The Library of Poetry and Song

Fayn wolde I doon 1 yow myrthè, wiste I how.
And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght,
To doon you ese, and it shal costè noght.

Ye goon to Canterbury, God you speede,
The blisful martir quitè yow youre meede ! 2
And wei I woot as ye goon by the weye
Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye;
For trewèly confort ne myrthe is noon
To ride by the weye doumb as the stoon;
And therefore wol I maken you disport,
As I seyde erst, and doon you som confort.

That ech of yow to shortè with oure weye,
In this viage shal tellè talès tweye,5 -
To Caunterburyward, I mean it so,
And homward he shal tellen othere two,
Of aventures that whilom han bifalle.

And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle,
That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas
Tales of best sentence, and most solaas,7
Shal have a soper at oure aller cost,

Heere in this place, syttynge by this post,
Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.
And, for to make you the moore mury,
I wol my-selfè gladly with yow ryde,
Right at myn owenè cost, and be youre gyde.
And who so wole my juggèment withseye8
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.
And if ye vouchè-sauf that it be so,
Tel me anon, with-outen wordès mo,
And I wol erly shapè9 me therfore."

This thyng was graunted, and oure othès swore
With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also
That he would vouchè-sauf for to do so,
And that he wolde been oure governour,
And of oure talès juge and reportour,
And sette a soper at a certeyn pris
And we wol reulèd been 10 at his devys
In heigh and lough; and thus by oon assent
We been acorded to his juggèment.
And ther-up-on the wyn was fet anon;
We dronken and to restè wente echon
With-outen any lenger taryÿnge.

The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone;
Or listened all, in grim delight,
While scalds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth in frenzy would they hic,
While wildly loose their red locks fly;
And, dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled
And brought blithe Christmas back again
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night:

On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed her pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of "post and pair.'
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;

Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high.
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell

How, when, and where the monster fell:

O, those ancient lords of old, how magnificent they were!

They threw down and imprisoned kings, to thwart them who might dare?

They ruled their serfs right sternly; they took from Jews their gold,

[In Eastern history are two Iskanders, or Alexanders, who are sometimes confounded, and both of whom are called Doolkarnein, or the Two-Horned, in allusion to their subjugation of East and West, horns being an Oriental symbol of power.

One of these heroes is Alexander of Macedon; the other a con. queror of more ancient times, who built the marvellous series of ramparts on Mount Caucasus, known in fable as the wall of Gog

Above both law and equity were those great lords and Magog, that is to say, of the people of the North. It reached of old!

O, the gallant knights of old, for their valor so renowned !

from the Euxine Sea to the Caspian, where its flanks originated the subsequent appellation of the Caspian Gates.]

WITH awful walls, far glooming, that possessed The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian fountains,

With sword and lance and armor strong they Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West,

scoured the country round;

And whenever aught to tempt them they met by

wood or wold,

Shut up the northern nations in their moun-
tains;

And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew,
Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of

wonder,

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At last they came where still, in dread array,
As though they still might speak, the trumpets
lay.

Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground,
The rifted rocks, for hands, about them cling-
ing,

Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as
round

And firm as when the rocks were first set ringing.

Fresh from their unimaginable mould

They might have seemed, save that the storms had stained them

With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold In the bright sunshine, beauteously ingrained them.

When thunder spoke, or when the earthquake Breathless the gazers looked, nigh faint for awe, stirred, Then leaped, then laughed. What was it now they saw?

Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard.

But when the winters marred the mountain | Myriads of birds.
shelves,
The trumpets
voices !

And softer changes came with vernal mornings,
Something had touched the trumpets' lofty selves,
And less and less rang forth their sovereign

Is he then dead? Can great Doolkarnein die?
Or can his endless hosts elsewhere be needed?
Were the great breaths that blew his minstrelsy
Phantoms, that faded as himself receded?
Or is he angered? Surely he still comes;

This silence ushers the dread visitation;
Sudden will burst the torrent of his drums,
And then will follow bloody desolation.

So did fear dream; though now, with not a sound To scare good hope, suminer had twice crept round.

Then gathered in a band, with lifted eyes,

Myriads of birds, that filled all with nests and nestling

The great, huge, stormy music had been stilled
By the soft needs that nursed those small,

THERE came a man, making his hasty moan
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,
And crying out, "My sorrow is my right,
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night."
"Sorrow," said Mahmoud, "is a reverend thing:
I recognize its right, as king with king;
Speak on." "A fiend has got into my house,"
Exclaimed the staring man, "and tortures us,
One of thine officers; he comes, the abhorred,

The neighbors, and those silent heights as- And takes possession of my house, my board,

cended.

Giant, nor aught blasting their bold emprise, They met, though twice they halted, breath suspended:

Once, at a coming like a god's in rage

My bed; I have two daughters and a wife, And the wild villain comes and makes me mad with life."

"Is he there now?" said Mahmoud. "No; he left

With thunderous leaps, - but 't was the piled The house when I did, of my wits bereft,

snow, falling;

And once, when in the woods an oak, for age,
Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling.

And laughed me down the street, because I vowed
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his

shroud.

I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery, And, O thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee !"

The Sultan comforted the man, and said, "Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread" (For he was poor) "and other comforts. Go; And should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud know."

In three days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,
And shaken voice, the suitor reappeared,
And said, "He's come." Mahmoud said not a
word,

But rose and took four slaves, each with a sword, And went with the vexed man. They reach the place,

And hear a voice, and see a woman's face,
That to the window fluttered in affright:
"Go in," said Mahmoud, "and put out the light;
But tell the females first to leave the room;
And when the drunkard follows them, we come.'

"Now light the light," the Sultan cried aloud :
T was done: he took it in his hand and bowed
Over the corpse, and looked upon the face;
Then turned and knelt, and to the throne of grace
Put up a prayer, and from his lips there crept
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.
In reverent silence the beholders wait,
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;
And when he had refreshed his noble heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.

The man amazed, all mildness now and tears,
Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers,
And begged him to vouchsafe to tell his slave
The reason first of that command he gave
About the light; then, when he saw the face,
Why he knelt down; and lastly, how it was
That fare so poor as his detained him in the place.

The Sultan said, with a benignant eye,
"Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry,
I could not rid me of a dread, that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine,ay, e'en perhaps a

son.

For this I had the light put out: but when I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,

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Day was breaking When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof, Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head

Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip | Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom :

"Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God,
For he has smote thee with his chastening rod,
And to the desert wild

From all thou lov'st away thy feet must flee,
That from thy plague his people may be free.

"Depart! and come not near

The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er;
And stay thou not to hear
Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who in the wilderness pass by.

"Wet not thy burning lip

In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide,
Nor kneel thee down to dip

The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

"And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze, And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen;

Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, Nor pluck the standing corn or yellow grain.

"And now depart! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him

Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel his chastening rod. Depart! O leper! and forget not God!"

And he went forth-alone! not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,
Sick and heart-broken and alone, to die!
For God had cursed the leper!

It was noon,
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying that he might be so blest, — to die!
Footsteps approached, and with no strength to
flee,

He drew the covering closer on his lip,

His stature modelled with a perfect grace;
His countenance, the impress of a God,
Touched with the open innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,
As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down,
He took a little water in his hand

And laid it on his brow, and said, “Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

GODIVA.

NOT only we, the latest seed of Time,
New men, that in the flying of a wheel
Cry down the past; not only we, that prate
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well,
And loathed to see them overtaxed; but she
Did more, and underwent, and overcame,
The woman of a thousand summers back,
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl who ruled
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought
Their children, clamoring, "If we pay, we
starve!"

Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds She sought her lord, and found him, where he

Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the stranger came, and, bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name.
"Helon!"- the voice was like the master-

tone

Of a rich instrument, most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
"Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye
As he beheld the stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow
The symbol of a princely lineage wore;
No followers at his back, nor in his hand
Buckler or sword or spear, yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled,
A kingly condescension graced his lips
The lion would have crouched to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn ;

strode

About the hall, among his dogs, alone,

His beard a foot before him, and his hair
A yard behind. She told him of their tears,
And prayed him, "If they pay this tax, they
starve."

Whereat he stared, replying, half amazed,
"You would not let your little finger ache
For such as these?" "But I would die," said she.
He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul :
Then filliped at the diamond in her ear;
“O, ay, ay, ay, you talk!" "Alas!" she said,
"But prove me what it is I would not do."
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand,
He answered, “Ride you naked through the town,
And I repeal it ;" and nodding, as in scorn,
He parted, with great strides among his dogs.
So left alone, the passions of her mind,
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
Made war upon each other for an hour,
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth,

And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all The hard condition; but that she would loose

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The Library of Poetry and Song, Volume 2