King Arthur and His Round Table - Canto 3

I.

I' VE a proposal here from Mr. Murray,
" He offers handsomely — the money down;
" My dear, you might recover from your flurry
" In a nice airy lodging out of town,
" At Croydon, Epsom, anywhere in Surrey;
" If every stanza brings us in a crown,
" I think that I might venture to bespeak
" A bed-room and front-parlour for next week.

II.

" Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think;
" Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock;
" Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink;
" On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock,
" And I'd be sure to keep away from drink,
" And always go to bed by twelve o'clock.
" We'll travel down there in the morning stages;
" Our verses shall go down to distant ages.

III.

" And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls,
" And you shall have a better shawl to wear;
" These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes;
" By Monday next I'll compass a new pair:
" Come, now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals,
" And take away the things you hung to air,
" Set out the tea-things, and bid Phaebe bring
" The kettle up." — Arms and the Monks I sing .

IV.

Some ten miles off, an ancient abbey stood,
Amidst the mountains, near a noble stream;
A level eminence, enshrined with wood,
Slop'd to the river's bank and southern beam;
Within were fifty friars fat and good,
Of goodly persons, and of good esteem,
That pass'd an easy, exemplary life,
Remote from want and care, and worldly strife.

V.

Between the Monks and Giants there subsisted,
In the first abbot's lifetime, much respect;
The Giants let them settle where they listed;
The Giants were a tolerating sect.
A poor lame Giant once the Monks assisted,
Old and abandon'd, dying with neglect,
The Prior found him, cured his broken bone,
And very kindly cut him for the stone.

VI.

This seem'd a glorious, golden opportunity,
To civilize the whole gigantic race;
To draw them to pay tithes, and dwell in unity;
The Giants' valley was a fertile place,
And might have much enrich'd the whole community,
Had the old Giant lived a longer space;
But he relapsed, and though all means were tried,
They could but just baptize him — when he died.

VII.

And, I believe, the Giants never knew
Of the kind treatment that befell their mate;
He broke down all at once, and all the crew
Had taken leave, and left him to his fate;
And though the Monks exposed him full in view,
Propt on his crutches, at the garden gate,
To prove their cure, and shew that all was right,
It happen'd that no Giants came in sight:

VIII.

They never found another case to cure,
But their demeanour calm and reverential,
Their gesture and their vesture grave and pure,
Their conduct sober, cautious, and prudential,
Engaged respect, sufficient to secure
Their properties and interests most essential;
They kept a distant, courteous intercourse;
Salutes and gestures were their sole discourse.

IX.

Music will civilize, the poets say,
In time it might have civiliz'd the Giants;
The Jesuits found its use in Paraguay;
Orpheus was famous for harmonic science,
And civilized the Thracians in that way;
My judgment coincides with Mr. Bryant's;
He thinks that Orpheus meant a race of cloisterers,
Obnoxious to the Bacchanalian roisterers.

X.

Deciphering the symbols of mythology,
He finds them Monks, expert in their vocation;
Teachers of music, medicine, and theology,
The missionaries of the barbarous Thracian;
The poet's fable was a wild apology
For an inhuman bloody reformation,
Which left those tribes uncivilized and rude,
Naked and fierce, and painted and tattoo'd.

XI.

It was a glorious jacobinic job
To pull down convents, to condemn for treason
Poor peeping Pentheus — to carouse and rob,
With naked raving goddesses of reason,
The festivals and orgies of the mob
That every twentieth century come in season.
Enough of Orpheus — the succeeding page
Relates to Monks of a more recent age;

XII.

And oft that wild untutor'd race would draw,
Led by the solemn sound and sacred light
Beyond the bank, beneath a lonely shaw,
To listen all the livelong summer night,
Till deep, serene, and reverential awe
Environ'd them with silent calm delight,
Contemplating the Minster's midnight gleam,
Reflected from the clear and glassy stream;

XIII.

But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had shed
O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue,
Their passive hearts and vacant fancies fed
With thoughts and aspirations strange and new,
Till their brute souls with inward working bred
Dark hints that in the depth of instinct grew
Subjective — not from Locke's associations,
Nor David Hartley's doctrine of vibrations.

XIV.

Each was ashamed to mention to the others
One half of all the feelings that he felt,
Yet thus far each could venture — " Listen, brothers,
" It seems as if one heard heaven's thunder melt
" In music — ! all at once it soothes — it smothers —
" It overpowers one — Pillicock, don't pelt!
" It seems a kind of shame, a kind of sin,
" To vex those harmless worthy souls within."

XV.

In castles and in courts Ambition dwells,
But not in castles or in courts alone;
She breathed a wish, throughout those sacred cells,
For bells of larger size, and louder tone;
Giants abominate the sound of bells,
And soon the fierce antipathy was shown,
The tinkling and the jingling, and the clangour;
Roused their irrational gigantic anger.

XVI.

Unhappy mortals! ever blind to fate!
Unhappy Monks! you see no danger nigh;
Exulting in their sound and size and weight,
From morn till noon the merry peal you ply:
The belfry rocks, your bosoms are elate,
Your spirits with the ropes and pulleys fly;
Tired, but transported, panting, pulling, hauling,
Ramping and stamping, overjoy'd and bawling.

XVII.

Meanwhile the solemn mountains that surrounded
The silent valley where the convent lay,
With tintinnabular uproar were astounded,
When the first peal burst forth at break of day
Feeling their granite ears severely wounded,
They scarce knew what to think, or what to say;
And (though large mountains commonly conceal
Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel.

XVIII.

Yet) Cader-Gibbrish from his cloudy throne
To huge Loblommon gave an intimation
Of this strange rumour, with an awful tone,
Thundering his deep surprise and indignation;
The lesser hills, in language of their own,
Discuss'd the topic by reverberation;
Discoursing with their echoes all day long,
Their only conversation was, " ding-dong."

XIX.

Those giant-mountains inwardly were moved,
But never made an outward change of place:
Not so the mountain-giants — (as behoved
A more alert and locomotive race),
Hearing a clatter which they disapproved,
They ran straight forward to besiege the place
With a discordant universal yell,
Like house-dogs howling at a dinner-bell.

XX.

Historians are extremely to be pitied,
Obliged to persevere in the narration
Of wrongs and horrid outrages committed,
Oppression, sacrilege, assassination;
The following scenes I wish'd to have omitted,
But truth is an imperious obligation.
So — " my heart sickens, and I drop my pen,"
And am obliged to pick it up again,

XXI.

And, dipping it afresh, I must transcribe
An ancient monkish record, which displays
The savage acts of that gigantic tribe;
I hope, that from the diction of those days,
This noble, national poem will imbibe
A something (in the old reviewing phrase),
" Of an original flavour, and a raciness;"
I should not else transcribe it out of laziness.

XXII.

The writer first relates a dream, or vision,
Observed by Luke and Lawrence in their cells,
And a nocturnal hideous apparition
Of fiends and devils dancing round the bells:
This last event is stated with precision;
Their persons he describes, their names he tells,
Klaproth, Tantallan, Barbanel, Belphegor,
Long-tail'd, long-talon'd, hairy, black, and meagre.

XXIII.

He then rehearses sundry marvels more,
Damping the mind with horror by degrees,
Of a prodigious birth a heifer bore,
Of mermaids seen in the surrounding seas,
Of a sea-monster that was cast ashore;
Earthquakes and thunder-stones, events like these,
Which served to shew the times were out of joint,
And then proceeds directly to the point.

XXIV.

Erant rumores et timores varii;
Dies horroris et confusionis
Evenit in calendis Januarii;
Gigantes, semen maledictionis
Nostri potentes impii adversarii,
Irascebantur campanarum sonis,
Horâ secundâ centum tres gigantes
Venerunt ante januam ululantes.

XXV.

At fratres pleni desolationis,
Stabant ad necessarium praesidium,
Perterriti pro vitis et pro bonis,
Et perduravit hoc crudele obsidium,
Nostri claustralis pauperis Sionis,
Ad primum diem proximorum Idium;
Tunc in triumpho fracto tintinnabulo,
Gigantes ibant alibi pro pabulo.

XXVI.

Sed frater Isidorus decumbebat
In lecto per tres menses brachio fracto,
Nam lapides Mangonellus jaciebat,
Et fregit tintinnabulum lapide jacto;
Et omne vicinagium destruebat,
Et nihil relinquebat de intacto,
Ardens molinos, Casas, messuagia,
Et alia multa damna atque outragia.

XXVII.

Those Monks were poor proficients in divinity,
And scarce knew more of Latin than myself;
Compared with theirs they say that true Latinity
Appears like porcelain compared with delf;
As for the damage done in the vicinity,
Those that have laid their Latin on the shelf
May like to read the subsequent narration
Done into metre from a friend's translation.

XXVIII.

Squire Humphry Bamberham, of Boozley Hall,
(Whose name I mention with deserved respect),
On market-days was often pleased to call,
And to suggest improvements, or correct;
I own the obligation once for all,
Lest critics should imagine they detect
Traces of learning and superior reading,
Beyond, as they suppose, my birth and breeding.

XXIX.

Papers besides, and transcripts most material,
He gave me when I went to him to dine;
A trunk full, one coach-seat, and an imperial,
One band-box — But the work is wholly mine;
The tone, the form, the colouring etherial,
" The vision and the faculty divine,"
The scenery, characters, and triple-rhymes,
I'll swear it — like old Walter of the Times.

XXX.

Long, long before, upon a point of weight,
Such as a ring of bells complete and new,
Chapters were summon'd, frequent, full, and late;
The point was view'd in every point of view,
Till, after fierce discussion and debate,
The wiser monks, the wise are always few,
That from the first opposed the plan in toto ,
Were over-borne, canonicali voto .

XXXI.

A prudent monk, their reader and librarian,
Observed a faction, angry, strong, and warm,
(Himself an anti-tintinnabularian),
He saw, or thought he saw, a party form
To scout him as an alien and sectarian.
There was an undefined impending storm!
The opponents were united, bold, and hot;
They might degrade, imprison him — what not?

XXXII.

Now faction in a city, camp, or cloister,
While it is yet a tender raw beginner,
Is nourish'd by superfluous warmth and moisture,
Namely, by warmth and moisture after dinner;
And therefore, till the temper and the posture
Of things should alter — till a secret inner
Instinctive voice should whisper, all is right —
He deem'd it safest to keep least in sight.

XXXIII.

He felt as if his neck were in a noose,
And evermore retired betimes from table,
For fear of altercation and abuse,
But made the best excuse that he was able;
He never rose without a good excuse,
(Like Master Stork invited in the fable
To Mr. Fox's dinner); there he sat,
Impatient to retire and take his hat.

XXXIV.

For only once or twice that he remain'd
To change this constant formal course, he found
His brethren awkward, sullen, and constrain'd,
— He caught the conversation at a bound,
And, with a hurried agitation, strain'd
His wits to keep it up, and drive it round.
— It saved him — but he felt the risk and danger,
Behaved-to like a pleasant utter stranger.

XXXV.

Wise people sometimes will pretend to sleep,
And watch and listen while they droop and snore —
He felt himself a kind of a black sheep,
But studied to be neither less nor more
Obliging than became him — but to keep
His temper, style, and manner as before;
It seem'd the best, the safest, only plan,
Never to seem to feel as a mark'd man.

XXXVI.

Wise Curs, when canister'd, refuse to run;
They merely crawl and creep about, and whine,
And disappoint the Boys, and spoil the fun —
That picture is too mean — this Monk of mine
Ennobled it, as others since have done,
With grace and ease, and grandeur of design;
He neither ran nor howl'd, nor crept nor turn'd,
But wore it as he walk'd, quite unconcern'd.

XXXVII.

To manifest the slightest want of nerve
Was evidently perfect, utter ruin,
Therefore the seeming to recant or swerve,
By meddling any way with what was doing,
He felt within himself would only serve
To bring down all the mischief that was brewing;
" No duty binds me, no constraint compels
" To bow before the Dagon of the Bells,

XXXVIII.

" To flatter this new foolery, to betray
" My vote, my conscience, and my better sense,
" By bustling in the Belfry day by day;
" But in the Grange, the Cellar, or the Spence,
" (While all are otherwise employ'd), I may
" Deserve their thanks, at least avoid offence;
" For (while this vile anticipated clatter
" Fills all their hearts and senses), every matter

XXXIX.

" Behoveful for our maintenance and needs
" Is wholly disregarded, and the course
" Of our conventual management proceeds
" At random, day by day, from bad to worse;
" The Larder dwindles and the Cellar bleeds!
" Besides, — besides the bells, we must disburse
" For masonry, for frame-work, wheels and fliers;
" Next winter we must fast like genuine friars. "

XL.

As Bees, that when the skies are calm and fair,
In June, or the beginning of July,
Launch forth colonial settlers in the air,
Round, round, and round-about, they whiz, they fly,
With eager worry whirling here and there,
They know not whence, nor whither, where, nor why,
In utter hurry-scurry, going, coming,
Maddening the summer air with ceaseless humming;

XLI.

Till the strong Frying-pan's energic jangle
With thrilling thrum their feebler hum doth drown,
Then passive and appeased, they droop and dangle,
Clinging together close, and clustering down,
Link'd in a multitudinous living tangle
Like an old Tassel of a dingy brown;
The joyful Farmer sees, and spreads his hay,
And reckons on a settled sultry day.

XLII.

E'en so the Monks, as wild as sparks of fire,
(Or swarms unpacified by pan or kettle),
Ran restless round the Cloisters and the Quire,
Till those huge masses of sonorous metal
Attracted them toward the Tower and Spire;
There you might see them cluster, crowd, and settle,
Throng'd in the hollow tintinnabular Hive;
The Belfry swarm'd with Monks; it seem'd alive.

XLIII.

Then, while the Cloisters, Courts, and Yards were still,
Silent and empty, like a long vacation;
The Friar prowl'd about, intent to fill
Details of delegated occupation,
Which, with a ready frankness and good will,
He undertook; he said, " the obligation
" Was nothing — nothing — he could serve their turn
" While they were busy with this new concern. "

XLIV.

Combining prudence with a scholar's pride,
Poor Tully, like a toad beneath a harrow,
Twitch'd, jerk'd, and haul'd and maul'd on every side,
Tried to identify himself with Varro;
This course our cautious Friar might have tried,
But his poor convent was a field too narrow;
There was not, from the Prior to the Cook,
A single soul that cared about a book;

XLV.

Yet, sitting with his books, he felt unclogg'd,
Unfetter'd; and for two hours together tasted
The calm delight of being neither dogg'd,
Nor watch'd, nor worried; he transcribed, he pasted,
Repair'd old Bindings, index'd, catalogued,
Illuminated, mended Clasps, and wasted
An hour or two sometimes in actual reading;
Meanwhile the belfry business was proceeding;

XLVI.

And the first opening Peal, the grand display,
In prospect ever present to his mind,
Was fast approaching, pregnant with dismay,
With loathing and with horror undefined,
Like the expectation of an Ague-day;
The day before he neither supp'd nor dined,
And felt beforehand, for a fortnight near,
A kind of deafness in his fancy's ear:

XLVII.

But most he fear'd his ill-digested spleen,
Inflamed by gibes, might lead him on to wrangle,
Or discompose, at least, his looks and mien;
So, with the Belfry's first prelusive jangle,
He sallied from the Garden-gate unseen,
With his worst hat, his boots, his line and angle,
Meaning to pass away the time, and bring
Some fish for supper, as a civil thing.

XLVIII.

The prospect of their after-supper talk
Employ'd his thoughts, forecasting many a scoff,
Which he with quick reply must damp and balk,
Parrying at once, without a hem or cough,
" Had not the bells annoy'd him in his walk? —
" No, faith! he liked them best when farthest off. "
Thus he prepared and practised many a sentence,
Expressing ease, good-humour, independence.

XLIX.

His ground-bait had been laid the night before,
Most fortunately! — for he used to say,
" That more than once the belfry's bothering roar
" Almost induced him to remove away;"
Had he so done, — the gigantean corps
Had sack'd the convent on that very day,
But providentially the perch and dace
Bit freely, which detain'd him at the place.

L.

And here let us detain ourselves awhile,
My dear Thalia! party's angry frown
And petty malice in that monkish pile,
(The warfare of the cowl and of the gown),
Had almost dried my wits and drain'd my style;
Here, with our legs, then, idly dangling down.
We'll rest upon the bank, and dip our toes
In the poetic current as it flows.

LI.

Or in the narrow sunny plashes near,
Observe the puny piscatory Swarm,
That with their tiny Squadrons tack and veer,
Cruising amidst the shelves and shallows warm,
Chasing, or in retreat, with hope or fear
Of petty plunder or minute alarm;
With clannish instinct how they wheel and face,
Inherited arts inherent in the race;

LII.

Or mark the jetty, glossy Tribes that glance
Upon the water's firm unruffled breast,
Tracing their ancient labyrinthic dance
In mute mysterious cadence unexpress'd;
Alas! that fresh disaster and mischance
Again must drive us from our place of rest!
Grim Mangonel, with his outrageous crew,
Will scare us hence within an hour or two.

LIII.

Poets are privileged to run away —
Alcaeus and Archilochus could fling
Their shields behind them in a doubtful fray;
And still sweet Horace may be heard to sing
His filthy fright upon Philippi's day;
( — You can retire, too — for the Muse's wing
Is swift as Cupid's pinion when he flies,
Alarm'd at periwigs and human Tyes).

LIV.

This practice was approved in times of yore,
Though later bards behav'd like gentlemen,
And Garcilasso, Camoens, many more,
Disclaim'd the privilege of book and pen;
And bold Aneurin, all bedripp'd with gore,
Bursting by force from the beleaguer'd glen,
Arrogant, haughty, fierce, of fiery mood,
Not meek and mean, as Gray misunderstood.

LV.

But we, that write a mere Campaigning Tour,
May choose a station for our point of view
That's picturesque and perfectly secure;
Come, now we'll sketch the friar — That will do —
" Designs and etchings by an amateur;"
" A frontispiece, and a vignette or two:"
But much I fear that aqua-tint and etching
Will scarce keep pace with true poetic sketching.

LVI.

Dogs that inhabit near the banks of Nile,
(As ancient authors or old proverbs say),
Dreading the cruel critic Crocodile;
Drink as they run, a mouthful and away;
'Tis a true model for descriptive style;
" Keep moving, " (as the man says in the play),
The power of motion is the poet's forte —
Therefore, again, " keep moving! that's your sort! "

LVII.

For, otherwise, while you persist and paint,
With your portfolio pinion'd to a spot,
Half of your picture grows effaced and faint,
Imperfectly remember'd, or forgot;
Make sketch, then, upon sketch; and if they a'n't
Complete, it does not signify a jot;
Leave graphic illustrations of your work
To be devised by Westall or by Smirke.

LVIII.

I'll speak my mind at once, in spite of raillery;
I've thought and thought again a thousand times,
What a magnificent Poetic Gallery
Might be design'd from my Stowmarket rhymes;
I look for no reward, nor fee, nor salary,
I look for England's fame in foreign climes
And future ages — Honos alit Artes ,
And such a plan would reconcile all parties.

LIX.

I'm strongly for the present state of things;
I look for no reform, nor innovation,
Because our present Parliaments and Kings
Are competent to improve and rule the Nation,
Provided Projects that true Genius brings
Are held in due respect and estimation.
I've said enough — and now you must be wishing
To see the landscape, and the friar fishing.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.