land and mother of the royal line of the subsequent Stuarts. James's death, by assassination in 1437, thirteen years after his return to Scotland, cut short a life of rare promise; and the King's Quhair is the only literary work attributed with certainty to his pen. Although this poem may be called a close imitation of Chaucer, there are in it marks of independent genius, and a beautiful freedom of fancy and of language not to be found in other Chaucerian poems of that period.
Whereas in ward1 full oft I would bewail
My deadly life, full of pain and penance,
Saying right thus, "What have I guilt,2 to fail
My freedom in this world, and my pleasance?
Sin every wight 3 has thereof suffisance
That I behold, and I a creäture
Put from all this, hard is mine aventure!
The bird, the beast, the fish eke1 in the sea,
They live in freedom, every 5 in his kind,
And I a man, and lacketh liberty;
What shall I sayn, what reason may I find,
That Fortune should do so?" Thus in my mind
My folk I would argue, but all for nought;
Was none that might that on my painès wrought.
Bewailing in my chamber thus alone,
Despaired of all joy and remedy,
Fortired of my thought, and wo-begone,
And to the window gan I walk in hie,8
To see the world and folk that went forby;9
As, for the time, though I of mirthès food
Might have no more, to look it did me good.
Now was there made, fast by the Tower's wall,
A garden fair, and in the corners set
An herbere1 green, with wandès long and small
Railed about; and so with treès set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,2
That life3 was none walking there forby,
That might within scarce any wight espy.*
So thick the boughès and the leavès green
Beshaded all the alleys that were there;
And middis every herbere might be seen
The sharpè, greenè, sweetè juniper,
Growing so fair, with branches here and there,
That, as it seemed to a life without,
The boughès spread the herbere all about.
And on the smallè greenè twistis sat
The little sweetè nightingale, and sung
So loud and clear the hymnès consecrat
Of Love's use; now soft, now loud among;
That all the gardens and the wallès rung
Right of their song. . .
"Worship, ye that lovers been, this May,
For of your bliss the kalends are begun ;
And sing with us, 'Away, winter away!
Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun!'
Awake, for shame, that have your heavens won,
And amorously lift up your headès all;
Thank Love, that list you to his mercy call."
When they this song had sung a little thraw,7
They stents a while, and therewith, unaffrayed,
As I beheld and cast mine eyne alaw,9
From bough to bough they hippèd 10 and they played,
And freshly in their birdès kind arrayed
Their feathers new, and fret them in the sun,
And thankèd Love that had their matès won.
Oft would I think, "O Lord, what may this be
That Love is of so noble might and kind
Loving his folk? And such prosperity
Is it of him as we in bookès find?
May he our heartès setten and unbind?
1 Woody retreat, from Herbarium.
4 Compare Chaucer, ante, p. 28.
8 Rested quiet.
2 Knitted close.
5 Amid.
9 Below.
3 Living person. 7 A little time. 10 Hopped.
Hath he upon our hearts such mastery,
Or is all this but feignèd phantasy?
"And, gif he be of so great excellence
That he of every wight hath care and charge,
What have I guilt to him, or done offence,
That I am thrall and birdès gone at large,
Sin him to serve he might set my courage?
And, gif he be not so, then may I sayn,
What makes folk to jangle of him in vain?"
And therewith cast I down mine eye again,
Where as I saw, walking under the Tower
Full secretly, new comen her to playn,1
The fairest and the freshest youngè flower
That ever I saw, methought, before that hour:
For which sudden abate 2 anon astart 3
The blood of all my body to my heart. . . .
And in my head I drew right hastily,
And eft soones 4 I leaned it out again,
And saw her walk that very womanly,
With no wight now, but only women twain.
Then gan I study in myself, and sayn,
"Ah, sweet! are ye a worldly creäture,
Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature?
"Gif" ye a goddess be, and that ye like
To do me pain, I may not it astart ;7
be worldly wight, that doth me sike,8 Why list God make you so, my dearest heart, To do9 a silly prisoner thus smart
That loves you all, and wot1o of nought but woe?
And, therefore, mercy sweet! sin it is so!”
When I a little thraw 11 had made my moan,
Bewailing my infortune and my chance,
Unknowing how or what was best to done,1
So far I fallen into love's dance
That suddenly my wit, my countenance,
My heart, my will, my nature, and my mind,
Were changed clean right in ane other kind.
Of her array the form gif I shall write,
Toward her golden hair, and rich attire,
In fretwise couchèd all with pearlès white,
And greatè balais1 gleaming as the fire,
With many an emeraunt and fair sapphire;
And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue,
Of plumès parted red and white and blue;
All full of quaking spangles bright as gold,
Forged of shape like to the amorettes,2
So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold;
The plumès eke like to the flower jonettes,
And other of shape like to the flower jonettes;
And, above all this, there was, well I wot,
Beauty enough to make a world to doat.
THE LOVER AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
Another while the little Nightingale
That sat upon the twiggis would I chide,
And say right thus, "Where are thy notes small,
That thou of love hast sung this morrow-tide?
Seest thou not her that sitteth thee beside?
For Venus' sake, the blissful goddess clear,
Sing on again, and make my Lady cheer!...
66 O little wretch, alas! mayst thou not see
Who cometh yond? Is it now time to wring?3
What sorry thought is fallen upon thee?
Open thy throat; hast thou no list to sing?
Alas! if thou of reason have feeling,
Now, sweetè bird, say onès to me, 'Peep!'
I die for woe; methinks thou 'ginnes sleep.
Hast thou no mind of love? Where is thy make? *
Or art thou sick, or smit with jealousy?
Or is she dead, or hath she thee forsake?
What is the cause of thy melancholy,
That thou no more list maken melody?
Sluggard, for shame! lo, here thy golden hour,
That worth were hailly all thy life's labour."
I thought eke thus; "Gif I my handès clap,
Or gif I cost, then will she flee away;
And, gif I hold my peace, then will she nap;
And, gif I cry, she wot not what I say.
Thus what is best I wot not by this day;
3 Grieve.
7 Cough (Scottish, hoast?)
But blow, wind, blow, and do the leavès shake,
That some twig may wag, and make her to wake."
With that anon right he took up a song,
Where came anon more birdès and alight.
But then to hear the mirth was them among,
Over that too1 to see the sweetè sight
Of her image, my spirit was so light,
Methought I flew for joy without arrest ;
So were my wittès bounden all so fest.2
This was their song, as seemèd me full high,
With many uncouth3 sweetè note and shill ;4
And therewithal that Fair upward her eye
Would cast among, as it was Goddès will,
Where I might see, standing alone full still,
The fair faiture that Nature, for maistry,
In her visage had wrought full lovingly.
And, when she walked had a little throw 6
Under the sweetè greenè boughès bent,
Her fair fresh face, as white as any snow,
She turned has, and forth her wayès went ;
But then began mine access and torment:
To seen her part, and follow I ne might,
Methought the day was turned into night.
BLIND HENRY THE MINSTREL.
(-1460-)
BARBOUR of Aberdeen had been dead about sixty-five years when another Scottish poet, known to posterity only as "Blind Henry the Minstrel," composed, about the year 1460, a narrative poem in twelve books. It was written in the rhymed heroic couplet, and had for its subject the traditional exploits of the hero Wallace, derived partly, we are told, from a Latin chronicle of John Blair. This poem is remarkable as having been composed by a man who was blind from his birth and apparently without much education or refinement. It has considerable literary power, and has long, either in its
1 Moreover, also.
5 Fashioning, workmanship.
|