Classic Poem

Legend I.

Brave Richard, Count of Normandy,
Ne'er frightened in his life was he;
He roamed abroad by day and night,
Encountering oft a ghost or sprite;
But naught could touch his soul with fear,
By daylight, or at midnight drear;
And, since by night so oft he rode,
A common rumour went abroad,
He saw more clearly in the night
Than others could in sunshine bright.
He wont, whene'er he roved around,
As often as a church he found,
(If open) through the porch to stride,
If shut, at least to pray outside.
One night he found—it so befell—
A chapel in a lonely dell.
Quick from his men he turned aside,
And, musing, let them onward ride.
His charger near the porch he bound,
Within the choir a corpse he found.
Close by the bier he fearless passed,
Himself before the altar cast,
Threw on a bench his gloves with speed,
And kissed the earth with pious heed.
But scarce had he an “Ave” said,
Ere (close behind his back) the dead
'Gan from the trestle to descend.
The Count looked round, and cried, “My friend,
Thou may'st mean either good or ill,
Turn on thine ear and keep thee still.”
At last his prayers were ended well,
(What time they took I cannot tell),
Then as he crossed himself, said he,
“Lord, I commend my soul to Thee!”
He seized his sword and rose to go,
When lo! the ghost with movement slow
Rose up before him threateningly,
And stretched its skinny arms on high
As though 'twould keep him prisoner there,
Nor let him to his friends repair.
Small time for counsel Richard took,
The spectre's head in twain he strook;
I know not if it shrieked or no,
At least it let Count Richard go.
He found his charger tethered fast,
Already is the churchyard past,
When to his thoughts the gloves arise;
'Twere shame to lose them—back he hies,
And takes them from the bench—good lack!
How few would e'er have ventured back!

Legend II.

Within a cell at St. Ouan
Whilome there dwelt a sacristan;
A pious character he bore,
All to his right behaviour swore.
But ah! to souls of higher worth
Sets Satan strong temptation forth.
Once went the monk, of whom I spake,
His wonted place in church to take,
When lo! he spied a lovely dame,
For whom he straight conceived a flame;
'Twill be his death if she demur,
He'd gladly risk his soul for her.
So much he promised her and prayed,
At last his words the dame persuade.
She whispers him a time and place,
Where he by night may gain her grace.
So, when the shades of night fell deep,
And all the rest were sunk in sleep,
Forth on his way the brother fared,
For company he little cared.
Her house was on a streamlet's bank;
He needs must cross a narrow plank;
In haste he sought across to go;
(I know not how it happened so—
Whether he tripped, or stept aside,
Or took in haste too long a stride),
But, toppling headlong in the wave,
He sank, beyond man's power to save.
His soul at once a demon hent,
As newly from the corse it went,
And hastened tow'rd the fiery flood—
When in the way an angel stood.
About the soul a strife began,
And thus the sharp encounter ran:
The demon spake—“'Tis ill for thee
To snatch at what belongs to me;
Thou know'st the soul to me is bound
That doing sinful deeds is found
I found the monk to evil prone,
As by the path he took is shewn;
That path his final doom hath sealed,
For this, thou know'st, hath God revealed,
E'en as I find thee, so I judge”—
But here the angel answered—“Fudge!
A spotless life the brother spent
When in the convent-walls y-pent;
And scripture makes it understood,
A sure reward awaits the good.
For good that he hath done on earth
Must he receive its tenfold worth.
The sin was not committed quite,
For which thou 'dst punish him outright.
He past the convent-gate had gone,
Thence to the plank he hurried on,
But had he not mista'en the track,
Who knows but he had yet gone back?
For evil he did ne'er commit
To punish him is hardly fit;
And—for a little evil thought —
It hath not his perdition wrought.
No longer let us wrangle—no!
But rather to Count Richard go;
Let him the best solution tell,
He evermore decideth well.”—
“Content am I”—the fiend replied—
“Count Richard should our strife decide.”
So to his chamber swift they sped;
He late had slept, and lay a-bed;
Of many things he 'gan to take
Good counsel, as he lay awake.
They straight related him the whole
Of what had happened to the soul,
And prayed him judge betwixt them two,
To which of them the soul was due.
Not long the Count his rede delayed,
But briefly thus his answer made.
“Unto the corse its soul restore,
Then place him on the bridge once more,—
Just where he late was overthrown,
Then both must leave him quite alone.
Then, if he hold an onward course,
Nor glance behind, nor feel remorse,
Then fall he into Satan's toil
Without revoke or further coil!
But if he homeward turn to flee,
He—for his penitence—is free!”
They hearken to Count Richard's rede,
To try the plan are both agreed.
They to the corse its soul restore,
And place him whence he fell once more.
But when the monk his senses found
And on both legs stood safe and sound,
He backward drew in greater dread
Than one who on a snake doth tread.
As soon as they had set him free,
To say farewell ne'er waited he,
But home at utmost speed he goes,
Concealed himself, and wrung his clothes.
He thought his death each minute due,
If still he lived he scarcely knew.
But when the light of day arose,
To St. Ouan Count Richard goes,
Together calls the brotherhood—
In humid garb a brother stood!
Count Richard bids him forward pace
And meet the abbot face to face—
“Say, brother, what hast thou to rue?
What evil hast thou sought to do?
Next time take better heed, my friend,
How over planks by night you wend;
And make to us confession free
Of all that chanced last night to thee!”
With shame the monk was well nigh dead,
Above his ears his skin was red
To think he must his fault unfold;
Yet all at length he plainly told.
The Count averred he spake aright,
So came the simple truth to light;
And many a year in Normandy
This taunt was wont in vogue to be—
“My pious brother, 'ware of speed,
And how you cross a plank take heed!”