A numerous troop, and all their heads around
With chaplets green of cerrial oak were crown'd,230
And at each trumpet was a banner bound :
Which waving in the wind display'd at large
Their masters' coat of arms, and knightly charge.
Broad were the banners, and of snowy hue,
A purer web the silk-worm never drew.
The chief about their necks the scutcheons wore,
With orient pearls and jewels powder'd o'er:
Broad were their collars too, and every one
Was set about with many a costly stone.
Next these, of kings at arms a goodly train
In proud array came prancing o'er the plain:
Their cloaks were cloth of silver mix'd with gold,
And garlands green around their temples roll'd:
Rich crowns were on their royal scutcheons placed,
With sapphires, diamonds, and with rubies graced:
And as the trumpets their appearance made,
So these in habits were alike array'd;
But with a pace more sober, and more slow;
And twenty, rank in rank, they rode a-row.
The pursuivants came next, in number more;
And like the heralds each his scutcheon bore:
Clad in white velvet all their troop they led,
With each an oaken chaplet on his head.
The trappings of their steeds were of the same;
The golden fringe even set the ground on flame,
And drew a precious trail: a crown divine
Of laurel did about their temples twine.
Three henchmen were for every knight assign'd.
All in rich livery clad, and of a kind;
White velvet, but unshorn, for cloaks they wore,
And each within his hand a truncheon bore:
The foremost held a helm of rare device;
A prince's ransom would not pay the price.
The second bore the buckler of his knight,
The third of cornel-wood a spear upright,
Headed with piercing steel, and polish'd bright.
Like to their lords their equipage was seen,
And all their foreheads crown'd with garlands
And after these came arm'd with spear and shield An host so great as cover'd all the field: And all their foreheads, like the knights before, With laurels evergreen were shaded o'er, Or oak, or other leaves of lasting kind, Tenacious of the stem, and firm against the wind. 280 Some in their hands, beside the lance and shield, The boughs of woodbine or of hawthorn held, Or branches for their mystic emblems took, Of palm, of laurel, or of cerrial oak. Thus marching to the trumpet's lofty sound, Drawn in two lines adverse they wheel'd around, And in the middle meadow took their ground.
Among themselves the tourney they divide,
In equal squadrons ranged on either side.
Then turn'd their horses' heads, and man to man,
And steed to steed opposed, the jousts began.
They lightly set their lances in the rest,
And, at the sign, against each other press'd:
They met. I sitting at my ease beheld
The mix'd events, and fortunes of the field.
Some broke their spears, some tumbled horse
and man,
And round the field the lighten'd coursers ran.
An hour and more, like tides, in equal sway
They rush'd, and won by turns, and lost the day:
300
At length the nine (who still together held)
Their fainting foes to shameful flight compell'd,
And with resistless force o'er-ran the field.
Thus, to their fame, when finish'd was the fight,
The victors from their lofty steeds alight:
Like them dismounted all the warlike train,
And two by two proceeded o'er the plain :
Till to the fair assembly they advanced,
Who near the secret arbour sung and danced.
The ladies left their measures at the sight,
To meet the chiefs returning from the fight,
And each with open arms embraced her chosen
knight.
Amid the plain a spreading laurel stood,
The grace and ornament of all the wood:
That pleasing shade they sought, a soft retreat
From sudden April showers, a shelter from the heat:
Her leafy arms with such extent were spread, 316
So near the clouds was her aspiring head,
That hosts of birds, that wing the liquid air,
Perch'd in the boughs, had nightly lodging there:
And flocks of sheep beneath the shade from far 320
Might hear the rattling hail, and wintry war;
From heaven's inclemency here found retreat,
Enjoy'd the cool, and shuun'd the scorching heat:
A hundred knights might there at ease abide;
And every knight a lady by his side:
The trunk itself such odours did bequeath,
That a Moluccan breeze to these was common
breath.
The lords and ladies here, approaching, paid
Their homage, with a low obeisance made;
And seem'd to venerate the sacred shade.
In Malabar and Decan spreads her arms Branching so broad and long, that in the ground The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade High over-arch'd, and echoing walks between: There oft the Indian herdsman, shunning heat, Shelters in cool, and tends his pasturing herds At loop-holes cut through thickest shade." That our author had this passage of Milton in view is, I presume, evident. The circumstance of the sheep is not in Chaucer; nor the notion of the odoriferous Moluccan breeze, which was suggested to him by Milton's passage. JOHN WARTON.
But soon their pleasure pass'd: at noon of day, The sun with sultry beams began to play: Not Sirius shoots a fiercer flame from high, When with his poisonous breath he blasts the sky;
Then droop'd the fading flow'rs (their beauty fled)
And closed their sickly eyes, and hung the head,
And rivell'd up with heat, lay dying in their
bed.
The ladies gasp'd, and scarcely could respire;
The breath they drew, no longer air, but fire; 380
The fainty knights were scorch'd, and knew not
where
To run for shelter, for no shade was near;
And after this the gathering clouds amain
Pour'd down a storm of rattling hail and rain:
And lightning flash'd betwixt: the field and
flowers,
And with behaviour sweet their foes embrace. 400
Then thus the queen with laurel on her brow,
Fair sister, I have suffer'd in your woe;
Nor shall be wanting aught within my power
For your relief in my refreshing bower.
That other answer'd with a lowly look,
And soon the gracious invitation took :
For ill at ease both she and all her train
The scorching sun had borne, and beating rain.
Like courtesy was used by all in white,
Each dame a dame received, and every knight
a knight.
The laurel champions with their swords invade The neighbouring forests, where the jousts were made,
Then sought green salads, which they bade them eat,
A sovereign remedy for inward heat.
The Lady of the Leaf ordain'd a feast, And made the Lady of the Flower her guest: When, lo! a bower ascended on the plain, With sudden seats ordain'd, and large for either
This bower was near my pleasant arbour placed,
That I could hear and see whatever pass'd:
The ladies sat with each a knight between,
Distinguish'd by their colours, white and green:
The vanquish'd party with the victors join'd,
Nor wanted sweet discourse, the banquet of the
mind.
Meantime the minstrels play'd on either side,
Vain of their art, and for the mastery vied:
The sweet contention lasted for an hour,
And reach'd my secret arbour from the bower.
The sun was set; and Vesper, to supply
His absent beams, had lighted up the sky.
When Philomel, officious all the day
To sing the service of the ensuing May,
Fled from her laurel shade, and wing'd her flight Directly to the queen array'd in white;
Ver. 414. And seeds of latent fire from flints provoke:] A circumstance, his own, founded on the line of Virgil:
66 primus silici scintillam excudit Achates." The verb provoke is his own, and simple, strong, and expressive. JoHN WARTON.
Ver. 425.] Here I must, agreeably to my plan, note s small deviation from the original, in which there is mention of the bower or the banquet. Joнs Warton. Ver. 437. The sun was set; and Vesper, to supply His absent beams, had lighted up the sky.] "The sun was sunk, and after him the star of Hesperus." Milton, ix. 40. JOHN WARTOS.
And hopping sat familiar on her hand,
A new musician, and increased the band.
The goldfinch, who, to shun the scalding heat, 445 Had changed the medlar for a safer seat, And hid in bushes 'scaped the bitter shower, Now perch'd upon the Lady of the Flower; And either songster holding out their throats, And folding up their wings, renew'd their notes: As if all day, preluding to the fight, They only had rehearsed, to sing by night. The banquet ended, and the battle done, They danced by star-light and the friendly moon: And when they were to part, the laureate queen Supplied with steeds the lady of the green, Her and her train conducting on the way, The moon to follow, and avoid the day. This when I saw, inquisitive to know The secret moral of the mystic show,
I started from my shade, in hopes to find
Some nymph to satisfy my longing mind:
And as my fair adventure fell, I found
A lady all in white, with laurel crown'd,
Who closed the rear, and softly paced along,
Repeating to herself the former song.
With due respect my body I inclined,
As to some being of superior kind,
And made my court according to the day,
Wishing her queen and her a happy May.
Great thanks, my daughter, with a gracious bow,
She said; and I, who much desired to know
Of whence she was, yet fearful how to break
My mind, adventured humbly thus to speak :
Madam, might I presume and not offend,
So may the stars and shining moon attend
Your nightly sports, as you vouchsafe to tell,
What nymphs they were who mortal forms excel,
And what the knights who fought in listed fields
so well.
To this the dame replied: Fair daughter, know,
That what you saw was all a fairy show:
And all those airy shapes you now behold
Were human bodies once, and clothed with
earthly mould,
Our souls, not yet prepared for upper light,
Till doomsday wander in the shades of night; 485
This only holiday of all the year,
We privileged in sunshine may appear:
With songs and dance we celebrate the day,
And with due honours usher in the May.
At other times we reign by night alone,
And posting through the skies pursue the moon:
But when the moon arises, none are found;
For cruel Demogorgon walks the round,
And if he finds a fairy lag in light,
He drives the wretch before, and lashes into night.
All courteous are by kind; and ever proud 496
With friendly offices to help the good.
In every land we have a larger space
Than what is known to you of mortal race:
Ver. 491. And posting through the skies pursue the moon:] My reader will not be displeased at the following citation from a writer whose chief excellence does not consist in imagery; but who shows from the following passage much of the genuine and real poet or maker.
"Ludite, jam Nox jungit equos, currumque sequuntur Matris lascivo sidera fulva choro,
Postque venit tacitus fuscis circumdatus alis
Somnus, et incerto somnia nigra pede."
Tibullus, lib. ii. Eleg. 1. line 87.
JOHN WARTON.
Where we with green adorn our fairy bowers, 500
And even this grove, unseen before, is ours.
Know farther, every lady clothed in white,
And, crown'd with oak and laurel every knight,
Are servants to the Leaf, by liveries known
Of innocence; and I myself am one.
Saw you not her so graceful to behold,
In white attire, and crown'd with radiant gold?
The sovereign lady of our land is she,
Diana call'd, the queen of chastity:
And, for the spotless name of maid she bears, 51
That Agnus castus in her hand appears;
And all her train, with leafy chaplets crown'd,
Were for unblamed virginity renown'd;
But those the chief and highest in command
Who bear those holy branches in their hand: 515
The knights adorn'd with laurel crowns are they,
Whom death nor danger ever could dismay,
Victorious names, who made the world obey:
Who, while they lived, in deeds of arms excell'd,
And after death for deities were held.
But those who wear the woodbine on their brow,
Were knights of love, who never broke their vow;
Firm to their plighted faith, and ever free
From fears, and fickle chance, and jealousy.
The lords and ladies, who the woodbine bear, 525
As true as Tristram and Isotta were.
These, as you see, ride foremost in the field,
As they the foremost rank of honour held,
And all in deeds of chivalry excell'd:
Their temples wreath'd with leaves, that still renew;
For deathless laurel is the victor's due:
Who bear the bows were knights in Arthur's reigu,
Twelve they, and twelve the peers of Charlemagne :
For bows the strength of brawny arms imply,
Emblems of valour and of victory.
Behold an order yet of newer date,
Doubling their number, equal in their state;
Our England's ornament, the crown's defence,
In battle brave, protectors of their prince:
Unchanged by fortune, to their sovereign true. 550
For which their manly legs are bound with blue.
These, of the Garter call'd, of faith unstain'd
In fighting fields the laurel have obtain'd,
And well repaid the honours which they gain'd.
The laurel wreaths were first by Cæsar worn,
And still they Cæsar's successors adorn:
One leaf of this is immortality,
And more of worth than all the world can buy.
One doubt remains, said I, the dames in green, What were their qualities, and who their queen? 560 Flora commands, said she, those nymphs and
Who lived in slothful ease and loose delights;
Who never acts of honour durst pursue,
The men inglorious knights, the ladies all untrue:
Who, nursed in idleness, and train'd in courts, 565
Pass'd all their precious hours in plays and sports,
Till death behind came stalking on unseen,
And wither'd (like the storm) the freshness of
their green.
These, and their mates, enjoy their present hour,
And therefore pay their homage to the Flower. 570
But knights in knightly deeds should persevere,
And still continue what at first they were;
Continue, and proceed in honour's fair career.
No room for cowardice, or dull delay;
From good to better they should urge
their way.
For this with golden spurs the chiefs are graced,
With pointed rowels arm'd to mend their haste.
For this with lasting leaves their brows are bound;
For laurel is the sign of labour crown'd,
Which bears the bitter blast, nor shaken falls to ground:
From winter winds it suffers no decay,
For ever fresh and fair, and every month is May.
Even when the vital sap retreats below,
Even when the hoary head is hid in snow,
The life is in the leaf, and still between
The fits of falling snow appears the streaky green.
Not so the flower, which lasts for little space,
A short-lived good, and an uncertain grace;
This way and that the feeble stem is driven,
Weak to sustain the storms, and injuries of heaven.
Propp'd by the spring, it lifts aloft the head,
But of a sickly beauty, soon to shed;
In summer living, and in winter dead.
For things of tender kind, for pleasure made,
Shoot up with swift increase, and sudden are
decay'd.
With humble words, the wisest I could frame,
And proffer'd service, I repaid the dame;
That, of her grace, she gave her maid to know
The secret meaning of this moral show.
And she, to prove what profit I had made
Of mystic truth, in fables first convey'd,
Demanded, till the next returning May,
Whether the Leaf or Flower I would obey?
I chose the Leaf; she smiled with sober cheer,
And wish'd me fair adventure for the year,
And gave me charms and sigils, for defence
Against ill tongues that scandal innocence:
But I, said she, my fellows must pursue,
Already past the plain, and out of view.
We parted thus: I homeward sped my way,
Bewilder'd in the wood till dawn of day:
And met the merry crew who danced about the
May.
Then late refresh'd with sleep, I rose to write
The visionary vigils of the night.
Blush, as thou may'st, my little book with shame, Nor hope with homely verse to purchase fame; For such thy maker chose; and so design'd Thy simple style to suit thy lowly kind.
IN days of old, when Arthur fill'd the throne, Whose acts and fame to foreign lands were blown; The king of elfs and little fairy queen'
Gamboll'd on heaths, and danced on every green;
And where the jolly troop had led the round,
The grass unbidden rose, and mark'd the ground:
Nor darkling did they dance, the silver light
Of Phoebe served to guide their steps aright,
And with their tripping pleased, prolong the night.
Her beams they follow'd, where at fu'l she
play'd,
No longer than she shed her horns they staid, From thence with airy flight to foreign lands convey'd.
Above the rest our Britain held they dear,
More solemnly they kept their sabbaths here,
And made more spacious rings, and revell'd half
I speak of ancient times, for now the swain Returning late may pass the woods in vain, And never hope to see the nightly train: In vain the dairy now with mints is dress'd, The dairy-maid expects no fairy guest, To skim the bowls, and after pay the feast. She sighs, and shakes her empty shoes in vain, No silver penny to reward her pain:
Have sprinkled holy water on the floor:
And friars that through the wealthy regions run,
Thick as the motes that twinkle in the sun,
Resort to farmers rich, and bless their halls,
And exorcise the beds, and cross the walls:
This makes the fairy quires forsake the place,
When once 'tis hallow'd with the rites of grace:
But in the walks where wicked elves have been.
The learning of the parish now is seen,
The midnight parson, posting o'er the green,
With gown tuck'd up, to wakes, for Sunday next,
With humming ale encouraging his text;
Nor wants the holy leer to country-girl betwixt
From fiends and imps he sets the village free,
There haunts not any incubus but he.
The maids and women need no danger fear
To walk by night, and sanctity so near:
For by some haycock, or some shady thorn,
He bids his beads both even-song and morn.
It so befel in this king Arthur's reign,
A lusty knight was pricking o'er the plain;
A bachelor he was, and of the courtly train.
It happen'd as he rode, a damsel gay
In russet robes to market took her way:
Soon on the girl he cast an amorous eye,
So straight she walk'd, and on her pasterns high:
If seeing her behind he liked her pace,
Now turning short, he better likes her face.
He lights in haste, and, full of youthful fire,
By force accomplish'd his obscene desire :
This done, away he rode, not unespied,
For swarming at his back the country cried:
And once in view they never lost the sight
But seized, and pinion'd brought to court the
knight.
Then courts of kings were held in high renown, Ere made the common brothels of the town: There, virgins honourable vows received, But chaste as maids in monasteries lived; The king himself, to nuptial ties a slave, No bad example to his poets gave: And they, not bad, but in a vicious age, Had not, to please the prince, debauch'd the stage. Now what should Arthur do? He loved the knight,
But sovereign monarchs are the source of right : 70
Moved by the damsel's tears and common cry,
He doom'd the brutal ravisher to die.
But fair Geneura rose in his defence,
And pray'd so hard for mercy from the prince,
That to his queen the king the offender gave,
And left it in her power to kill or save:
This gracious act the ladies all approve,
Who thought it much a man should die for love;
And with their mistress join'd in close debate,
(Covering their kindness with dissembled hate;)
If not to free him, to prolong his fate.
At last agreed, they call'd him by consent
Before the queen and female parliament;
And the fair speaker, rising from the chair,
Did thus the judgment of the house declare.
Sir knight, though I have ask'd thy life, yet still Thy destiny depends upon my will: Nor hast thou other surety than the grace Not due to thee from our offended race. But as our kind is of a softer mould, And cannot blood without a sigh behold, I grant thee life; reserving still the power To take the forfeit when I see my hour: Unless thy answer to my next demand Shall set thee free from our avenging hand. The question, whose solution I require, Is, What the sex of women most desire? In this dispute thy judges are at strife; Beware; for on thy wit depends thy life. Yet (lest, surprised, unknowing what to say, Thou damn thyself) we give thee farther day: A year is thine to wander at thy will; And learn from others, if thou want'st the skill. But, not to hold our proffer'd turn in scorn, Good sureties will we have for thy return; That at the time prefix'd thou shalt obey, And at thy pledge's peril keep thy day.
Woe was the knight at this severe command; But well he knew 'twas bootless to withstand:
"Twas hard the truth of such a point to find,
As was not yet agreed among the kind.
Thus on he went; still anxious more and more,
Ask'd all he met, and knock'd at every door; 120
Inquired of men; but made his chief request
To learn from women what they loved the best.
They answer'd each according to her mind
To please herself, not all the female kind.
One was for wealth, another was for place;
Crones, old and ugly, wish'd a better face.
The widow's wish was oftentimes to wed;
The wanton maids were all for sport a-bed.
Some said the sex were pleased with handsome
lies,
And some gross flattery loved without disguise: 130
Truth is, says one, he seldom fails to win,
Who flatters well; for that's our darling sin.
But long attendance, and a duteous mind,
Will work even with the wisest of the kind.
One thought the sex's prime felicity
Was from the bonds of wedlock to be free:
Their pleasures, hours, and actions all their own,
And uncontroll'd to give account to none.
Some with a husband-fool; but such are curst,
For fools perverse of husbands are the worst:
All women would be counted chaste and wise,
Nor should our spouses see, but with our eyes;
For fools will prate; and though they want the wit
To find close faults, yet open blots will hit;
Though better for their ease to hold their
For woman-kind was never in the wrong.
So noise ensues, and quarrels last for life;
The wife abhors the fool, the fool the wife.
And some men say, that great delight have we,
To be for truth extoll'd, and secresy:
And constant in one purpose still to dwell;
And not our husband's counsels to reveal.
But that's a fable: for our sex is frail,
Inventing rather than not tell a tale.
Like leaky sieves no secrets we can hold :
Witness the famous tale that Ovid told.
Midas the king, as in his book appears, By Phoebus was endow'd with asses' cars, Which under his long locks he well conceal'd, (As monarchs' vices must not be reveal'd) For fear the people have 'em in the wind, Who long ago were neither dumb nor blind: Nor apt to think from heaven their title springs, Since Jove and Mars left off begetting kings. This Midas knew; and durst communicate To none but to his wife his ears of state: One must be trusted, and he thought her fit, As passing prudent, and a parlous wit. To this sagacious confessor he went, And told her what a gift the gods had sent: But told it under matrimonial seal, With strict injunction never to reveal. The secret heard, she plighted him her troth, (And sacred sure is every woman's oath) The royal malady should rest unknown, Both for her husband's honour and her own But ne'ertheless she pined with discontent; The counsel rumbled till it found a vent. The thing she knew she was obliged to hide; By interest and by oath the wife was tied; But, if she told it not, the woman died. Loth to betray a husband and a prince, But she must burst, or blab, and no pretence Of honour tied her tongue from self-defence.
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