The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 47

But there came thieves late in the night, They robb'd my bower, and slew my knight, And after that my knight was slain I could no longer there remain.

My servants all from me did fly In the midst of my extremity, And left me by myself alone With a heart more cold than any stone.

Yet, though my heart was full of care, Heaven would not suffer me to despair; Wherefore in haste I changed my name From fair Elise to Sweet William.

And therewithal I cut my hair, And dress'd myself in man's attire; And in my beaver, hose, and band, I travell'd far through many a land.

With a silver rapier by my side, So like a gallant I did ride; The thing that I delighted on, It was to be a serving-man.

Thus in my sumptuous man's array I bravely rode along the way; And at the last it chanced so That I to the king's court did go.

Then to the king I bow'd full low, My love and duty for to show; And so much favour I did crave, That I a serving-man's place might have.

'Stand up, brave youth,' the king replied, 'Thy service shall not be denied; But tell me first what thou canst do; Thou shalt be fitted thereunto.

'Wilt thou be usher of my hall, To wait upon my n.o.bles all?

Or wilt thou be taster of my wine, To wait on me when I do dine?

'Or wilt thou be my chamberlain, To make my bed both soft and fine?

Or wilt thou be one of my guard?

And I will give thee thy reward.'

Sweet William, with a smiling face, Said to the king, 'If't please your Grace To show such favour unto me, Your chamberlain I fain would be.'

The king then did the n.o.bles call, To ask the counsel of them all; Who gave consent Sweet William he The king's own chamberlain should be.

Now mark what strange thing came to pa.s.s: As the king one day a-hunting was, With all his lords and n.o.ble train, Sweet William did at home remain.

Sweet William had no company then With him at home, but an old man: And when he saw the house was clear He took a lute which he had there:

Upon the lute Sweet William play'd, And to the same he sang and said, With a sweet and n.o.ble voice, Which made the old man to rejoice:

'My father was as brave a lord As ever Europe did afford, My mother was a lady bright, My husband was a valiant knight:

'And I myself a lady gay, Bedeck'd with gorgeous rich array; The bravest lady in the land Had not more pleasure at command.

'I had my music every day, Harmonious lessons for to play; I had my virgins fair and free Continually to wait on me.

'But now, alas! my husband's dead, And all my friends are from me fled; My former joys are pa.s.s'd and gone, For I am now a serving-man.'

At last the king from hunting came, And presently, upon the same, He called for this good old man, And thus to speak the king began:

'What news, what news, old man?' quoth he; 'What news hast thou to tell to me?'

'Brave news,' the old man he did say.

'Sweet William is a lady gay.'

'If this be true thou tell'st to me, I'll make thee lord of high degree; But if thy words do prove a lie, Thou shalt be hang'd up presently.'

But when the king the truth had found, His joys did more and more abound: According as the old man did say, Sweet William was a lady gay.

Therefore the king without delay Put on her glorious rich array, And upon her head a crown of gold Which was most famous to behold.

And then, for fear of further strife, He took Sweet William for his wife; The like before was never seen, A serving-man to be a queen.

_Old Ballad_

CXL

_PAIRING TIME ANTIc.i.p.aTED_

It chanced upon a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, a.s.sembled on affairs of love, And with much twitter and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter.

At length a Bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoin'd; Deliver'd briefly thus his mind: 'My friends! be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet.'

A finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What pairing means, thus pert replied: 'Methinks the gentleman,' quoth she, 'Opposite, in the apple-tree, By his good will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or (which is likelier to befall) Till death exterminate us all.

I couple without more ado; My dear d.i.c.k Redcap, what say you?'

d.i.c.k heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting, and sidling, Attested glad his approbation Of an immediate conjugation.

Their sentiments so well express'd Influenced mightily the rest; All pair'd, and each pair built a nest.

But though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And Destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs.

The wind, of late breath'd gently forth, Now s.h.i.+fted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain and snow, Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled.

Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other.

Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser.

_W. Cowper_

CXLI

_TO A WATER FOWL_

Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd, At that far height the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form: yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.