Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

The summer and autumn had been so wet,

That in winter the corn was growing yet,

’Twas a piteous sight to see all around

The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor

Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door,

For he had a plentiful last-year’s store,

And all the neighbourhood could tell

His granaries were furnish’d well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day

To quiet the poor without delay;

He bade them to his great Barn repair,

And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,

The poor folk flock’d from far and near;

The great barn was full as it could hold

Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,

Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;

And while for mercy on Christ they call,

He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all.

“I’faith ‘tis an excellent bonfire!” quoth he,

“And the country is greatly obliged to me,

For ridding it in these times forlorn

Of Rats that only consume the corn”.

So then to his palace returned he,

And he sat down to supper merrily,

And he slept that night like an innocent man;

But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter’d the hall

Where his picture hung against the wall,

A sweat like death all over him came,

For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look’d there came a man from his farm —

He had a countenance white with alarm;

“My Lord, I open’d your granaries this morn,

And the Rats had eaten all your corn”.

Another came running presently,

And he was pale as pale could be,

“Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly”, quoth he,

“Ten thousand Rats are coming this way….

The Lord forgive you for yesterday!”

“I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine”, replied he,

“’Tis the safest place in Germany;

The walls are high and the shores are steep,

And the stream is strong and the water deep”.

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten’d away,

And he crost the Rhine without delay,

And reach’d his tower, and barr’d with care

All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes…

But soon a scream made him arise,

He started and saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow from whence the screaming came.

He listen’d and look’d… it was only the Cat;

And the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,

For she sat screaming, mad with fear

At the Army of Rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,

And they have climb’d the shores so steep,

And up the Tower their way is bent,

To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score,

By thousands they come, and by myriads and more,

Such numbers had never been heard of before,

Such a judgment had never been witness’d of yore.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell,

And faster and faster his beads did he tell,

As louder and louder drawing near

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows and in at the door,

And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,

And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,

From the right and the left, from behind and before,

From within and without, from above and below,

And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,

And now they pick the Bishop’s bones:

They gnaw’d the flesh from every limb,

For they were sent to do judgment on him!

It was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone by,

And the bloom of her beauty was fled:

’Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam’d in her eye,

And all but the Monarch could plainly descry

From whence came her white and her red.

Yet he thought with Agatha none might compare,

And he gloried in wearing her chain;

The court was a desert if she were not there,

To him she alone among women seem’d fair,

Such dotage possess’d Charlemain.

The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid,

Alike the proud leman detest;

And the good old Archbishop, who ceased to upbraid,

Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray’d

That he soon might consign her to rest.

A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all,

For Agatha sickens and dies.

And now they are ready with bier and with pall,

The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall,

And the strains of the requiem arise.

But Charlemain sent them in anger away,

For she should not be buried, he said;

And despite of all counsel, for many a day,

Where array’d in her costly apparel she lay,

The Monarch would sit by the dead.

The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain,

And the army cry out for their Lord;

The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain,

Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemain,

And still he unsheathes not the sword.

The Soldiers they clamour, the Monks bend in prayer

In the quiet retreats of the cell;

The Physicians to counsel together repair,

And with common consent, one and all they declare

That his senses are bound by a spell.

Then with relics protected, and confident grown,

And telling devoutly his beads,

The good old Archbishop, when this was made known,

Steals in when he hears that the corpse is alone,

And to look for the spell he proceeds.

He searches with care, though with tremulous haste,

For the spell that bewitches the King;

And under her tongue for security placed,

Its margin with mystical characters traced,

At length he discovers a ring.

Rejoicing he seized it and hasten’d away,

The Monarch re-enter’d the room;

The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gay

He bade the attendants no longer delay,

But bear her with speed to the tomb.

Now merriment, joyaunce, and feasting again

Enliven’d the palace of Aix;

And now by his heralds did King Charlemain

Invite to his palace the courtier train

To hold a high festival day.

And anxiously now for the festival day

The highly-born Maidens prepare;

And now, all apparell’d in costly array,

Exulting they come to the palace of Aix,

Young and aged, the brave and the fair.

Oh! happy the Damsel who ’mid her compeers

For a moment engaged the King’s eye!

Now glowing with hopes and now fever’d with fears,

Each maid or triumphant, or jealous, appears,

As noticed by him, or pass’d by.

And now as the evening approach’d, to the ball

In anxious suspense they advance,

Hoping each on herself that the King’s choice might fall,

When lo! to the utter confusion of all,

He ask’d the Archbishop to dance.

The damsels they laugh, and the barons they stare,

’Twas mirth and astonishment all;

And the Archbishop started, and mutter’d a prayer,

And, wroth at receiving such mockery there,

In haste he withdrew from the hall.

The moon dimpled over the water with light

As he wander’d along the lake side;

But the King had pursued, and o’erjoyed at his sight,

“Oh turn thee, Archbishop, my joy and delight,

Oh turn thee, my charmer”, he cried;

“Oh come where the feast and the dance and the song

Invite thee to mirth and to love;

Or at this happy moment away from the throng

To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along…

The moon never pierces that grove”.

As thus by new madness the King seem’d possest,

In new wonder the Archbishop heard;

Then Charlemain warmly and eagerly prest

The good old man’s poor wither’d hand to his breast

And kiss’d his long grey grizzle beard.

“Let us well then these fortunate moments employ!”

Cried the Monarch with passionate tone:

“Come away then, dear charmer, my angel, my joy,

Nay struggle not now, ’tis in vain to be coy,

And remember that we are alone”.

“Blessed Mary, protect me!" the Archbishop cried;

"What madness has come to the King!”

In vain to escape from the Monarch he tried,

When luckily he on his finger espied

The glitter of Agatha’s ring.

Overjoy’d, the good prelate remember’d the spell,

And far in the lake flung the ring;

The waters closed round it, and wondrous to tell,

Released from the cursed enchantment of hell,

His reason return’d to the King.

But he built him a palace there close by the bay,

And there did he love to remain;

And the traveller who will, may behold at this day

A monument still in the ruins at Aix

Of the spell that possess’d Charlemain.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar’s work was done,

And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,

Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And, with a natural sigh,

“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull”, said he,

“Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden,

For there’s many here about;

And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out!

For many thousand men”, said he,

"Were slain in that great victory”.

“Now tell us what ’twas all about”,

Young Peterkin, he cries;

And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;

“Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for”.

“It was the English”, Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for,

I could not well make out;

But everybody said”, quoth he,

"That ’twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,

And our good Prince Eugene”.

“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”

Said little Wilhelmine.

“Nay… nay… my little girl”, quoth he,

"It was a famous victory.

“And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win”.

“But what good came of it at last?”

Quoth little Peterkin.

“Why that I cannot tell”, said he,

“But ‘twas a famous victory”.

The Doctor whisper’d to the Nurse,

And the Surgeon knew what he said;

And he grew pale at the Doctor’s tale,

And trembled in his sick bed.

“Now fetch me my brethren, and fetch them with speed”,

The Surgeon affrighted said;

“The Parson and the Undertaker,

Let them hasten, or I shall be dead”.

The Parson and the Undertaker

They hastily came complying,

And the Surgeon’s Prentices ran up stairs

When they heard that their Master was dying.

The Prentices all they enter’d the room,

By one, by two, by three;

With a sly grin came Joseph in,

First of the company.

The Surgeon swore, as they enter’d his door,—

’Twas fearful his oaths to hear,—

“Now send these scoundrels out of my sight,

I beseech ye, my brethren dear!”

He foam’d at the mouth with the rage he felt,

And he wrinkled his black eyebrow:

“That rascal Joe would be at me, I know,

But, zounds, let him spare me now!”

Then out they sent the Prentices;

The fit it left him weak;

He look’d at his brothers with ghastly eyes,

And faintly struggled to speak.

“All kinds of carcasses I have cut up,

And now my turn will be;

But, brothers, I took care of you;

So pray take care of me.

“I have made candles of dead men’s fat;

The Sextons have been my slaves;

I have bottled babes unborn, and dried

Hearts and livers from rifled graves.

“And my Prentices now will surely come

And carve me bone from bone;

And I, who have rifled the dead man’s grave,

Shall never have rest in my own.

“Bury me in lead when I am dead,

My brethren, I entreat,

And see the coffin weigh’d, I beg,

Lest the plumber should be a cheat.

“And let it be solder’d closely down,

Strong as strong can be, I implore;

And put it in a patent coffin,

That I may rise no more.

“If they carry me off in the patent coffin,

Their labor will be in vain;

Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker,

Who lives by St. Martin’s Lane.

“And bury me in my brother’s church,

For that will safer be;

And, I implore, lock the church door,

And pray take care of the key.

“And all night long let three stout men

The vestry watch within;

To each man give a gallon of beer,

And a keg of Holland’s gin;—

“Powder and ball, and blunderbuss,

To save me if he can,

And eke five guineas if he shoot

A Resurrection Man.

“And let them watch me for three weeks,

My wretched corpse to save;

For then I think that I may stink

Enough to rest in my grave”.

The Surgeon laid him down in his bed;

His eyes grew deadly dim;

Short came his breath, and the struggle of death

Did loosen every limb.

They put him in lead when he was dead,

And, with precaution meet,

First they the leaden coffin weigh,

Lest the plumber should be a cheat.

They had it solder’d closely down,

And examin’d it o’er and o’er;

And they put it in a patent coffin,

That he might rise no more.

For to carry him off in a patent coffin,

Would, they thought, be but labor in vain,

So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker,

Who lives by St. Martin’s Lane.

In his brother’s church they buried him,

That safer he might be;

They lock’d the door, and would not trust

The Sexton with the key.

And three men in the vestry watch,

To save him if they can;

And, should he come there, to shoot they swear

A Resurrection Man.

And the first night, by lantern light,

Through the church-yard as they went,

A guinea of gold the Sexton show’d

That Mister Joseph sent.

But conscience was tough; it was not enough;

And their honesty never swerved;

And they bade him go, with Mister Joe,

To the devil, as he deserved.

So all night long, by the vestry fire,

They quaff’d their gin and ale;

And they did drink, as you may think,

And told full many a tale.

The Cock he crew, Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Past five! the watchmen said;

And they went away, for while it was day

They might safely leave the dead.

The second night, by lantern light,

Through the church-yard as they went,

He whisper’d anew, and show’d them two,

That Mister Joseph sent.

The guineas were bright, and attracted their sight,

They look’d so heavy and new;

And their fingers itch’d as they were bewitch’d,

And they knew not what to do.

But they waver’d not long, for conscience was strong,

And they thought they might get more;

And they refused the gold, but not

So rudely as before.

So all night long, by the vestry fire,

They quaff’d their gin and ale;

And they did drink, as you may think,

And told full many a tale.

The third night, as, by lantern light,

Through the church-yard they went,

He bade them see, and show’d them three,

That Mister Joseph sent.

They look’d askance with greedy glance;

The guineas they shone bright;

For the Sexton on the yellow gold

Let fall his lantern light.

And he look’d sly with his roguish eye,

And gave a well-timed wink;

And they could not stand the sound in his hand

For he made the guineas chink.

And conscience, late that had such weight,

All in a moment fails;

For well they knew that it was true

A dead man tells no tales.

And they gave all their powder and ball,

And took the gold so bright;

And they drank their beer, and made good cheers,

Till now it was midnight.

Then, though the key of the church-door

Was left with the Parson, his brother,

It open’d at the Sexton’s touch,—

Because he had another.

And in they go, with that villain Joe,

To fetch the body by night;

And all the church look’d dismally

By his dark-lantern light.

They laid the pick-axe to the stones,

And they moved them soon asunder;

They shovell’d away the hard-press’d clay,

And came to the coffin under.

They burst the patent coffin first,

And they cut through the lead;

And they laugh’d aloud when they saw the shroud,

Because they had got at the dead.

And they allow’d the Sexton the shroud,

And they put the coffin back;

And nose and knees they then did squeeze;

The Surgeon in a sack.

The watchmen, as they pass’d along,

Full four yards off could smell,

And a curse bestow’d upon the load

So disagreeable.

So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back,

And they carved him bone from bone;

But what became of the Surgeon’s soul

Was never to mortal known.

The first wish of Queen Mary’s heart

Is, that she may bear a son,

Who shall inherit in his time

The kingdom of Aragon.

She hath put up prayers to all the Saints

This blessing to accord,

But chiefly she hath call’d upon

The Apostles of our Lord.

The second wish of Queen Mary’s heart

Is to have that son call’d James,

Because she thought for a Spanish King

‘Twas the best of all good names.

To give him this name of her own will

Is what may not be done,

For having applied to all the Twelve

She may not prefer the one.

By one of their names she hath vow’d to call

Her son, if son it should be;

But which, is a point whereon she must let

The Apostles themselves agree.

Already Queen Mary hath to them

Contracted a grateful debt,

And from their patronage she hoped

For these farther blessings yet.

Alas! it was not her hap to be

As handsome as she was good;

And that her husband King Pedro thought so

She very well understood.

She had lost him from her lawful bed

For lack of personal graces,

And by prayers to them, and a pious deceit,

She had compass’d his embraces.

But if this hope of a son should fail,

All hope must fail with it then,

For she could not expect by a second device

To compass the King again.

Queen Mary hath had her first heart’s wish —

She hath brought forth a beautiful boy;

And the bells have rung, and masses been sung,

And bonfires have blazed for joy.

And many’s the cask of the good red wine,

And many the cask of the white,

Which was broach’d for joy that morning,

And emptied before it was night.

But now for Queen Mary’s second heart’s wish,

It must be determined now,

And Bishop Boyl, her Confessor,

Is the person who taught her how.

Twelve waxen tapers he hath had made,

In size and weight the same;

And to each of these twelve tapers,

He hath given an Apostle’s name.

One holy Nun had bleach’d the wax,

Another the wicks had spun;

And the golden candlesticks were blest,

Which they were set upon.

From that which should burn the longest,

The infant his name must take;

And the Saint who own’d it was to be

His Patron for his name’s sake.

A godlier or a goodlier sight

Was nowhere to be seen,

Methinks, that day, in Christendom,

Than in the chamber of that good Queen.

Twelve little altars have been there

Erected, for the nonce;

And the twelve tapers are set thereon,

Which are all to be lit at once.

Altars more gorgeously drest

You nowhere could desire;

At each there stood a minist’ring Priest

In his most rich attire.

A high altar hath there been raised,

Where the crucifix you see;

And the sacred Pix that shines with gold

And sparkles with jewelry.

Bishop Boyl, with his precious mitre on,

Hath taken there his stand,

In robes which were embroidered

By the Queen’s own royal hand.

In one part of the ante-room

The Ladies of the Queen,

All with their rosaries in hand,

Upon their knees are seen.

In the other part of the ante-room

The Chiefs of the realm you behold,

Ricos Omes, and Bishops and Abbots,

And Knights and Barons bold.

Queen Mary could behold all this

As she lay in her state bed;

And from the pillow needed not

To lift her languid head.

One fear she had, though still her heart

The unwelcome thought eschew’d,

That haply the unlucky lot

Might fall upon St. Jude.

But the Saints, she trusted, that ill chance

Would certainly forefend;

And moreover there was a double hope

Of seeing the wish’d-for end:

Because there was a double chance

For the best of all good names;

If it should not be Santiago himself,

It might be the lesser St. James.

And now Bishop Boyl hath said the mass;

And as soon as the mass was done,

The priests who by the twelve tapers stood

Each instantly lighted one.

The tapers were short and slender too,

Yet to the expectant throng,

Before they to the socket burnt,

The time, I trow, seem’d long.

The first that went out was St. Peter,

The second was St. John;

And now St. Matthias is going,

And now St. Matthew is gone.

Next there went St. Andrew,

There goes St. Philip too;

And see! there is an end

Of St. Bartholomew.

St. Simon is in the snuff;

But it was a matter of doubt

Whether he or St. Thomas could be said

Soonest to have gone out.

There are only three remaining,

St. Jude, and the two St. James;

And great was then Queen Mary’s hope

For the best of all good names.

Great was then Queen Mary’s hope,

But greater her fear, I guess,

When one of the three went out,

And that one was St. James the Less.

They are now within less than quarter-inch,

The only remaining two!

When there came a thief in St. James,

And it made a gutter too!

Up started Queen Mary,

Up she sate in her bed:

“I never can call him Judas!”

She claspt her hands and said.

“I never can call him Judas!”

Again did she exclaim;

“Holy Mother preserve us!

It is not a Christian name!”

She spread her hands and claspt them again,

And the Infant in the cradle

Set up a cry, an angry cry,

As loud as he was able.

“Holy Mother preserve us!”

The Queen her prayer renew’d;

When in came a moth at the window

And flutter’d about St. Jude.

St. James hath fallen in the socket

But as yet the flame is not out,

And St. Jude hath singed the silly moth

That flutters so blindly about.

And before the flame and the molten wax

That silly moth could kill,

It hath beat out St. Jude with its wings,

And St. James is burning still!

Oh, that was a joy for Queen Mary’s heart;

The babe is christened James;

The Prince of Aragon hath got

The best of all good names!

Glory to Santiago,

The mighty one in war!

James he is call’d, and he shall be

King James the Conqueror!

Now shall the Crescent wane,

The Cross be set on high

In triumph upon many a Mosque;

Woe, woe to Mawmetry!

Valencia shall be subdued;

Majorca shall be won;

The Moors be routed every where;

Joy, joy, for Aragon!

Shine brighter now, ye stars, that crown

Our Lady del Pilar.

And rejoice in thy grave, Cid Campeador,

Ruydiez de Bivar!

Roprecht the Robber is taken at last;

In Cologne they have him fast;

Trial is over, and sentence past;

And hopes of escape were vain, he knew,

For the gallows now must have its due.

But though pardon cannot here be bought,

It may for the other world, he thought;

And so, to his comfort, with one consent

The Friars assured their penitent.

Money, they teach him, when rightly given,

Is put out to account with Heaven;

For suffrages therefore his plunder went,

Sinfully gotten, but piously spent.

All Saints, whose shrines are in that city,

They tell him, will on him have pit,

Seeing he hath liberally paid,

In this time of need, for their good aid.

In the Three Kings they bid him confide,

Who there in Cologne lie side by side:

And from the Eleven Thousand Virgins eke,

Intercession for him will they bespeak.

And also a sharer he shall be

In the merits of their community;

All which they promise, he need not fear,

Through Purgatory will carry him clear.

Though the furnace of Babylon could not compare

With the terrible fire that rages there,

Yet they their part will so zealously do,

He shall only but frizzle as he flies through.

And they will help him to die well,

And he shall be hang’d with book and bell;

And moreover with holy water they

Will sprinkle him, ere they turn away.

For buried Roprecht must not be;

He is to be left on the triple tree;

That they who pass along may spy

Where the famous Robber is hanging on high.

Seen is that gibbet far and wide

From the Rhine and from the Dusseldorff side;

And from all roads which cross the sand,

North, south, and west, in that level land.

It will be a comfortable sight

To see him there by day and by night;

For Roprecht the Robber many a year

Had kept the country round in fear.

So the Friars assisted, by special grace,

With book and bell to the fatal place;

And he was hang’d on the triple tree,

With as much honor as man could be.

In his suit of irons he was hung;

They sprinkled him then, and their psalm they sung;

And turning away when this duty was paid,

They said, “What a goodly end he had made!”

The crowd broke up, and went their way;

All were gone by the close of day;

And Roprecht the Robber was left there

Hanging alone in the moonlight air.

The last who look’d back for a parting sight,

Beheld him there in the clear moonlight;

But the first who look’d when the morning shone;

Saw in dismay that Roprecht was gone.

The stir in Cologne is greater to-day

Than all the bustle of yesterday;

Hundreds and thousands went out to see;

The irons and chains, as well as he,

Were gone, but the rope was left on the tree.

A wonderful thing! for every one said

He had hung till he was dead, dead, dead,

And on the gallows was seen, from noon

Till ten o’clock, in the light of the moon.

Moreover the Hangman was ready to swear

He had done his part with all due care;

And that certainly better hang’d than he

No one ever was, or ever could be.

Neither kith nor kin, to bear him away,

And funeral rites in secret pay,

Had he; and none that pains would take,

With risk of the law, for a stranger’s sake.

So ’twas thought, because he had died so well,

He was taken away by miracle.

But would he again alive be found?

Or had he been laid in holy ground?

If in holy ground his relics were laid,

Some marvellous sign would show, they said;

If restored to life, a Friar he would be,

Or a holy Hermit certainly,

And die in the odor of sanctity.

That thus it would prove they could not doubt,

Of a man whose end had been so devout;

And to disputing then they fell

About who had wrought this miracle.

Had the Three Kings this mercy shown,

Who were the pride and honor of Cologne?

Or was it an act of proper grace,

From the Army of Virgins of British race,

Who were also the glory of that place?

Pardon, some said, they might presume,

Being a kingly act, from the Kings must come;

But others maintained that St. Ursula’s heart

Would sooner be moved to the merciful part.

There was one who thought this aid divine

Came from the other bank of the Rhine;

For Roprecht there, too, had for favor applied,

Because his birthplace was on that side.

To Dusseldorff then the praise might belong,

And its Army of Martyrs, ten thousand strong;

BuThe for a Dusseldorff man was known,

And no one would listen to him in Cologne,

Where the people would have the whole wonder their own.

The Friars, who help’d him to die so well,

Put in their claim to the miracle;

Greater things than this, as their Annals could tell,

The stock of their merits for sinful men

Had done before, and would do again.

’Twas a whole week’s wonder in that great town,

And in all places, up the river and down;

But a greater wonder took place of it then,

For Roprecht was found on the gallows again!

With that the whole city flocked out to see;

There Roprecht was on the triple tree,

Dead, past all doubt, as dead could be;

But fresh he was as if spells had charm’d him,

And neither wind nor weather had harm’d him.

While the multitude stood in a muse,

One said, I am sure he was hang’d in shoes!

In this the Hangman and all concurr’d;

But now, behold, he was booted and spurr’d!

Plainly therefore it was to be seen,

That somewhere on horseback he had been;

And at this the people marvelled more,

Than at any thing which had happened before.

For not in riding trim was he

When he disappeared from the triple tree;

And his suit of irons he still was in,

With the collar that clipp’d him under the chin.

With that this second thought befell,

That perhaps he had not died so well,

Nor had Saints perform’d the miracle;

But rather there was cause to fear,

That the foul Fiend had been busy here!

Roprecht the Robber had long been their curse,

And hanging had only made him worse;

For bad as he was when living, they said

They had rather meet him alive than dead.

What a horse must it be which he had ridden!

No earthly beast could be so bestridden;

And when by a hell horse a dead rider was carried,

The whole land would be fearfully harried!

So some were for digging a pit in the place,

And burying him there with a stone on his face;

And that hard on his body the earth should be press’d,

And exorcists be sent for to lay him at rest.

But others, whose knowledge was greater, opined

That this corpse was too strong to be confined;

No weight of earth which they could lay

Would hold him down a single day,

If he chose to get up and ride away.

There was no keeping Vampires under ground;

And bad as a Vampire he might be found,

Pests against whom, it was understood,

Exorcism never had done any good.

But fire, they said, had been proved to be

The only infallible remedy;

So they were for burning the body outright,

Which would put a stop to his riding by night.

Others were for searching the mystery out,

And setting a guard the gallows about,

Who should keep a careful watch, and see

Whether Witch or Devil it might be

That helped him down from the triple tree; —

For that there were Witches in the land,

Was what all by this might understand;

And they must not let the occasion slip

For detecting that cursed fellowship.

Some were for this, and some for that,

And some they could not tell for what;

And never was such commotion known

In that great city of Cologne.

Pieter Snoye was a boor of good renown,

Who dwelt about an hour and a half from the town;

And he, while the people were all in debate,

Went quietly in at the city gate.

For Father Kijf he sought about,

His confessor, till he found him out;

But the Father Confessor wondered to see

The old man, and what his errand might be.

The good Priest did not wonder less

When Pieter said he was come to confess;

“Why, Pieter, how can this be so?

I confessed thee some ten days ago!

“Thy conscience, methinks, may be well at rest,

An honest man among the best;

I would that all my flock, like thee,

Kept clear accounts with Heaven and me!”

Always before, without confusion,

Being sure of easy absolution,

Pieter his little slips had summ’d;

But he hesitated now, and he haw’d, and humm’d.

And something so strange the Father saw

In Pieter’s looks, and his hum and his haw,

That he began to doubt it was something more

Than a trifle omitted in last week’s score.

At length it came out, that in the affair

Of Roprecht the Robber he had some share;

The Confessor then gave a start in fear —

“God grant there have been no witchcraft her

Pieter Snoye, who was looking down,

With something between a smile and a frown,

Felt that suspicion move his bile,

And look’d up with more of a frown that smile.

“Fifty years I, Pieter Snoye,

Have lived in this country, man and boy,

And have always paid the Church her due;

And kept short scores with Heaven and you.

“The Devil himself, though Devil he be,

Would not dare impute that sin to me;

He might charge me as well with heresy;

And if he did, here, in this place,

I’d call him liar, and spit in his face!”

The Father, he saw, cast a gracious eye

When he heard him thus the Devil defy;

The wrath, of which he had eased his mind,

Left a comfortable sort of warmth behind,

Like what a cheerful cup will impart,

In a social hour, to an honest man’s heart;

And he added, " For all the witchcraft here,

I shall presently make that matter clear.

“Though I am, as you very well know, Father Kijf,

A peaceable man, and keep clear of strife,

It’s a queerish business that now I’ve been in;

But I can’t say that it’s much of a sin.

“However, it needs must be confess’d,

And as it will set this people at rest,

To come with it at once was best:

Moreover, if I delayed, I thought

That some might perhaps into trouble be brought.

“Under the seal I tell it you,

And you will judge what is best to do,

That no hurt to me and my son may ensue.

No earthly harm have we intended,

And what was ill done has been well mended.

“I and my son, Piet Pieterszoon,

Were returning home by the light of the moon;

From this good city of Cologne,

On the night of the execution day;

And hard by the gibbet was our way.

“About midnight it was we were passing by,

My son, Piet Pieterszoon, and I,

When we heard a moaning as we came near,

Which made us quake at first for fear.

“But the moaning was presently heard again,

And we knew it was nothing ghostly then;

“Lord help us, Father!" Piet Pieterszoon said,

“Roprecht, for certain, is not dead!”

“So under the gallows our cart we drive,

And, sure enough, the man was alive;

Because of the irons that he was in,

He was hanging, not by the neck, but the chin.

“The reason why things had got thus wrong,

Was, that the rope had been left too long;

The Hangman’s fault — a clumsy rogue,

He is not fit to hang a dog.

“Now Roprecht, as long as the people were there,

Never stirr’d hand or foot in the air;

But when at last he was left alone,

By that time so much of his strength was gone,

That he could do little more than groan.

“Piet and I had been sitting it out,

Till a latish hour, at a christening bout;

And perhaps we were rash, as you may think,

And a little soft, or so, for drink.

“Father Kijf, we could not bear

To leave him hanging in misery there;

And ’twas an act of mercy, I cannot but say,

To get him down, and take him away.

“And, as you know, all people said

What a goodly end that day he had made;

So we thought for certain, Father Kijf,

That, if he were saved, he would mend his life.

“My son, Piet Pieterszoon, and l,

We took him down, seeing none was nigh;

And we took off his suit of irons with care,

When we got him home, and we hid him there.

“The secret, as you may guess, was known

To Alit, my wife, but to her alone;

And never sick man, I dare aver,

Was better tended than he was by her.

“Good advice, moreover, as good could be,

He had from Alit, my wife, and me;

And no one could promise fairer than he:

So that we and Piet Pieterszoon, our son,

Thought that we a very good deed had done.

“You may well think we laughed in our sleeve,

At what the people then seem’d to believe;

Queer enough it was to hear them say,

That the Three Kings took Roprecht away; —

“Or that St. Ursula, who is in bliss,

With her Army of Virgins had done this:

The Three Kings and St. Ursula, too,

I warrant, had something better to do.

“Piet Pieterszoon, my son, and I,

We heard them talk as we stood by,

And Piet look’d at me with a comical eye.

We thought them fools, but, as you shall see,

Not over-wise ourselves were we.

“For I must tell you, Father Kijf,

That when we told this to Alit, my wife,

She at the notion perk’d up with delight,

And said she believed the people were right.

“Had not Roprecht put in the Saints his hope,

And who but they should have loosen’d the rope,

When they saw that no one could intend

To make at the gallows a better end?

“Yes, she said, it was perfectly clear

That there must have been a miracle here;

And we had the happiness to be in it,

Having been brought there just at the minute.

“And therefore it would become us to make

An offering for this favor’s sake

To the Three Kings and the Virgins too,

Since we could not tell to which it was due.

“For greater honor there could be none

Than what in this business the Saints had done

To us and Piet Pieterszoon, our son;

She talk’d me over, Father Kijf,

With that tongue of hers, did Alit, my wife.

“Lord, forgive us! as if the Saints would deign

To come and help such a rogue in grain;

When the only mercy the case could admit

Would have been to make his halter fit!

“That would have made one hanging do,

In happy season for him too,

When he was in a proper cue;

And have saved some work, as you will see,

To my son, Piet Pieterszoon, and me.

“Well, Father, we kept him at bed and board,

Till his neck was cured and his strength restored,

And we should have sent him off this day

With something to help him on his way.

“But this wicked Roprecht, what did he?

Though he had been saved thus mercifully,

Hanging had done him so little good,

That he took to his old ways as soon as he could.

“Last night, when we were all asleep,

Out of his bed did this gallows-bird creep;

Piet Pieterszoon’s boots and spurs he put on,

And stole my best horse, and away he was gone!

“Now Alit, my wife, did not sleep so hard,

But she heard the horse’s feet in the yard;

And when she jogg’d me, and bade me awake,

My mind misgave me as soon as she spake.

“To the window my good woman went,

And watch’d which way his course he bent;

And in such time as a pipe can be lit,

Our horses were ready with bridle and bit.

“Away, as fast as we could hie,

We went, Piet Pieterszoon and I;

And still on the plain we had him in sight;

The moon did not shine for nothing that night.

“Knowing the ground, and riding fast,

We came up with him at last,

And — would you believe it? Father Kijf,

The ungrateful wretch would have taken my life,

If he had not miss’d his stroke with a knife!

“The struggle in no long time was done,

Because, you know, we were two to one;

But yet all our strength we were fain to try,

Piet Pieterszoon, my son, and I.

“When we had got him on the ground,

We fastened his hands, and his legs we bound;

And across the horse we laid him then,

And brought him back to the house again.

“We have robb’d the gallows, and that was ill done!”

Said I to Piet Pieterszoon, my son;

“And restitution we must make

To that same gallows, for justice’ sake”.

“In his suit of irons the rogue we array’d,

And once again in the cart he was laid!

Night not yet so far was spent,

But there was time enough for our intent;

And back to the triple tree we went.

“His own rope was ready there;

To measure the length we took good care;

And the job which the bungling Hangman begun,

This time, I think, was properly done

By me and Piet Pieterszoon, my son”.

Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain

Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood?

For ever must your Nigers tainted flood

Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain?

Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear

The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore

Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore,

With laurels water’d by the widow’s tear

Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear!

And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep,

Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep;

For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there

Breathes his gold-gender’d pestilence afar,

And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,

And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?

Before the gale the laden vessel flies;

The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;

Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew!

Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies!

Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyes

As the white sail dim lessens from thy view?

Go pine in want and anguish and despair,

There is no mercy found in human-kind —

Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there!

But may the God of Justice bid the wind

Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,

And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run

Down his dark cheek; hold — hold thy merciless hand,

Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command

O’er wearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,

As pityless as proud Prosperity,

Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies

Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,

While that inhuman trader lifts on high

The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease

Sip the blood-sweeten’d beverage! thoughts like these

Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!

That I do feel upon my cheek the glow

Of indignation, when beneath the rod

A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

’Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep

As undisturb’d as Justice! but no more

The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,

Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!

Tho’ thro’ the toil and anguish of the day

No tear escap’d him, not one suffering groan

Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone

In bitterness; thinking that far away

Tho’ the gay negroes join the midnight song,

Tho’ merriment resounds on Niger’s shore,

She whom he loves far from the chearful throng

Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door

With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,

And weeps for him who will return no more.

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword

Of Vengeance? drench’d he deep its thirsty blade

In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?

Oh! who shall blame him? thro’ the midnight shade

Still o’er his tortur’d memory rush’d the thought

Of every past delight; his native grove,

Friendship’s best joys, and Liberty and Love,

All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought

His soul to madness; round his restless bed

Freedom’s pale spectre stalk’d, with a stern smile

Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while

She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:

No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,

But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.

High in the air expos’d the Slave is hung

To all the birds of Heaven, their living food!

He groans not, tho’ awaked by that fierce Sun

New torturers live to drink their parent blood!

He groans not, tho’ the gorging Vulture tear

The quivering fibre! hither gaze O ye

Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty!

Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous care

The right and prudent; for beyond the grave

There is another world! and call to mind,

Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind

Murder is legalized, that there the Slave

Before the Eternal, “thunder-tongued shall plead

Against the deep damnation of your deed”.