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The Blue Poetry Book
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Год написания книги: 2017
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A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte,And Christe receive thye saule.When thou from hence away art paste,Every nighte and alle,To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste,And Christe receive thye saule.If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,Every nighte and alle,Sit thee down and put them on,And Christe receive thye saule.If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest nane,Every nighte and alle,The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;And Christe receive thye saule.From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,Every nighte and alle,To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste,And Christe receive thye saule.… From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe,Every nighte and alle,To Purgatory fire thou comest at last,And Christe receive thye saule.If ever thou gavest meat or drink,Every nighte and alle,The fire sall never make thee shrinke,And Christe receive thye saule.If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,Every nighte and alle,The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;And Christe receive thye saule.This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte,And Christe receive thye saule.THE RED FISHERMAN; OR, THE DEVIL’S DECOY
‘Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified.’ —Romeo and Juliet.The Abbot arose, and closed his book,And donned his sandal shoon,And wandered forth, alone, to lookUpon the summer moon:A starlight sky was o’er his head,A quiet breeze around;And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,And the waves a soothing sound:It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aughtBut love and calm delight;Yet the holy man had a cloud of thoughtOn his wrinkled brow that night.He gazed on the river that gurgled by,But he thought not of the reeds;He clasped his gilded rosary,But he did not tell the beads;If he looked to the heaven, ’twas not to invokeThe Spirit that dwelleth there;If he opened his lips, the words they spokeHad never the tone of prayer.A pious priest might the Abbot seem,He had swayed the crozier well;But what was the theme of the Abbot’s dream,The Abbot were loath to tell.Companionless, for a mile or moreHe traced the windings of the shore.Oh, beauteous is that river still,As it winds by many a sloping hill,And many a dim o’erarching grove,And many a flat and sunny cove,And terraced lawns, whose bright arcadesThe honeysuckle sweetly shades,And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,So gay they are with grass and flowers!But the Abbot was thinking of sceneryAbout as much, in sooth,As a lover thinks of constancy,Or an advocate of truth.He did not mark how the skies in wrathGrew dark above his head;He did not mark how the mossy pathGrew damp beneath his tread;And nearer he came, and still more near,To a pool, in whose recessThe water had slept for many a yearUnchanged and motionless;From the river-stream it spread awayThe space of half a rood;The surface had the hue of clayAnd the scent of human blood;The trees and the herbs that round it grewWere venomous and foul,And the birds that through the bushes flewWere the vulture and the owl;The water was as dark and rankAs ever a company pumped,And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank,Grew rotten while it jumped;And bold was he who thither cameAt midnight, man or boy,For the place was cursed with an evil name,And that name was ‘The Devil’s Decoy!’The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:When suddenly rose a dismal tone, —Was it a song, or was it a moan? —‘O ho! O ho!Above, – below, —Lightly and brightly they glide and go!The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,He looked to the left and he looked to the right,And what was the vision close before him,That flung such a sudden stupor o’er him?’Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,And the life-blood colder run:The startled Priest struck both his thighs,And the abbey clock struck one!All alone, by the side of the pool,A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,And putting in order his reel and rod;Red were the rags his shoulders wore,And a high red cap on his head he bore;His arms and his legs were long and bare;And two or three locks of long red hairWere tossing about his scraggy neck,Like a tattered flag o’er a splitting wreck.It might be time, or it might be trouble,Had bent that stout back nearly double,Sunk in their deep and hollow socketsThat blazing couple of Congreve rockets,And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skinTill it hardly covered the bones within.The line the Abbot saw him throwHad been fashioned and formed long ages ago.And the hands that worked his foreign vestLong ages ago had gone to their rest:You would have sworn, as you looked on them,He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,As he took forth a bait from his iron box.Minnow or gentle, worm or fly, —It seemed not such to the Abbot’s eye;Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem,And its shape was the shape of a diadem.It was fastened a gleaming hook aboutBy a chain within and a chain without;The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!From the bowels of the earthStrange and varied sounds had birth:Now the battle’s bursting peal,Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;Now an old man’s hollow groanEchoed from the dungeon stone;Now the weak and wailing cryOf a stripling’s agony! —Cold by this was the midnight airBut the Abbot’s blood ran colder,When he saw a gasping Knight lie there,With a gash beneath his clotted hair,And a hump upon his shoulder.And the loyal churchman strove in vainTo mutter a Pater Noster;For he who writhed in mortal painWas camped that night on Bosworth plain —The cruel Duke of Gloster!There was turning of keys, and creaking of locksAs he took forth a bait from his iron box.It was a haunch of princely size,Filling with fragrance earth and skies.The corpulent Abbot knew full wellThe swelling form, and the steaming smell:Never a monk that wore a hoodCould better have guessed the very woodWhere the noble hart had stood at bay,Weary and wounded, at close of day.Sounded then the noisy gleeOf a revelling company, —Sprightly story, wicked jest,Rated servant, greeted guest,Flow of wine and flight of cork,Stroke of knife and thrust of fork:But, where’er the board was spread,Grace, I ween, was never said! —Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat;And the Priest was ready to vomit,When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,With a belly as big as a brimming vat,And a nose as red as a comet.‘A capital stew,’ the Fisherman said,‘With cinnamon and sherry!’And the Abbot turned away his head,For his brother was lying before him deadThe Mayor of St. Edmund’s Bury!There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,As he took forth a bait from his iron box.It was a bundle of beautiful things, —A peacock’s tail, and a butterfly’s wings,A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,And a packet of letters, from whose sweet foldSuch a stream of delicate odours rolled,That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted.And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,And the breath of vernal gales,And the voice of nightingales:But the nightingales were mute,Envious, when an unseen luteShaped the music of its chordsInto passion’s thrilling words:‘Smile, Lady, smile! I will not setUpon my brow the coronet.Till thou wilt gather roses whiteTo wear around its gems of light.Smile, Lady, smile! – I will not seeRivers and Hastings bend the knee,Till those bewitching lips of thineWill bid me rise in bliss from mine.Smile, Lady, smile! for who would winA loveless throne through guilt and sin?Or who would reign o’er vale and hill,If woman’s heart were rebel still?’One jerk, and there a lady lay,A lady wondrous fair;But the rose of her lip had faded away,And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay,And torn was her raven hair.‘Ah, ha!’ said the Fisher, in merry guise,‘Her gallant was hooked before;’And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs,For oft he had blessed those deep-blue eyes,The eyes of Mistress Shore!There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,As he took forth a bait from his iron box.Many the cunning sportsman tried,Many he flung with a frown aside;A minstrel’s harp, and a miser’s chest,A hermit’s cowl, and a baron’s crest,Jewels of lustre, robes of price,Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,And golden cups of the brightest wineThat ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine.There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,As he came at last to a bishop’s mitre!From top to toe the Abbot shook,As the Fisherman armed his golden hook,And awfully were his features wroughtBy some dark dream or wakened thought.Look how the fearful felon gazesOn the scaffold his country’s vengeance raises,When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dryWith the thirst which only in death shall die:Mark the mariner’s frenzied frownAs the swirling wherry settles down,When peril has numbed the sense and will,Though the hand and the foot may struggle still:Wilder far was the Abbot’s glance,Deeper far was the Abbot’s trance:Fixed as a monument, still as air,He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayerBut he signed – he knew not why or how, —The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,As he stalked away with his iron box.‘O ho! O ho!The cock doth crow;It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine!He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line;Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south,The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!’The Abbot had preached for many yearsWith as clear articulationAs ever was heard in the House of PeersAgainst Emancipation:His words had made battalions quake,Had roused the zeal of martyrs,Had kept the Court an hour awake,And the King himself three-quarters:But ever since that hour, ’tis said,He stammered and he stuttered,As if an axe went through his headWith every word he uttered.He stuttered o’er blessing, he stuttered o’er ban,He stuttered drunk or dry;And none but he and the FishermanCould tell the reason why!W. M. Praed.BOADICEA
AN ODEWhen the British warrior-queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought, with an indignant mien,Counsel of her country’s gods,Sage beneath a spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief,Ev’ry burning word he spoke,Full of rage and full of grief.‘Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,’Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.‘Rome shall perish – write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d,Deep in ruin as in guilt.‘Rome, for empire far renown’d,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground —Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.‘Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier’s name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.‘Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.‘Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway,Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.’Such the bard’s prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.She, with all a monarch’s pride,Felt them in her bosom glow,Rush’d to battle, fought, and died;Dying, hurl’d them at the foe.Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heav’n awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestow’d,Shame and ruin wait for you.W. COWPER.ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES [1831]
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic lightEngendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height;Spirits of Power, assembled there, complainFor kindred Power departing from their sight;While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,Saddens his voice again, and yet again.Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the mightOf the whole world’s good wishes with him goes;Blessings and prayers in nobler retinueThan sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!W. Wordsworth.1
The evil spirit of the waters.
2
Fail, ‘turf.’
3
Inch. isle.
4
The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe.
5
Fend, ‘support.’
