Footnote[1]For explanation of this and similar terms used in this selection, see the notes at the end of this book and especially the word "Castle" in Webster's International Dictionary.
[1]For explanation of this and similar terms used in this selection, see the notes at the end of this book and especially the word "Castle" in Webster's International Dictionary.
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!Through all the wide Border his steed was the best:And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none;He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented—the gallant came late;For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar?""I long wooed your daughter—my suit you denied;Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;And now I am come with this lost love of mineTo lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up;He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup;She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar—"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!"She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have you e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?—From "Marmion," by Sir Walter Scott.
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!Through all the wide Border his steed was the best:And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none;He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented—the gallant came late;For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter—my suit you denied;Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;And now I am come with this lost love of mineTo lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up;He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup;She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar—"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!"She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have you e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?—From "Marmion," by Sir Walter Scott.
—From "Marmion," by Sir Walter Scott.
Author's portraitCharles Kingsley.
Charles Kingsley.
"Westward Ho!" is a novel written by Rev. Charles Kingsley, and first published in 1855. It is a story of the times of Queen Elizabeth, of the threatened invasion of England by the Spanish Armada, and of wild adventure on the sea and in the forests of the New World. Several historical personages are made to appear in the story, such as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Drake, Admiral Hawkins, and others. The hero is Amyas Leigh, "a Devonshire youth of great bodily strength, of lively affection and sweet temper, combined with a marked propensity to combat from his earliest years." Amyas and his companions had undertaken an expedition to discover the fabled golden city of Manoa, which was said to exist somewhere in the wilds of South America. They had been searching more than three years for this city when they reached the Meta River in canoes, and the following adventure occurred.
*****
For three hours or more Amyas Leigh and his companions paddled easily up the glassy and windless reaches, between two green flower-bespangled walls of forest, gay with innumerable birds and insects; while down from the branches which overhung the stream, long trailershung to the water's edge, and seemed admiring in the clear mirror the images of their own gorgeous flowers. River, trees, flowers, birds, insects,—it was all a fairyland; but it was a colossal one; and yet the voyagers took little note of it.
It was now to them an everyday occurrence to see trees full two hundred feet high one mass of yellow or purple blossom to the highest twigs, and every branch and stem one hanging garden of crimson and orange orchids or vanillas. Common to them were all the fantastic and enormous shapes with which Nature bedecks her robes beneath the fierce suns and fattening rains of the tropic forest. Common were forms and colors of bird, and fish, and butterfly, more strange and bright than ever opium eater dreamed.
The long processions of monkeys, who kept pace with them along the tree tops, and proclaimed their wonder in every imaginable whistle and grunt and howl, had ceased to move their laughter, as much as the roar of the jaguar and the rustle of the boa had ceased to move their fear; and when a brilliant green and rose-colored fish, flat-bodied like a bream, flat-finned like a salmon, and sawtoothed like a shark, leaped clean on board of the canoe to escape the rush of a huge alligator (whose loathsome snout, ere he could stop, actually rattled against the canoe), Jack coolly picked up the fish and said:
"He's four pound weight! If you catch fish for us like that, old fellow, just keep in our wake, and we'll give you the cleanings for your wages!"
They paddled onward hour after hour, sheltering themselvesas best they could under the shadow of the southern bank, while on their right hand the full sun glare lay upon the enormous wall of mimosas, figs, and laurels, which formed the northern forest, broken by the slender shafts of bamboo tufts, and decked with a thousand gaudy parasites; bank upon bank of gorgeous bloom piled upward to the sky, till where its outline cut the blue, flowers and leaves, too lofty to be distinguished by the eye, formed a broken rainbow of all hues quivering in the ascending streams of azure mist, until they seemed to melt and mingle with the very heavens.
And as the sun rose higher and higher, a great stillness fell upon the forest. The jaguars and the monkeys had hidden themselves in the darkest depths of the woods. The birds' notes died out one by one; the very butterflies ceased their flitting over the tree tops, and slept with outspread wings upon the glossy leaves, undistinguishable from the flowers around them. Now and then a parrot swung and screamed at them from an overhanging bough; or a thirsty monkey slid lazily down a swinging vine to the surface of the stream, dipped up the water in his tiny hand, and started chattering back, as his eyes met those of some foul alligator peering upward through the clear depths below.
In shaded nooks beneath the boughs, rabbits as large as sheep went paddling sleepily round and round, thrusting up their unwieldy heads among the blooms of the blue water lilies; while black and purple water hens ran up and down upon the rafts of floating leaves. The shining snout of a fresh-water dolphin rose slowly to the surface;a jet of spray whirred up; a rainbow hung upon it for a moment; and the black snout sank lazily again.
Here and there, too, upon some shallow pebbly shore, scarlet flamingoes stood dreaming knee-deep on one leg; crested cranes pranced up and down, admiring their own finery; and irises and egrets dipped their bills under water in search of prey; but before noon, even those had slipped away, and there reigned a stillness which might be heard—a stillness in which, as Humboldt says: "If beyond the silence we listen for the faintest undertones, we detect a stifled, continuous hum of insects, which crowd the air close to the earth; a confused swarming murmur which hangs round every bush, in the cracked bark of trees, in the soil undermined by lizards and bees; a voice proclaiming to us that all Nature breathes, that under a thousand different forms life swarms in the gaping and dusty earth, as much as in the bosom of the waters, and in the air which breathes around."
At last a soft and distant murmur, increasing gradually to a heavy roar, announced that they were nearing some cataract; till, turning a point where the alluvial soil rose into a low cliff fringed with delicate ferns, they came in full sight of a scene at which all paused—not with astonishment, but with something very like disgust.
"Rapids again!" grumbled one. "I thought we had had enough of them on the Orinoco!"
"We shall have to get out, and draw the canoes overland, I suppose!"
"There's worse behind; don't you see the spray behind the palms?"
"Stop grumbling, my masters, and don't cry out before you are hurt. Paddle right up to the largest of those islands, and let us look about us."
In front of them was a snow-white bar of foam, some ten feet high, along which were ranged three or four islands of black rock. Each was crested with a knot of lofty palms, whose green tops stood out clear against the bright sky, while the lower half of their stems loomed hazy through a luminous veil of rainbowed mist. The banks right and left of the fall were so densely fringed with a low hedge of shrubs that landing seemed almost impossible; and their Indian guide, suddenly looking round him and whispering, bade them beware of savages, and pointed to a canoe which lay swinging in the eddies under the largest island, moored apparently to the root of some tree.
"Silence, all!" cried Amyas, "and paddle up thither and seize the canoe. If there be an Indian on the island, we will have speech of him. But mind, and treat him friendly; and on your lives, neither strike nor shoot, even if he offers to fight."
So, choosing a line of smooth backwater just in the wake of the island, they drove their canoes up by main force, and fastened them safely by the side of the Indian's, while Amyas, always the foremost, sprang boldly on shore, whispering to the Indian boy to follow him.
Once on the island, Amyas felt sure enough that, if its wild tenant had not seen them approach, he certainly had not heard them, so deafening was the noise which filled his brain, and which seemed to make the very leaves uponthe bushes quiver and the solid stone beneath his feet reel and ring. For two hundred yards and more above the fall, nothing met his eye but one white waste of raging foam, with here and there a transverse dike of rock, which hurled columns of spray and surges of beaded water high into the air,—strangely contrasting with the still and silent cliffs of green leaves which walled the river right and left, and more strangely still with the knots of enormous palms upon the islets, which reared their polished shafts a hundred feet into the air, straight and upright as masts, while their broad plumes and golden-clustered fruit slept in the sunshine far aloft, the image of the stateliest repose amid the wildest wrath of Nature.
Ten yards farther, the cataract fell sheer in thunder; but a high fern-fringed rock turned its force away from the beach. Here, if anywhere, was the place to find the owner of the canoe. He leaped down upon the pebbles; and as he did so, a figure rose from behind a neighboring rock, and met him face to face. It was an Indian girl.
He spoke first, in some Indian tongue, gently and smilingly, and made a half-step forward; but quick as light she caught up from the ground a bow, and held it fiercely toward him, fitted with the long arrow, with which, as he could see, she had been striking fish, for a line of twisted grass hung from its barbed head. Amyas stopped, laid down his own bow and sword, and made another step in advance, smiling still, and making all Indian signs of amity. But the arrow was still pointed straight at his breast, and he knew the mettle and strength of the forestnymphs well enough to stand still and call for the Indian boy.
An encounterA figure rose from behind a neighboring rock.
A figure rose from behind a neighboring rock.
The boy, who had been peering from above, leaped down to them in a moment; and began, as the safest method, groveling on his nose upon the pebbles, while he tried two or three dialects, one of which at last she seemed to understand, and answered in a tone of evident suspicion and anger.
"What does she say?"
"That you are a Spaniard and a robber because you have a beard."
"Tell her that we are no Spaniards, but that we hatethem, and are come across the great waters to help the Indians to kill them."
The boy had no sooner spoken, than, nimble as a deer, the nymph had sprung up the rocks, and darted between the palm stems to her own canoe. Suddenly she caught sight of the English boats, and stopped with a cry of fear and rage.
"Let her pass!" shouted Amyas, who had followed her closely. "Push your boats off, and let her pass. Boy, tell her to go on; they will not come near her."
But she hesitated still, and with arrow drawn to the head, faced first on the boat's crew, and then on Amyas, till the Englishmen had shoved off full twenty yards.
Then, leaping into her tiny piragua, she darted into the wildest whirl of the eddies, shooting along with vigorous strokes, while the English trembled as they saw the frail bark spinning and leaping amid the muzzles of the alligators and the huge dog-toothed trout. But, with the swiftness of an arrow, she reached the northern bank, drove her canoe among the bushes, and, leaping from it, darted into the bush, and vanished like a dream.
*****
The chief interest in the foregoing story lies, of course, in its faithful and glowing picture of scenery in the midst of a tropical forest. The learner should read it a second time and try to point out all the passages that are remarkable for their wealth of description. He should try to form in his mind an image of the sights and sounds that he would encounter in a voyage up the Meta River or any other of the tributaries of the Orinoco or the Amazon.
There is the national flag. He must be cold indeed who can look upon its folds, rippling in the breeze, without pride of country. If he be in a foreign land, the flag is companionship and country itself, with all its endearments.
Who, as he sees it, can think of a state merely? Whose eyes once fastened upon its radiant trophies, can fail to recognize the image of the whole nation? It has been called a "floating piece of poetry," and yet I know not if it have an intrinsic beauty beyond other ensigns. Its highest beauty is in what it symbolizes. It is because it represents all, that all gaze at it with delight and reverence.
It is a piece of bunting lifted in the air; but it speaks sublimely, and every part has a voice. Its stripes of alternate red and white proclaim the original union of thirteen states to maintain the Declaration of Independence. Its stars of white on a field of blue proclaim that union of states constituting our national constellation, which receives a new star with every new state. The two together signify union past and present.
The very colors have a language which was officially recognized by our fathers. White is for purity, red for valor, blue for justice; and altogether, bunting, stripes, stars, and colors, blazing in the sky, make the flag of our country to be cherished by all our hearts, to be upheld by all our hands.
I have said enough and more than enough to manifest the spirit in which this flag is now committed to your charge. It is the national ensign, pure and simple, dearer to all hearts at this moment as we lift it to the gale, and see no other sign of hope upon the storm cloud which rolls and rattles above it, save that which is its own radiant hues—dearer, a thousand fold dearer to us all than ever it was before, while gilded by the sunshine of prosperity and playing with the zephyrs of peace. It will speak for itself far more eloquently than I can speak for it.
Behold it! Listen to it! Every star has a tongue; every stripe is articulate. There is no speech nor language where their voices are not heard. There is magic in the web of it. It has an answer for every question of duty. It has a solution for every doubt and every perplexity. It has a word of good cheer for every hour of gloom or of despondency.
Behold it! Listen to it! It speaks of earlier and of later struggles. It speaks of victories and sometimes of reverses, on the sea and on the land. It speaks of patriots and heroes among the living and among the dead; and of him, the first and greatest of them all, around whose consecrated ashes this unnatural and abhorrent strife has been so long raging. But, before all and above all other associations and memories,—whether of glorious men, or glorious deeds, or glorious places,—its voice is ever of Union and Liberty, of the Constitution and of the Laws.
—Robert C. Winthrop.
Author's portraitJean Ingelow.
Jean Ingelow.
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,The ringers ran by two, by three:—"Pull, if ye never pulled before,Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he."Play up, play up, O Boston bells!Ply all your changes, all your swells;Play up 'The Brides of Enderby'!"Men say it was a stolen tide;The Lord that sent it, he knows all;But in mine ears doth still abideThe message that the bells let fall:And there was naught of strange, besideThe flights of mews and peewits piedBy millions crouched on the old sea wall.I sat and spun within the door,My thread brake off, I raised mine eyes;The level sun, like ruddy ore,Lay sinking in the barren skies,And dark against day's golden deathShe moved where Lindis wandereth,My son's fair wife, Elizabeth."Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews were falling,Far away I heard her song."Cusha! Cusha!" all along,Where the reedy Lindis floweth,Floweth, floweth;From the meads where melick growethFaintly came her milking song,"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,"For the dews will soon be falling;Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow;Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot;Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow;Come up, Jetty, rise and follow,From the clovers lift your head;Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot,Come up, Jetty, rise and follow,Jetty, to the milking shed."If it be long, ay, long ago,When I begin to think how long,Again I hear the Lindis flow,Swift as an arrow, sharp and strong;And all the air, it seemeth me,Is full of floating bells (saith she),That ring the tune of Enderby.All fresh the level pasture lay,And not a shadow might be seen,Save where full five good miles awayThe steeple towered from out the green.And lo! the great bell far and wideWas heard in all the country sideThat Saturday at eventide.The swanherds where their sedges areMoved on in sunset's golden breath,The shepherd lads I heard afar,And my son's wife, Elizabeth;Till floating o'er the grassy seaCame down that kindly message free,The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."Then some looked up into the sky,And all along where Lindis flowsTo where the goodly vessels lie,And where the lordly steeple shows.They said, "And why should this thing be?What danger lowers by land or sea?They ring the tune of Enderby!"For evil news from Mablethorpe,Of pirate galleys warping down;For ships ashore beyond the scorpe,They have not spared to wake the town:But while the west is red to see,And storms be none, and pirates flee,Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"I looked without, and lo! my sonCame riding down with might and main;He raised a shout as he drew on,Till all the welkin rang again,"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my son's wife, Elizabeth.)"The old sea wall," he cried, "is down,The rising tide comes on apace,And boats adrift in yonder townGo sailing up the market place."He shook as one that looks on death:"God save you, mother!" straight he saith,"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?""Good son, where Lindis winds away,With her two bairns I marked her long;And ere yon bells began to play,Afar I heard her milking song."He looked across the grassy lea,To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!"They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"With that he cried and beat his breast;For, lo! along the river's bedA mighty eygre reared his crest,And up the Lindis raging sped.It swept with thunderous noises loud;Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,Or like a demon in a shroud.And rearing Lindis backward pressedShook all her trembling banks amain;Then madly at the eygre's breastFlung up her weltering walls again.Then banks came down with ruin and rout—Then beaten foam flew round about—Then all the mighty floods were out.So far, so fast the eygre drave,The heart had hardly time to beatBefore a shallow seething waveSobbed in the grasses at our feet;The feet had hardly time to fleeBefore it brake against the knee,And all the world was in the sea.Upon the roof we sat that night,The noise of bells went sweeping by;I marked the lofty beacon lightStream from the church tower, red and high—A lurid mark and dread to see;And awesome bells they were to me,That in the dark rang "Enderby."They rang the sailor lads to guideFrom roof to roof who fearless rowed;And I—my son was at my side,And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;And yet he moaned beneath his breath,"Oh, come in life, or come in death!Oh lost! my love Elizabeth."And didst thou visit him no more?Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter dear;The waters laid thee at his door,Ere yet the early dawn was clear.Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,The lifted sun shone on thy face,Down drifted to thy dwelling place.That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,That ebb swept out the flocks to sea;A fatal ebb and flow, alas!To many more than mine and me:But each will mourn his own (she saith),And sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my son's wife, Elizabeth.I shall never hear her moreBy the reedy Lindis shore,"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews be falling;I shall never hear her song,"Cusha! Cusha!" all alongWhere the sunny Lindis floweth,Goeth, floweth;From the meads where melick groweth,Where the water winding down,Onward floweth to the town.I shall never see her moreWhere the reeds and rushes quiver,Shiver, quiver;Stand beside the sobbing river,Sobbing, throbbing, in its fallingTo the sandy, lonesome shore;I shall never hear her calling,"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow;Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot;Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow;Come up, Lightfoot, rise and follow;Lightfoot, Whitefoot,From your clovers lift the head;Come up, Jetty, follow, follow,Jetty, to the milking shed."—Jean Ingelow.
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,The ringers ran by two, by three:—"Pull, if ye never pulled before,Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he."Play up, play up, O Boston bells!Ply all your changes, all your swells;Play up 'The Brides of Enderby'!"
Men say it was a stolen tide;The Lord that sent it, he knows all;But in mine ears doth still abideThe message that the bells let fall:And there was naught of strange, besideThe flights of mews and peewits piedBy millions crouched on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the door,My thread brake off, I raised mine eyes;The level sun, like ruddy ore,Lay sinking in the barren skies,And dark against day's golden deathShe moved where Lindis wandereth,My son's fair wife, Elizabeth.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews were falling,Far away I heard her song."Cusha! Cusha!" all along,Where the reedy Lindis floweth,Floweth, floweth;From the meads where melick growethFaintly came her milking song,
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,"For the dews will soon be falling;Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow;Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot;Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow;Come up, Jetty, rise and follow,From the clovers lift your head;Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot,Come up, Jetty, rise and follow,Jetty, to the milking shed."
If it be long, ay, long ago,When I begin to think how long,Again I hear the Lindis flow,Swift as an arrow, sharp and strong;And all the air, it seemeth me,Is full of floating bells (saith she),That ring the tune of Enderby.
All fresh the level pasture lay,And not a shadow might be seen,Save where full five good miles awayThe steeple towered from out the green.And lo! the great bell far and wideWas heard in all the country sideThat Saturday at eventide.
The swanherds where their sedges areMoved on in sunset's golden breath,The shepherd lads I heard afar,And my son's wife, Elizabeth;Till floating o'er the grassy seaCame down that kindly message free,The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."
Then some looked up into the sky,And all along where Lindis flowsTo where the goodly vessels lie,And where the lordly steeple shows.They said, "And why should this thing be?What danger lowers by land or sea?They ring the tune of Enderby!
"For evil news from Mablethorpe,Of pirate galleys warping down;For ships ashore beyond the scorpe,They have not spared to wake the town:But while the west is red to see,And storms be none, and pirates flee,Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"
I looked without, and lo! my sonCame riding down with might and main;He raised a shout as he drew on,Till all the welkin rang again,"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my son's wife, Elizabeth.)
"The old sea wall," he cried, "is down,The rising tide comes on apace,And boats adrift in yonder townGo sailing up the market place."He shook as one that looks on death:"God save you, mother!" straight he saith,"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
"Good son, where Lindis winds away,With her two bairns I marked her long;And ere yon bells began to play,Afar I heard her milking song."He looked across the grassy lea,To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!"They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"
With that he cried and beat his breast;For, lo! along the river's bedA mighty eygre reared his crest,And up the Lindis raging sped.It swept with thunderous noises loud;Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward pressedShook all her trembling banks amain;Then madly at the eygre's breastFlung up her weltering walls again.Then banks came down with ruin and rout—Then beaten foam flew round about—Then all the mighty floods were out.
So far, so fast the eygre drave,The heart had hardly time to beatBefore a shallow seething waveSobbed in the grasses at our feet;The feet had hardly time to fleeBefore it brake against the knee,And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roof we sat that night,The noise of bells went sweeping by;I marked the lofty beacon lightStream from the church tower, red and high—A lurid mark and dread to see;And awesome bells they were to me,That in the dark rang "Enderby."
They rang the sailor lads to guideFrom roof to roof who fearless rowed;And I—my son was at my side,And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;And yet he moaned beneath his breath,"Oh, come in life, or come in death!Oh lost! my love Elizabeth."
And didst thou visit him no more?Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter dear;The waters laid thee at his door,Ere yet the early dawn was clear.Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,The lifted sun shone on thy face,Down drifted to thy dwelling place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,That ebb swept out the flocks to sea;A fatal ebb and flow, alas!To many more than mine and me:But each will mourn his own (she saith),And sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my son's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her moreBy the reedy Lindis shore,"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews be falling;I shall never hear her song,"Cusha! Cusha!" all alongWhere the sunny Lindis floweth,Goeth, floweth;From the meads where melick groweth,Where the water winding down,Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her moreWhere the reeds and rushes quiver,Shiver, quiver;Stand beside the sobbing river,Sobbing, throbbing, in its fallingTo the sandy, lonesome shore;I shall never hear her calling,"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow;Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot;Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow;Come up, Lightfoot, rise and follow;Lightfoot, Whitefoot,From your clovers lift the head;Come up, Jetty, follow, follow,Jetty, to the milking shed."—Jean Ingelow.
—Jean Ingelow.
Henry II. began his reign over England in the year 1154, and he was the mightiest king that had yet sat upon the throne. He had vast possessions. All England and nearly half of France were his, and he was well able to rule over them and keep them in order.
He was a short, stout, reddish-haired man, with a face well-tanned by exposure to the wind and the sun. Hislegs were bowed by constant riding. Ever busy at something, he rarely sat down, except at meals; and there was plenty of work for him to do.
In the early years of his reign his chief friend and servant was Thomas Becket, who was a clever and handsome man. He knew well how to please the king by sharing in his amusements, and by helping him in the great work of keeping order among his barons and knights.
When Becket was a young man he was out hunting, one day, with his pet hawk upon his wrist. Riding carelessly along, he came to a narrow wooden bridge, which crossed a stream close to a mill. When in the middle of the bridge his horse stumbled, and Becket, horse, and hawk were thrown into the water.
The horse at once swam to the bank. So did Becket, but, upon looking back, he saw his hawk struggling in the middle of the stream. Its straps had become entangled about its feet and wings, and the bird was helpless. Although the stream was running swiftly to the great mill-wheel, Becket turned round and swam back to save the hawk.
By this time the current had carried him very near to the wheel, and in another moment both man and bird must have been crushed to death. But just then the miller saw the danger and stopped the mill. Becket climbed out of the water with the bird in his hand, seeming not at all frightened because of the danger which he had escaped. During his entire life he had many trials and was opposed by many enemies; but he faced them all as fearlessly as he had risked drowning in order to save his hawk.
King Henry made Becket his chancellor, that is his chief minister, and gave him much wealth. Becket lived in great splendor in a fine palace. He was so hospitable that he kept an open table, at which all were free to come and feast when they chose. His clothes were the finest and gayest that could be made, and wherever he went he took with him troops of friends and servants.
Once, when he was sent to France to settle a dispute with the French king, he traveled with such a large train of followers that the people were filled with wonder. We can picture the procession entering a quiet country town.
"First came two hundred boys singing quaint songs or glees. Then followed great hounds with their keepers, behind whom were wagons guarded by fierce English mastiffs. One of the wagons was laden with beer to be given away to the people who might render any help on the road.
"Then came twelve horses, upon each of which sat a monkey and a groom. After all these there followed a vast company of knights and squires and priests, riding two and two.
"Last of all came Becket and a few friends, with whom he talked by the way." We can imagine the wonder of the French people at so fine, yet strange, a show. We can hear them exclaim, "What kind of a man must the king of England be, when his chancellor can travel in such state!"
At this time the Church in England possessed great power and wealth. It was the safeguard that stoodbetween the people and the greed and cruelty of their rulers. It was the protector of the poor, and the friend of the oppressed; and even the king was obliged to obey its commands.
His portraitThomas Becket.(From an Old Painting.)
Thomas Becket.(From an Old Painting.)
King Henry was jealous of the influence of the Church. He resolved that, having already reduced the power of the barons, he would now reduce the power of the Church. And among all his faithful men, who would be more likely to help him in such business than his friend Becket, who had hitherto been his ablest assistant in every undertaking?
It happened about this time that the Archbishop of Canterbury, the highest officer of the Church in England, died. This event was very pleasing to Henry, and through his influence the Pope appointed Thomas Becket to be the new archbishop.
Becket had hitherto been faithful to Henry in all things, but he now felt that his first duty was to the Church, and he resolved to defend its rights, even though he should displease the king. He changed entirely the manner of his life. Instead of his splendid clothes, he wore a monk's dress and a hair shirt next to his skin. He tried, as people understood it in those times, to carry out the teachings of his Lord and Master; and every dayhe waited upon a number of poor men and washed their feet. Instead of gay knights only good and pious men sat at his table. He gave up his chancellorship, and told the king plainly that he would resist all attempts to take away the rights of the Church.
Many were the quarrels after that between the king and the archbishop. At one time, in a fit of rage, Henry cried out: "I will not be preached at by you. Are you not the son of one of my clowns?"
"It is true," replied the archbishop, "I am not descended from ancient kings, but neither was the blessed Peter to whom were given the keys of the kingdom of heaven."
"But Peter," said the king, "died for his Lord."
"And I, too, will die for my Lord," said Becket, "when the time shall come."
And it was not long till the time did come. Upon hearing some hasty, angry words from the king, four knights set out to Canterbury, determined to kill Becket, and thus not only put an end to the long quarrel but win the king's favor for themselves.
—Anonymous.
The vespers had already begun, and the monks were singing the service in the choir, when two boys rushed up the nave, announcing, more by their terrified gestures than by their words, that the soldiers were bursting into the palace and monastery. Instantly the service was thrown into the utmost confusion; part remained at prayer, part fled into the numerous hiding places the vastfabric affords; and part went down the steps of the choir into the transept to meet the little band at the door.
"Come in, come in!" exclaimed one of them. "Come in, and let us die together."
The Archbishop continued to stand outside, and said: "Go and finish the service. So long as you keep in the entrance, I shall not come in." They fell back a few paces, and he stepped within the door, but, finding the whole place thronged with people, he paused on the threshold, and asked, "What is it that these people fear?" One general answer broke forth, "The armed men in the cloister." As he turned and said, "I shall go out to them," he heard the clash of arms behind. The knights had just forced their way into the cloister, and were now (as would appear from their being thus seen through the open door) advancing along its southern side. They were in mail, which covered their faces up to their eyes, and carried their swords drawn. Three had hatchets. Fitzurse, with the ax he had taken from the carpenters, was foremost, shouting as he came, "Here, here, king's men!" Immediately behind him followed Robert Fitzranulph, with three other knights; and a motley group—some their own followers, some from the town—with weapons, though not in armor, brought up the rear. At this sight, so unwonted in the peaceful cloisters of Canterbury, not probably beheld since the time when the monastery had been sacked by the Danes, the monks within, regardless of all remonstrances, shut the door of the cathedral, and proceeded to barricade it with iron bars. A loud knocking was heard from theband without, who, having vainly endeavored to prevent the entrance of the knights into the cloister, now rushed before them to take refuge in the church. Becket, who had stepped some paces into the cathedral, but was resisting the solicitations of those immediately about him to move up into the choir for safety, darted back, calling aloud as he went, "Away, you cowards! By virtue of your obedience I command you not to shut the door—the church must not be turned into a castle." With his own hands he thrust them away from the door, opened it himself, and catching hold of the excluded monks, dragged them into the building, exclaiming, "Come in, come in—faster, faster!"
A very large churchFrom a Photograph. Engraved by Charles Meeder.Canterbury Cathedral.
From a Photograph. Engraved by Charles Meeder.Canterbury Cathedral.
The knights, who had been checked for a moment by the sight of the closed door, on seeing it unexpectedly thrown open, rushed into the church. It was, we must remember, about five o'clock in a winter evening; the shades of night were gathering, and were deepened into a still darker gloom within the high and massive walls of the vast cathedral, which was only illuminated here and there by the solitary lamps burning before the altars. The twilight, lengthening from the shortest day a fortnight before, was but just sufficient to reveal the outline of objects.
In the dim twilight they could just discern a group of figures mounting the steps of the eastern staircase. One of the knights called out to them, "Stay." Another, "Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the king?" No answer was returned. None could have been expected by any one who remembered the indignant silence with whichBecket had swept by when the same words had been applied by Randulf of Broc at Northampton. Fitzurse rushed forward, and, stumbling against one of the monks on the lower step, still not able to distinguish clearly in the darkness, exclaimed, "Where is the Archbishop?" Instantly the answer came: "Reginald, here I am, no traitor, but the archbishop and priest of God; what do you wish?" and from the fourth step, which he had reached in his ascent, with a slight motion of his head—noticed apparently as his peculiar manner in moments of excitement—Becket descended to the transept. Attired, we are told, in his white rochet, with a cloak and hood thrown over his shoulders, he thus suddenly confronted his assailants. Fitzurse sprang back two or three paces, and Becket passing by him took up his station between the central pillar and the massive wall which still forms the southwest corner of what was then the chapel of St. Benedict. Here they gathered round him, with the cry, "Absolve the bishops whom you have excommunicated." "I cannot do other than I have done," he replied, and turning to Fitzurse, he added, "Reginald, you have received many favors at my hands; why do you come into my church armed?" Fitzurse planted the ax against his breast, and returned for answer, "You shall die—I will tear out your heart." Another, perhaps in kindness, struck him between the shoulders with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "Fly; you are a dead man." "I am ready to die," replied the primate, "for God and the Church; but I warn you, I curse you in the name of God Almighty, if you do not let my men escape."
The well-known horror which in that age was felt at an act of sacrilege, together with the sight of the crowds who were rushing in from the town through the nave, turned their efforts for the next few moments to carrying him out of the church. Fitzurse threw down the ax, and tried to drag him out by the collar of his long cloak, calling, "Come with us—you are our prisoner." "I will not fly, you detestable fellow," was Becket's reply, roused to his usual vehemence, and wrenching the cloak out of Fitzurse's grasp. The three knights struggled violently to put him on Tracy's shoulders. Becket set his back against the pillar, and resisted with all his might, whilst Grim, vehemently remonstrating, threw his arms around him to aid his efforts. In the scuffle, Becket fastened upon Tracy, shook him by his coat of mail, and exerting his great strength flung him down on the pavement. It was hopeless to carry on the attempt to remove him. And in the final struggle which now began, Fitzurse, as before, took the lead. He approached with his drawn sword, and waving it over his head, cried, "Strike, strike!" but merely dashed off his cap. Tracy sprang forward and struck a more decided blow.
The blood from the first blow was trickling down his face in a thin streak; he wiped it with his arm, and when he saw the stain, he said, "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." At the third blow, he sank on his knees—his arms falling, but his hands still joined as if in prayer. With his face turned towards the altar of St. Benedict, he murmured in a low voice, "For the name of Jesus, and the defense of the Church, I am willing to die."Without moving hand or foot, he fell flat on his face as he spoke. In this posture he received a tremendous blow, aimed with such violence that the scalp or crown of the head was severed from the skull. "Let us go—let us go," said Hugh of Horsea, "the traitor is dead; he will rise no more."
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