Dear LUCY, you know what my wish is,—I hate all your Frenchified fuss:Your silly entrées and made dishesWere never intended for us.No footman in lace and in rufflesNeed dangle behind my arm-chair;And never mind seeking for truffles,Although they be ever so rare.But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,I prithee get ready at three:Have it smoking, and tender and juicy,And what better meat can there be?And when it has feasted the master,'Twill amply suffice for the maid;Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,And tipple my ale in the shade.
Untrue to my Ulric I never could be,I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie,Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore,And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er:My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd,As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest!When the bold barons met in my father's old hall,Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball?In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride,Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side?Alone in my turret I loved to sit best,To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest.The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay!Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mêlée.In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done,And you gave to another the wreath you had won!Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!But away with remembrance, no more will I pineThat others usurped for a time what was mine!There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me:Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;Once more by the side of the knight I love bestShall I blazon his BANNER and broider his crest.
* "WAPPING OLD STAIRS."Your Molly has never been false," she declares,"Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs;When I said that I would continue the same,And I gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name.When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you,Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew?To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd,For his trousers I washed, and his grog too I made."Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the MallWith Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sall,In silence I stood your unkindness to hearAnd only upbraided my Tom with a tear.Why should Sall, or should Susan, than me be more prized?For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised;Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake,Still your trousers I'll wash and your grog too I'll make."
Your Fanny was never false-hearted,And this she protests and she vows,From the triste moment when we partedOn the staircase of Devonshire House!I blushed when you asked me to marry,I vowed I would never forget;And at parting I gave my dear HarryA beautiful vinegarette!We spent en province all December,And I ne'er condescended to lookAt Sir Charles, or the rich county member,Or even at that darling old Duke.You were busy with dogs and with horses,Alone in my chamber I sat,And made you the nicest of purses,And the smartest black satin cravat!At night with that vile Lady Frances(Je faisois moi tapisserie)You danced every one of the dances,And never once thought of poor me!Mon pauvre petit coeur! what a shiverI felt as she danced the last set;And you gave, O mon Dieu! to revive herMy beautiful vinegarette!Return, love! away with coquetting;This flirting disgraces a man!And ah! all the while you're forgettingThe heart of your poor little Fan!Reviens! break away from those Circes,Reviens, for a nice little chat;And I've made you the sweetest of purses,And a lovely black satin cravat!
When the moonlight's on the mountainAnd the gloom is on the glen,At the cross beside the fountainThere is one will meet thee then.At the cross beside the fountain;Yes, the cross beside the fountain,There is one will meet thee then!I have braved, since first we met, love,Many a danger in my course;But I never can forget, love,That dear fountain, that old cross,Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her—For the winds were chilly then—First I met my Leonora,When the gloom was on the glen.Many a clime I've ranged since then, love,Many a land I've wandered o'er;But a valley like that glen, love,Half so dear I never sor!Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer,Than wert thou, my true love, whenIn the gloaming first I saw yer,In the gloaming of the glen!
Where the quivering lightning flingsHis arrows from out the clouds,And the howling tempest singsAnd whistles among the shrouds,'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to rideAlong the foaming brine—Wilt be the Rover's bride?Wilt follow him, lady mine?Hurrah!For the bonny, bonny brine.Amidst the storm and rack,You shall see our galley pass,As a serpent, lithe and black,Glides through the waving grass.As the vulture swift and dark,Down on the ring-dove flies,You shall see the Rovers barkSwoop down upon his prize.Hurrah!For the bonny, bonny prize.Over her sides we dash,We gallop across her deck—Ha! there's a ghastly gashOn the merchant-captain's neck—Well shot, well shot, old Ned!Well struck, well struck, black James!Our arms are red, and our foes are dead,And we leave a ship in flames!Hurrah!For the bonny, bonny flames!
Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sotAs e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot—In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass,And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass.One morning in summer, while seated so snug,In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear,And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your last bier."We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.
The Pope he is a happy man,His Palace is the Vatican,And there he sits and drains his can:The Pope he is a happy man.I often say when I'm at home,I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.And then there's Sultan Saladin,That Turkish Soldan full of sin;He has a hundred wives at least,By which his pleasure is increased:I've often wished, I hope no sin,That I were Sultan Saladin.But no, the Pope no wife may choose,And so I would not wear his shoes;No wine may drink the proud Paynim,And so I'd rather not be him:My wife, my wine, I love, I hope,And would be neither Turk nor Pope.
When moonlike ore the hazure seasIn soft effulgence swells,When silver jews and balmy breazeBend down the Lily's bells;When calm and deap, the rosy sleepHas lapt your soal in dreems,R Hangeline! R lady mine!Dost thou remember Jeames?I mark thee in the Marble All,Where England's loveliest shine—I say the fairest of them hallIs Lady Hangeline.My soul, in desolate eclipse,With recollection teems—And then I hask, with weeping lips,Dost thou remember Jeames?Away! I may not tell thee hallThis soughring heart endures—There is a lonely sperrit-callThat Sorrow never cures;There is a little, little Star,That still above me beams;It is the Star of Hope—but ar!Dost thou remember Jeames?
KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score,Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more;And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore.'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate,Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great,Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages,—all the officers of state.Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause,If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped theirjaws;If to laugh the king was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws.But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young:Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleemen sung,Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue."Something ails my gracious master," cried the Keeper of the Seal."Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal?""Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch, "Keeper, 'tis not that I feel."'Tis the HEART, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair:Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care?Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary."—Some one cried, "The King's arm-chair!"Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded,Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen able-bodied;Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded."Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, "over storm and brine,I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?"Loudly all the courtiers echoed: "Where is glory like to thine?""What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now and old;Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold;Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!"Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites;Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights;Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights."Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires;Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughteredsires.—""Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, "every one admires.""But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to search,They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church;Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch."Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bountyraised;Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised:YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed!""Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, "that my end is drawing near.""Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze atear)."Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year.""Live these fifty years!" the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit."Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute!Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do't."Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela,Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as they?""Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, "fervently I trust he may.""HE to die?" resumed the Bishop. He a mortal like to US?Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus:Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus."With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete,Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet;Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet."Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill,And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still?So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will.""Might I stay the sun above us, good sir Bishop?" Canute cried;"Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride?If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide."Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?"Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, "Land and sea, my lord, are thine."Canute turned towards the ocean—"Back!" he said, "thou foaming brine."From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat;Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat:Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet!"But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar,And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore;Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the king and courtiers bore.And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey:And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist alway.
Some love the matin-chimes, which tellThe hour of prayer to sinner:But better far's the mid-day bell,Which speaks the hour of dinner;For when I see a smoking fish,Or capon drown'd in gravy,Or noble haunch on silver dish,Full glad I sing my ave.My pulpit is an alehouse bench,Whereon I sit so jolly;A smiling rosy country wenchMy saint and patron holy.I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,I press her ringlets wavy,And in her willing ear I speakA most religious ave.And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind,And holy saints forgiving;For sure he leads a right good lifeWho thus admires good living.Above, they say, our flesh is air,Our blood celestial ichor:Oh, grant! mid all the changes there,They may not change our liquor!
Before I lost my five poor wits,I mind me of a Romish clerk,Who sang how Care, the phantom dark,Beside the belted horseman sits.Methought I saw the grisly spriteJump up but now behind my Knight.And though he gallop as he may,I mark that cursed monster blackStill sits behind his honor's back,Tight squeezing of his heart alway.Like two black Templars sit they there,Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.No knight am I with pennoned spear,To prance upon a bold destrere:I will not have black Care prevailUpon my long-eared charger's tail,For lo, I am a witless fool,And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.
Under the stone you behold,Buried, and coffined, and cold,Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold.Always he marched in advance,Warring in Flanders and France,Doughty with sword and with lance.Famous in Saracen fight,Rode in his youth the good knight,Scattering Paynims in flight.Brian the Templar untrue,Fairly in tourney he slew,Saw Hierusalem too.Now he is buried and gone,Lying beneath the gray stone:Where shall you find such a one?Long time his widow deplored,Weeping the fate of her lord,Sadly cut off by the sword.When she was eased of her pain,Came the good Lord Athelstane,When her ladyship married again.
BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN.
The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea,Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea:I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er,I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more.I stood upon the donjon keep—it is a sacred place,—Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race;Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field:There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly warrior's shield.The first time England saw the shield 'twas round a Norman neck,On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck.A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings' fatal fray—St. Willibald for Bareacres! 'twas double gules that day!O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle sinceA loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince!At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers,The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears!'Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing:Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing!Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us,And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus!O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hearSt. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear?I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride,And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side!Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine!Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line:Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls,The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls.Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile,'Twere sinful to be happy, 'twere sacrilege to smile.I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hobI'll muse on other days, and wish—and wish I were—A SNOB.
AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS.
I.
[The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.]A thousand years ago, or more,A city filled with burghers stout,And girt with ramparts round about,Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore.In armor bright, by day and night,The sentries they paced to and fro.Well guarded and walled was this town, and calledBy different names, I'd have you to know;For if you looks in the g'ography books,In those dictionaries the name it varies,And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow.
II.
[Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.]Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt,Kiova within was a place of renown,With more advantages than in those dark agesWere commonly known to belong to a town.There were places and squares, and each year four fairs,And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors;And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace;And a church with clocks for the orthodox—With clocks and with spires, as religion desires;And beadles to whip the bad little boysOver their poor little corduroys,In service-time, when they DIDN'T make a noise;And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-greenWith ancient trees, underneath whose shadesWandered nice young nursery-maids.[The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a godlyclergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.]Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding,The bells they made a merry merry ring,From the tall tall steeple; and all the people(Except the Jews) came and filled the pews—Poles, Russians and Germans,To hear the sermonsWhich HYACINTH preached godly to those Germans and Poles,For the safety of their souls.
III.
[How this priest was short and fat of body;]A worthy priest he was and a stout—You've seldom looked on such a one;For, though he fasted thrice in a week,Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek;His waist it spanned two yards aboutAnd he weighed a score of stone.
IV.
[And like unto the author of "Plymley's Letters."]A worthy priest for fasting and prayerAnd mortification most deserving;And as for preaching beyond compare,He'd exert his powers for three or four hours,With greater pith than Sydney SmithOr the Reverend Edward Irving.
V.
[Of what convent he was prior, and when the convent was built.]He was the prior of Saint Sophia(A Cockney rhyme, but no better I know)—Of St. Sophia, that Church in Kiow,Built by missionaries I can't tell when;Who by their discussions converted the Russians,And made them Christian men.
VI.
[Of Saint Sophia of Kioff; and how her statue miraculouslytravelled thither.]Sainted Sophia (so the legend vows)With special favor did regard this house;And to uphold her converts' new devotionHer statue (needing but her legs for HER ship)Walks of itself across the German Ocean;And of a sudden perchesIn this the best of churches,Whither all Kiovites come and pay it grateful worship.
VII.
[And how Kioff should have been a happy city; but that]Thus with her patron-saints and pious preachersRecorded here in catalogue precise,A goodly city, worthy magistrates,You would have thought in all the Russian statesThe citizens the happiest of all creatures,—The town itself a perfect Paradise.
VIII.
[Certain wicked Cossacks did besiege it,]No, alas! this well-built cityWas in a perpetual fidget;For the Tartars, without pity,Did remorselessly besiege it.Tartars fierce, with sword and sabres,Huns and Turks, and such as these,Envied much their peaceful neighborsBy the blue Borysthenes.[Murdering the citizens,]Down they came, these ruthless Russians,From their steppes, and woods, and fens,For to levy contributionsOn the peaceful citizens.Winter, Summer, Spring, and Autumn,Down they came to peaceful Kioff,Killed the burghers when they caught 'em,If their lives they would not buy off.[Until they agreed to pay a tribute yearly.]Till the city, quite confoundedBy the ravages they made,Humbly with their chief compounded,And a yearly tribute paid.[How they paid the tribute, and suddenly refused it,]Which (because their courage lax was)They discharged while they were able:Tolerated thus the tax was,Till it grew intolerable,[To the wonder of the Cossack envoy.]And the Calmuc envoy sent,As before to take their dues all,Got, to his astonishment,A unanimous refusal![Of a mighty gallant speech]"Men of Kioff!" thus courageousDid the stout lord-mayor harangue them,"Wherefore pay these sneaking wagesTo the hectoring Russians? hang them![That the lord-mayor made,]"Hark! I hear the awful cry ofOur forefathers in their graves;"'Fight, ye citizens of Kioff!Kioff was not made for slaves.'[Exhorting the burghers to pay no longer.]"All too long have ye betrayed her;Rouse, ye men and aldermen,Send the insolent invader—Send him starving back again."
IX.
[Of their thanks and heroic resolves.]He spoke and he sat down; the people of the town,Who were fired with a brave emulation,Now rose with one accord, and voted thanks unto the lord-Mayor for his oration:[They dismiss the envoy, and set about drilling.]The envoy they dismissed, never placing in his fistSo much as a single shilling;And all with courage fired, as his lordship he desired,At once set about their drilling.[Of the City guard: viz. Militia, dragoons, and bombardiers, andtheir commanders.]Then every city ward established a guard,Diurnal and nocturnal:Militia volunteers, light dragoons, and bombardiers,With an alderman for colonel.[Of the majors and captains.]There was muster and roll-calls, and repairing city walls,And filling up of fosses:And the captains and the majors, gallant and courageous,A-riding about on their hosses.[The fortifications and artillery.]To be guarded at all hours they built themselves watch-towers,With every tower a man on;And surely and secure, each from out his embrasure,Looked down the iron cannon![Of the conduct of the actors and the clergy.]A battle-song was writ for the theatre, where itWas sung with vast enérgyAnd rapturous applause; and besides, the public cause,Was supported by the clergy.The pretty ladies'-maids were pinning of cockades,And tying on of sashes;And dropping gentle tears, while their lovers bluster'd fierce,About gunshot and gashes;[Of the ladies;]The ladies took the hint, and all day were scraping lint,As became their softer genders;And got bandages and beds for the limbs and for the headsOf the city's brave defenders.[And, finally, of the taylors.]The men, both young and old, felt resolute and bold,And panted hot for glory;Even the tailors 'gan to brag, and embroidered on their flag,"AUT WINCERE AUT MORI."
X.
[Of the Cossack chief,—his stratagem;]Seeing the city's resolute condition,The Cossack chief, too cunning to despise it,Said to himself, "Not having ammunitionWherewith to batter the place in proper form,Some of these nights I'll carry it by storm,And sudden escalade it or surprise it.[And the burghers' sillie victorie.]"Let's see, however, if the cits stand firmish."He rode up to the city gates; for answers,Out rushed an eager troop of the town élite,And straightway did begin a gallant skirmish:The Cossack hereupon did sound retreat,Leaving the victory with the city lancers.[What prisoners they took,]They took two prisoners and as many horses,And the whole town grew quickly so elateWith this small victory of their virgin forces,That they did deem their privates and commandersSo many Caesars, Pompeys, Alexanders,Napoleons, or Fredericks the Great.[And how conceited they were.]And puffing with inordinate conceitThey utterly despised these Cossack thieves;And thought the ruffians easier to beatThan porters carpets think, or ushers boys.Meanwhile, a sly spectator of their joys,The Cossack captain giggled in his sleeves.[Of the Cossack chief,—his orders;]"Whene'er you meet yon stupid city hogs."(He bade his troops precise this order keep),"Don't stand a moment—run away, you dogs!"'Twas done; and when they met the town battalions,The Cossacks, as if frightened at their valiance,Turned tail, and bolted like so many sheep.[And how he feigned a retreat.]They fled, obedient to their captain's order:And now this bloodless siege a month had lasted,When, viewing the country round, the city warder(Who, like a faithful weathercock, did perchUpon the steeple of St. Sophy's church),Sudden his trumpet took, and a mighty blast he blasted.[The warder proclayms the Cossacks' retreat, and the citie greatlyrejoyces.]His voice it might be heard through all the streets(He was a warder wondrous strong in lung),"Victory, victory! the foe retreats!""The foe retreats!" each cries to each he meets;"The foe retreats!" each in his turn repeats.Gods! how the guns did roar, and how the joy-bells rung!Arming in haste his gallant city lancers,The mayor, to learn if true the news might be,A league or two out issued with his prancers.The Cossacks (something had given their courage a damper)Hastened their flight, and 'gan like mad to scamper:Blessed be all the saints, Kiova town was free!
XI.
Now, puffed with pride, the mayor grew vain,Fought all his battles o'er again;And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.'Tis true he might amuse himself thus,And not be very murderous;For as of those who to death were doneThe number was exactly NONE,His lordship, in his soul's elation,Did take a bloodless recreation—[The manner of the citie's rejoycings,]Going home again, he did ordainA very splendid cold collationFor the magistrates and the corporation;Likewise a grand illumination,For the amusement of the nation.That night the theatres were free,The conduits they ran Malvolsie;Each house that night did beam with lightAnd sound with mirth and jollity;[And its impiety.]But shame, O shame! not a soul in the town,Now the city was safe and the Cossacks flown,Ever thought of the bountiful saint by whose careThe town had been rid of these terrible Turks—Said even a prayer to that patroness fair,For these her wondrous works![How the priest, Hyacinth, waited at church, and nobody camethither.]Lord Hyacinth waited, the meekest of priors—He waited at church with the rest of his friars;He went there at noon and he waited till ten,Expecting in vain the lord-mayor and his men.He waited and waited from mid-day to dark;But in vain—you might search through the whole of the church,Not a layman, alas! to the city's disgrace,From mid-day to dark showed his nose in the place.The pew-woman, organist, beadle, and clerk,Kept away from their work, and were dancing like madAway in the streets with the other mad people,Not thinking to pray, but to guzzle and tippleWherever the drink might be had.
XII.
[How he went forth to bid them to prayer.]Amidst this din and revelry throughout the city roaring,The silver moon rose silently, and high in heaven soaring;Prior Hyacinth was fervently upon his knees adoring:"Towards my precious patroness this conduct sure unfair is;I cannot think, I must confess, what keeps the dignitariesAnd our good mayor away, unless some business them contraries."He puts his long white mantle on and forth the prior sallies—(His pious thoughts were bent upon good deeds and not on malice):Heavens! how the banquet lights they shone about the mayor's palace![How the grooms and lackeys jeered him.]About the hall the scullions ran with meats both and fresh andpotted;The pages came with cup and can, all for the guests allotted;Ah, how they jeered that good fat man as up the stairs he trotted!He entered in the ante-rooms where sat the mayor's court in;He found a pack of drunken grooms a-dicing and a-sporting;The horrid wine and 'bacco fumes, they set the prior a-snorting!The prior thought he'd speak about their sins before he went hence,And lustily began to shout of sin and of repentance;The rogues, they kicked the prior out before he'd done a sentence!And having got no portion small of buffeting and tussling,At last he reached the banquet-hall, where sat the mayora-guzzling,And by his side his lady tall dressed out in white sprig muslin.[And the mayor, mayoress, and aldermen, being tipsie refused to gochurch.]Around the table in a ring the guests were drinking heavy;They'd drunk the church, and drunk the king, and the army and thenavy;In fact they'd toasted everything. The prior said, "God save ye!"The mayor cried, "Bring a silver cup—there's one upon the beaufét;And, Prior, have the venison up—it's capital rechauffé.And so, Sir Priest, you've come to sup? And pray you, how's SaintSophy?"The prior's face quite red was grown, with horror and with anger;He flung the proffered goblet down—it made a hideous clangor;And 'gan a-preaching with a frown—he was a fierce haranguer.He tried the mayor and aldermen—they all set up a-jeering:He tried the common-councilmen—they too began a-sneering;He turned towards the may'ress then, and hoped to get a hearing.He knelt and seized her dinner-dress, made of the muslin snowy,"To church, to church, my sweet mistress!" he cried; "the way I'llshow ye."Alas, the lady-mayoress fell back as drunk as Chloe!
XIII.
[How the prior went back alone.]Out from this dissolute and drunken courtWent the good prior, his eyes with weeping dim:He tried the people of a meaner sort—They too, alas, were bent upon their sport,And not a single soul would follow him!But all were swigging schnaps and guzzling beer.He found the cits, their daughters, sons, and spouses,Spending the live-long night in fierce carouses:Alas, unthinking of the danger near!One or two sentinels the ramparts guarded,The rest were sharing in the general feast:"God wot, our tipsy town is poorly warded;Sweet Saint Sophia help us!" cried the priest.Alone he entered the cathedral gate,Careful he locked the mighty oaken door;Within his company of monks did wait,A dozen poor old pious men—no more.Oh, but it grieved the gentle prior sore,To think of those lost souls, given up to drink and fate![And shut himself into Saint Sophia's chapel with his brethren.]The mighty outer gate well barred and fast,The poor old friars stirred their poor old bones,And pattering swiftly on the damp cold stones,They through the solitary chancel passed.The chancel walls looked black and dim and vast,And rendered, ghost-like, melancholy tones.Onward the fathers sped, till coming nigh aSmall iron gate, the which they entered quick at,They locked and double-locked the inner wicketAnd stood within the chapel of Sophia.Vain were it to describe this sainted place,Vain to describe that celebrated trophy,The venerable statue of Saint Sophy,Which formed its chiefest ornament and grace.Here the good prior, his personal griefs and sorrowsIn his extreme devotion quickly merging,At once began to pray with voice sonorous;The other friars joined in pious chorus,And passed the night in singing, praying, scourging,In honor of Sophia, that sweet virgin.
XIV.
[The episode of Sneezoff and Katinka.]Leaving thus the pious priest inHumble penitence and prayer,And the greedy cits a-feasting,Let us to the walls repair.Walking by the sentry-boxes,Underneath the silver moon,Lo! the sentry boldly cocks his—Boldly cocks his musketoon.Sneezoff was his designation,Fair-haired boy, for ever pitied;For to take his cruel station,He but now Katinka quitted.Poor in purse were both, but rich inTender love's delicious plenties;She a damsel of the kitchen,He a haberdasher's 'prentice.'Tinka, maiden tender-hearted,Was dissolved in tearful fits,On that fatal night she partedFrom her darling, fair-haired Fritz.Warm her soldier lad she wrapt inComforter and muffettee;Called him "general" and "captain,"Though a simple private he."On your bosom wear this plaster,'Twill defend you from the cold;In your pipe smoke this canaster,Smuggled 'tis, my love, and old."All the night, my love, I'll miss you."Thus she spoke; and from the doorFair-haired Sneezoff made his issue,To return, alas, no more.He it is who calmly walks hisWalk beneath the silver moon;He it is who boldly cocks hisDetonating musketoon.He the bland canaster puffing,As upon his round he paces,Sudden sees a ragamuffinClambering swiftly up the glacis."Who goes there?" exclaims the sentry;"When the sun has once gone downNo one ever makes an entryInto this here fortified town!"[How the sentrie Sneezoff was surprised and slayn.]Shouted thus the watchful Sneezoff;But, ere any one replied,Wretched youth! he fired his piece offStarted, staggered, groaned, and died!
XV.
[How the Cossacks rushed in suddenly and took the citie.]Ah, full well might the sentinel cry, "Who goes there!"But echo was frightened too much to declare.Who goes there? who goes there? Can any one swearTo the number of sands sur les bords de la mer,Or the whiskers of D'Orsay Count down to a hair?As well might you tell of the sands the amount,Or number each hair in each curl of the Count,As ever proclaim the number and nameOf the hundreds and thousands that up the wall came![Of the Cossack troops,]Down, down the knaves poured with fire and with sword:There were thieves from the Danube and rogues from the Don;There were Turks and Wallacks, and shouting Cossacks;Of all nations and regions, and tongues and religions—Jew, Christian, Idolater, Frank, Mussulman:Ah, horrible sight was Kioff that night![And of their manner of burning, murdering, and ravishing.]The gates were all taken—no chance e'en of flight;And with torch and with axe the bloody CossacksWent hither and thither a-hunting in packs:They slashed and they slew both Christian and Jew—Women and children, they slaughtered them too.Some, saving their throats, plunged into the moats,Or the river—but oh, they had burned all the boats!. . . . .[How they burned the whole citie down, save the church,]But here let us pause—for I can't pursue furtherThis scene of rack, ravishment, ruin, and murther.Too well did the cunning old Cossack succeed!His plan of attack was successful indeed!The night was his own—the town it was gone;'Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone.[Whereof the bells began to ring.]One building alone had escaped from the fires,Saint Sophy's fair church, with its steeples and spires,Calm, stately, and white,It stood in the light;And as if 'twould defy all the conqueror's power,—As if nought had occurred,Might clearly be heardThe chimes ringing soberly every half-hour!
XVI.
The city was defunct—silence succeededUnto its last fierce agonizing yell;And then it was the conqueror first heededThe sound of these calm bells.[How the Cossack chief bade them burn the church too.]Furious towards his aides-de-camp he turns,And (speaking as if Byron's works he knew)"Villains!" he fiercely cries, "the city burns,Why not the temple too?Burn me yon church, and murder all within!"[How they stormed it, and of Hyacinth, his anger thereat.]The Cossacks thundered at the outer door;And Father Hyacinth, who, heard the din,(And thought himself and brethren in distress,Deserted by their lady patroness)Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes outpour.