CANTO III.

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 plumëd 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 freres, 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.