In sensuous coil
And heartless toil,
In sinuous course
And armored force,
In savage harms
That yield to charms —
In all these things
Are snakes like kings.

Uneven, rough,
And high enough —
Yet low folk roam
Their flanks as home,
And wild things haunt
Them, hungry, gaunt —
In all these things
Are hills like kings.
The things that claw, and the things that gore
Are unreliable things;

OR, THE KNIGHT'S TALE

The day approach'd when Fortune should decide
Th' important enterprise, and give the bride;
For now the rivals round the world had sought,
And each his number, well appointed, brought.
The nations, far and near, contend in choice,
And send the flow'r of war by public voice;
That after, or before, were never known
Such chiefs, as each an army seem'd alone.
Beside the champions, all of high degree
Who knighthood lov'd, and deeds of chivalry,
Throng'd to the lists, and envied to behold

OR, THE KNIGHT'S TALE

BOOK II

While Arcite lives in bliss, the story turns
Where hopeless Palamon in prison mourns.
For six long years immur'd, the captive knight
Had dragg'd his chains and scarcely seen the light:
Lost liberty and love at once he bore;
His prison pain'd him much, his passion more;
Nor dares he hope his fetters to remove,
Nor ever wishes to be free from love.
But when the sixth revolving year was run,
And May within the Twins receiv'd the sun —

OR, THE KNIGHT'S TALE

IN THREE BOOKS

BOOK I

I N days of old, there liv'd, of mighty fame,
A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name:
A chief, who more in feats of arms excell'd,
The rising nor the setting sun beheld.
Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,
And added foreign countries to his crown.
In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove,
Whom first by force he conquer'd, then by love;
He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame,

And every bird shew'd in his proper kind,
What vertue, nature had to him assign'd.
The prettie Turtle, and the kissing Dove,
Their faiths in wedlock, and chaste nuptiall love:
The hens (to women) sanctitie expresse,
Hallowing their egges: the Swallow cleanlinesse,
Sweeting her nest, and purging it of doung
And every houre is picking of her young.
The Herne, by soaring shewes tempestuous showres,
The princely Cocke distinguishes the houres.
The Kite, his traine him guiding in the ayre,
Prescribes the helme, instructing how to stere.

What time the Sunne by his all-quickning Power,
Gives Life and Birth to every Plant and Flowre,
The strength and fervour of whose pregnant ray,
Buds every branch, and blossomes every spray;
As the frim sap (the yeerely course assignde)
From the full root, doth swell the plenteous rynde:
The vitall spirits long nourisht at the heart,
Flie with fresh fire to each exterior part:
Which stirres Desire in hot and youthfull blouds;
To breathe their deare thoughts to the listing Woods.
With those light Flockes, which the faire Fields frequent,

" She comes not; — can she then delay?"
Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear —
" Whatever filial love could say,
To her I said, and call'd her dear .

" She comes — Oh! no — encircled round
'Tis some rude chief with many a spear:
My hapless tale that earl has found —
Ah me! my heart! — for her I fear."

His tender tale that earl had read,
Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye,
His dark brow wears a cloud of red,

IX.

Earl Barnard was of high degree,
And lord of many a lowland hind;
And long for Ellen love had he,
Had love, but not of gentle kind.

From Moray's halls her absent hour
He watch'd with all a miser's care;
The wide domain, the princely dower
Made Ellen more than Ellen fair.

Ah, wretch! to think the liberal soul
May thus with fair affection part!

VIII.

O Love! within those golden vales,
Those genial airs where thou wast born;
Where Nature, listening thy soft tales,
Leans on the rosy breast of Morn:

Where the sweet Smiles, the Graces dwell,
And tender sighs the heart remove,
In silent eloquence to tell
Thy tale, O soul-subduing Love!

Ah! wherefore should grim Rage be nigh,
And dark Distrust, with changeful face,

VII.

Hast thou not seen some azure gleam
Smile in the morning's orient eye,
And skirt the reddening cloud's soft beam
What time the sun was hasting nigh?

Thou hast — and thou canst fancy well
As any Muse that meets thine ear,
The soul-set eye of Nithisdale,
When wak'd, it fix'd on Ellen near.

Silent they gaz'd — that silence broke;
" Hail goddess of these groves, (he cried),