this downward path, you never know where you are to stop. Many a man has dated his ruin from some murder or other that perhaps he thought little of at the time.
De Quincey (Murder, as one of the Fine Arts).
For when the mellow autumn flushed
The thickets, where the chestnut fell,
And in the vales the maple blushed,
Another came who knew her well,
Who sat with her below the pine
And with her through the meadow moved,
And underneath the purpling vine
She sang to him the song I loved.
N. G. Shepherd.
Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn’t room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me, sitting down on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg, “You know, Trotwood, I don’t want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that signify to me!”
Dickens (David Copperfield).
(After looking at his watch) “Two days wrong!” sighed the Hatter. “I told you butter would not suit the works!” he added, looking angrily at the March Hare.
“It was the best butter,” the March Hare replied.
Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland).
“They were learning to draw,” the Dormouse went on, “and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—”
“Why with an M?” said Alice.
“Why not?” said the March Hare.
Alice was silent.
Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland).
Perhaps, as two negatives make one affirmative, it may be thought that two layers of moonshine might coalesce into one pancake; and two Barmecide banquets might be the square root of one poached egg.
Author not traced.
In a Dublin lunatic asylum, one of the inmates peremptorily ordered a visitor to take off his hat. Deferentially obeying the order, the visitor asked why he should remove his hat. The lunatic replied: “Do you not know, sir, that I am the Crown Prince of Prussia?” Having duly made his apologies, the visitor proceeded on his round; but, coming upon the same lunatic, was met with the same demand. Again obeying the order, he repeated the question: “May I ask why you wish me to take off my hat?” The lunatic replied: “Are you not aware, sir, that I am the Prince of Wales?” “But,” said the visitor, “you told me just now you were the Crown Prince of Prussia.” The lunatic, after scratching his head and deliberating for a moment, replied: “Ah, but that was by a different mother.”
(Another Irish lunatic always lost himself and insisted on looking for himself under the bed.)
Author not traced.
These are true stories but localized—another injustice to Ireland!
When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.
(Much Ado About Nothing.)
Pointz. Come, your reason, Jack,—your reason.
Falstaff. Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.
(1 Henry IV, ii, 4.)
Reason needs to be given its old pronunciation, “raison” (or raisin) in order to understand Falstaff’s pun.
Still I cannot believe in clairvoyance—because the thing is impossible.
Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855 (Table Talk).
Rogers mentions some remarkable facts about the clairvoyant, Alexis, and ends with this convincing argument. Apart from clairvoyance (of which I know nothing), Rogers would no doubt have made a similar reply if some prophet had foretold that men would one day communicate with each other by wireless telegraphy; and the same effective argument is to-day opposed by many to the evidence that the dead communicate with the living.
I might follow the eight preceding quotations (which illustrate “the art of reasoning”) with the well-known story of Charles Lamb, who, when blamed for coming late to the office, excused himself on the ground that he always left early. (He also said, “A man could not have too little to do and too much time to do it in.”) There is also the reply of Lord Rothschild, when the cabman told him that his son paid better fares than he did, “Yes, but He has a rich father, and I haven’t.”
TO THE TRUE ROMANCE
Thy face is far from this our war,
Our call and counter-cry,
I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
Nor know Thee till I die.
Enough for me in dreams to see
And touch Thy garments’ hem:
Thy feet have trod so near to God
I may not follow them.
Through wantonness if men profess
They weary of Thy parts,
E’en let them die at blasphemy
And perish with their arts;
But we that love, but we that prove
Thine excellence august,
While we adore discover more
Thee perfect, wise, and just.
Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred
Beyond his belly-need,
What is is Thine of fair design
In thought and craft and deed;
Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
That was and that shall be,
And hope too high, wherefore we die,
Has birth and worth in Thee.
Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
To gild his dross thereby,
And knowledge sure that he endure
A child until he die—
For to make plain that man’s disdain
Is but new Beauty’s birth—
For to possess in loneliness
The joy of all the earth.
As thou didst teach all lovers speech
And Life all mystery,
So shalt Thou rule by every school
Till love and longing die,
Who wast or yet the Lights were set
A whisper in the Void,
Who shalt be sung through planets young
When this is clean destroyed.
Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,
Across the pressing dark,
The children wise of outer skies
Look hitherward and mark
A light that shifts, a glare that drifts
Rekindling thus and thus,
Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
Strange tales to them of us.
Time hath no tide but must abide
The servant of Thy will;
Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
The ranging stars stand still—
Regent of spheres that lock our fears
Our hopes invisible,
Oh! ’twas certés at Thy decrees
We fashioned Heaven and Hell!
Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
That lacks thy morning-eyne,
And captains bold by Thee controlled
Most like to God’s design;
Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
To lift them through the fight.
And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
To give the dead good-night.
A veil to draw ’twixt God, His law,
And Man’s infirmity,
A shadow kind to dumb and blind
The shambles where we die;
A rule to trick th’ arithmetic
Too base of leaguing odds—
The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
Thou handmaid of the Gods!
O Charity, all patiently
Abiding wrack and scaith!
O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
Yet drops no jot of faith!
Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
To higher, lordlier show,
Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
The careless angels know!
Thy face is far from this our war,
Our call and counter-cry,
I may not find Thee quick and kind,
Nor know Thee till I die.
Yet may I look with heart unshook
On blow brought home or missed—
Yet may I hear with equal ear
The clarions down the List;
Yet set my lance above mischance
And ride the barrière—
Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis,
My Lady is not there!
Rudyard Kipling.
All attempts to define poetic imagination, to determine its scope or prescribe its limits, leave us cold and unsatisfied, for the simple reason that its variety and range are unlimited. The aesthetic, moral and spiritual faculties are all in essence identical, so that no definition of the aesthetic can exclude the spiritual, and art and poetry spring from the same root as religion. They all have what Wordsworth calls the “Spirit of Paradise.”[14] Imagination[15] in its larger sense includes all those higher faculties of man, all that lifts him above his material existence. The “True Romance” in this fine poem is imagination in this complete sense. By our lower perceptive faculties we see the world of Nature in its material form; by our higher powers we apprehend its aesthetic, moral and spiritual beauty. (Man with his consciousness, will, reason, and also his higher imaginative faculties, is as much part of Nature as any star or clod, crystal or gas, fly or flower.) Hence imagination gives us the vision of glory in earth and sky, the sense of wonder and worship, the emotions of sympathy and love; it teaches us duty and self sacrifice; it awakens in us a sense of the mystery of birth, life and death, directing our thoughts from the finite and material world to the infinite realm of the spiritual.
Verse 4, lines 5, 6. Our faculties develop, and we realize, for example, the beauty of Nature which was not apparent to the Greeks of Plato’s time (see p. 379; see also p. 283). Verse 9, l. 5, 6. Imagination teaches us heroism. In the italicized verses, “our war” is, of course, the strife of our material existence: we can face with courage the mischances of life, seeing that “My Lady Romance,” the soul which is our higher nature, must persist through life and after death. (“Barrière,” barrier.)
We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our future selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into insipid misdoing and shabby achievement.
George Eliot (Middlemarch).
The stars make no noise.
Irish Proverb.
WHO FANCIED WHAT A PRETTY SIGHT
Who fancied what a pretty sight
This rock would be if edged around
With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard ground!
Who loved the little rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?
Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some gentle maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The Shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old man toying with his age?
I asked—’twas whispered, “The device
To each and all might well belong:
It is the Spirit of Paradise
That prompts such work, a Spirit strong
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.”
Wordsworth.
They who believe in the influences of the stars over the fates of men are, in feeling at least, nearer the truth than they who regard the heavenly bodies as related to them merely by a common obedience to an external law. All that man sees has to do with man. Worlds cannot be without an intermundane relationship. The community of the centre of all creation suggests an inter-radiating connection and dependence of the parts. Else a grander idea is conceivable than that which is already embodied. The blank, which is only a forgotten life lying behind the consciousness, and the misty splendour, which is an undeveloped life lying before it, may be full of mysterious revelations of other connections with the worlds around us than those of science and poetry. No shining belt or gleaming moon, no red and green glory in a self-encircling twin-star, but has a relation with the hidden things of a man’s soul, and, it may be, with the secret history of his body as well. They are portions of the living house within which he abides.
G. MacDonald (Phantastes).
O weary time, O life,
Consumed in endless, useless strife
To wash from out the hopeless clay
Of heavy day and heavy day
Some specks of golden love, to keep
Our hearts from madness ere we sleep!
W. Morris (The Earthly Paradise).
To an Australian, a metaphor taken from alluvial gold-mining is interesting.
(Dr. Slop has been uttering terrible curses against Obadiah) I declare, quoth my Uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the devil himself with so much bitterness.—He is the father of curses, replied Dr. Slop.—So am not I, replied my uncle.—But he is cursed and damned already to all eternity, replied Dr. Slop.
I am sorry for it, quoth my Uncle Toby.
Laurence Sterne (Tristram Shandy).
Faust. If heaven was made for man, ’twas made for me.
Good Angel. Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee.
Bad Angel. Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee.
Faust. Be I a devil, yet God may pity me.
Marlowe (Doctor Faustus).
But fare-you-well, Auld Nickie-Ben!
O, wad ye tak a thought and men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake:
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!
Robert Burns (Address to the Deil).
“Shargar, what think ye? Gin the deil war to repent, wad God forgie him?”
“There’s no sayin’ what folk wad dae till ance they’re tried,” returned Shargar cautiously.
George MacDonald (Robert Falconer, ch. xii.)
There is a passage, I think in one of MacDonald’s novels, where the question is again put, “Gin the de’il war to repent?” The reply is to the effect, “Do not wish even him anything so dreadful. The agony of his repentance would be far worse than anything he can suffer in hell.”
Scotus Erigena, a very able Irish theologian and philosopher of the 9th century, believed that Satan himself must ultimately be reclaimed, since otherwise God could not in the end conquer and extinguish sin. He cites Origen and others in support of his contention. These old and very serious discussions seem more remote than Plato, but the belief in a personal devil was not uncommon even in my young days.
Hope, whose eyes
Can sound the seas unsoundable, the skies
Inaccessible of eyesight; that can see
What earth beholds not, hear what wind and sea
Hear not, and speak what all these crying in one
Can speak not to the sun.
Swinburne (Thalassius).
AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE
In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene, shine
And hot upon the meads did cast his ray;
The apple reddened from its paly green,
And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;
The pied chelándry sang the livelong day; goldfinch
’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere. apparel
The sun was gleaming in the midst of day.
Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,
When from the sea arose in drear array
A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,
The which full fast unto the woodland drew,
Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,
And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.
Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-side holm-oak
Which did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead,
A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,
Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothing
Long brimful of the miseries of need.
Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?
He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.
Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;
How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!
Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man! grave
Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.
Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head
Are Charity and Love among high elves;
For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.
The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,
The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain;
The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall, gloom, appal
And the full flocks are driving o’er the plain;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again;
The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies,
And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.
List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy sound
Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,
Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;
The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs; swings
Again the lightning, and the thunder pours,
And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.
Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain,
The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came;
His chapournette was drenched with the rain, small round hat
His painted girdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same; told his beads
The storm increases, and he drew aside, backwards,
With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide. i.e., cursed
His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,
With a gold button fastened near his chin,
His autremete was edged with golden twine, robe
And his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;
Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.
The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,
For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.
“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,
“Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,
Till the sun shineth high above our head,
And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.
No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,
All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.” crucifix
“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;
This is no season alms and prayers to give.
My porter never lets a beggar in;
None touch my ring who not in honour live.”
And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,
And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;
The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.
Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,
Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;
Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.
His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean; short surplice
A Limitor he was of order seen; Begging Friar
And from the pathway-side then turnèd he,
Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.
“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,
“For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.”
The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,
And did thereout a groat of silver take:
The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,
“Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care,
We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear.
“But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.
Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord;
Here, take my semicope, thou’rt bare, I see. short cloak
’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.”
He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde. went on his way
Virgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure, glory
Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!
Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770).
