Touched by the pathos of these rhymes, The Theologian said: "All praise Be to the ballads of old times And to the bards of simple ways, Who walked with Nature hand in hand, Whose country was their Holy Land, Whose singing robes were homespun brown From looms of their own native town, Which they were not ashamed to wear, And not of silk or sendal gay, Nor decked with fanciful array Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer."To whom the Student answered: "Yes;
All praise and honor! I confess That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, Are wholesome and nutritious food, But not enough for all our needs;Poets--the best of them--are birds Of passage; where their instinct leads They range abroad for thoughts and words, And from all climes bring home the seeds That germinate in flowers or weeds.
They are not fowls in barnyards born To cackle o'er a grain of corn;And, if you shut the horizon down To the small limits of their town, What do you but degrade your bard Till he at last becomes as one Who thinks the all-encircling sun Rises and sets in his back yard?"The Theologian said again:
"It may be so; yet I maintain That what is native still is best, And little care I for the rest.
'T is a long story; time would fail To tell it, and the hour is late;We will not waste it in debate, But listen to our Landlord's tale."And thus the sword of Damocles Descending not by slow degrees, But suddenly, on the Landlord fell, Who blushing, and with much demur And many vain apologies, Plucking up heart, began to tell The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher.
THE LANDLORD'S TALE
THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER
It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, From Merry England over the sea, Who stepped upon this continent As if his august presence lent A glory to the colony.
You should have seen him in the street Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time, His rapier dangling at his feet Doublet and hose and boots complete, Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume, Luxuriant curls and air sublime, And superior manners now obsolete!
He had a way of saying things That made one think of courts and kings, And lords and ladies of high degree;So that not having been at court Seemed something very little short Of treason or lese-majesty, Such an accomplished knight was he.
His dwelling was just beyond the town, At what he called his country-seat;For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown, And weary grown of the world and its ways, He wished to pass the rest of his days In a private life and a calm retreat.
But a double life was the life he led, And, while professing to be in search Of a godly course, and willing, he said, Nay, anxious to join the Puritan church, He made of all this but small account, And passed his idle hours instead With roystering Morton of Merry Mount, That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn, Lord of misrule and riot and sin, Who looked on the wine when it was red.
This country-seat was little more Than a cabin of log's; but in front of the door A modest flower-bed thickly sown With sweet alyssum and columbine Made those who saw it at once divine The touch of some other hand than his own.
And first it was whispered, and then it was known, That he in secret was harboring there A little lady with golden hair, Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wed In the Italian manner, as men said, And great was the scandal everywhere.
But worse than this was the vague surmise, Though none could vouch for it or aver, That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre Was only a Papist in disguise;And the more to imbitter their bitter lives, And the more to trouble the public mind, Came letters from England, from two other wives, Whom he had carelessly left behind;Both of them letters of such a kind As made the governor hold his breath;The one imploring him straight to send The husband home, that he might amend;The other asking his instant death, As the only way to make an end.
The wary governor deemed it right, When all this wickedness was revealed, To send his warrant signed and sealed, And take the body of the knight.
Armed with this mighty instrument, The marshal, mounting his gallant steed, Rode forth from town at the top of his speed, And followed by all his bailiffs bold, As if on high achievement bent, To storm some castle or stronghold, Challenge the warders on the wall, And seize in his ancestral hall A robber-baron grim and old.
But when though all the dust and heat He came to Sir Christopher's country-seat, No knight he found, nor warder there, But the little lady with golden hair, Who was gathering in the bright sunshine The sweet alyssum and columbine;While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, Being forewarned, through the postern gate Of his castle wall had tripped away, And was keeping a little holiday In the forests, that bounded his estate.
Then as a trusty squire and true The marshal searched the castle through, Not crediting what the lady said;Searched from cellar to garret in vain, And, finding no knight, came out again And arrested the golden damsel instead, And bore her in triumph into the town, While from her eyes the tears rolled down On the sweet alyssum and columbine, That she held in her fingers white and fine.
The governor's heart was moved to see So fair a creature caught within The snares of Satan and of sin, And he read her a little homily On the folly and wickedness of the lives Of women, half cousins and half wives;But, seeing that naught his words availed, He sent her away in a ship that sailed For Merry England over the sea, To the other two wives in the old countree, To search her further, since he had failed To come at the heart of the mystery.
Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away Through pathless woods for a month and a day, Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night With the noble savage, who took delight In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, His gun and his rapier and the rest.