Chapter 11
Then said King Charles, "Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone? The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne. When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease; When Heaven forsakes my pious monks the will of Heaven is peace. Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood the Norman camp unto, And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou.
"I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure; Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword, And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord." Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd's work to do, And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou.
Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread; Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by a head. Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage, "When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage? Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thine to sow and reap?--Thus saith the king to Rou:
"'I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure; If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword, And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.'" The Norman on his warriors looked--to counsel they withdrew; The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou.
So back he strode, and thus he spoke, to that archbishop meek, "I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak, I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast, And for thy creed,--a sea-king's gods are those that give the most. So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true, And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in Rou."
So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where, Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St. Clair; He placed his hand in Charles's hand,--loud shouted all the throng, But tears were in King Charles's eyes--the grip of Rou was strong. "Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;" Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert Rou.
He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring; The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne and backward falls the king. Loud laugh the joyous Norman men.--pale stare the Franks aghast; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast: "I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers-- There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine!
"Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. That we fought the battle bravely--and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,-- The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars! But some were young,--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,-- And one there came from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!
"Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would--but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen,--calm Bingen on the Rhine!
"Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too,--and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen,--dear Bingen on the Rhine!
"There's another--not a Sister,--in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;-- Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life--(for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with _her_, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear! And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path belov'd of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine... But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"
His voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, ... but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!
DEEDS NOT WORDS.
BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT.
The Captain stood on the carronade--first lieutenant, says he, Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me; I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons--because I'm bred to the sea; That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.
Odds blood, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--but I've gained the victory.
That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take _she_, 'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture _we_; I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun, If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.
Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory.
We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough I little thought, he said, that your men were of such stuff; The Captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he; I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be.
Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory.
Our Captain sent for all of us; my merry men said he, I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be: You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son.
Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea, I'll fight 'gainst every odds--and I'll gain the victory.
OLD KING COLE.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul, A merry old soul was he! He would call for his pipe, he would call for his glass, He would call for his fiddlers three; With loving care and reason rare, He ruled his subjects true-- Who used to sing, "Long live the King!" And He--"the people too!"
Old King Cole was a musical soul, A musical soul was he! He used to boast what pleased him most Was nothing but fiddle-de-dee! But his pipe and his glass he loved--alas! As much as his fiddlers three, And by time he was done with the other and the one, He was pretty well done, was he!
Old King Cole was a kingly soul, A kingly soul was he! He governed well, the records tell, The brave, the fair, the free; He used to say, by night and day, "I rule by right divine! My subjects free belong to me, And all that's theirs is mine!"
Old King Cole was a worthy soul, A worthy soul was he! From motives pure he tried to cure All greed and vanity; So if he found--the country round A slave to gold inclined, He would take it away, and bid him pray For a more contented mind.
Old King Cole was a good old soul, A good old soul was he! And social life from civil strife He guarded royally, For when he caught the knaves who fought O'er houses, land, or store, He would take it himself, whether kind or pelf, That they shouldn't fall out any more.
Old King Cole was a thoughtful soul, A thoughtful soul was he! And he said it may be, if they all agree, They may all disagree with me. I must organise routs and tournament bouts, And open a Senate, said he; Play the outs on the ins and the ins on the outs, And the party that wins wins me.
So Old King Cole, constitutional soul, (Constitutional soul was he)! With royal nous, a parliament house He built for his people free. And they talked all day and they talked all night, And they'd die, but they wouldn't agree Until black was white, and wrong was right, And he said, "It works to a T."
Old King Cole was a gay old soul, A gay old soul was he! If he chanced to meet a maiden sweet, He'd be sure to say "kitchi kitchi kee;" And then if her papa, her auntie or mamma, Should suddenly appear upon the scene, He would put the matter straight with an office in the state If they'd promise not to go and tell the queen.
Old Queen Cole was a dear old soul, A dear old soul was she! Her hair was as red as a rose--'tis said-- Her eyes were as green as a pea; At beck and call for rout and ball, She won the world's huzzahs. At fêtes and plays and matinees Receptions and bazaars.
When Old King Cole, with his pipe and bowl, At a smoking concert presided, His queen would be at a five-o'clock tea, At the palace where she resided; And so they governed, ruled, and reigned, O'er subjects great and small, And never was heard a seditious word In castle, cot, or hall.
THE GREEN DOMINO.
In the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. of France the masquerade was an entertainment in high estimation, and was often given, at an immense cost, on court days, and such occasions of rejoicing. As persons of all ranks might gain admission to these spectacles, provided they could afford the purchase of the ticket, very strange _rencontres_ frequently took place at them, and exhibitions almost as curious, in the way of disguise or assumption of character. But perhaps the most whimsical among the genuine surprises recorded at any of these spectacles was that which occurred in Paris on the 15th of October, on the day when the Dauphin (son of Louis XV.) attained the age of one-and-twenty.
At this fête, which was of a peculiarly glittering character--so much so, that the details of it are given at great length by the historians of the day--the strange demeanour of a man in a green domino, early in the evening, excited attention. This mask, who showed nothing remarkable as to figure--though tall, rather, and of robust proportion--seemed to be gifted with an _appetite_, not merely past human conception, but passing the fancies of even romance.
The dragon of old, who churches ate (He used to come on a Sunday), Whole congregations were to him But a dish of Salmagundi,--
he was but a nibbler--a mere fool--to this stranger of the green domino. He passed from chamber to chamber--from table to table of refreshments--not tasting, but devouring--devastating--all before him. At one board he despatched a fowl, two-thirds of a ham, and half-a-dozen bottles of champagne; and, the very next moment, he was found seated in another apartment performing the same feat, with a stomach better than at first. This strange course went on until the company (who at first had been amused by it) became alarmed and tumultuous.
"Is it the same mask--or are there several dressed alike?" demanded an officer of guards as the green domino rose from a seat opposite to him and quitted the apartment.
"I have seen but one--and, by Heaven, here he is again," exclaimed the party to whom the query was addressed.
The green domino spoke not a word, but proceeded straight to the vacant seat which he had just left, and again commenced supping, as though he had fasted for the half of a campaign.
At length the confusion which this proceeding created became universal; and the cause reached the ear of the Dauphin.
"He is the very devil, your highness!" exclaimed an old nobleman--"saving your Highness's presence--or wants but a tail to be so!"
"Say, rather he should be some famished poet, by his appetite," replied the Prince, laughing. "But there must be some juggling; he spills all his wine, and hides the provisions under his robe."
Even while they were speaking, the green domino entered the room in which they were talking, and, as usual, proceeded to the table of refreshments.
"See here, my lord!" cried one--"I have seen him do this thrice!"
"I, twice!"--"I, five times!"--"and I, fifteen."
This was too much. The master of the ceremonies was questioned. He knew nothing--and the green domino was interrupted as he was carrying a bumper of claret to his lips.
"The Prince's desire is, that Monsieur who wears the green domino should unmask." The stranger hesitated.
"The command with which his Highness honours Monsieur is perfectly absolute."
Against that which is absolute there is no contending. The green man threw off his mask and domino; and proved to be a private trooper of the Irish dragoons!
"And in the name of gluttony, my good friend (not to ask how you gained admission), how have you contrived," said the Prince, "to sup to-night so many times?"
"Sire, I was but beginning to sup, with reverence be it said, when your royal message interrupted me."
"Beginning!" exclaimed the Dauphin in amazement; "then what is it I have heard and seen? Where are the herds of oxen that have disappeared, and the hampers of Burgundy? I insist upon knowing how this is!"
"It is Sire," returned the soldier, "may it please your Grace, that the troop to which I belong is to-day on guard. We have purchased one ticket among us, and provided this green domino, which fits us all. By which means the whole of the front rank, being myself the last man, have supped, if the truth must be told, at discretion; and the leader of the rear rank, saving your Highness's commands, is now waiting outside the door to take his turn."
THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" That is what the vision said.
In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendour brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the Blessed Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about Him, Like a garment round Him thrown. Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind He healed, When He walked in Galilee.
In an attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, worshipping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. "Lord," he thought, "in Heaven that reignest, Who am I that thus Thou deignest To reveal Thyself to me? Who am I, that from the centre Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter This poor cell my guest to be?"
Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent-bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor, With persistent iteration He had never heard before. It was now the appointed hour When alike, in shine or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood; And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Wrapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the splendour.
Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate Till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his heavenly guest, Slight this visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate? Would the Vision there remain? Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear, As if to the outward ear: "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"
Straightway to his feet he started, And, with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.
At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close And of feet that pass them by; Grown familiar with disfavour, Grown familiar with the savour Of the bread by which men die! But to-day, they know not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of Mine and lowest That thou doest unto Me."
Unto Me! But had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision And have turned away with loathing?
Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Toward his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door; For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said: "Hadst thou stayed I must have fled!"
THE BELL OF ATRI.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, "I climb no further upward, come what may,"-- The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long; Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John.
How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.
By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts;-- Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold.
He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. At length he said: "What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways: I want him only for the holidays." So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by briar and thorn.