Gesta Romanorum

by Charles Swan

  In midst, to cheer the ravish’d gazer’s view,

  A gushing fount its waters upward threw,

  Thence slowly on with crystal current pass’d,

  And crept into the distant flood at last:

  But nigh its source a pine’s umbrageous head

  Stretch’d far and wide in deathless verdure spread,

  Met with broad shade the summer’s sultry gleam,

  And through the livelong year shut out the beam.

  “Such was the scene:—yet still the place was bless’d

  With one rare pleasure passing all the rest:

  A wondrous bird of energies divine

  Had fix’d his dwelling in the tufted pine;

  There still he sat, and there with amorous lay

  Wak’d the dim morn, and clos’d the parting day:

  Match’d with these strains of linked sweetness wrought

  The violin and full-ton’d harp were nought;

  Of power they were with new-bora joy to move

  The cheerless heart of long-desponding love;

  Of power so strange, that should they cease to sound,

  And the blithe songster flee the mystick ground,

  That goodly orchard’s scene, the pine-tree’s shade,

  Trees, flowers, and fount, would all like vapour fade.

  ‘Listen, listen to my lay!’

  Thus the merry notes did chime,

  ‘All who mighty love obey,

  Sadly wasting in your prime,

  Clerk and laick, grave and gay!

  Yet do ye, before the rest,

  Gentle maidens, mark me tell!

  Store my lesson in your breast,

  Trust me it shall profit well:

  Hear, and heed me, and be bless’d!’

  So sang the bird of old: but when he spied

  The carle draw near, with alter’d tone he cried—

  ‘Back, river, to thy source; and thee, tall tower,

  Thee, castle strong, may gaping earth devour !

  Bend down your heads, ye gaudy flowers, and fade!

  And wither’d be each fruit-tree’s mantling shade!

  Beneath these beauteous branches once were seen

  Brave gentle knights disporting on the green,

  And lovely dames; and oft, these flowers among,

  Stay’d the blithe bands, and joy’d to hear my song;

  Nor would they hence retire, nor quit the grove,

  Till many a vow were past of mutual love;

  These more would cherish, those would more deserve;

  Cost, courtesy, and arms, and nothing swerve.

  O bitter change ! for master now we see

  A faitour villain carle of low degree;

  Foul gluttony employs his livelong day,

  Nor heeds nor hears he my melodious lay.’

  “So spake the bird ; and, as he ceased to sing

  Indignantly he clapp’d his downy wing,

  And straight was gone ; but no abasement stirr’d

  In the clown’s breast at his reproachful word:

  Bent was his wit alone by quaint device

  To snare, and sell him for a passing price.

  So well he wrought, so craftily he spread

  In the thick foliage green his slender thread,

  That when at eve the little songster sought

  His wonted spray, his heedless foot was caught.

  ‘How have I harm’d you?’ straight he ‘gan to cry,

  ‘And wherefore would you do me thus to die ?’—

  ‘Nay, fear not,’ quoth the clown, ‘for death or Wrong;

  I only seek to profit by thy song;

  I’ll get thee a fine cage, nor shalt thou lack

  Good store of kernels and of seeds to crack ;

  But sing thou shalt; for if thou play’st the mute,

  I’ll spit thee, bird, and pick thy bones to boot.’

  ‘Ah, wo is me!’ the little thrall replied,

  ‘Who thinks of song, in prison doom’d to bide ?

  And, were I cook’d, my bulk might scarce afford

  One scanty mouthful to my hungry lord.’

  “What may I more relate ?—the captive wight

  Assay’d to melt the villain all he might:

  And fairly promis’d, were he once set free,

  In gratitude to teach him secrets three;

  Three secrets, all so marvellous and rare,

  His race knew nought that might with these compare.

  “The carle prick’d up his ears amain ; he loos’d

  The songster thrall, by love of gain seduc’d:

  Up to the summit of the pine-tree’s shade

  Sped the blithe bird, and there at ease he stay’d,

  And trick’d his plumes full leisurely, I trow,

  Till the carle claim’d his promise from below:

  ‘Right gladly,’ quoth the bird; ‘now grow thee wise:

  All human prudence few brief lines comprize:

  First then, lest haply in the event it fail,

  Yield not a ready faith to every tale.’—

  ‘Is this thy secret ? ‘quoth the moody elf,

  ‘Keep then thy silly lesson for thyself;

  I need it not.’—‘Howbe ‘tis not amiss

  To prick thy memory with advice like this,

  But late, meseems, thou hadst forgot the lore;

  Now may’st thou hold it fast for evermore.

  Mark next my second rule, and sadly know,

  WHAT’S LOST, ‘TIS WISE WITH PATIENCE TO FOREGO.’

  “The carle, though rude of wit, now chaf d amain;

  He felt the mockery of the songster’s strain.

  ‘Peace,’ quoth the bird; ‘my third is far the best;

  Store thou the precious treasure in thy breast:

  WHAT GOOD THOU HAST, NE’ER LIGHTLY FROM THEE CAST.’

  —He spoke, and twittering fled away full fast.

  Straight, sunk in earth, the gushing fountain dries,

  Down fall the fruits, the wither’d pine-tree dies,

  Fades all the beauteous plat, so cool, so green,

  Into thin air, and never more is seen.

  “Such was the meed of avarice:—bitter cost!

  The carle who all would gather, all has lost.”

  The same story is to be found in Lydgate, entitled “The Chorle and the Bird.”

  NOTE 34. Page 322.

  This is compounded of two stories, apparently from the Golden Legende, fol. 218. “A monke that had ben a rybaude in ye worlde and a player, tempted by a wycked spyrite, wolde retume agayne to ye worlde. And as Saynt Bernarde reteyned hym, he demaunded hym wherof he sholde lyue. And he answered hym yt he coude well playe at the dyce, and he sholde well lyue therby. And Saynt Bernarde sayd to hym. If I delyuer to the ony good wylt thou come to me agayn euery yere that I may parte halfe agayn with the. And he had grete joye therof, and promysed hym so to do. And than Saynt Bernarde said, that there sholde be delyvered to hym twenty shyl-lynges. And than he wente hys way therwith. And this holy man dyd this for to drawe hym agayne to the relygyon as he dyd after. And so he wente forth and lost aU, and cam agayne aU confused tofore ye gate. And whan Saynt Bernarde knewe hym there, he wente to hym joyously and opened hys lappe for to parte the gayne, and he sayd, Fader I have wonne no thynge, but have lost your catayle, receyue me if it please you for to be your catayle. And Saynte Bernarde answered to hym swetely, if it be so, it is better that I receyue the than lese bothe ye one and that other. ¶ On a tyme Saynt Bernarde rode upon an hors by the way, and mette a vylayne by ye waye whiche sayd to hym that he had not hys hert ferme and stable in prayenge. And ye vylayne or uplondysshe man had grete despyte therof, and sayd that he had hys nerte ferme and stable in all hys prayers. And Saynt Bemarde which wolde vaynquysshe hym, and she we hys foly, sayd to hym. Departe a lytell fro me, and begyn thy Pater Noster in the best entent thou canst, and if yu canst fynysshe it without thynkyng on ony other thynge, wtout doubte I shall gyue
to the the hors that I am on. And thou shalte promyse to me by thy fayth, that if thou thynke on any other thynge, yu shalte not hyde it fro me. And the man was gladde, and reputed that hors hys, and graunted it hym, and went aparte, and began hys Pater Noster, and he had not sayd the halfe when he remembered yf he sholde haue ye sadle withall, and therwith he returned to Saynt Ber-narde, and sayd that he had thought in prayenge. And after yt he had no more wyll to anaunt1 hym.”

  NOTE 35. Page 333.

  “The reader perceives this is the story of Guido or Guy, Earl of Warwick; and probably this is the early outline of the life and death of that renowned champion.2

  “Many romances were at first little more than legends of devotion, containing the pilgrimage of an old warrior. At length, as chivalry came more into vogue, and the stores of invention were increased, the youthful and active part of the pilgrim’s life was also written, and a long series of imaginary martial adventures was added, in which his religious was eclipsed by his heroic character, and the penitent was lost in the knight-errant. That which was the principal subject of the short and simple legend, became only the remote catastrophe of the voluminous romance. And hence, by degrees, it was almost an established rule of every romance, for the knight to end his days in a hermitage. Cervantes has ridiculed this circumstance with great pleasantry, where Don Quixote holds a grave debate with Sancho, whether he shall turn saint or archbishop.

  “So reciprocal, or rather so convertible, was the pious and the military character, that even some of the APOSTLES had their romance. In the ninth century, the chivalrous and fabling spirit of the Spaniards transformed Saint James into a knight. They pretended that he appeared and fought with irresistible fury, completely armed, and mounted on a stately white horse, in most of their engagements with the Moors; and because, by his superior prowess in these bloody conflicts, he was supposed to have freed the Spaniards from paying the annual tribute of a hundred Christian virgins to their infidel enemies, they represented him as a professed and powerful champion of distressed damsels. This apotheosis of chivalry in the person of their own apostle, must have ever afterwards contributed to exaggerate the characteristical romantic heroism of the Spaniards, by which it was occasioned; and to propagate, through succeeding ages, a stronger veneration for that species of military enthusiasm, to which they were naturally devoted. It is certain, that in consequence of these illustrious achievements in the Moorish wars, Saint James was constituted patron of Spain ; and became the founder of one of the most maguifi-cent shrines, and of the most opulent order of knighthood, now existing in Christendom. The legend of this invincible apostle is inserted in the Mosarabic Liturgy.”—WARTON.

  The following is an abstract of the romance of Sir Guy above alluded to:—

  “The piety of Sir Guy was neither less capricious, nor less disastrous in its consequences, than the affection of his mistress. He had been taught that other duties were more sacred and more acceptable in the sight of heaven, than those of husband and father. But the historian shall tell his own story. At the end of forty days after the marriage, it happened that—

  “As Sir Guy came from play,

  Into a tower he went on high,

  And looked about him, far and nigh;

  Guy stood, and bethought him, tho,

  How he had done many a man wo,

  And slain many a man with his hand,

  Burnt and destroy’d many a land,

  And all was for woman’s love,

  And not for God’s sake above.

  “Felice, who had observed his reverie, inquired the cause; and learnt, with horror and astonishment, his determination to spend the remainder of his life in a state of penance and mortification. He contented himself with directing her, whenever their child should be of proper age, if it should prove a son, to intrust his education to Sir Heraud; and quitted her without taking leave of the earl, and even “without communicating to his old companion Heraud the singular resolution he had formed. Felice, unable to detain him, places on his finger a gold ring, requesting him to bestow at least a thought on her whenever he should cast his eyes on that pledge of her affection; and her husband, after promising to obey her instructions, assumes the dress of a palmer, and departs for the Holy Land.

  “Felice communicates to Kohand the news of this unexpected misfortune; and the good earl is persuaded, with great appearance of probability, that Sir Guy can mean no more than to put her affection to the test, by a conduct as capricious as her own. She at first is disposed to put an end to her life, but is checked by the thoughts of her child. Sir Heraud, in hopes of diverting his friend from his resolution, takes the habit of a pilgrim, and travels in quest of him, but returns without success.

  “Guy sought hallowes1 in many countré,

  And sithe to Jerusalem went he;

  And when he to Jerusalem came,

  To Antioch his way he name.2

  “Sir Guy, solely occupied with devotional pursuits, had travelled to Constantinople, and from thence into Almayne. Here he chances to meet a pilgrim who ‘made semblaut sorry.’ Guy enters into conversation with him, and finds him to be his old friend Sir Thierry, who had been dispossessed by the emperor of all his fiefs, and reduced to the greatest distress, in consequence of a false accusation preferred against him by Barnard, cousin of the famous Duke Otho, the felon Duke of Pavia, who had inherited the estates and the vices of that treacherous prince, and, unfortunately for the imperial vassals, possessed to the same degree the confidence of his master, together with the dignity of steward to the emperor. Sir Guy, on hearing that the death of Otho, whom he bad slain, had been employed to the ruin of his friend Thierry, falls into a swoon; a practice to which, as we have seen, he was much addicted.

  “‘Good man,’ quoth Thierry,’ tell thou me

  How long this evil hath holden thee ?’

  ‘Many a day,’ quoth Sir Guy, ‘it took me ore!’

  ‘Good love!’ quoth Thierry, ‘do it no more!’

  “Thierry proceeds to lament the supposed death of Sir Guy, who, though full of compassion for his friend, and already determined to redress his injuries, continues to conceal his name. But Thierry was weak and faint with hunger; and Sir Guy tells him, that as ‘he has a penny in his purse,’ it would be expedient to hasten to the nearest town, and employ that sum in the purchase of provisions. Thierry willingly accompanies him, but, feeling sleepy as well as faint, is advised to refresh himself, in the instance, with a few moments’ repose; and the famished Thierry falls asleep with his head resting on the knees of Sir Guy. During his slumber, a ‘white weasel’ suddenly jumps out of his mouth; takes refuge in the crevice of a neighbouring rock, and after a short space of time returns, and again runs down his throat. Sir Thierry, waking, informs Sir Guy that he had dreamed a dream; that he had seen a ‘fair bright sword’ and a treasure of inestimable value, and that, sleeping on his arm, he had been saved by him from a dreadful calamity. The supposed palmer interprets the dream; goes to the spot indicated by the weasel, and finds the sword and treasure; which he delivers to Sir Thierry, with an injunction to preserve the sword with the greatest possible care, and then takes his -leave.

  “Sir Guy now repairs to the emperor’s palace, asks charity, and is admitted into the hall. As his habit bespeaks him a traveller, he is on all sides assailed by inquiries after news; and the emperor, having a very proper opinion of his own importance, anxiously questions him on the reports prevailing among his subjects respecting his character. Guy boldly assures him that he is universally blamed for the flagrant injustice of his conduct towards the innocent Thierry; and, throwing down his glove, offers to prove, by force of arms, the falsehood of Barnard’s accusation. The steward, though not a little surprised by the appearance of such an uncouth adversary, accepts the challenge ; the battle is awarded; the palmer is presented with a suit of armour, and then repairs to Thierry for the sword which had been miraculously discovered by the white weasel. Sir Barnard, however, was so stout, that after a comba
t which lasted during the whole day, the victory was. still undecided: but he had discovered during this trial of the palmer’s prowess, that it would be much more convenient to get rid of his adversary by any other means than to abide by the issue of a second conflict. Judging therefore that the palmer would sleep soundly after his fatigue, he despatches a number of his emissaries, with orders to take him up in his bed in the middle of the night, and to throw him into the sea. Although Sir Guy was lodged in the palace, being under the immediate protection of the justice of the empire, this bold enterprise was successfully executed; and Sir Guy, when he awaked in the morning, was not a little astonished to find himself floating in his bed, at some distance from land. But Providence, who had intended that the guilt of Sir Barnard should become completely manifest, directed a fisherman to the spot, who conveyed Sir Guy in safety to the palace, and related this miraculous incident to the emperor. The monarch having determined that the punishment of the steward should be inflicted by the champion whom Heaven had thus marked out for the purpose, the battle recommences, and Sir Barnard, already half vanquished by the reproaches of his own conscience, is overpowered and slain. The victor then demands the reinstatement of Sir Thierry, and, having obtained it, goes in search of his friend, whom he finds in a church, devoutly engaged in prayer, and hastily leads him to the emperor, who weeps at the sight of his distress, and restores him to all his possessions.

  “The emperor let bathe Thierry,

  And clad him in clothes richely,

  And gave him both palfrey and steed,

  And all things that he had of need.

  “Sir Thierry, who had hitherto felt little confidence in the assurances of the pilgrim, was now filled with the warmest gratitude towards his deliverer; and his gratitude was exalted to enthusiasm, when, having been invited to accompany him during a part of his journey, he discovered, in this deliverer, his old friend and benefactor. He adjured Sir Guy to share the prosperity he had bestowed; but the hero, only solicitous to become an humble instrument in the hands of Providence, and determined to fulfil his destiny, whatever it might be, tore himself from his embraces, and, pursuing his journey, arrived, without meeting any new adventures, in England.