The Land of Song Volume Ii Part 18

"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liegemen so n.o.ble of birth, Tell me to one penny what I am worth."

"For thirty pence our Savior was sold Among the false Jews, as I have been told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I think thou art one penny worser than he."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so little!

Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride this whole world about."

"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your Grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think it could be gone so soon.

Now from the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what do I think."

"Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."

The King he laughed, and swore by the ma.s.s, "I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!"

"Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed, For alack, I can neither write nor read."

"Four n.o.bles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me; And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."

THOMAS PERCY.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout!

I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little flower!--I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!

Travel with the mult.i.tude: Never heed them; I aver That they are all wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, una.s.suming spirit!

Careless of thy neighborhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane;--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours!

b.u.t.tercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise, of what I love!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I have read, in some old, marvelous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of specters pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rus.h.i.+ng stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mistlike banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.]

Down the broad valley, fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvelous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rus.h.i.+ng stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rus.h.i.+ng of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith s.h.i.+neth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

And are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ash.o.r.e.

For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town.

My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.