Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller!
Of late, thy dungeon-harpings were
Of discontent and wrong;
And we, the Privileged, were banned
For cumber-grounds of fatherland,
In thy drear prison-song.

What fellowship hast thou with times
When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes
At feast, in feudal hall,
And peasant churls, a saucy crew,
Fantastic o’er their wassail grew,
Forgetful of their thrall?

Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,
And with the homely Past compare
Your tinselled show and state!
Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold
On human hearts so firm a hold
For ye, and yours, create
As they possessed, whose breasts though rude
Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood
For all who toiled, through youth and age,
T’ enrich their force-won heritage!

Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride
Secure, ere ye begin to chide!
Then, lordlings, though ye may discard
The measures I rehearse,
Slight not the lessons of the bard
The moral of his verse.

But we will dare thy verse to chide!
Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide,
And taunt our wretchedness
With visioned feast, and song, and dance,
While, daily, our grim heritance
Is famine and distress?

Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern,
Never from Suffering’s cause to turn,
But to the end of life
Against Oppression’s ruthless band
Still unsubduable to stand,
A champion in the strife?

Think’st thou we suffer less, or feel
To-day’s soul-piercing wounds do heal
The wounds of months and years?
Or that our eyes so long have been
Familiar with the hunger keen
Our babes endure, we gaze serene
Strangers to scalding tears?

Ah no! my brothers, not from me
Hath faded solemn memory
Of all your bitter grief:
This heart its pledges doth renew
To its last pulse it will be true
To beat for your relief.

My rhymes are trivial, but my aim
Deem ye not purposeless:
I would the homely truth proclaim
That times which knaves full loudly blame
For feudal haughtiness
Would put the grinding crew to shame
Who prey on your distress.

O that my simple lay might tend
To kindle some remorse
In your oppressors’ souls, and bend
Their wills a cheerful help to lend
And lighten Labour’s curse!

A night of snow the earth hath clad
With virgin mantle chill;
But in the sky the sun looks glad,
And blythely o’er the hill,
From fen and wold, troops many a guest
To sing and smile at Thorold’s feast.

And oft they bless the bounteous sun
That smileth on the snow;
And oft they bless the generous one
Their homes that bids them fro
To glad their hearts with merry cheer,
When Yule returns, in winter drear.

How joyously the lady bells
Shout though the bluff north-breeze
Loudly his boisterous bugle swells!
And though the brooklets freeze,
How fair the leafless hawthorn-tree
Waves with its hoar-frost tracery!
While sun-smiles throw o’er stalks and stems
Sparkles so far transcending gems
The bard would gloze who said their sheen
Did not out-diamond
All brightest gauds that man hath seen
Worn by earth’s proudest king or queen,
In pomp and grandeur throned!

Saint Leonard’s monks have chaunted mass,
And clown’s and gossip’s laughing face
Is turned unto the porch,
For now comes mime and motley fool,
Guarding the dizened Lord Misrule
With mimic pomp and march;
And the burly Abbot of Unreason
Forgets not that the blythe Yule season
Demands his paunch at church;
And he useth his staff
While the rustics laugh,
And, still, as he layeth his crosier about,
Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt,
And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim,
Sees carven apes ever laughing at him!

Louder and wilder the merriment grows,
For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he throws!
And the dragon’s roar,
As he paweth the floor,
And belcheth fire
In his demon ire,
When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose,
Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din
Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin
For the saints, from the windows, in purple and gold,
With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold;
And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine
Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine!
“Come forth, come forth! it is high noon,”
Cries Hugh the seneschal;
“My masters, will ye ne’er have done?
Come forth unto the hall!”

’Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall:
Full many a trophy bedecks the wall
Of prowess in field and wood;
Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear
Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer
But De Thorold’s guests beheld nought there
That scented of human blood.
The mighty wassail horn suspended
From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended,
With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound,
Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed,
While their look with the lightning of anger gleamed,
As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound,
That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest,
And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast.

Sir Wilfrid’s carven chair of state
’Neath the dais is gently elevate,
But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride:
Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire’s side,
And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall,
Sit by the tables along the wide hall,
Each with his platter, and stout drink-horn,
They count on good cheer this Christmas morn!

Not long they wait, not long they wish
The trumpet peals, and the kingly dish,
The head of the brawny boar,
Decked with rosemary and laurels gay,
Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza,
As their fathers did, of yore!
And they point to the costard he bears in his mouth,
And vow the huge pig,
So luscious a fig,
Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South!

Strike up, strike up, a louder chime,
Ye minstrels in the loft!
Strike up! it is no fitting time
For drowsy strains and soft,
When sewers threescore
Have passed the hall door,
And the tables are laden with roast and boiled,
And carvers are hasting, lest all should be spoiled;
And gossips’ tongues clatter
More loudly than platter,
And tell of their marvel to reckon the sorts:

Ham by fat capon, and beef by green worts;
Ven’son from forest, and mutton from fold;
Brawn from the oak-wood, and hare from the wold;
Wild-goose from fen, and tame from the lea;
And plumed dish from the heronry
With choicest apples ’twas featly rimmed,
And stood next the flagons with malmsey brimmed,
Near the knightly swan, begirt with quinces,
Which the gossips said was a dish for princes,
Though his place was never to stand before
The garnished head of the royal boar!

Puddings of plumbs and mince-pies, placed
In plenty along the board, met taste
Of gossip and maiden, nor did they fail
To sip, now and then, of the double brown ale
That ploughman and shepherd vowed and sware
Was each drop so racy, and sparkling, and rare
No outlandish Rhenish could with it compare!

Trow ye they stayed till the meal was done
To pledge a health? Degenerate son
Of friendly sires! a health thrice-told
Each guest had pledged to fellowships old,
Untarrying eager mouth to wipe,
And across the board with hearty gripe
Joining rough hands, ere the meal was o’er:
Hearts and hands went with “healths” in the days of yore!

The meal is o’er, though the time of mirth,
Each brother feels, is but yet in its birth:
“Wassail, wassail!” the seneschal cries;
And the spicy bowl rejoiceth all eyes,
When before the baron beloved ’tis set,
And he dippeth horn, and thus doth greet
The honest hearts around him met:

“Health to ye all, my brothers good!
All health and happiness!
Health to the absent of our blood!
May Heaven the suffering bless,
And cheer their hearts who lie at home
In pain, now merry Yule hath come!
My jolly frères, all health!”

The shout is loud and long, but tears
Glide quickly from some eyes, while ears
List whispering sounds of stealth
That tell how the noble Thorold hath sent,
To palsied widow and age-stricken hind,
Clothing and food, and brother-words kind,
Cheering their aching languishment!

“Wassail, wassail!” Sir Wilfrid saith,
“Push round the brimming bowl!
Art thou there, minstrel? By my faith,
All list to hear thee troll,
Again, some goodly love-lorn verse!
Begin thy ditty to rehearse,
And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe
Less thou wilt take red gold therewith!”

Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth,
But, now the merry Yule returneth,
For love of Him whom angels sung,
And love of one his burning tongue
Is fain to name, but may not tell,
Once more, unto the harp’s sweet swell,
A knightly chanson he will sing,
And, straight, he struck the throbbing string.

Sir Raymond and the False Palmer.

The stranger minstrel’s Second tale.

Sir Raymond de Clifford, a gallant band
Hath gathered to fight in the Holy Land;
And his lady’s heart is sinking in sorrow,
For the knight and his lances depart on the morrow!

“Oh, wherefore, noble Raymond, tell,”
His lovely ladye weeping said,
“With lonely sorrow must I dwell,
When but three bridal moons have fled?”

Sir Raymond kissed her pale, pale cheek,
And strove, with a warrior’s pride,
While an answer of love he essayed to speak,
His flooding tears to hide.

But an image rose in his heated brain,
That shook his heart with vengeful pain,
And anger flashed in his rolling eye,
While his ladye looked on him tremblingly.

Yet, he answered not in wrathful haste,
But clasped his bride to his manly breast;
And with words of tender yet stately dress,
Thus strove to banish her heart’s distress:

“De Burgh hath enrolled him with Philip of France,
Baron Hubert, who challenged De Clifford’s lance,
And made him the scoff of the burgher swine,
When he paid his vows at the Virgin’s shrine.

“Oh, ask me not, love, to tarry in shame,
Lest ‘craven’ be added to Raymond’s name!
To Palestine hastens my mortal foe,
And I with our Lion’s Heart will go!

“Nay, Gertrude, repeat not thy sorrowing tale!
Behold in my casque the scallop-shell,
And see on my shoulder the Holy Rood
The pledge of my emprize bedyed in blood!

“Thou wouldst not, love, I should be forsworn,
Nor the stain on my honour be tamely borne:
Do thou to the saints, each passing day,
For Raymond and royal Richard pray,

“While they rush to the rescue, for God’s dear Son;
And soon, for thy Raymond, the conqu’ror’s meed,
By the skill of this arm, and the strength of my steed,
From the Paynim swart shall be nobly won.

“Thou shalt not long for De Clifford mourn,
Ere he to thy bosom of love return;
When blind to the lure of the red-cross bright,
He will bask, for life, in thy beauty’s light!”

The morn in the radiant east arose:
The Red-cross Knight hath spurred his steed
That courseth as swift as a falcon’s speed:
To the salt-sea shore Sir Raymond goes.

Soon, the sea he hath crossed, to Palestine;
And there his heart doth chafe and pine,
For Hubert de Burgh is not in that land:
He loitereth in France, with Philip’s band.

But De Clifford will never a recreant turn,
While the knightly badge on his arm is borne;
And long, beneath the Syrian sun,
He fasted and fought, and glory won.

His Gertrude, alas! like a widow pines;
And though on her castle the bright sun shines,
She sees not its beams, but in loneliness prays,
Through the live-long hours of her weeping days.

Twelve moons have waned, and the morn is come
When, a year before, from his meed-won home
Sir Raymond went: At the castle gate
A reverend Palmer now doth wait.

He saith he hath words for the ladye’s ear;
And he telleth, in accents dread and drear,
Of De Clifford’s death in the Holy Land,
At Richard’s side, by a Saracen’s hand.

And he gave to the ladye, when thus he had spoken,
Of Sir Raymond’s fall a deathly token:
’Twas a lock of his hair all stained with blood,
Entwined on a splinter of Holy Rood.

Then the Palmer in haste from the castle sped;
And from gloomy morn to weary night,
Lorn Gertrude, in her widowed plight,
Weepeth and waileth the knightly dead.

Three moons have waned, and the Palmer, again,
By Gertrude stands, and smileth fain;
Nor of haste, nor of death, speaks the Palmer, now;
Nor doth sadness or sorrow bedim his brow.

He softly sits by the ladye’s side,
And vaunteth his deeds of chivalrous pride;
Then lisps, in her secret ear, of things
Which deeply endanger the thrones of kings:

From Philip of France, he saith, he came,
To treat with Prince John, whom she must not name;
And he, in fair France, hath goodly lands,
And a thousand vassals there wait his commands.

The ladye liked her gallant guest,
For he kenned the themes that pleased her best;
And his tongue, in silken measures skilled,
With goodly ditties her memory filled.

Thus the Palmer the ladye’s ear beguiles,
Till Gertrude her sorrow exchangeth for smiles;
And when from the castle the Palmer went,
She watched his return, from the battlement.

Another moon doth swell and wane:
But how slowly it waneth!
How her heart now paineth
For sight of the Palmer again!

But the Palmer comes, and her healed heart
Derideth pain and sorrow:
She pledgeth the Palmer, and smirketh smart,
And saith, “we’ll wed to-morrow!”

The morrow is come, and at break of day,
’Fore the altar, the abbot, in holy array,
Is joining the Palmer’s and Gertrude’s hands,
But, in sudden amazement the holy man stands!

For, before the castle, a trumpet’s blast
Rings so loud that the Palmer starts aghast;
And, at Gertrude’s side, he sinks dismayed,
Is’t with dread of the living, or fear of the dead?

The doors of the chapel were open thrown,
And the beams through the pictured windows shone
On the face of De Clifford, with fury flushed,
And forth on the Palmer he wildly rushed!

“False Hubert!” he cried; and his knightly sword
Was sheathed in the heart of the fiend-sold lord!
With a scream of terror, Gertrude fell
For she knew the pride of Sir Raymond well!

He flew to raise her but ’twas in vain:
Her spirit its flight in fear had ta’en!
And Sir Raymond kneels that his soul be shriven,
And the stain of this deed be by grace forgiven:

But ere the Abbot his grace can dole,
De Clifford’s truthful heart is breaking,
And his soul, also, its flight is taking!
Christ, speed it to a heavenly goal!
Oh, pray for the peace of Sir Raymond’s soul!