■ READINGS IN" FOLK-LORE SHORT STUDIES IN THE MYTHOLOGY OF AMERICA, GREAT BRITAIN, THE NORSE COUNTRIES, GERMANY, INDIA, SYRIA, EGYPT, AND PERSIA ; WITH SELECTIONS FROM STANDARD LITERATURE RELATING TO THE SAME BY HUBERT M. SKINNER, A.M. AUTHOR "F THE SCHOOLMASTER IN LITERATURE NEW YORK •:• CINCINNATI ■:• CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY COPTEIGHT, 1893, BT AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. prtntcC bg TOUm. •flvteon IRew Korfe, TO. 5. H, V TN aw PREFACE This book is intended as a companion volume to the Historical Readings, which has proved so popular as a book of culture for teachers and students ; and as the latter is a volume of prose and of recorded fact, this is a book of poems and of popular beliefs. The myths of legend and of pure fable, whether related to false religions or otherwise, are often of great interest to the student and the general reader. So interwoven are the faith and the folk-lore of a people with its literature and art that an acquaintance with its mythology is necessary to an understanding of its higher .expressions of thought and feel- ing. Such knowledge is highly essential to the teacher. Mythology is something more than an auxiliary study. It is a memorial of humanity's childhood. It possesses a charm of its own for those Who have faith in Sod and Nature, Who believe that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms Then- are Longings, yearnings, strivings, For the good they comprehend not. Formerly the subjects of popular study in mythology were confined to the divinities of ancient Greece and Rome. 411; 4 PREFACE. In later years a general interest has been awakened in the myths of other lands, and for these a marked preference has been shown at times in the popular pageants of cities and in the subjects of contributions to current literature. In this volume are presented the principal American, British, Norse, German, Hindu, Syrian, Egyptian, and Per- sian myths, with representative selections from the literature relating thereto. The selections from Longfellow, Lowell, and Whittier are used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin and Company. . The writer is under a similar obligation to Messrs. D. Appleton and Company for permission to use selections from the works of William Cullen Bryant. Dr. Sherman's splendid translation of Bishop Teg- ner's Axel is used with the permission of the publisher of the Chautauquan, in which magazine it appeared in March and April, 1883. English literature is rich in the folk-lore of various lands, and many of its poems relating to mythical and legendary characters afford a delightful and profitable study, not only as models of literary composition, but also as illustrations of the genius and character of the people among whom their subjects originated. To teachers and students this work is commended, in the hope that it will lead to a further study and a higher appre- ciation of the various forms of literature and art to which it relates. H. M. S. CONTENTS. PAGE The Nature and Value of Folk-lore 7 American Folk-LORE 15 Notes of Literature 20 An Indian Story . . . Will turn Cullen Bryant 21 The I). •Mill Lament of the Nadowessie Chieftain. Johann C. F. von Schiller Comanche Boy Fcu/writ A. Darden The < lulpril Pay British Folk-lore . Notes of Literature The Faerie Queene Boadicea Trisl ram of Ly ssse . Guinevere Childe Roland to i hi The Voyage of Mar: Bladoc . Tam o' Shanter . rowe Folk-lore Notes of l. iii raiurc The Song of Vala Thorwald's Lay . The Norsemen TegneYs Fridthjofj TegneY The S German Folk-lore . Notec "i Literature The Story of Sigurd i he \ Fausl Joseph Rodman Drake Edmund Spt nst r William < 'owper Algernon < '. Swinburne Alfred, Lord 7"< nnyson c . Robert Browning Alfred, Lord Tt nnyson Robert Southey . h'nh, ri Burns 24 25 26 39 50 54 !)() 92 101 118 L25 133 142 150 L56 William Herbert L60 James Russell Lowell 163 Paid i '. Sinding 165 . Oscar Baker 167 A. A. Sherman 17 ay- the winds thai i»>u the grass I And one was water and one star was fire Ami one «iii ever shi ■ will pass. \\ a\ aj the winds that move the mere. iy son's • Last Tournament." 44 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Sir Lancelot du Lac was a bold and courageous knight, but the betrayer of his queen, the beautiful Guinevere, or Geneura, wife of King Arthur. Sir Geraint was a valorous knight, the slayer of gianta. His wife Enid, is a type of conjugal fidelity and love. Sir Bedivere was one of the most faithful and the last of the Knights of the Round Table. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : " Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ! Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes I For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved, Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years Among new men, strange faces, other minds." — Tennyson's "Morte d' Arthur." Merlin was a famous enchanter, who figures promi- nently in the legends of Arthur. With him was associated Vivien, the Lady of the Lake, whose palace was in the midst of a mystic lake of marvelous and unreal properties. Besides Guinevere, the faithless queen, Enid, the devoted wife, and Vivien, the enchantress, there was Elaine, the Maid of Astolat, who died from unrequited love for Sir Lancelot. Excalibur was the name of King Arthur's famous sword, which he alone, of more than two hundred nobles, was able to detach from a miraculous stone. It was because of this feat that Arthur was chosen king. As he drew near death, he commanded an attendant to hurl the weapon into a lake. This was done with reluctance, but a hand and arm arose from the water and waved the blade thrice before it sank. Fingal and Temora are chief among the heroes of some compositions purporting to be translations of ancient Celtic BRITISH FOLK-LORE. 4S lays of Ossian, a traditionary bard of North Britain, who is believed by many to have lived in the fourth century of the Christian era. These poems — for such they are called, though they are without rhyme or meter — were given to the public by James Macpherson, a Scotch writer, who failed to give any satisfactory account of the alleged originals. They at- tracted much attention in the latter half of the last century, when they appeared. They are now regarded as forgeries. Their singular and impressive style is in keeping with their mysterious origin. 1 " Reyno. The wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven ; over the green hill flies the incon- stant sun; nil. through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, stream. But more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. Benl is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill 1 Why complainest thou as a blast in the wood, as a wave on the lonely shore f "Alpin. My tears, Reyno, are for the dead ; my voice for the in- habitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill ; lair among the sons of the slain. But thou -halt till likeMorar; and the mourners shall sit (in thy tomb. Tin 1 hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in the halls unstrung. "Thou \\(>rt swift, O Montr, as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm ; thy sword in battle as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many nil by thy arm ; they were consumed by the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peace- ful was thy brow ! Thy face was like the sun after rain ; like the moon in the silence of rrigh! ; calm a- the breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into repose." — Macpherson's " Trcmalation of Ossian" St. Patrick's Purgatory is the name applied in legend to an islet in Lough Derg, in Ireland. Tito tradition relat- ing to the locality dates from early Norman days, at least — probably from an era much more remote. 1 Sir James Mackintosh, in his " History of England," says of the Ossianic compositions, "No other imposture in literarj history approaches them in the splendor of their course." 4« BRITISR FOLK-LOBE. Sir Owain, a knight of the court of King Stephen of England, is the hero of an old English romance, who is described as having passed through St. Patrick's Purgatory. The narrative was dramatized by the Spanish poet Calderon in the seventeenth century, and recalls to the student the Divina Commedia of Dante. St. Brandan, or Borandan, is the name of an ancient Celtic ecclesiastic and navigator of Ireland, who is said to have lived in the sixth century, and is believed by some to have discovered America. His name was long given to a fabulous flying island to the west of the Canaries. This ap- peared on maps published as late as 1755. St. Brandan is the subject of many interesting traditions. Maeldune is a hero of ancient Irish legend, who is said to have traversed the seas on an errand of vengeance and to have been dissuaded from his purpose at last by the Christian teachings of a saint who had been the companion of St. Brandan. The Voyage of Maeldune is the subject of a poem by Lord Tennyson. The mythology of the Saxon invaders of Great Britain was essentially that of the Norse. They named the first day of the week in honor of the sun, and the second in honor of the moon. Sater was their form of Saturn, and is pre- served in the name of the seventh day. Eostre was the name of the goddess of Spring, for whom, singularly, the Christian festival of Easter is named. The Saxons, who conquered Arthur's nation and occupied Britain, giving to its greater part the name of one of their tribes {England, or Angle-land, from the Angles), brought with them from the Continent a cycle of epic ballads recount- ing the deeds of the heroes and monsters. Many of these old songs are still preserved. They possess great interest, since they constitute the oldest existing composition in the mother tongue of the English, and bring before us the mvthical beings that occupied the minds of our forefathers. BRITISH FOLK-LORE. 47 Hrothgar was a great King of Denmark, who built a vast feasting hall for his warriors and councilors in com- memoration of his victories. Grexdel was a terrible spirit of evil, a hideous monster of the fens, who stole away thirty sleeping Danes from the hall, and devoured them, and often returned for more through a period of twelve years. Beowulf (probably so railed from the name of the wood- pecker), the hero, was a chief from the Geat Country (Brit- ain), who came to the aid of Hrothgar. Unaided and un- armed, Beowulf silently awaited in the great hall the ap- proach of the fearful monster. Grendel advanced in the darkness, and sated his horrible thirst with the life-blood of a sleeping Dane. He then came to Beowulf himself. The hero boldly grasped his assailant, and a terrible conflict en- sued, in which the great building resounded and even shook with the fury of the struggle. The monster's arm and shoul- der-blade were completely severed from his body, and in the agonies of approaching death he tied to his fens, where he expired. His mission accomplished, Beowulf returned to his home in the country of the Geats, where he subsequently reigned for half a century. The last of the famous deeds of Beowulf was his encounter with a great Dragon which lived in a cave by the seashore. The cave contained a vast treasure of gold, from which a golden cup was stolen by one of Beowulf's sub- jects. The infuriated Dragon rained fire upon the kingdom, and the conflagration advanced to the very palace of Beowulf. With the assistance of but one man, Beowulf destroyed the Dragon, but was himself killed by the poison of its blood, with which his hands were imbrued. Beowulf died in peace, gazing upon a portion of the treasure which he had won for his country. jEschere was a member of Erothgar's council, who was slain by Grendel's mother. The latter was sought by Beo- wulf in her foul fen. She dragged the hero into her cave, 48 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. where he seized a great sword which was hanging upon the wall and slew her. Wiglaf was a kinsman of Beowulf, who assisted his king in the battle with the fiery Dragon. While Beowulf seized the monster, Wiglaf with a great sword divided the body in twain. The oldest manuscript of the poetic cycle relating to Beo- wulf's deeds dates probably from the tenth century. The poem consists of several thousand lines. It is not rhymed, but is full of alliteration, as, indeed, we find all early English poems, the grace of rhyme having been acquired by poets later. Long before the poem was written it was orally trans- mitted. It is, in fact, impossible to say when it was first committed to writing, though probably this was not until the beginning of the eighth century. In the time of Queen Elizabeth the genius of Edmund Spenser introduced into English letters a new class of im- aginary personages in his great work, The Faerie Queene. 1 These differ from other British myths in that they are not derived from ancient popular tradition, but were created to serve the purposes of the poem. They are allegorical char- acters, representing abstract virtues and vices ; but Spenser has interwoven with his narrative some very ancient legends. Glorias is the Faerie Queene, representing glory, but 1 This was the last great work modeled on chivalry. Awakening from the gloom of the theological contests of Edward and Mary, the court of the Maiden Queen, from state policy and her own disposition, had been trans- formed into a court of romance. Glory was the cheap but inappreciable meed bestowed by the economical sovereign, and love was the language to which the female from the throne could bend to listen to her subject. Elizabeth, stately and tender, was herself the Faerie Queene, without even the poet's flattery, when seated under the dais, amid long galleries hung with cloth of gold or silver, and all the moving tilt-yard glittering in its sheen ; " the noise of music " and the sound of shields ; the solemn procession and gay crowds of the many- colored liveries ; the tasseled caparisons of the horses and the nodding plumes of the knights, — Isaac Disraeli, BRITISH FOLK-LOME. 49 portraying especially the majesty of the Virgin Queen of England. [ t xa is a lovely lady, symbolizing truth ; her name (mean- ing, in Latin, one) has reference to her singleness of purpose and integrity of character. The Red-Cross Knight is a hero typifying holiness. He releases the father and the kingdom of Una from the power of a great Dragon, which he slays. Acrasia is a witch, depicted as dwelling in the Bower of Bliss, upon a floating island of marvelous beauty. She is a type of intemperance. Sir Guyon is a knight, commissioned by the Faerie Queene to arrest Acrasia and destroy her home. He typifies temperance and self-control. Amoret is a lady of the court, who is wooed and won by Sir Scudamore. She personifies conjugal devotion and wom- anly tenderness. Britomartis. or Britomart, is a lady knight, armed with a resistless magic spear. She is a type of chastity and purity. Duessa is a base witv \>r captived, herself she slew. 1 Boadicea. 70 BRITISH FOLK-LOBE. LVI. famous monument of women's praise ! Matchable either to Semiramis, Whom antique history so high doth raise, Or to Hypsiphyl', or to Thomyris ; Her host two hundred thousand numb'red is, Who, whiles good fortune favoured her might, Triumphed oft against her enemies ; And yet, though overcome in hapless fight, She triumphed on death, in enemies' despite. LVII. Her relics Fulgent having gathered, Fought with Severus, and him overthrew ; Yet in the chase was slain of them that fled : So made them victors whom he did subdue. Then gan Oarausius tyrannise anew, And gainst the Eomans bent their proper pow'r ; But him Allectus treacherously slew, And took on him the robe of emperor ; Nathless the same enjoyed but short happy hour. LVIII. For Asclepiodate him overcame, And left inglorious on the vanquished plain, Without or robe or rag to hide his shame : Then afterwards he in his stead did reign ; But shortly was by Coyll in battle slain ; Who after long debate, since Lucius' time, Was of the Britons first crown'd sovereign : Then gan this realm renew her passed prime : He of his name Coylchester built of stone and lime. LIX. Which when the Komans heard, they hither sent Constantius, a man of mickle might, THE FAERIE QUEENE. With whom king Coyll 1 made ail agreement, And to him gave for wife his daughter bright, Fair Helena, the fairest living wight, Who in all goodly thewes and goodly praise Did far excel, but was most famous hight For skill in music of all in her days, As well in curious instruments as cunning lays : LX. Of whom he did great Constantine beget, Who afterward was Emperor of Kome ; To which whiles absent he his mind did set. Octavius here leapt into his room, And it usurped by unrighteous doom : But he his title justified by might, Slaying Traherne, and having overcome The Roman legion in dreadful fight : So settled he his kingdom, and confirm 'd his right i. \i. But, wanting issue male, his daughter dear He gave in wedlock to Maximian, And him with her made of his kingdom heir, Who soon by means thereof the empire wan, Till murd'red by the friends of Gratian. Then gan the Huns and Picts invade this land, During the reign of Maximinian ; Who dying left none heir them to withstand ; But that they overran all parts with easy hand. LXII. The weary Britons, whose war-able youth Waa by Maximian lately led away, With wretched miseries and woful ruth Were to those pagans made an open prey, 1 ('.„•] 72 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. And daily spectacle of sad decay : Whom Koman wars, which now four hundred years And more had wasted, could no wit dismay; Till by consent of Commons and of Peers, They crown'd the second Constantine with joyous tears. LXI1I. Who having oft in battle vanquished Those spoilful Picts, and swarming Easterlings, Long time in peace his realm established, Yet oft annoy'd with sundry bordragings Of neighbour Scots, and foreign scatterlings With which the world did in those days abound : Which to outbar with painful pyonings From sea to sea he heap'd a mighty mound, Which from Alcluid to Pan welt did that border bound. LXIV. Three sons he dying left, all under age, By means whereof their uncle Vortigere 1 Usurp'd the crown during their pupilage ; Which th' infants' tutors gathering to fear, Them closely into Armoric did bear : For dread of whom, and for those Picts annoys, He sent to Germany strange aid to rear ; From whence eftsoones arrived here three hoys Of Saxons, whom he for his safety employs. LXV. Two brethren were their capitains, which hight Hengist and Horsus, 3 well approved in war, And both of them men of renowned might ; Who making vantage of their civil jar, And of those foreigners which came from far, Grew great, and got large portions of land, That in the realm ere long they stronger are i Vortierern. a Tlorsa. THE FAERIE QUEENE. 73 Than they which sought at first their helping hand, And Vortiger enforced the kingdom to aband. LXVI. But, by the help of Vortimere his son, He is affain unto his rule restored : And Hengist, seeming sad for that was done, Received is to grace and new accord, Through his fair daughter's face and flatt'ring word. Soon after which, three hundred lords he slew Of British blood, all sitting at his board ; Whose doleful monuments who list to rue, Th' eternal marks of treason may at Stonehenge view. LXVII. By this the sons of Constantine, which fled, Ambrose and Uther, did ripe years attain, And, here arriving, strongly challeng'd The crown which Vortiger did long detain : Who, flying from his guilt, by them was slain; And Hengist eke soon brought to shameful death. Thenceforth Aurelius peaceably did reign, Till that through poison stopped was his breath ; So now entombed lies at Stonehenge by the heath. Book I.— < Ianto XI. The knight with thai old Dragon fights Two Mays incessantly : The third, him overthrows : and gains Most glorious victory. 1 I. High time now gan it wax for Una fair To think of those her captive parents dear, 1 Almost every one is familiar with tin- pictures of St. George Blaying the Dragon. This is the conflict here described, for the Red Cross Knight repre sent-, the patron Bainl of England. Spenser has here woven into his narrative a very ancient legend, dating from the early < hristian centime . and brought 74 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. And their forwasted kingdom to repair : Whereto whenas they now approached near, With hearty words her knight she gan to cheer, And in her modest manner thus bespake : " Dear knight, as dear as ever knight was dear, That all these sorrows suffer for my sake, Oh, Heaven behold the tedious toil ye for me take ii. " Now are we come unto my native soil, And to the place where all our perils dwell ; Here haunts that fiend, and does his daily spoil ; Therefore henceforth be at your keeping well, And ever ready for your foeman fell : The spark of noble courage now awake, And strive your excellent self to excel : That shall ye evermore renowned make Above all knights on earth, that battle undertake." in. And pointing forth, " Lo ! yonder is," said she, " The brazen tow'r, in which my parents dear For dread of that huge fiend imprison'd be ; Whom I from far see on the walls appear, Whose sight my feeble soul doth greatly cheer ; And on the top of all I do espy The watchman waiting tidings glad to hear, That, my parents, might I happily Unto you bring, to ease you of your misery ! " IV. With that they heard a roaring, hideous sound, That all the air with terror filled wide, from the far East ; but Spenser makes no pretense of consistency as to time or place of the events described. The story is found in another form in Percy's "Reliques." The real St. George lived in Asia Minor, in the fourth century. The Dragon is said to have been slain in Libya (Africa). THE FAERIE QUEENE. 75 And seem'd uneath to shake the steadfast ground. Eftsoones that dreadful Dragon they espied, Where stretch'd he lay upon the sunny side Of a great hill, himself like a great hill ; But, all so soon as he from far descried Those glist'ring arms that heaven with light did fill, He roused himself full blithe, and hast'ned them until. v. Then bade the knight his lady yede aloof, And to an hill herself withdraw aside : From whence she might behold that battle's proof, And eke be safe from danger far descried : She him obey'd, and turn'd a little wide. — Now, thou sacred Muse, most learned dame, Fair Imp of Phoebus and his aged bride, The nurse of time and everlasting fame, That warlike hands ennoblest with immortal name ; VI. 0, gently come into my feeble breast, Come gently ; but not wjth that mighty rage, Wherewith the martial troups thou dost infest, And hearts of great heroes dost enrage, That nought their kindled courage may assuage: Soon as thy dreadful trump begins to sound The god of war with his fierce equipage Thou dost awake, Bleep never he so sound; And scared nations dost witli horror stern astound. VII. Pair goddess, lav that furious fit aside, Till I of wars and bloody Mars do sing, And Briton fields with Saracen blood bedyed, Twixt that greal Faerie Queene, ami Paynim king, That with their horror heaven and earth did ring; 76 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. A work of labour long and endless praise ; But now a while let down that haughty string And to my tunes thy second tenor raise, That I this man of God his godly arms may blaze. VIII. By this, the dreadful beast drew nigh to hand, Half flying and half footing in his haste, That with his largeness measured much land, And made wide shadow under his huge waste ; As mountain doth the valley overcast. Approaching nigh, he reared high afore His body monstrous, horrible, and vast ; Which, to increase his wondrous greatness more, Was swoll'n with wrath and poison, and with bloody gore ; IX. And over all with brazen scales was arm'd, Like plated coat of steel, so couched near That nought mote pierce ; ne might his corse be harm'd With dint of sword, nor push of pointed spear : Which, as an eagle, seeing prey appear, His aery plumes doth rouse full rudely dight ; So shaked he, that horror was to hear : For, as the clashing of an armour bright, Such noise his roused scales did send unto the knight. x. His flaggy wings, when forth he did display, Were like two sails, in which the hollow wind Is gather'd full, and worketh speedy way : And eke the pens, that did his pinions bind, Were like main-yards with flying canvas lined ; With which whenas him lift the air to beat, And there by force unwonted passage find, The clouds before him fled for terror great, And all the heavens stood still amazed with his threat. THE FAERIE QUEEJfE. 77 XI. His huge long tail, wound up in hundred folds, Does overspread his long brass-scaly back, Whose wreathed boughts whenever he unfolds, And thick-entangled knots adown does slack, Bespotted as with shields of red and black, It sweepeth all the land behind him far, And of three furlongs does but little lack ; And at the point two stings infixed are, Both deadly sharp, that sharpest steel exceeden far. XII. But stings and sharpest steel did far exceed The sharpness of his cruel rending claws : Dead was it sure, as sure as death indeed, Whatever thing does touch his ravenous paws, Or what within his reach he ever draws. But his most hideous head my tongue to tell Does tremble; for his deep devouring jaws Wide gaped, like the grisly mouth of hell, Through which into his dark abyss all ravin fell. xfii. And, that more wondrous was, in either jaw Three ranks of iron teeth enrang^d were, In which yet trickling blood, and gobbets raw, Of late devoured bodies did appear; That sight thereof bred cold congealed fear: Which to increase, and all at once to kill, A cloud of smothering smoke, and sulphur scar, Out of his stinking gorge forth steamed still, That all the air ahoiit with smoke and stench did fdl. \iv. Mi Mazing eyes, like two brighi shining shields, Did burn with wrath and sparkled living lire: 78 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. As two broad beacons, set in open fields, Sent forth their flames far off to every shire, And warning give, that enemies conspire With fire and sword the region to invade ; So flamed his eyne with rage and rancorous ire : But far within, as in a hollow glade, Those glaring lamps were set, that made a dreadful shade. xv. So dreadfully he towards him did pass, Forelifting up aloft his speckled breast, And often bounding on the bruised grass, As for great joyaunce of his new come guest. Ef tsoones he gan advance his haughty crest ; As chafed boar his bristles doth uprear ; And shook his scales to battle ready drest, (That made the Eedcross knight nigh quake for fear,) As bidding bold defiance to his foeman near. XVI. The knight gan fairly couch his steady spear, And fiercely ran at him with rigorous might : The pointed steel arriving rudely there, His harder hide would neither pierce nor bite, But, glancing by, forth passed forward right : Yet, sore amoved with so puissant push, The wrathful beast about him turned light, And him so rudely, passing by, did brush With his long tail, that horse and man to ground did rush. XVII. Both horse and man up lightly rose again, And fresh encounter towards him addrest ; But th' idle stroke yet back recoil'd in vain, And found no place his deadly point to rest. Exceeding rage enflamed the furious beast, THE FAERIE QUEENE. 79 To be avenged of so great despite ; For never felt his impierceable breast So wondrous force from hand of living wight : Yet had he proved the pow'r of many a puissant knight. XVIII. Then, with his waving wings displayed wide, Himself up high he lifted from the ground, And with strong flight did forcibly divide The yielding air, which nigh too feeble found Her flitting parts, and element unsound, To bear so great a weight : He, cutting away With his broad sails, about him soared round, At last, low stooping with unwieldly sway, Snatch'd up both horse and man, to bear them quite away. six. Long he them bore above the subject plain, So far as yewen bow a shaft may send ; Till struggling strong did him at last constrain To let them down before his flightcs end : As 'haggard hawk, presuming to contend With hardy fowl above his able might, His weary pounces all in vain doth spend To truss the prey too heavy for his flight ; Which coming down to ground, does free itself by fight. xx. He so disseized of his gripping gross, The knight his thrillant spear again assay'd In his brass-plated body to embosse, And three men's strength unto the stroke he aid ; Wherewith the still' beam quaked, as afraid, And glancing from his scaly neck did glide Close under his left wing, then broad display M : The piercing steel there wrought a wound full wide, That with the imcouth smart the monster loudly cried. 80 BRITISH FOLK-IORE. XXI. He cried, as raging seas are wont to roar, When wintry storm his wrathful wreck does threat ; The rolling billows beat the ragged shore, As they the earth would shoulder from her seat ; And greedy gulf does gape, as he would eat His neighbour element in his revenge : Then gin the blust'ring brethren boldly threat To move the world from off his steadfast henge, And boist'rous battle make, each other to avenge. XXII. The steely head stuck fast still in his flesh, Till with his cruel claws- he snatch'd the wood, And quite asunder broke : forth flowed fresh A gushing river of black gory blood, That drowned all the land, whereon he stood ; The stream thereof would drive a water-mill : Trebly augmented was his furious mood With bitter sense of his deep-rooted ill, The flames of fire he threw forth from his large nostril. XXIII. His hideous tail then hurled he about, And therewith all enwrapt the nimble thighs Of his froth-foamy steed, whose courage stout, Striving to loose the knot that fast him ties, Himself in straiter bands too rash implyes, That to the ground he is perforce constraint To throw his rider ; who can quickly rise From off the earth, with dirty blood distain'd, For that reproachful fall right foully he disdain'd ; XXIV. And fiercely took his trenchant blade in hand, With which he struck so furious and so fell THE FAERIE QUEENE. 81 That nothing seem'd the puissance could withstand ; Upon his crest the hard'ned iron fell ; But his more hard'ned crest was arm'd so well, That deeper dint therein it would not make ; Yet so extremely did the buff him quell, That from thenceforth he shunn'd the like to take, But, when he saw them come, he did them still forsake. XXV. The knight was wroth to see his stroke beguiled, And smote again with more outrageous might ; But back again the sparkling steel recoilM, And left not any mark where it did light, As if in adamant rock it had been pight. The beast, impatient of his smarting wound, And of so fierce and forcible despite, Thought with his wiugs to sty above the ground; But bis late wounded wing unserviceable found. XXVI. Then, full of grief ami anguish vehement, He loudly bray'd, thai like was never heard : And from his wide devouring oven sent A flake of fire, that, Hashing j n his beard. Him all amazed, and almost made afeared : 'I'lic scorching flame sore singed all his face, And through his armour all his body sear'd, That he could not endure so cruel case, But thoughl his aiins to leave, ami helmet to unlace. XXVII. Not that greal champion of the antique world Whom famous poets' verse so much doth vaunt, And hath for twelve huge labours high extoll'd, So many furies and sharp fits did haunt, When him the poison'd garment did enchant, FOLK-LORE 6 82 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. With Centaur's blood and bloody verses charm'd ; As did this knight twelve thousand dolours daunt, Whom fiery steel now burnt, that erst him arm'd ; That erst him goodly arm'd, now most of all him harm'd. XXVIII. Faint, weary, sore, emboyled, grieved, brent, With heat, toil, wounds, arm's smart, and inward fire, That never man such mischiefs did torment ; Death better were ; death did he oft desire ; But death will never come, when needs require. Whom so dismay'd when that his foe beheld, He cast to suffer him no more respire, But gan his sturdy stern about to weld, And him so strongly stroke, that to the ground him fell'd. XXIX. It fortuned (as fair it then befell), Behind his back, unweeting where he stood, Of ancient time there was a springing well, From which fast trickled forth a silver flood, Full of great virtues, and for med'cine good : Whylome, before that cursed Dragon got That happy land, and all with innocent blood Defiled those sacred waves, it rightly hot The Well of Life; ne yet his virtues had forgot - XXX. For unto life the dead it could restore, And guilt of sinful crimes clean wash away ; Those, that with sickness were infected sore, It could recure ; and aged long decay Benew, as one were born that very day. Both Silo this, and Jordan, did excel, And th' English Bath, and eke the German Spa ; Ne can Cephise, nor Hebrus, match this well ; Into the same the knight back overthrowen fell. THE FAERIE QUEEjYE. 83 XXXT. Now gan the golden Phoebus for to steep His fiery face in billows of the west, And his faint steeds wat'red in ocean deep, Whiles from their journal labours they did rest ; When that infernal monster, having kest His weary foe into that living well, Can high advance his broad discolour'd breast Above his wonted pitch, with countenance fell, And clapt his iron wings, as victor he did dwell. XXXII. Which when his pensive lady saw from far, Great woe and sorrow did her soul assay, As weening that the sad end of the war, And gan to highest God entirely pray That feared chance from her to turn away; With folded hands, and knees full lowly bent, All night she watch'd ; ne once adown would lay Eer dainty limbs in her sad dreriment, But praying still did wake, and waking did lament. XXXIII. The morrow next gan early to appear, That Titan rose to run his daily race; But early, ere the morrow next gan rear Out of the sea fail' Titan's dewy face, Uprose the gentle virgin from her place, And looked nil about, if she mighl spy Her loved knight to move his manly pace: For she had greal doubl of his safety, Since late she saw him fall before his enemy. xxxiv. At last she saw, where he upstarted brave Out of the well wherein he dreiiehed lay: 84 BRITISH FOLK-LOBE. As eagle, fresh out of the ocean wave, Where he hath left his plumes all hoary gray, And deck'd himself with feathers youthly gay, Like eyas hawk up mounts unto the skies, His newly-budded pinions to assay, And marvels at himself, still as he flies : So new this new-born knight to battle new did risfi. xxxv. Whom when the damned fiend so fresh did spy, No wonder if he wond'red at the sight, And doubted whether his late enemy It were, or other new supplied knight. He now, to prove his late-renewed might, High brandishing his bright dew-burning blade, Upon his crested scalp so sore did smite, That to the skull a yawning wound it made : The deadly dint his dulled senses all dismay'd. XXXV!. I wot not, whether the revenging steel Were hard'ned with that holy water dew Wherein he fell ; or sharper edge did feel ; Or his baptized hands now greater grew ; Or other secret virtue did ensue ; Else never could the force of fleshly arm, Ne molten metal, in his blood embrue : For, till that stownd, could never wight him harm By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charm. XXXVII. The cruel wound enraged him so sore, That loud he yelled for exceeding pain ; As hundred ramping lions seem'd to roar, Whom ravenous hunger did thereto constrain. Then gan he toss aloft his stretched train, And therewith scourge the buxom air so sore, THE FAERIE QUEENE. 85 That to his force to yielden it was faiu ; Ne ought his sturdy strokes might stand afore, That high trees overthrew, and rocks in pieces tore : XXXVIII. The same advancing high above his head, With sharp intended sting so rude him smot, That to the earth him drove, as stricken dead ; Ne living wight would have him life behott : The mortal sting his angry needle shot Quite through his shield, and in his shoulder seized, Where fast it stuck, ne would thereout be got : The grief thereof him wondrous sore diseased, Ne might his rankling pain with patience be appeased ; xxxix. But yet, more mindful of his honour dear Than of the grievous smart which did him wring, From loathed soil he can him lightly rear, And strove to loose the far infixed sting : Which when in vain he tried with struggling, Inflamed with wrath, his'raging blade he heft, And struck so strongly, that the knotty string Of his huge tail he quite asunder cleft ; Five joints thereof he hew'd,and but the stump him left. XL. Hearl cannol think, what outrage and what cries, With foul enfould'red smoke and flashing fire, The hell-bred beasl threw forth unto the skies, Then fraught with rancour, and engorged ire, He cast at once him to avenge for all ; And, gathering up himself oul of the mire. With his uneven wings did fiercely fall Upon his sun-bright shield, and gript it fast withal. 86 BRITISH FOLK-LOBE. XLI. Much was the man encumb'red with his hold, In fear to lose his weapon in his paw, Ne wist yet, how his talons to unfold ; Nor harder was from Cerberus' greedy jaw To pluck a bone, than from his cruel claw To reave by strength the griped gage away : Thrice he assay'd it from his foot to draw, And thrice in vain to draw it did assay ; It booted nought to think to rob him of his prey. XLII. Tho when he saw no power might prevail, His trusty sword he call'd to his last aid, Wherewith he fiercely did his foe assail, And double blows about him stoutly laid, That glancing fire out of the iron play'd, As sparkles from the anvil used to fly, When heavy hammers on the wedge are sway'd ; Therewith at last he forced him to untie One of his grasping feet, him to defend thereby. XLIII. The other foot, fast fixed on his shield, Whenas no strength nor strokes mote him constrain To loose, ne yet the warlike pledge to yield ; He smote thereat with all his might and main, That nought so wondrous puissance might sustain : Upon the joint the lucky steel did light, And made such way, that hew'd it quite in twain ; The paw yet missed not his minish'd might, But hung still on the shield, as it at first was pight. XLIV. For grief thereof and devilish despite, From his infernal furnace forth he threw THE FAERIE QVEEME. 87 Huge flames, that dimmed all the heaven's light, Enroll'd in duskish smoke, and brimstone blue : As burning Etna, from his boiling stew Doth belch out flames, and rocks in pieces broke, And ragged ribs of mountain molten new, Enwrapt in coalblack clouds and filthy smoke, That all the land with stench, and heaven with horror choke. XLV. The heat whereof, and harmful pestilence, So sore him 'noy'd, that forced him to retire A little backward for his best defence, To save his body from the scorching fire, Which he from hellish entrails did expire It chanced (Eternal God that chance did guide), As he recoiled backward, in the mire His nigh for wearied feeble feet did slide, And down he fell, with dread of shame sore terrified. XLVI. There grew a goodly tree him fair beside, Loaden with fruit and apples rosy red, As they in pure vermilion had been dyed, Whereof great virtues over all were read : For happy life to all which thereon fed, And life eke everlasting did befall : Great God it planted in that blessed stead With His Almighty hand, and did it call The Tree of hit's the crime of our first father's fall. SLVII. In all the world like was not to be found, Save in that soil, where all good things did grow, And freely sprang out of the fruitful ground, As incorrupted Nature did them bow, Till that dread dragon all did overthrow. 88 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Another like fair tree eke grew thereby, Whereof whoso did eat, eftsoones did know Both good and ill : mournful memory ! That tree through one man's fault hath done us all to die ! XLVIII. From that first tree forth flow'd, as from a well, A trickling stream of balm, most sovereign And dainty dear, which on the ground still fell, And overflowed all the fertile plain, As it had dewed been with timely rain ; Life and long health that gracious ointment gave ; And deadly wounds could heal ; and rear again The senseless corse appointed for the grave ; Into that same he fell, which did from death him save. XLIX. For nigh thereto the ever damned beast Durst not approach, for he was deadly made, And all that life preserved did detest ; Yet he it oft adventured to invade. By this the drooping Day-light gan to fade, And yield his room to sad succeeding Night, Who with her sable mantle gan to shade The face of earth and ways of living wight, And high her burning torch set up in heaven bright. When gentle Una saw the second fall Of her dear knight, who, weary of long fight, And faint through loss of blood, moved not at all, But lay, as in a dream of deep delight, Besmear'd with precious balm, whose virtuous might Did heal his wounds, and scorching heat allay, Again she stricken was with sore affright, And for his safety gan devoutly pray, And watch the noyous night, and wait for joyous day. THE FAERIE QUEEJVE. 89 LI. The joyous day gan early to appear ; And fair Aurora from the dewy bed Of aged Tithoue gan herself to rear With rosy cheeks, for shame as blushing red ; Her golden locks, for haste, were loosely shed About her ears, when Una her did mark Climb to her charet, all with flowers spread From heaven high to chase the cheerless dark ; With merry note her loud salutes the mountain lark. LII. Then freshly up arose the doughty knight, All healed of his hurts and woundes wide, And did himself to battle ready dight ; Whose early foe awaiting him beside To have devour'd, so soon as day he spied, When none he saw himself so freshly rear, As if lute light had nought him damnified, He woxe dismay 'd, and gan his fate to fear ; Nathless with wonted rage he him advanced near ; i. ii i. And in his first encounter, gaj)ing wide, He thought at once him to have swallow'd quite, And nish'd upon him with outrageous pride ; Who him rencount'ring fierce as hawk in flight, Perforce rebutted back : the weapon bright. Taking advantage of his open jaw, Ran through his mouth with so importune might, That deep empierced his darksome hollow maw, And, ba<-k retired, his life-blood forth withall did draw. LIV. So down he fell, and forth his life did breathe, That vanish'd into smoke and cloudes swift : 90 BRITISH FOLK-LOBE. So down he fell, that th' earth him underneath Did groan, as feeble so great load to lift ; So down he fell, as an huge rocky clift, Whose false foundation waves have wash'd away, With dreadful poise is from the mainland rift, And rolling down, great Neptune doth dismay : So down he fell, and like an heaped mountain lay. LV. The knight himself even trembled at his fall, So huge and horrible a mass it seem'd ; And his dear lady, that beheld it all, Durst not approach for dread which she misdeem'd ; But yet at last, whenas the direful fiend She saw not stir, off -shaking vain affright She nigher drew, and saw that joyous end : Then God she praised, and thank'd her faithful knight, That had achieved so great a conquest by his might. BOADICEA. BY WILLIAM COWPER. When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak, Sat the Druid, hoary chief ; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief. " Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. BOADICEA. 91 " Rome shall perish — write that word In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. " Eome, 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 springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. " Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never ilew, None invincible as they." Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow: Rush'd to hat tic, Eought, and died; Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. "Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on as bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you." 92 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. I. THE SAILING OF THE SWALLOW. About the middle music of the spring Came from the castled shore of Ireland's king A fair ship stoutly sailing, eastward bound And south by Wales and all its wonders round To the loud rocks and ringing reaches borne That take the wild wrath of the Cornish foam, Past Lyonesse unswallowed of the tides And high Carlion that now the steep sea hides To the wind-hollowed heights and gusty bays Of sheer Tintagel, fair with famous days. Above the stem a gilded swallow shone, Wrought with straight wings and eyes of glittering stone As flying sunward oversea, to bear Green summer with it through the singing air. And on the deck between the rowers' at dawn, As the bright sail with brightening wind was drawn, Sat with full face against the strengthening light Iseult, more fair than foam or dawn was white. Her gaze was glad past love's own singing of, And her face lovely past desire of love. Past thought and speech her maiden motions were, And a more golden sunrise was her hair. The very veil of her bright flesh was made As of light woven and moonbeam-colored shade More fine than moonbeam ; white her eyelids shone As snow sun-stricken that endures the sun, And through their curled and colored clouds of deep Luminous lashes thick as dreams in sleep Shone as the sea's depth swallowing up the sky's The springs of unimaginable eyes. TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 93 As the wave's subtler emerald is pierced through With the utmost heaven's inextricable blue, And both are woven and molten in one sleight Of amorous color and implicated light Under the golden guard and gaze of noon, So glowed their awless amorous plenilune, Azure and gold and ardent gray, made strange With fiery difference and deep interchange Inexplicable of glories multiform ; Xow as the sullen sapphire swells toward storm Foamless, their bitter beauty grew acold, And now afire with ardor of fine gold. Her flower-soft lips were meek and passionate, For love upon them like a shadow sate Patient, a foreseen vision of sweet things, A dream with eyes fast shut and plumeless wings That knew not what man's love or life should be, Not had it sight nor heart to hope or see What tbing should come, but childlike satisfied Watched out its virgin vigil in soft pride And unkissed expectation: and the glad Char cheeks and throat and tender temples had Such maiden heat as if a rose's blood Beal in the live heart of a lily-bud. Between the small round breasts a white way led Heavenward, and from slight foot to slender head The whole fair body flower-like swayed aud shone Moving, and what her light hand leant upon Grew blossom-scented : her warm arms began 'I'm round and ripen for deliglll of man That they should clasp and circle: her fresh hands hike regent lilies of reflowering lands Whose vassal firstlings, crown and stun and plume, Bow down to the empire of that sovereign bloom, Shone scepterless, and from her face there went A silent light as of a God content ; 94 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Save when, more swift and keen than love or shame, Some flash of blood, light as the laugh of flame, Broke it with sudden beam and shining speech, As dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each Outshone the last that lightened, and not one Shewed her such things as should be borne and done, Though hard against her shone the sunlike face That in all change and wreck of time and place Should be the star of her sweet living soul. Nor had love made it as his written scroll For evil will and good to read in yet ; But smooth and mighty, without scar or fret, Fresh and high-lifted was the helmless brow As the oak-tree flower that tops the topmost bough, Ere it drop off before the perfect leaf ; And nothing save his name he had of grief, The name his mother, dying as he was born, Made out of sorrow in very sorrow's scorn, And set it on him smiling in her sight, Tristram ; who now, clothed with sweet youth and might, As a glad witness wore that bitter name, The second symbol of the world for fame. Famous and full of fortune was his youth Ere the beard's bloom had left his cheek unsmooth, And in his face a lordship of strong joy And height of heart no chance could curb or cloy Lightened, and all that warmed them at his eyes Loved them as young larks love the blue strong skies. So like the morning through the morning moved Tristram, a light to look on and be loved. Song sprang between his lips and hands, and shone Singing, and strengthened and sank down thereon As a bird settles to the second flight, Then from beneath his harping hands with might Leapt, and made way and had its fill and died, And all whose hearts were fed upon it sighed TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. Silent, and in them all the fire of tears Burned as wine drunken not with lips but ears. And gazing on his fervent hands that made The might of music all their souls obeyed With trembling strong subservience of delight, Full many a maid that had him once in sight Thought in the secret rapture of her heart In how dark onset had these hands borne part How oft, and were so young and sweet of skill ; And those red lips whereon the song burned still, What words and cries of battle had they flung Athwart the swing and shriek of swords, so young ; And eyes as glad as summer, what strange youth Fed them so full of happy heart and truth, That had seen sway from side to sundering side The steel flow of that terrible spring-tide That the moon rules not, but the fire and light Of men's hearts mixed in the mid mirth of fight. Therefore the joy and love of him they had Made thought more amorous in them and more glad For his fame's sake remembered, and his youth (lave his fame flower-like fragrance and soft growth As of a rose requickening, when he stood Pair in their eye, a flower of faultless blood. And that sad queen to whom his life was death, A rose plucked forth of summer in mid breath, A star Eall'n ou1 of season in mid throe Of that life's joy that makes the star's life glow, Made their love sadder toward him and more strong. And in mid change of time and fight and song Chance casl him westward on the low sweet strand Where songs are sung of the old green Irish land, And the sky loves it, and the sea loves best, And as a bird is taken to man's breast The sweet-souled land where sorrow sweetest sings Is wrapt round with them as with hands and wings 96 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. And taken to the sea's heart as a flower. There in the luck and light of his good hour Came to the king's court like a noteless man Tristram, and while some half a season ran Abode before him harping in his hall, And taught sweet craft of new things musical To the dear maiden mouth and innocent hands That for his sake are famous in all lands. Yet was not love between them, for their fate Lay wrapt in its appointed hour at wait, And had no flower to show yet, and no sting. But once being vexed with some past wound the king Bade give him comfort of sweet baths, and then Should Iseult watch him as his handmaiden. For his more honor in men's sight, and ease The hurts he had with holy remedies Made by her mother's magic in strange hours Out of live roots and life-compelling flowers. And finding by the wound's shape in his side This was the knight by whom their strength had died And all their might in one man overthrown Had left their shame in sight of all men shown, She would have slain him swordless with his sword ; Yet seemed he to her so great and fair a lord She heaved up hand and smote not ; then said he, Laughing : " What comfort shall this dead man be, Damsel ? what hurt is for my blood to heal ? But set your hand not near the toothed steel Lest the fang strike it."—" Yea, the fang," she said, " Should it not sting the very serpent dead That stung mine uncle ? for his slayer art thou, And half my mother's heart is bloodless now Through thee, that mad'st the veins of all her kin Bleed in his wounds whose veins through thee ran thin." Yet thought she how their hot chief's violent heart Had flung the fierce word forth upon their part TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 97 Which bade to battle the best knight that stood On Arthur's, and so dying of his wild mood Had set upon his conqueror's flesh the seal Of his mishallovved and anointed steel, Whereof the venom and enchanted might Made the sign burn here branded in her sight. These things she stood recasting, and her soul Subsiding in her, thought like thin flame stole Through all its maiden courses, and rilled up Its hidden ways as wine fulfills a cup. So passed she from him humbly, and he went Home with hands reconciled and heart content, To bring fair truce 'twixt Cornwall's wild bright strand And the long wrangling wars of that loud land. And when full peace was struck between them twain, Forth must he fare by those green straits again, And bring back Iseult for a plighted bride, And set to reign at Mark his uncle's side. So now witli feast made and all triumphs done They sailed between the moonfall and the sun Under the spent stars eastward ; but the queen Out of wise heart and subtle love had seen Such things as might be, dark as in a glass, And, lest some doom of these should come to pass, Bethought her with her secret soul alone To work some charm for marriage unison, And shake the heart of [seult to her lord With power compulsive more than stroke of sword. Therefore with marvelous herbs and spells she wrought To win the very wonder of her thought, And brewed it with her secret hands, and Nest And drew and gave "in of her secrei breast To one in r chos< 11 ami [seult's handmaiden, Brangwain, and hade her hide from sight ot men This marvel covered in a gulden eup ; So covering in her heart the counsel up FOLK-LORE 7 98 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. As in the gold the wondrous wine lay close ; And when the last shout with the last cup rose About the bride and bridegroom bound to bed, Then should this one word of her will be said To her new-married maiden child, that she Should drink with Mark this draught in unity, And no lip touch it for her sake but theirs : For with long love and consecrating prayers The wine was hallowed for their mouths to pledge, And if a drop fell from the beaker's edge, That drop should Iseult hold as dear as blood Shed from her mother's heart to do her good. And having drunk, they twain should be one heart Who were one flesh till fleshly death should part — Death, who parts all. So Brangwain swore, and kept The hid thing by her while she waked or slept. And now they sat to see the sun again, Whose light of eye had looked on no such twain Since Galahauit in the rose-time of the year Brought Launcelot first to sight of Guenevere. And while they sat at speech as at a feast, Came a light wind fast hardening forth of the east And blackening, till its might had marred the skies; And the sea thrilled as with heart-sundering sighs One after one drawn, with each breath it drew, And the green hardened into iron blue, And the soft light went out of all its face. Then Tristram girt him for an oarsman's place And took his oar and smote, and toiled with might In the east wind's full face and the strong sea's spite Laboring ; and all the rowers rowed hard, but he More mightily than any wearier three. And Iseult watched him rowing with sinless eyes That loved him but in holy girlish wise TRISTRAM OF LTOJVESSE. 99 For noble joy in his fair manliness And trust and tender wonder ; none the less She thought if God had given her grace to be Man, and make war on danger of earth and sea, Even such a man she would be ; for his stroke AVas mightiest as the mightier water broke, And in sheer measure like strong music drave Clean through the wet weight of the wallowing wave, And as a tune before a great king played For triumph was the tune their strong strokes made, And sped the ship through with smooth strife of oars Over the mid sea's gray foam-paven floors, For all the loud breach of the waves at will. So for an hour they fought the storm out still, And the shorn foam spun from the blades, and high The keel sprang from the wave-ridge, and the sky Glared at them for a breath's space through the rain ; Then the bows with a sharp shock plunged again Down, and the sea clashed on them, and so rose The bright stem like one panting from swift blows, And as a swimmer's joyous beaten head Rears itself laughing, so in that sharp stead The light ship lifted her long quivering bows As might the man his buffeted strong brows Out of the wave-breach ; for with one stroke yet AVent all men's oars together, strongly set As to loud music, and with hearts uplift They smote their strong way through the drench and drift, Till thr keen hour had chafed itself to death, And the cast wind fell fitfully, breath by breath, Tired ; and across the thin and slackening rain Sprang the face southward of the sun again. Then all they rested mid were cased ;l t heart, And Iseult rose up where she sat apart, And, with her sweet soul deepening her deep eyes, Cast the furs from her, and subtle embroideries lOO BRITISH FOLK-LORE. That wrapped her from the storming rain and spray, And, shining like all April in one day, Hair, face, and throat dashed with the straying showers, She stood the first of all the whole world's flowers, And laughed on Tristram with her eyes, and said, " I too have heart, then ; I was not afraid." And answering some light courteous word of grace, He saw her clear face lighten on his face Unwittingly, with unenamored eyes, For the last time. A live man in such wise Looks in the deadly face of his fixed hour And laughs with lips wherein he hath no power To keep the life yet some five minutes' space. So Tristram looked on Iseult face to face, And knew not, and she knew not. The last time — The last that should be told in any rhyme Heard anywhere on mouths of singing men That ever should sing praise of them again ; The last hour of their hurtless hearts at rest, The last that peace should touch them breast to breast, The last that sorrow far from them should sit, This last was with them, and they knew not it. For Tristram, being athirst with toil, now spake. Saying : " Iseult, for all dear love's labor's sake Give me to drink, and give me for a pledge The touch of four lips on the beaker's edge." And Iseult sought and would not wake Brangwain-, Who slept as one half dead with fear and pain, Being tender- natured ; so with hushed light feet Went Iseult round her, with soft looks and sweet Pitying her pain ; so sweet a spirited thing She was, and daughter of a kindly king. And spying what strange bright secret charge was kept Fast in that maid's white bosom while she slept, She sought and drew the gold cup forth and smiled Marveling, with such light wonder as a child GUINEVERE. 101 That hears of glad sad life in magic lands ; And bare it back to Tristram, with pure hands Holding the love-draught that should be for flame To burn out of them fear and faith and shame, And lighten all their life up in men's sight, And make them sad forever. Then the knight Bowed toward her and craved whence had she this strange thing, That might be spoil of some dim Asian king, By starlight stolen from some waste place of sands, And a maid bore it here in harmless hands. And Iseult, laughing — " Other lords that be Feast, and their men feast after them ; but we, Our men must keep the best wine back to feast Till they be full, and we of all men least Feed after them and fain to fare so well : So with mine handmaid and your squire it fell That hid this bright thing from us in a wile :" And with light lips yet full of their swift smile, And hands that wist not though they dug a grave, Undid the hasps of gold, and drank, and gave, And he drank after, a deep glad kingly draught : And all their life changed in them, for they quaffed Death ; if it be death so to drink, and fare As men who change and are what these twain were. GUINEVERE. {From "Idylls of the King.") HV ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. So Lancelot got her horse, Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, And then they rode to the divided way, There kiss'd, and parted weeping: for he passed Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 102 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan : And in herself she moan'd, " Too late, too late ! " Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn. A blot in heaven, the Eaven, flying high, Croak'd, and she thought, " He spies a field of death ; For now the heathen of the Northern Sea, Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land." And when she came to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, " Mine enemies Pursue me, but, peaceful Sisterhood, Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her time To tell you : " and her beauty, grace, and power Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it. So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns ; Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid, Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness Which often lured her from herself ; but now, This night, a rumor wildly blown about Came that Sir Moclred had usurp'd the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot : then she thought, " With what a hate the people and the King Must hate me ! " and bow'd down upon her hands Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd No silence, brake it, uttering, " Late ! so late ! What hour, I wonder, now?" and when she drew No answer, by and by began to hum GUINEVERE. 103 An air the nuns had taught her : " Late, so late ! " Which when she heard, the Queen looked up, and said, " maiden, if indeed you list to sing, Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep." Whereat full willingly sang the little maid : " Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and chill ! Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. Too late, too Late ! ye can not enter now. " No light had we : for that we do repent ; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late ! ye can not enter now. " No light ; so late ! and dark and chill the night I Oh, let us in, that we may find the light ! Too late, too late ! ye can not enter now. " Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? Oh, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! No, no, too late! ye can not enter now." So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, remembering Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. Then said the little novice prattling to her: "Oli, pray you, noble lady, weep no more: But let my words, the words of one so small, Who knowing nothing knows but to obey — And if I do not there is penance given — Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow From evil done : right sure am I of that, Who see your tender grace and stateliness. But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, And weighing find them less; for gone is he To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, Hound that strong castle where he holds the Queen; And Modred whom he. left, in charge of all, The traitor — Ah, sweet lady, the King's grief For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm, Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 104 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. For me I thank the saints I am not great. For if there ever come a grief to me, I cry my cry in silence, and have done : None knows it, and my tears have brought me good. But even were the griefs of little ones As great as those of great ones, yet this grief Is added to the griefs the great must bear, That howsoever much they may desire Silence, they can not weep behind a cloud : As even here they talk at Almesbury About the good King and his wicked Queen. And were I such a King with such a Queen, Well might I wish to veil her wickedness, But were I such a King, it could not be." Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen, " Will the child kill me with her innocent talk ? " But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, If this false traitor have displaced his lord, Grieve with the common grief of all the realm ? " " Yea," said the maid, " this is all woman's grief, That she is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen." Then thought the Queen within herself again, " Will the child kill me with her foolish prate ? " But openly she spake and said to her, " little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? " To whom the little novice garrulously : " Yea, but I know : the land was full of signs GUINEVERE. lOS And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. So said ray father, and himself was knight Of the great Table — at the founding of it ; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused, and turning — there, All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, Each with a beacon-star upon his head, And with a wild sea-light about his feet, He saw them — headland after headland flame Far on into the rich heart of the west : And in the light the white mermaiden swam, And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. So said my father — yea, and furthermore, Next morning, while he passed the dim-lit woods, Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower. That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed : And still at evenings on before his horse The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life. And when at Iasi he came to Camelot, A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; And in the hall itself was such a feasl As never man had dream 'd ; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served By hands unseen ; and even as he said, Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts 106 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. "While the wine ran, so glad were spirits and men Before the coming of the sinful Queen." Then spake the Queen, and somewhat bitterly, " Were they so glad ? Ill prophets were they all, Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm?" To whom the novice garrulously again : " Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father said Full many a noble war-song had he sung, Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, Between the steep cliff and the coming wave ; And many a mystic lay of life and death Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, When round him bent the spirits of the hills, With all their dewy hair blown back like flame : So said, my father — and that night the bard Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King As well-nigh more than man, and rail'd at those Who call'd him the false son of Gorloi's : For there was no man knew from whence he came ; But after tempests, when the long wave broke All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, There came a day as still as heaven, and then They found a naked child upon the sands Of dark Dundagil by the Cornish sea; And that was Arthur; and they foster'd him Till he by miracle was approven king : And that his grave should be a mystery From all men, like his birth ; and could he find A woman in her womanhood as great As he was in his manhood, then, he sang, The twain together well might change the world. But even in the middle of his song He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp, And pale he turn'd, and recl'd, and would have fall'n, GUINEVERE. 107 But that they stay'd him up : nor would he tell His vision ; but what doubt that he foresaw This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ? " Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they have set her on, Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, To play upon me," and bow'd her head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd hands, Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, " And, sweet lady, if I seem To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, Unmannerly, with prattling and with tales Which my good father told me, check me too : Nor let me shame my father's memory, one Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest : and he died, Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back, And left me ; but of others who remain, And of the two first-famed for courtesy — And pray you check me if I ask amiss — But pray yon, which had noblest, while you moved Among them, Lancelot, or our lord the King?" Then the pale Queen look'd up and answered her, " Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, Was gracious to all ladies, and the same In open battle or tic til ting-field Forbore his own advantage, and these two Were the mosl uobly-manner'd men of all ; I'm- manners are not idle, hut the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." "Yea," said the maid, "be manners such fair fruit? Then Lancelot's needs musi he ;i thousandfold Less noble, being, as all rumor rims, Tho most disloyal friend in all the world." 108 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. To which a mournful answer made the Queen, "0 closed about by narrowing nunnery walls, What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe? If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, Were for one hour less noble than himself, Pray for him that he 'scape the doom of fire, And weep for her, who drew him to his doom." " Yea," said the little novice, " I pray for both ; But I should all as soon believe that his, Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be .Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen." So she, like many another babbler, hurt Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where she would heal ; For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, " Such as thou art be never maiden more Forever ! thou their tool, set on to plague And play upon, and harry me, pretty spy And traitress." When that storm of anger brake From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, White as her veil, and stood before the Queen As tremulously as foam upon the beach Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, And when the Queen had added, " Get thee hence ! " Fled frighted. Then that other left alone Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, Saying in herself, "The simple, fearful child Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt, Simpler than any child, betrays itself. But help me, Heaven, for surely I repent. For what is true repentance but in thought — Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again The sins that made the past so pleasant to us : GUINEVERE. lOO And I have sworn never to see him more, To see him more." And ev'ii in saying this, Her memory from old habit of the mind Went slipping back upon the golden days In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came, Keputed the best knight and goodliest man, Ambassador, to lead her to his lord Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead Of his and her retinue moving, they, Rapt in sweet thought, or lively, all on love And sport and tilts and pleasure (for the time Was Maytime, and as yet no sin was dream'd), Rode under groves that look'd a paradise Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth, And on from hill to hill, and every day Beheld at noon in some delicious dale The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised For brief repast or afternoon repose By couriers gone before; and on again, Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw The Dragon of the greal £>endragonship, That crown'd the state pavilion of the King, Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, And moving thro 1 the past unconsciously, Came to that point, when first she saw the King Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, High, self-contaiu'd, and passionless, not like him, " Not, like my Lancelot "—while she brooded thus. And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, There rode an armed warrior to the floors. A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran, HO BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Then on a sudden a cry, " The King." She sat Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when armed feet Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, And grovel'd with her face against the floor : There with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King : And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her ; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a ghost's Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed, the King's. " Liest thou here so low, the child of one I honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame ? Well is it that no child is born of thee. The children born of thee are sword and fire, Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, The craft of kindred and the godless hosts Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea, Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm, The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, Have everywhere about this land of Christ In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. And knowest thou now from whence I come — from him, From waging bitter war with him : and he, That did not shun to smite me in worse way, Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, He spared to lift his hand against the King Who made him knight : but many a knight was slain ; And many more, and all his kith and kin Clave to him, and abode in his own land. And many more when Modred raised revolt, Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. And of this remnant will I leave a part, True men who love me still, for whom I live, GUINEVERE. 1 1 1 To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my death. Howbeit, I know, if ancient prophecies Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom. Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me, That I, the King, should greatly care to live ; For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. Bear with me for the last time while I show, Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd. For when the Roman left us, and their law RelaxVl its hold upon us, and the ways Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their head, In that fair order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men, To -"I've as model for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time. I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew < )f no more subtle master under heaven Than i- the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 1 1 2 BRITISH FOLK-LOBE. And love of truth, and all that makes a man. And all this throve until I wedded thee ! Believing ' Lo, mine helpmate, one to feel My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.' Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot; Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ; Then others, following these my mightiest knights, And drawing foul ensample from fair names, Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite Of all my heart had destined did obtain, And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine I guard as God's high gift from scath and wrong, Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, To sit once more within his lonely hall, And miss the wonted number of my knights, And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds, As in the golden days before thy sin. For which of us, who might be left, could speak , Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, And I should evermore be vext with thee In hanging robe or vacant ornament, Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy lord, Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. I am not made of so slight elements. Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. I hold that man the worst of public foes, Who either for his own or children's sake, To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house : For being thro' his cowardice allowVl Her station, taken everywhere for pure, She like a new disease, unknown to men, GUINEVERE. 1 1 3 Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps The fealty of our friends, aud stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns ! Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart, Than thou reseated in thy place of light, The mockery of my people, and their bane." He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. Far off a solitary trumpet blew. Then waiting by the doors the war-horse neigh'd As at a friend's voice, aud he spake again : " Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes. I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, The doom of treason and the flaming death (When first I learnt thee hidden here), is past. The jiang— which while I weigh'd thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. Ami all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and 1, Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved ? golden hair, with which I u^-<] to play Not knowing! imperial-molded form, And beauty such as never woman wore, Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — 1 can not touch thy lips ; they arc not mine, But Lancelot's: nay, they uever were the King's. I can not take thy hand ; that, too, is flesh, FOLK-LORE 8 114 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. And in the flesh thou hast sinn'J ; and mine own flesh, Here looking down on thine own polluted, cries, ' I loathe thee ; ' yet not less, Guinevere, For I was ever virgin save for thee ; My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still. Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, Hereafter in that world where all are pure We two may meet before high God, and thou AVilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know I am thine husband— not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow : They summon me their King to lead mine hosts Far down to that, great battle in the west, Where I must strike against my sister's son, Leagued with the lords of the White Horse and knights Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. And thou remaining here wilt learn the event ; But hither shall I never come again, Never lie by thy side, see thee no more. Farewell ! " And while she grovell'd at his feet, She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head, Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, Eose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found The casement : " Peradventure," so she thought, " If I might see his face and not be seen." And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! GUINEVERE. 118 And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turn'd ; and more and more The moony vapor rolling round the King, Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And graver, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. Then she stretch 'd out her arms, and cried aloud, "0 Arthur!" there her voice brake suddenly, Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fills in mid-air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and Hashes down the vale — Went on in passionate utterance: " Gone — my lord ! Gone thro' my sin, to slay and to be slain ! And he forgave me, and I could not speak. Farewell? I should have answer'd hi-' farewell. His mercy choked me. Gong, my lord the King, My own trni' lord ! how dare I call him mine ? The shadow of another cleaves to me, And makes me one pollution : he, the King, Call'd me polluted: shall 1 kill myself? What help in that? I can not kill my sin, If soul be soid ; nor can I kill my shame; No, nor by living can 1 live it down. The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months. The months will add themselves and make the years, 116 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. The years will roll into ihe centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn. I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. Let the world be ; that is but of the world. What else? what hope? I think there was a hope, Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope ; His hope he call'd it ; but he never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts. And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven My wickedness to him, and left me hope That in mine own heart I can live down sin And be his mate hereafter in the heavens Before high God. Ah, great and gentle lord, Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint Among his warring senses, to thy knights — To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took Full easily all impressions from below, Would not look up, or half despised the height To which I would not or I could not climb — I thought I could not breathe in that fine air, That pure severity of perfect light — I wanted warmth and color, which I found In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art : Thou art the highest and most human too, Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none Will tell the King I love him tho' so late ? Now — ere he goes to the great Battle ? none : Myself must tell him in that purer life, But now it were too daring. Ah, my God, What might I not have made of thy fair world, Had I but loved thy highest creature here ? It was my duty to have loved the highest : It surely was my profit had I known : It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another." GUINEVERE. 11 7 Here her hand Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes : she look'd, and saw The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, " Yea, little maid, for am / not forgiven V " Then glancing up, beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping ; and her heart was loosed Within her, and she wept with these, and said : " Ye know me, then, that wicked one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King. shut me round with narrowing nunnery walls, .Meek maidens, from the voices crying ' Shame ! ' 1 must not scorn myself : he loves me still. Let no one dream but that he loves me still. So let me, if you do not shudder at me Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you : Wear black and white, and be a nun like you ; Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts ; Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, But not rejoicing ; mingle with your rites ; Pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines; Do each low oflice of your holy house; Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole To poor sick people, richer in his eyes Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer The somber close of that voluptuous day Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King." She said : they took her to themselves, and she, Still hoping, fearing, " Is it yet too late?" Dwelt with thmi, till in time their Abbess died. Thru .die, for her good deeds and her pure life, And fur tin' power of ministration in her, And likewise for the high rank she had borne, Was chosen Abbess, there an Abbess lived 118 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, passed To where beyond these voices there is peace. "CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." BY ROBERT BROWNING. I. My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. ii. What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, insnare All travelers who might find him posted there, And ask the road ? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, in. If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed : neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV. For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out through years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope CHILDE BO LAND. H9 With that obstreperous joy success would bring, — I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath, Freelier outside (" since all is o'er," he saith, " And the blow fallen no grieving can amend ") ; VI. While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the bauners, scarves, and staves : And still the man hears all, and only craves lie may not shame such tender love, and stay. VII. Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard fail arc prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among " The Band " — to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps — that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now should I be fit ? v 1 1 i . So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim lied leer to see the plain catch its estray. 120 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. IX. For mark ! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone ; gray plain all round : Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on : naught else remained to do. x So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature ; nothing throve For flowers — as well expect a cedar grove ! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think ; a burr had been a treasure trove. xr. No ! penury, inertness, and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. " See, Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, " It nothing skills : I can not help my case : 'Tis the Last Judgment's tire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." XIT. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped ; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy : thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. CHILDE ROLAND. 1 2 1 One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there : Thrust out past service from the Devil's stud ! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane ; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe ; I never saw a brute I hated so ; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. xv. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards — the soldier's art : One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert*s reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace ! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. x v 1 1 . Giles then, the soul of honor — there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (lie said), he durst. Good — but the scene shifts— faugh ! what, hangman hands Pin to Ins breast a parchment? His own hands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! 122 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. XVIII. Better this present than a past like that ; Back therefore to my darkening path again ! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat ? I asked : when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms ; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. xx. So petty yet so spiteful ! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it ; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng : The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded, — good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard ! — It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh ! it sounded like a baby's shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage ! Who were the stragglers, what war did they wage CHILDE ROLAND. 123 Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash ? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose ? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. xxiv. And more than that— a furlong on — why, there ! What bad use was that engine for that wheel, Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with ; (so a fool finds mirth, M;ik<-> a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes !) ; within a rood — Bog, clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, colored gay and grim, Now patches where Bome leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils ; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. 124 BRITISH FOLK- WEE. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end : Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further ! At the thought A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap — perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains — with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me, — solve it, you ! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when — In a bad dream, perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts — you're inside the den. XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place ! those two hills on the right Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight ; While to the left a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight ! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself ? The round, squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 125 In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see ? because of night, perhaps ? — why, day Came back again for that ! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft : The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, — " Now stab and end the creature — to the heft ! " XXXIII. Not hear ? when noise was everywhere ! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers, — How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost ! one moment knelled the woe of years. xxxiv. There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture ! In a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew " Chilcle Roland to the Dark Tower rame." THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. I. I was the chief of the race -he had stricken my father dead But I gather'd my fellows together, 1 swore I would strike off his head. 126 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Each of them look'd like a king, and was noble in birth as in worth, And each of them boasted he sprang from the oldest race upon earth. Each was as brave in the fight as the bravest hero of song, And each of them liefer had died than have done one an- other a wrong. He lived on an isle in the ocean — we sail'd on a Friday morn — He that had slain my father the day before I was born. II. And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on the shore was he. But a sudden blast blew us out and away thro' a boundless sea. in. And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had touch'd at before, Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore, And the brooks glitter'd on in the light without sound, and the long waterfalls Pour'd in a thunderless plunge to the base of the mountain walls, And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm flourish'd up beyond sight, And the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbelievable height, And high in the heaven above it there flicker'd a songless lark, And the cock couldn't crow, and the bull couldn't low, and the dog couldn't bark. And round it we went, and thro' it, but never a murmur, a breath — It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death, THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUJVE. 127 And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we strove to speak Our voices were thinner and fainter than any flitter-mouse shriek ; And the men that were mighty of tongue and could raise such a battle-cry That a hundred who heard it would rush on a thousand lances and die — they to be dumb'd by the charm ! — so fluster'd with anger were they They almost fell on each other ; but after we sail'd away. IV. And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we landed, a score of wild birds Cried from the topmost summit with human voices and words; Once in an hour they cried, and whenever their voices peal'd The steer fell down at the plow and the harvest died from the field, And the men dropt dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame, And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame ; And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew, Till they shouted along with the shouting and seized one another and slew ; But I drew them the one from the other; I saw that we could not stay, And we left the dead to the birds, and we sail'd with our wounded away. v. And we came to the Isle of Flowers : their breath met us out on the seas, For the Spring and the middle Summer sat each on the lap of the breeze ; 128 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, and the dark-blue clematis clung, And starr'd with a myriad blossom the long convolvulus hung; And the topmost spire of the mountain was lilies in lieu of snow, And the lilies like glaciers winded down, running out below Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, the blaze of gorse, and the blush Of millions of roses that sprang without leaf or a thorn from the bush. And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak without ever a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea; And we roll'd upon capes of crocus and vaunted our kith and our kin, And we wallow'd in beds of lilies, and chanted the triumph of Finn, Till each like a golden image was pollen'd from head to feet, And each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middle- day heat. Blossom and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a fruit ! And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute, And we tore up the flowers by the million and flung them in bight and bay, And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail'd away. VI. And we came to the Isle of Fruits : all round from the cliffs and the capes, Purple or amber, dangled a hundred fathom of grapes, And the warm melon lay like a little sun on the tawny sand, And the fig ran up from the beech and rioted over the land, TEE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 129 And the mountain arose like a jewel'd throne thro' the fra- grant air, Glowing with all-color'd plums and with golden masses of pear, And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine and vine, But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine ; And the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest that ever were seen, And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet between, And all of them redder than rosiest health or than utterest shame, And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame ; And we stay'd three days, and we gorged and we madden'd, till every one drew His sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew ; And myself, I had eaten but sparely, and fought till 1- sun- der'd the fray, Then I bade them remember my father's death, and we sail'd away. VII. And we came to the Isle of Fire: we were lured by the light from afar, For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star; Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright, For the whole isle shudder'd and shook like a man in a mortal affrighi ; We were giddy besides with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed, that at la There were some leap'd into the fire; and away we sail'd, and we passed FOLK-LORE 9 ISO BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Over that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air : Down we look'd : what a garden ! bliss, what a Paradise there ! Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deep Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep ! And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate'er I could say, Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled away. VIII. And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land, And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter'd o'er us a sunbright hand, Then it open'd and dropt at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest, Bread enough for his need till the laborless day dipt under the West ; And we wander'd about it and thro' it. never was time so good ! And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood, And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by the gurgle of springs, And we chanted the songs of the bards and the glories of fairy kings; But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn, Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sunbright hand of the dawn, For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green isle was our own, And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone, And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play, For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail'd away. THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUJYE. 131 IX. And we passed the Isle of Witches, and heard their musical cry: ' ; Come to us, come, come ! " in the stormy red of a sky Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes, For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest capes, And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea-birds in a row, And a hundred gambol'd and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below, And a hundred splash 'd from the ledges, and bosom'd the burst of the spray, But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail'd away. x. And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double Towers : One wa3 of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers : But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells, And they shock'd on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells, And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain, And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and the brain, Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Tower.-, There were some for the clean-cut stone, there were more for the carven flowers, And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over as :ill the day, For the one half slew the other, and after we sail'd away. 132 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. XI. And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail'd with St. Brendan of yore ; He had lived ever since on the isle, and his winters were fifteen score, And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet, And his white hair sank to his heels, and his white beard fell to his feet, And he spake to me : " Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine ! Remember the words of the Lord when he told us ' Venge- ance is mine !' His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife, Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life ; Thy father had slain his father — how long shall the murder last? Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past." And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard, and we pray'd as we heard him pray, And the holy man he assoil'd us, and sadly we sail'd away. XII. And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he, The man that had slain my father. I saw him and let him be. weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife, and the sin, When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of Finn. MADOC. 133 MADOC. BY KOBERT SOUTHEY. XVII. THE DEPARTURE. "Winter hath passed away ; the vernal storms Have spent their rage ; the ships are stored, and now To-morrow they depart. That day a boy, Weary and foot-sore, to Aberfraw came, Who to Goervyl's chamber made his way, And caught the hem of her garment, and exclaimed, " A boon, a boon, dear Lady ! " Nor did he Wait more reply than that encouragement Which her sweet eye and lovely smile bestowed: " I am a poor, unhappy, orphan boy, Born to fair promises and better hopes, But now forlorn. Take me to be your page. For blessed Mary's sake, refuse me not ! 1 have no friend on earth nor hope but this." The boy was fair ; and though his eyes were swoln, And cheek defiled with tears, and though Ids voice Came choked by grief, yet to that earnest eye, And supplicating voice so musical, It had not sure been easy to refuse The boon he begged. " I can not grant thy suit," Goervyl cried, "hut I can aid it, boy! Go, ask of Madoc !" And herself arose And led him where her brother, on the shore, That day the lasl embarkment oversaw. Mervvn then took hi- mantle by the skirt, And knelt and made his suit; she, too, began To sue; but Madoc, smiling on the maid, Won by the virtue of the countenance Which looked for favor, lightly gave the yes. 134 BRITISH FOLK- LOBE. Where wert thou, Garadoc, when that fair boy Told his false tale ? for, hadst thou heard the voice, The geutle voice, so musically sweet, And seen that earnest eye, it would have healed Thy wounded heart, and thou hadst voyaged on, The happiest man that ever yet forsook His native country. He, on board the bark, Leaned o'er the vessel-side, and there he stood And gazed, almost unconscious that he gazed, Toward you distant mountains where she dwelt — Seneua, his beloved. Caradoc, Senena, thy beloved, is at hand, Her golden locks are clipped, and her blue eye Is wandering through the throng in search of thee, For whose dear sake she hath forsaken all. You deem her false, that her frail constancy Shrunk from her father's anger, that she lives Another's victim-bride : but she hath fled From that unnatural anger — hath escaped The unnatural union ; she is on the shore, Senena, blue-eyed maid, a seemly boy, To share thy fortunes, to reward thy love, And to the land of peace to follow thee, Over the ocean- waves. Now all is done. Stores, beeves and flocks and water, all aboard ; The dry East blows, and not a sign of change Stains the clear firmament. The Sea Lord sate At the last banquet in his brother's court, And heard the song. It told of Owen's fame, When with his Normen and assembled force Of G-uienne and Gascony, and Anjou's strength, The Fleming's aid, and England's chosen troops, Along the ascent of Berwyn, many a day The Saxon vainly on his mountain foes Denounced his wrath ; for Mona's dragon-sons, MADOC. 1 3S By wary patience, baffled long his force, Winning slow Famine to their aid, and helped By the angry Elements, and Sickness sent From Heaven, and Fear, that of its vigor robbed The healthy arm ; then in quick enterprise Fell on his weary and disheartened host, Till with defeat and loss and obloquy He tied with all his nations. Madoc gave His spirit to the song ; he felt the theme In every pulse ; the recollection came, Revived and heightened to intenser pain, That in Aberi'raw, in his father's hall, He never more should share the feast, nor hear The echoing harp again. Ilis heart was full ; And, yielding to its yearnings, in that mood Of awful feeling, he called forth the King, And led him from the palace-porch, and stretched His hand toward the ocean, and exclaimed: "To-morrow over yon wide waves I go; To-morrow, never to return, I leave My native land ! David ! O my brother ! Turn not impatiently a reckless ear To that affectionate and natural voice Which thou wilt hear no more ! Release our brethren ; Recall the wanderers home; and link them to thee By cordial confidence, by benefits Which bless the benefactor. Be not thou As is the black and melancholy yew, Thai strikes into the grave its baleful roots, And prospers on the dead ! The Saxon King, — Think Dot ! wrong him now; an hour like this Hath softened all my nan tier feelings down; Nor will I lialc him for his sister's sake, Thy gentle Queen — whom, thai great God may bless, And, blessing her, bless thee and our dear country, Shall never be forgotten in my prayers. 136 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. But he is far away ; and, should there come The evil hour upon thee, — if thy kin, Wearied by suffering and driven desperate, Should lift the sword, or young Llewelyn raise His banner, and demand his father's throne, — Were it not trusting to a broken reed To lean on England's aid ? I urge thee not For answer now ; but sometimes, my brother ! Sometimes recall to mind my parting words, As 'twere the death-bed counsel of the friend Who loved thee best ! " The affection of his voice, So mild and solemn, softened David's heart : He saw his brother's eyes, suffused with tears, Shine in the moonbeam as he spake. The King Remembered his departure, and he felt Feelings which long from his disnatured breast Ambition had expelled : he could almost Have followed their strong impulse. From the shore, Madoc with quick and agitated step Had sought his home; the monarch went his way Serious and slow, and laid him down that night With painful recollections, and such thoughts As might, if Heaven had willed it, have matured To penitence and peace. The day is come ; The adventurers in St. Cybi's holy fane Hear the last Mass, and all assoiled of sin, Partake the bread of Christian fellowship. Then, as the Priest his benediction gave, They knelt, in such an awful stillness hushed, As with yet more oppression seemed to load The burdened heart. At times, and half suppressed, Womanly sobs were heard, and manly cheeks Were wet with silent tears. Now forth they go, And at the portal of the church unfurl MADOC. 137 Prince Madoo's banner : at that sight, a shout Burst from his followers, and the hills and rocks Thrice echoed their acclaim. There lie the ships, Their sails all loose, their streamers rolling out With sinuous flow and swell, like water-snakes, Curling aloft ; the waves are gay with boats — Pinnace and barge and coracle ; the sea Swarms, like the shore, with life. Oh, what a sight Of beauty for the spirit unconcerned, If heart there be which unconcerned could view A sight like this ! — how yet more beautiful For him whose soul can feel and understand The solemn import ! Yonder they embark — Youth, beauty, valor, virtue, reverend age — Some led by love of noble enterprise ; Others, who, desperate of their country's weal, Ply from the impending yoke; all warm alike With confidence and high heroic hope, And all in one fraternal bond conjoined By reverence to their Chief, the best "beloved That ever yet on hopeful enterprise Led gallant army forth, tie, even now Lord of himself, by faith in Cod and love To man, subdues the feeling of this hour, The bitteresl of his being. At this time, Pale, and with feverish eve, the King came up, And led him somewhat from the throng apart, Saying: "I sent at daybreak to release Rodri from prison, meaning that with th He should depart, in peacG : hut be was gone ; This very night he had escaped. Perchance — As I do hope — it was thy doing, Madoc? Is he aboard the fleet ? " " I would lie \ww ! " Madoc replied ; " with what a lightened heart 138 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. Then should I sail away ! Ririd is there Alone ; alas that this was done so late ! " " Keproach me not ! " half sullenly the King, Answering, exclaimed ; " Madoc, reproach me not ! Thou know'st how hardly I attained the throne ; And is it strange that I should guard with fear The precious prize ? Now, when I would have taken Thy counsel, be the evil on his head ! Blame me not now, my brother, lest sometimes I call again to mind thy parting words In sorrow ! " " God be with thee ! " Madoc cried ; " And if at times the harshness of a heart Too prone to wrath have wronged thee, let these tears Efface all faults. I leave thee, my brother ! With all a brother's feelings." So he said, And grasped, with trembling tenderness, his hand, Then calmed himself, and moved toward the boat. Emma, though tears would have their way and sighs Would swell, suppressing still all words of woe, Followed Goervyl to the extremest shore. But then, as on the plank the maid set foot, Did Emma, staying her by the hand, pluck out The crucifix, which next her heart she wore In reverence to its relic, and she cried : " Yet, ere we part, change with me, dear Goervyl ! Dear sister ! loved too well, or lost too soon ! I shall betake me often to my prayers — Never in them, Goervyl, of thy name Unmindful ; thou, too, wilt remember me Still in thine orisons. But God forefend That ever misery should make thee find This cross thy only comforter ! " She said, And kissed the holy pledge, as each to each MJDOC. 139 Transferred the mutual gift. Nor could the maid Answer, for agony, to that farewell : She held Queen Emma to her breast, and close She clasped her with a strong, convulsive sob, Silently. Madoc, too, in silence went, But pressed a kiss on Emma's lips, and left His tears upon her cheek. With dizzy eyes, Gazing she stood, now saw the boat push off. The dashing of the oars awakened her : She wipes her tears away, to view once more Those dear familiar faces ; they are dim In the distance : never shall her waking eye Behold them, till the hour of happiness, When death hath made her pure for perfect bliss ! Two hearts alone of all that company, Of all the thousands who beheld the scene, Partook unmingled joy. Dumb with delight, Young Hoel views the ships, and feels the boat Rock on the heaving waves ; and Llaian felt Comfort — though sad, yet comfort — that for her No eye was left to weep nor heart to mourn. Hark ! tis the mariners, with voice attuned, Timing their toil ; and now, with gentle gales, Slow from the holy haven they depart. xvnr. RODRI. Now hath the evening settled ; the broad moon Rolls through the rifted clouds. With gentle gales Slowly they glide along, when they behold A boat, with press of Bail and Btress of oar, Speed forward to the Heel ; and now, arrived Beside the chieftain's vessel, one inquires If Madoc be aboard. The answer given, Swift he ascended up the lofty side. 140 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. With joyful wonder did the Ocean Lord Again behold Llewelyn ; but he gazed Doubtfully on his comrade's countenance — A meager man, severe of brow, his eye Stern. " Thou dost view me, Madoc," he exclaimed, "As 'twere a stranger's face. I marvel not ! The long afflictions of my prison-housp Have changed me." " Rodri ! " cried the Prince, and fell Upon his neck; " last night, subdued at length By my solicitations, did the King Send to deliver thee, that thou shonldst share My happy enterprise ; and thou art come, Even to my wish ! " " Nay,. Madoc, nay, not so ! " He answered with a stern and bitter smile ; " This gallant boy hath given me liberty, And I will pay him with his father's throne ; Ay, by my father's soul ! Last night we fled The house of bondage, and in the sea-caves By day we lurked securely. Here I come, Only to see thee once before I die, And say farewell — dear brother ! " " Would to God This purpose could be changed ! " the Sea Lord cried ; " But thou art roused by wrongs, and who shall tame That lion-heart ? This only, if your lot Fall favorable, will I beseech of ye That to his Queen, the fair Plantagenet, All honorable humanity ye show, For her own virtue, and in gratitude, As she hath pleaded for you, and hath urged Her husband on your part, till it hath turned His wrath upon herself. Oh ! deal ye by her As by your dearest sister in distress, For even so dear is she to Madoc's heart. MABOC. 1 4 1 And now I know she from Aberfraw's tower Watcheth these specks upon the moonlight sea, And weeps for my departure, and for me Sends up her prayers to Heaven, nor thinks that now I must make mine to man in her behalf ! " Quoth Rodri : " Rest assured for her. I swear, By our dead mother, so to deal with her As thou thyself wouldsfc dictate, as herself Shall wish." The tears fell fast from Madoc's eyes. " Britain ! my country ! " he exclaimed ; " Forever thus by civil strife convulsed, Thy children's blood flowing to satisfy Thy children's rage, how wilt thou still support The struggle with the Saxon?" Rodri cried : " Our strife shall not be long ; Mona will rise With joy to welcome me, her rightful lord ; And woe be to the King who rules by fear, When danger comes against him!" " Fear not thou For Britain !" quoth Llewelyn ; " for not yet The country of our fathers shall resign Her name among the nations. Though her Sun Slope from his eminence, the voice of man May yet arresl him on his downward way. My dreams by day, my visions in the night, Are of her welfare. 1 shall mount the throne — Yes, Madoc! and the Bard of years to come, Who harp-, of Arthur's and of Owen's deeds, Shall with the worthies of his country rank Llewelyn's name. Dear ancle, fare thee well! And 1 almosl could wish I had hem born Of humbler Lot, thai I miglrl follow thee, Companion of this noble enterprise. 142 BRITISH FOLK-IORE. Think of Llewelyn often, who will oft Kemember thee in love ! " For the last time He pressed his uncle's hand, and Kodri gave The last farewell ; then went the twain their way. So over ocean, through the moonlight waves, Prince Madoc sailed with all his company. No nobler crew filled that heroic bark Which bore the first adventurers of the deep To seek the Golden Fleece on barbarous shores ; Nor richlier fraught did that illustrious fleet Home to the Happy Island hold its way, When Amadis, with his prime chivalry — He of all chivalry himself the flower — Came from the rescue, proud of Eoman spoils, And Oriana, freed from Roman thrall. TAM 0' SHANTER. BY ROBERT BURNS. When chapman billies 1 leave the street, And drouthy g neebors neebors meet, As market days are wearin' late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy, 3 And gettin' fou 4 and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, 6 and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. i Chapman billies— peddling fellows. a Thirsty. * Ale. * Boost. 6 Gates. TAM 0' SHANTER. t4S This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses). Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market day thou wasna sober ; That ilka melder 1 wi' the miller Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller ; 3 That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ! Or catch 'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars 3 me greet 4 To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthened, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale : -Ae market night, Tain had got planted unco 5 right, Pas! by an ingle, 6 bleezing finely, Wi' reaming 7 swats 8 that drank divinely ; And al his dhow Souter 9 Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — They had been fou for weeks thegither ! 1 i.n t. a Money. 3 Makes. * Weep. • I ac< nly. i Foaming. 8 Beer. « CoM'l< r. 144 BBJTLSH FOLK-LOBE. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And ay the ale was growing better ; The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious ; The Souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus. The storm without might rair and rustle — Tarn didna mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snowfall in the river, A moment white — then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tam maun ride, That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattling showers rose on the blast, The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd ; That night, a child might understand The deil had business on his hand. TAM (J SHANTER. 145 Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, (A better never lifted leg), Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was 'cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd, 1 And past the birks and meikle stane Whare drunken Charlie brak's neckbane : And through the whins, and by the cairn Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mango's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours a' his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods ; The lightnings flash frae pole to pole; Near and more near the t thunders roll ; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway scern'd in a bleeze; Through ilka bore 2 the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! Whal dangers thou cans! make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, 3 we fear nae evil, Wi' usquebae, 4 wr'll face the devil! — The swat sac ream'd in Tammie'e noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. Bui Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish \1, ■Smothered. ■ Cr< * Cheap ale. * Whisky. FOLK-LORE 10 146 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. She ventured forward on the light, And, wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspreys, and reels, Put life and mettle i' their heels : At winnock-bunker, 1 i' the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, 2 black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge : He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl, 3 Till roof and rafter a' did dirl.f Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses, And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span lang, wee, nnchristen'd bairns ; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks wi' blnid red-rusted ; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glower'd, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 1 Window seat. * Rough dog. 9 Shriek. « Vibrate. TAM a SHATTER. 147 They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 1 And coost 2 her daddies 3 to the wark, 4 And linket at it in her sark. 5 Now Tarn ! Tarn ! had thae been queans, A' plump and strappin' in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen, Thir breeks 6 o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies For ae blink o' the bonny burdies ! But wither'd beldams, auld, and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal Lowpin' and flingin' on a cummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawl ie, " There was ae winsome wench and walie," That night enlisted in the core (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonny boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear And kept the country side in fear). Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, That, while a lassie, she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, Jt was her best, and she was vaunty. All! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! i Steamed. "Threw. »Kag8. « Corner. 'Skirt. a Breeches, 148 BRITISH FOLK-LORE. But here my Muse her wing maun cower, Sic flights are far beyond her power ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jade she was and Strang), And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd ; Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and maiu : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " And in an instant a' was dark : And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke, As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market-crowd, When " Catch the thief ! " resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tam ! thou'lt get thy fairin' ! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! Kate soon will be a wofu' woman ! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross; But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake ! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle, But little wist she Maggie's mettle — TAM 0' SHATTER. 149 Ae spring braugbt aff her master hale, Bat left behind her am gray tail ! The carlin caught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son take heed : Whane'er to drink you are inclined, Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — Remember Tarn o' S banter's mare. NOESE FOLK-LOBE. The ancient Scandinavians were a race of heroes, whose lives were passed amid scenes of wild excitement. They braved the stormiest seas, engaged in fierce encounters with neighboring peoples or among themselves, and spent their intervals of rest in hearty revels in their mountain fast- nesses. Their mythology was a reflection of their character. Their favorite divinity was the god of war and of thunder. Human sacrifices were offered upon their stone altars. Their gods themselves were arrayed in continual conflicts. The introduction of the Christian religion into Norway, in the tenth century, was bitterly opposed by King Gorm the Old, but the better faith was shortly afterward propagated under Harold Bluetooth, and under King Olaf Tryggvesson, who Preached the gospel with his sword. The names of the old Norse divinities are preserved in the appellations of the days of the week, and in numerous forms of speech. The mythology is so interwoven with modern literature and art that a knowledge of its leading characters and distinctive features is now especially valuable. Unlike the disconnected tales of Greek and Roman divini- ties, the mythology of the Norse presents a comprehensive and intelligent scheme, and formed the basis of a strong and in many respects rational faith, which fitted the Scandina- vians to receive the light of Christian teachings. Out of the dark and formless chaos, we are told in the ancient lore, sprang the giant from whose body the earth was NORSE FOLK-LORE. 151 formed. A continuous conflict follows between the forces of good and evil. The souls of brave mortals rise to dwell in a soldier's paradise, while cowards are cast down into the drear abode of the lost. Then, after long ages, comes the day of judgment. The evil deity and his minions cause the destruc- tion of the world, and even the abode of the celestials sinks in the Twilight of the Gods — in Ragnarok. But the universe is not left in darkness. A new earth arises from out the waters. The Almighty descends to sit in judgment. Here not merely bravery in battle, but righteous- ness in all its forms, is the standard by which the soul is tried. The good are reserved for eternal life with God, while the wicked are consigned to never-dying fires. The giant Ymer, or Imir, represents chaotic matter. He was produced in the open space, Ginungagap, by the action of heat and frost from the fire-world, Muspelheim, and the ice-world, Xiflheim. Frost giants sprang into being, from whom was descended Odin, the father of gods and men. Ymer. being evil, was slain by Odin, and from his body the world was formed. The seas, which flowed from his veins, ingulfed the whole race of frost giants, with the exception of a single pair, from whom a later giant race was descended. Odin, the greatest of the gods, having formed the world, molded the first human pair, Ask and EMBLA, and gave them Midgard for a residence. From his elevated throne, Illidskjalf, he viewed the entire world and ruled the nations. Be is portrayed as a tall, aged, heavily bearded, one-eyed man, with an expression of deep thoughtful ness upon his ires. He wears a eloak of colored st ripes, and carries a spear (Gungner). Be wears also a broad hat- (for all the Norse gods are well clothed) ami lias a bracelet (Draiijuier) upon his arm. II^ i • al tended by two wolves, Gere and Freke (greedy and voracious), and two ravens, Bugin (reflection) and Munin (memory). From another form of Odin's name we derive Wednesday. His wives were Jord, Frigga, and Rind. 152 NORSE FOLK-LORE. Thor, the Thunderer, was the son of Odin and Jord. Representing the strength manifest in the convulsions of Nature, and in a moral sense the principle of right in conflict with evil, he is always at war, slaying giants and demons with his hammer, Mjolner. Most happily has Longfellow depicted this grand deity in the Challenge, with which his noble Saga opens : " 1 am the God Thor, I am the War God, I a