Tales from the Gesta Romanorum

by Unknown

THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD.

“In days of yore, at least a century since,

There liv’d a carle as wealthy as a prince:

His name I wot not, but his wide domain

Was rich with stream and forest, mead and plain;

To crown the whole, one manor he possess’d

In choice delight so passing all the rest,

No castle, burgh, or city might compare

With the quaint beauties of that mansion rare.

The sooth to say, I fear my words may seem

Like some strange fabling, or fantastic dream,

If, unadvis’d, the portraiture I trace,

And each brave pleasure of that peerless place.

Foreknow ye, then, by necromantic might

Was rais’d this paradise of all delight:

A good knight own’d it first; he, bow’d with age,

Died, and his son possess’d the heritage:

But the lewd stripling, all to riot bent

(His chattles quickly wasted and forespent),

Was driven to see this patrimony sold

To the base carle of whom I lately told.

Ye wot right well there only need be sought

One spendthrift heir, to bring great wealth to nought.

A lofty tower and strong, the building stood

’Midst a vast plain surrounded by a flood;

And hence one pebble-paved channel stray’d,

That compass’d in a clustering orchard’s shade;

’Twas a choice, charming plat; abundant round;

Flowers, roses, odorous spices cloth’d the ground;

Unnumber’d kinds, and all profusely shower’d

Such aromatic balsam as they flower’d,

Their fragrance might have stay’d man’s parting breath,

And chased the hovering agony of death.

The sward one level held, and close above,

Tall shapely trees their leafy mantles wove,

All equal growth, and low their branches came,

Thick set with goodliest fruits of every name.

In midst, to cheer the ravish’d gazer’s view,

A gushing fount its waters upward threw,

Thence slowly on with crystal current pass’d,

And crept into the distant flood at last:

But nigh its source a pine’s umbrageous head

Stretch’d far and wide in deathless verdure spread,

Met with broad shade the summer’s sultry gleam,

And through the livelong year shut out the beam.

Such was the scene: yet still the place was bless’d

With one rare pleasure passing all the rest:

A wondrous bird of energies divine

Had fix’d his dwelling in the tufted pine;

There still he sat, and there with amorous lay

Waked the dim morn, and closed the parting day:

Match’d with these strains of linked sweetness wrought,

The violin and full-toned harp were nought;

Of power they were with new-born joy to move

The cheerless heart of long-desponding love;

Of power so strange, that should they cease to sound,

And the blithe songster flee the mystic ground,

That goodly orchard’s scene, the pine-tree’s shade,

Trees, flowers, and fount, would all like vapor fade.

‘Listen, listen to my lay!’

Thus the merry notes did chime,

‘All who mighty love obey,

Sadly wasting in your prime,

Clerk and laic, grave and gay!

Yet do ye, before the rest,

Gentle maidens, mark me tell!

Store my lesson in your breast,

Trust me it shall profit well:

Hear, and heed me, and be bless’d!’

So sang the bird of old; but when he spied

The carle draw near, with alter’d tone he cried—

‘Back, river, to thy source! and thee, tall tower,

Thee, castle strong, may gaping earth devour!

Bend down your heads, ye gaudy flowers, and fade!

And wither’d be each fruit-tree’s mantling shade!

Beneath these beauteous branches once were seen,

Brave gentle knights disporting on the green,

And lovely dames; and oft, these flowers among,

Stray’d the blithe bands, and joyed to hear my song:

Nor would they hence retire, nor quit the grove,

Till many a vow were pass’d of mutual love;

These more would cherish, those would more deserve;

Cost, courtesy, and arms, and nothing swerve.

O bitter change! for master now we see

A faitour villain carle of low degree;

Foul gluttony employs his livelong day,

Nor heeds, nor hears he my melodious lay.’

So spake the bird; and, as he ceas’d to sing,

Indignantly he clapp’d his downy wing,

And straight was gone; but no abasement stirr’d

In the clown’s breast at his reproachful word:

Bent was his wit alone by quaint device

To snare, and sell him for a passing price.

So well he wrought, so craftily he spread

In the thick foliage green his slender thread,

That when at eve the little songster sought

His wonted spray, his little foot was caught.

‘How have I harm’d you?’ straight he ’gan to cry,

‘And wherefore would you doom me thus to die?’

‘Nay, fear not,’ quoth the clown, ‘for death or wrong;

I only seek to profit by thy song:

I’ll get thee a fine cage, nor shalt thou lack

Good store of kernels and of seeds to crack;

But sing thou shalt; for if thou play’st the mute,

I’ll spit thee, bird, and pick thy bones to boot.’

‘Ah, woe is me!’ the little thrall replied.

‘Who thinks of song, in prison doomed to bide?

And, were I cook’d, my bulk might scarce afford

One scanty mouthful to my hungry lord.’

What may I more relate?—the captive wight

Assay’d to melt the villain all he might;

And fairly promis’d, were he once set free,

In gratitude to teach him secrets three;

Three secrets, all so marvellous and rare,

His race knew nought that might with these compare.

The carle prick’d up his ears amain; he loos’d

The songster thrall, by love of gain seduc’d;

Up to the summit of the pine-tree’s shade

Sped the blithe bird, and there at ease he stay’d,

And trick’d his plumes full leisurely, I trow,

Till the carle claim’d his promise from below:

‘Right gladly,’ quoth the bird; ‘now grow thee wise:

All human prudence few brief lines comprise:

First then, lest haply in the event it fail,

Yield not a ready faith to every tale.’

‘Is this thy secret?’ quoth the moody elf.

‘Keep then thy silly lesson for thyself;

I need it not.’—‘How be ’tis not amiss

To prick thy memory with advice like this,

But late, meseems, thou hadst forgot the lore;

Mark next my second rule, and sadly know,

What’s lost, ’tis wise with patience to forego.’

The carle, though rude of wit, now chafed amain;

He felt the mockery of the songster’s strain.

‘Peace,’ quoth the bird; ‘my third is far the best;

Store thou the precious treasure in thy breast:

What good thou hast, ne’er lightly from thee cast.’

—He spoke, and twittering fled away full fast.

Straight sunk in earth, the gushing fountain dries,

Down fall the fruits, the wither’d pine-tree dies,

Fades all the beauteous plat, so cool, so green,

Into thin air, and never more is seen.

‘Such was the meed of avarice:—bitter cost!

The carle who all would gather, all has lost.’”

“There is something very Eastern about this tale,” remarked Herbert at its conclusion.

“It is found in the old Greek monk’s legend of Barlaam and Josaphat,” replied Lathom, “to whom it is more probable that it came from the East than from any other source.”

“Such a story, I should suppose, has been freely used by later writers,” said Thompson.

“It appears in the Disciplina Clericalis of Alphonsus, in The Golden Legend of Caxton, and in Lydgate under the title of ‘The Chorle and the Bird’; but besides these and Mr. Way, whose version I have just read you, I cannot discover any other writers who have made use of this fiction.”

“The moral of this fiction explains itself,” said Herbert. “I presume the author is content with the plain meaning.”

“Yes, for this once,” rejoined Lathom; “but be content, the next story will satisfy the greatest lover of allegories; for curious, indeed, is it as an instance, even among curiosities, of the once common practice of converting every thing into allegory.”

“How is it entitled?” asked Thompson.

“‘Of the Burdens of this Life’; in form it is a dialogue between a scholar and his master, who might well be supposed to change places with each other. You must be content with Mr. Swan’s version.”