King Arthur and His Round Table - Canto 4

I.

A MIGHTY current, unconfin'd and free,
Ran wheeling round beneath the mountain's shade,
Battering its wave-worn base; but you might see
On the near margin many a watery glade,
Becalm'd beneath some little island's lee
All tranquil, and transparent, close embay'd;
Reflecting in the deep serene and even
Each flower and herb, and every cloud of Heaven;

II.

The painted kingfisher, the branch above her,
Stand in the sultry mirror fixt and true;
Anon the fitful breezes brood and hover,
Freshening the surface with a rougher hue;
Spreading, withdrawing, pausing, passing over,
Again returning to retire anew:
So rest and motion, in a narrow range,
Feasted the sight with joyous interchange.

III.

The Monk with handy jerk, and petty baits,
Stands twitching out apace the perch and roach;
His mightier tackle, pitch'd apart, awaits
The grovelling barbel's unobserved approach:
And soon his motley meal of homely Cates
Is spread, the leather bottle is a-broach;
Eggs, Bacon, Ale, a Napkin, Cheese and Knife,
Forming a charming Picture of Still-life.

IV.

The Friar fishing — a design for Cuyp,
A cabinet jewel — " Pray remark the boot;
" And, leading from the light, that shady stripe,
" With the dark bulrush-heads how well they suit;
" And then, that mellow tint so warm and ripe,
" That falls upon the cassock, and surtout:"
If it were fairly painted, puff'd and sold,
My gallery would be worth its weight in gold.

V.

But hark! — the busy Chimes fall fast and strong,
Clattering and pealing in their full career;
Closely the thickening sounds together throng,
No longer painful to the Friar's ear,
They bind his Fancy with illusion strong;
While his rapt Spirit hears, or seems to hear,
" Turn, turn again — gen — gen, thou noble Friar,
" Eleele — leele — leele — lected Prior. "

VI.

Thus the mild Monk, as he unhook'd a gudgeon,
Stood musing — when far other sounds arise,
Sounds of despite and ire, and direful dudgeon;
And soon across the River he espies,
In wrathful act, a hideous huge Curmudgeon
Calling his Comrades on with shouts and cries,
" There! — there it is! — I told them so before; "
He left his Line and Hook, and said no more;

VII.

But ran right forward, (pelted all the way),
And bolted breathless at the Convent-gate,
The messenger and herald of dismay;
But soon with conscious worth, and words of weight,
Gives orders which the ready Monks obey:
Doors, windows, wickets, are blockaded straight;
He reinspires the Convent's drooping sons,
Is here and there, and everywhere, at once.

VIII.

" Friends! fellow-Monks! " he cried, ( " for well you know
" That mightiest Giants must in vain essay
" Across yon river's foaming gulf to go:)
" The mountainous, obscure and winding way,
" That guides their footsteps to the Ford below,
" Affords a respite of desired delay —
" Seize then the passing hour! " — the Monk kept bawling,
In terms to this effect, though not so drawling.

IX.

His words were these, " Before the Ford is crost,
" We've a good hour, — at least three quarters good —
" Bestir yourselves, my lads, or all is lost —
" Drive down this Staunchion, bring those Spars of wood;
" This Bench will serve — here, wedge it to the Post;
" Come, Peter, quick! strip off your Gown and Hood —
" Take up the Mallet, Man, and bang away!
" Tighten these Ropes — now lash them, and belay.

X.

" Finish the job while I return — I fear
" Yon Postern-gate will prove the Convent's ruin;
" You, brother John, my Namesake! stay you here,
" And give an eye to what these Monks are doing;
" Bring out the scalding Sweet-wort, and the Beer,
" Keep up the Stoke-hole fire, where we were brewing:
" And pull the Gutters up and melt the Lead —
" (Before a dozen aves can be said,)

XI.

" I shall be back amongst you. " — Forth he went,
Secured the Postern, and return'd again,
Disposing all with high arbitrement,
With earnest air, and visage on the main
Concern of public safety fixt and bent;
For now the Giants, stretching o'er the plain,
Are seen, presenting in the dim horizon
Tall awful forms, horrific and surprising —

XII.

I'd willingly walk barefoot fifty mile,
To find a scholar, or divine, or squire,
That could assist me to devise a Style
Fit to describe the conduct of the Friar;
I've tried three different ones within a while,
The Grave, the Vulgar, and the grand High-flyer;
All are I think improper, more or less,
I'll take my chance amongst 'em — you shall guess.

XIII.

Intrepid, eager, ever prompt to fly
Where danger and the Convent's safety call;
Where doubtful points demand a judging eye,
Where on the massy gates huge maces fall;
Where missile vollied rocks are whirl'd on high,
Pre-eminent upon the embattled wall,
In gesture, and in voice, he stands confest;
Exhorting all the Monks to do their best.

XIV.

We redescend to phrase of low degree —
For there's a point which you must wish to know,
The real ruling Abbot — where was he?
For (since we make so classical a show,
Our Convent's mighty structure, as you see,
Like Thebes or Troy beleaguer'd by the foe:
Our Friar scuffling like a kind of Cocles),
You'll figure him perhaps like Eteocles

XV.

In Æschylus, with sentries, guards and watches,
Ready for all contingencies arising,
Pitting his chosen chiefs in equal matches
Against the foe — anon soliloquizing;
Then occupied anew with fresh dispatches — —
Nothing like this! — but something more surprising —
Was he like Priam then — that's stranger far —
That in the ninth year of his Trojan war,

XVI.

Knew not the names or persons of his foes,
But merely points them out as stout or tall,
While (as no Trojan knew them, I suppose),
Helen attends her father to the wall,
To tell him long details of these and those?
'Twas not like this, but strange and odd withal;
" Nobody knows it — nothing need be said,
" Our poor dear Abbot is this instant dead.

XVII.

" They wheel'd him out, you know, to take the air —
" It must have been an apoplectic fit —
" He tumbled forward from his garden-chair —
" He seem'd completely gone, but warm as yet;
" I wonder how they came to leave him there;
" Poor soul! he wanted courage, heart, and wit
" For Times like these — the Shock and the Surprise!
'Twas very natural the Gout should rise.

XVIII.

" But such a sudden end was scarce expected;
" Our parties will be puzzled to proceed;
" The belfry set divided and dejected:
" The crisis is a strange one, strange indeed;
" I'll bet yon fighting Friar is elected;
" It often happens in the hour of need,
" From popular ideas of utility,
" People are pitch'd upon for mere ability.

XIX.

" I'll hint the subject, and communicate
" The sad event — He's standing there apart;
" Our offer, to be sure, comes somewhat late,
" But then, we never thought he meant to start,
" And if he gains his end, at any rate,
" He has an understanding and a heart;
" He'll serve or he'll protect his friends, at least,
" With better spirit than the poor deceased;

XX.

" The convent was all going to the devil
" While he, poor creature, thought himself beloved
" For saying handsome things, and being civil,
" Wheeling about as he was pull'd and shoved,
" By way of leaving things to find their level."
The funeral sermon ended, both approved,
And went to Friar John, who merely doubted
The fact, and wish'd them to enquire about it;

XXI.

Then left them, and return'd to the attack;
They found their Abbot in his former place;
They took him up and turn'd him on his back;
At first (you know) he tumbled on his face:
They found him fairly stiff, and cold, and black;
They then unloosed each ligature and lace,
His neckcloth and his girdle, hose and garters,
And took him up, and lodged him in his quarters.

XXII.

Bees serv'd me for a simile before,
And bees again — " Bees that have lost their king,"
Would seem a repetition and a bore;
Besides, in fact, I never saw the thing;
And though those phrases from the good old store
Of " feebler hummings and a flagging wing, "
Perhaps may be descriptive and exact;
I doubt it; I confine myself to fact.

XXIII.

Thus much is certain, that a mighty pother
Arises; that the frame and the condition
Of things is alter'd, they combine and bother,
And every winged insect politician
Is warm and eager till they choose another.
In our monastic Hive the same ambition
Was active and alert; but angry fortune
Constrain'd them to contract the long, importune,

XXIV.

Tedious, obscure, inexplicable train,
Qualification, form, and oath and test,
Ballots on ballots, ballotted again;
Accessits , scrutinies, and all the rest;
Theirs was the good old method, short and plain;
Per acclamationem they invest
Their fighting Friar John with Robes and Ring,
Crozier and Mitre, Seals, and every thing.

XXV.

With a new warlike active Chief elected,
Almost at once, it scarce can be conceived
What a new spirit, real or affected,
Prevail'd throughout; the monks complained and grieved
That nothing was attempted or projected;
While Quiristers and Novices believed
That their new fighting Abbot, Friar John,
Would sally forth at once, and lead them on.

XXVI.

I pass such gossip, and devote my cares
By diligent inquiry to detect
The genuine state and posture of affairs:
Unmanner'd, uninform'd, and incorrect,
Falsehood and Malice hold alternate chairs,
And lecture and preside in Envy's sect;
The fortunate and great she never spares,
Sowing the soil of history with tares.

XXVII.

Thus, jealous of the truth, and feeling loth
That Sir Nathaniel henceforth should accuse
Our noble Monk of cowardice and sloth,
I'll print the Affidavit of the Muse,
And state the facts as ascertain'd on Oath,
Corroborated by Surveys and Views,
When good King Arthur granted them a Brief,
And Ninety Groats were raised for their relief.

XXVIII.

Their arbours, walks, and alleys were defaced,
Riven and uprooted, and with ruin strown,
And the fair Dial in their garden placed
Batter'd by barbarous hands, and overthrown;
The Deer with wild pursuit dispersed and chased,
The Dove-house ransack'd, and the Pigeons flown;
The Cows all kill'd in one promiscuous slaughter,
The Sheep all drown'd, and floating in the water.

XXIX.

The Mill was burn'd down to the water-wheels;
The Giants broke away the Dam and Sluice,
Dragg'd up and emptied all the Fishing-reels;
Drain'd and destroy'd the Reservoir and Stews,
Wading about, and groping carp and eels;
In short, no single earthly thing of use
Remain'd untouch'd beyond the convent's wall:
The Friars from their windows view'd it all.

XXX.

But the bare hope of personal defence,
The church, the convent's, and their own protection,
Absorb'd their thoughts, and silenced every sense
Of present loss, till Friar John's election;
Then other schemes arose, I know not whence,
Whether from flattery, zeal, or disaffection,
But the brave Monk, like Fabius with Hannibal,
Against internal faction, and the cannibal

XXXI.

Inhuman foe, that threaten'd from without,
Stood firmly, with a self-sufficing mind,
Impregnable to rumour, fear, or doubt,
Determined that the casual, idle, blind
Event of battle with that barbarous Rout,
Flush'd with success and garbage, should not bind
Their future destinies, or fix the seal
Of ruin on the claustral Common-weal.

XXXII.

He check'd the rash, the boisterous, and the proud,
By speech and action, manly but discreet;
During the siege he never once allow'd
Of chapters, or convoked the monks to meet,
Dreading the consultations of a crowd.
Historic parallels we sometimes meet —
I think I could contrive one — if you please,
I shall compare our Monk to Pericles.

XXXIII.

In Former Times, amongst the Athenians bold,
This Pericles was placed in high command,
Heading their troops (as statesmen used of old),
In all their wars and fights by sea and land;
Besides, in Langhorne's Plutarch we are told
How many fine ingenious things he plann'd;
For Phidias was an Architect and Builder,
Jeweller and Engraver, Carver, Gilder;

XXXIV.

But altogether quite expert and clever;
Pericles took him up and stood his friend,
Persuading these Athenians to endeavour
To raise a Work to last to the world's end,
By means of which their Fame should last for ever;
Likewise an Image (which, you comprehend,
They meant to pray to, for the country's good):
They had before an old one made of wood,

XXXV.

But being partly rotten and decay'd,
They wish'd to have a new one spick and span,
So Pericles advised it should be made
According to this Phidias's plan,
Of ivory, with gold all overlaid,
Of the height of twenty cubits and a span,
Making eleven yards of English measure,
All to be paid for from the public treasure.

XXXVI.

So Phidias's talents were requited
With talents that were spent upon the work,
And every body busied and delighted,
Building a Temple — this was their next quirk —
Lest it should think itself ill-used and slighted.
This Temple now belongs to the Grand Turk,
The finest in the world allowed to be,
That people go five hundred miles to see.

XXXVII.

Its ancient Carvings are safe here at home,
Brought round by shipping from as far as Greece,
Finer, they say, than all the things at Rome;
But here you need not pay a penny-piece;
But curious people, if they like to come,
May look at them as often as they please —
I've left my subject, but I was not sorry
To mention things that raise the country's glory.

XXXVIII.

Well, Pericles made every thing complete,
Their town, their harbour, and their city wall;
When their allies rebell'd, he made them treat
And pay for peace, and tax'd and fined them all,
By which means Pericles maintain'd a fleet,
And kept three hundred galleys at his call;
Pericles was a man for every thing;
Pericles was a kind of petty king.

XXXIX.

It happen'd Sparta was another State;
They thought themselves as good; they could not bear
To see the Athenians grown so proud and great,
Ruling and domineering every where,
And so resolved, before it grew too late,
To fight it out and settle the affair;
Then, being quite determined to proceed,
They muster'd an amazing force indeed;

XL.

And (after praying to their idol Mars)
March'd on, with all the allies that chose to join,
As was the practice in old heathen wars,
Destroying all the fruit-trees, every vine,
And smashing and demolishing the jars
In which those classic ancients kept their wine;
The Athenians ran within the city wall
To save themselves, their children, wives, and all.

XLI.

Then Pericles (whom they compar'd to Jove,
As being apt to storm and play the deuce),
Kept quiet, and forbad the troops to move,
Because a battle was no kind of use;
The more they mutinied, the more he strove
To keep them safe in spite of their abuse,
For while the Farms were ransack'd round the Town,
This was the people's language up and down:

XLII.

" 'Tis better to die once than live to see
" Such an abomination, such a waste;"
" No! no!" says Pericles, " that must not be,
" You're too much in hurry, — too much haste —
" Learned Athenians, leave the thing to me;
" You think of being bullied and disgraced;
" Don't think of that, nor answer their defiance;
" We'll gain the day by our superior science."

XLIII.

Pericles led the people as he pleased,
But in most cases something is forgot:
What with the crowd and heat they grew diseased,
And died in heaps like wethers with the rot;
And, at the last, the same distemper seized
Poor Pericles himself — he went to pot.
It answer'd badly; — therefore I admire
So much the more the conduct of the Friar.

XLIV.

For in the Garrison where he presided,
Neither distress, nor famine, nor disease,
Were felt, nor accident nor harm betided
The happy Monks; but plenteous, and with ease,
All needful monkish viands were provided;
Bacon and Pickled-herring, Pork and Peas;
And when the Table-beer began to fail,
They found resources in the Bottled-ale.

XLV.

Dinner and supper kept their usual hours;
Breakfast and luncheon never were delay'd,
While to the sentries on the walls and towers
Between two plates hot messes were convey'd.
At the departure of the invading powers,
It was a boast the noble Abbot made,
None of his Monks were weaker, paler, thinner,
Or, during all the siege, had lost a dinner.

XLVI.

This was the common course of their hostility;
The giant forces being foil'd at first,
Had felt the manifest impossibility
Of carrying things before them at a burst,
But still, without a prospect of utility,
At stated hours they pelted, howl'd, and cursed;
And sometimes, at the peril of their pates,
Would bang with clubs and maces at the gates;

XLVII.

Them the brave monkish legions, unappall'd,
With stones that served before to pave the court,
(Heap'd and prepared at hand), repell'd and maul'd,
Without an effort, smiling as in sport,
With many a broken head, and many a scald
From stones and molten lead and boiling wort;
Thus little Pillicock was left for dead,
And old Loblolly forced to keep his bed.

XLVIII.

The giant-troops invariably withdrew,
(Like mobs in Naples, Portugal, and Spain),
To dine at twelve o'clock, and sleep till two,
And afterwards (except in case of rain),
Return'd to clamour, hoot, and pelt anew.
The scene was every day the same again;
Thus the Blockade grew tedious: I intended
A week ago, myself, to raise and end it.

XLIX.

One morn the drowsy Centry rubb'd his eyes,
Foil'd by the scanty, baffling, early light;
It seem'd, a Figure of inferior size
Was traversing the Giants' camp outright;
And soon a Monkish Form they recognize —
And now their brother Martin stands in sight,
That on that morning of alarm and fear
Had rambled out to see the Salmon-Weir;

L.

Passing the Ford, the Giants' first attack
Left brother Martin's station in their rear,
And thus prevented him from falling back;
But during all the Siege he watch'd them near,
Saw them returning by their former Track
The Night before, and found the Camp was clear;
And so return'd in safety with delight
And rapture, and a ravenous appetite.

LI.

" Well! welcome, — welcome, brother! — Brother Martin!
" Why, Martin! — we could scarce believe our eyes:
" Ah, brother! strange events here since our parting — "
And Martin dined (dispensing brief replies
To all the questions that the monks were starting,
Betwixt his mouthfuls), while each friar vies
In filling, helping, carving, questioning;
So Martin dined in public like a king.

LII.

And now the Gates are open'd, and the Throng
Forth issuing, the deserted Camp survey;
" Here Murdomack, and Mangonel the strong,
" And Gorboduc were lodged," and " here," they say,
" They pigsty to Poldavy did belong;
" Here Brindleback, and here Phagander lay."
They view the deep indentures, broad and round,
Which mark their posture squatting on the ground.

LIII.

Then to the traces of gigantic feet,
Huge, wide apart, with half a dozen toes;
They track them on, till they converge and meet,
(An earnest and assurance of repose)
Close at the Ford; the cause of this retreat
They all conjecture, but no creature knows;
It was ascribed to causes multifarious,
To saints, as Jerom, George and Januarius,

LIV.

To their own pious founder's intercession,
To Ave-Maries, and our Lady's Psalter;
To news that Friar John was in possession,
To new wax candles placed upon the altar,
To their own prudence, valour, and discretion;
To reliques, rosaries, and holy water;
To beads and psalms, and feats of arms — in short,
There was no end of their accounting for't:

LV.

But though they could not, you, perhaps, may guess;
They went, in short, upon their last adventure,
After the Ladies — neither more nor less —
Our story now revolves upon its centre,
And I'm rejoiced myself, I must confess,
To find it tally like an old indenture;
They drove off Mules and Horses half a score,
The same that you saw roasted heretofore.

LVI.

Our Giants' memoirs still remain on hand,
For all my notions, being genuine gold,
Beat out beneath the hammer and expand,
And multiply themselves a thousandfold
Beyond the first idea that I plann'd;
Besides, — this present copy must be sold:
Besides, — I promised Murray t'other day,
To let him have it by the tenth of May.
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