Canto I.
Right beautiful is Torksey's hall,[1]
Adown by meadowed Trent;
Right beautiful that mouldering wall,
And remnant of a turret tall,
Shorn of its battlement.
For, while the children of the Spring
Blush into life, and die;
And Summer's joy-birds take light wing
When Autumn mists are nigh;
And soon the year—a winterling—
With its fall'n leaves doth lie;
That ruin gray—
Mirror'd, alway,
Deep in the silver stream,
Doth summon weird-wrought visions vast,
That show the actors of the past
Pictured, as in a dream.
Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes,
The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise,
Till the full pageant bright—
A throng of warrior-barons bold,
Glittering in burnished steel and gold,
Bursts on my glowing sight.
And, mingles with the martial train,
Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain,
On palfrey and jennet—
That proudly toss the tasselled rein,
And daintily curvet;
And war-steeds prance,
And rich plumes glance
On helm and burgonet;
And lances crash,
And falchions flash
Of knights in tourney met.
Fast fades the joust!—and fierce forms frown
That man the leaguered tower,—
Nor quail to scan the kingly crown
That leads the leaguering power.
Trumpet and "rescue" ring!—and, soon,
He who began the strife
Is fain to crave one paltry boon:—
The thrall-king begs his life!
Our fathers and their throbbing toil
Are hushed in pulseless death;
Hushed is the dire and deadly broil—
The tempest of their wrath;—
Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil
Is thine, O sateless Grave!
Songs of their brother-hours shall foil
Thy triumph o'er the brave!
Their bravery take, and darkly hide
Deep in thy inmost hold!
Take all their mailëd pomp and pride
To deck thy mansions cold!
Plunderer! thou hast but purified
Their memories from alloy:
Faults of the dead we scorn to chide—
Their virtues sing with joy.
Lord of our fathers' ashes! list
A carol of their mirth;
Nor shake thy nieve, chill moralist!
To check their sons' joy-birth:—
It is the season when our sires
Kept jocund holiday;
And, now, around our charier fires,
Old Yule shall have a lay:—
A prison-bard is once more free;
And, ere he yields his voice to thee,
His song a merry-song shall be!
————
Sir Wilfrid de Thorold[2] freely holds
What his stout sires held before—
Broad lands for plough, and fruitful folds,—
Though by gold he sets no store;
And he saith, from fen and woodland wolds,
From marish, heath, and moor,—
To feast in his hall,
Both free and thrall,
Shall come as they came of yore.
"Let the merry bells ring out!" saith he
To my lady of the Fosse;[3]
"We will keep the birth-eve joyfully
Of our Lord who bore the cross!"
"Let the merry bells ring loud!" he saith
To saint Leonard's shaven prior;[4]
"Bid thy losel monks that patter of faith
Shew works, and never tire."
Saith the lord of saint Leonard's: "The brotherhood
Will ring and never tire
For a beck or a nod of the Baron good;"—
Saith Sir Wilfrid: "They will—for hire!"
Then, turning to his daughter fair,
Who leaned on her father's carven chair,—
He said,—and smiled
On his peerless child,—
His jewel whose price no clerk could tell,
Though the clerk had told
Sea sands for gold;—
For her dear mother's sake he loved her well,—
But more for the balm her tenderness
Had poured on his widowed heart's distress;—
More, still more, for her own heart's grace
That so lovelily shone in her lovely face,
And drew all eyes its love to trace—
Left all tongues languageless!—
He said,—and smiled
On his peerless child,
"Sweet bird! bid Hugh our seneschal
Send to saint Leonard's, ere even-fall,
A fat fed beeve, and a two-shear sheep,
With a firkin of ale that a monk in his sleep
May hear to hum, when it feels the broach,
And wake up and swig, without reproach!—
And the nuns of the Fosse—for wassail-bread—
Let them have wheat, both white and red;
And a runlet of mead, with a jug of the wine
Which the merchant-man vowed he brought from the Rhine;
And bid Hugh say that their bells must ring
A peal loud and long,
While we chaunt heart-song,
For the birth of our heavenly king!"
Now merrily ring the lady-bells
Of the nunnery by the Fosse:—
Say the hinds, "Their silver music swells
Like the blessed angels' syllables,
At his birth who bore the cross!"
And solemnly swells saint Leonard's chime
And the great bell loud and deep:—
Say the gossips, "Let's talk of the holy time
When the shepherds watched their sheep;
And the Babe was born for all souls' crime
In the weakness of flesh to weep."—
But, anon, shrills the pipe of the merry mime,
And their simple hearts upleap.
"God save your souls, good Christian folk!
God save your souls from sin!—
Blythe Yule is come—let us blythely joke!"—
Cry the mummers, ere they begin.
Then, plough-boy Jack, in kirtle gay,—
Though shod with clouted shoon,—
Stands forth the wilful maid to play
Who ever saith to her lover "Nay"—
When he sues for a lover's boon.
While Hob the smith with sturdy arm
Circleth the feignëd maid;
And, spite of Jack's assumed alarm,
Busseth his lips, like a lover warm,
And will not "Nay" be said.
Then loffe the gossips, as if wit
Were mingled with the joke:—
Gentles,—they were with folly smit,—
Natheless, their memories acquit
Of crime—these simple folk!
No harmful thoughts their revels blight,—
Devoid of bitter hate and spite,
They hold their merriment;—
And, till the chimes tell noon at night,
Their joy shall be unspent!
"Come haste ye to bold Thorold's hall,
And crowd his kitchen wide;
For there, he saith, both free and thrall
Shall sport this good Yule-tide!
"Come hasten, gossips!" the mummers cry,
Throughout old Torksey town;
"We'll hasten!" they answer, joyfully,
The gossip and the clown.
Heigho! whence cometh that cheery shout?
'Tis the Yule-log troop,—a merry rout!
The gray old ash that so bravely stood,
The pride of the Past, in Thorney wood,[5]
They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule;
And kirtled Jack is placed astride:
On the log to the grunsel[6] he shall ride!
"Losels, yoke all! yoke to, and pull!"
Cries Dick the wright, on long-eared steed;
"He shall have thwack
On lazy back,
That yoketh him not, in time of need!"
A long wain-whip
Dick doth equip,
And with beans in the bladder at end of thong,
It seemeth to threaten strokes sturdy and strong;—
Yet clown and maid
Give eager aid,—
And all, as they rattle the huge block along,
Seem to court the joke
Of Dick's wain-whip stroke,—
Be it ever so smart, none thinks he hath wrong;—
Till with mirthsome glee,
The old ash tree
Hath come to the threshold of Torksey hall,—
Where its brave old heart
A glow shall impart
To the heart of each guest at the festival.
And through the porch, a jocund crowd,
They rush, with heart-born laughter loud;
And still the merry mimesters call,
With jest and gibe, "Laugh, losels all!"
Then in the laden sewers troop,
With plattered beef and foaming stoup:—
"Make merry, neighbours!" cries good Hugh,
The white-haired seneschal:
"Ye trow, bold Thorold welcomes you—
Make merry, my masters, all!"
They pile the Yule-log on the hearth,—
Soak toasted crabs in ale;
And while they sip, their homely mirth
Is joyous as if all the earth
For man were void of bale!
And why should fears for future years
Mix jolly ale with thoughts of tears
When in the horn 'tis poured?
And why should ghost of sorrow fright
The bold heart of an English wight
When beef is on the board?
De Thorold's guests are wiser than
The men of mopish lore;
For round they push the smiling can,
And slice the plattered store.
And round they thrust the ponderous cheese,
And the loaves of wheat and rye:
None stinteth him for lack of ease—
For each a stintless welcome sees,
In the Baron's blythesome eye.
The Baron joineth the joyous feast—
But not in pomp or pride;
He smileth on the humblest guest
So gladsomely—all feel that rest
Of heart which doth abide
Where deeds of generousness attest
The welcome by the tongue professed,
Is not within belied.
And the Baron's beauteous child is there,
In her maiden peerlessness,—
Her eyes diffusing heart-light rare,
And smiles so sweetly debonair,
That all her presence bless.—
But wherefore paleth, soon, her cheek?
And why, with trembling, doth she seek
To shun her father's gaze?
And who is he for whom the crowd
Make ready room, and "Welcome" loud
With gleeful voices raise?
"Right welcome!" though the revellers shout,
They hail the minstrel "Stranger!"
And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt,
And his daughter's look thrills "danger!"
Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold,
And his speech is firm and free;
He saith he will carol a legend old,
Of a Norman lord of Torksey told:
He learnt it o'er the sea;
And he will not sing for the Baron's gold,
But for love of minstrelsy.
"Come, tune thy harp!" the Baron saith,
"And tell thy minstrel tale:
It is too late to harbour wrath
For the thieves in helm and mail:
"Our fathers' home again is ours!—
Though Thorold is Saxon still,
To a song of thy foreign troubadours
He can list with right good will!"
A shout of glee rings to the roof,
And the revellers form a ring;
Then silent wait to mark what proof
Of skill with voice and string
The youthful stranger will afford.
Full soon he tunes each quivering chord,
And, with preamble wildly sweet
He doth the wondering listeners greet;—
Then strikes into a changeful chaunt
That fits his fanciful romaunt.