The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Robert Southey

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Title: Poems

Author: Robert Southey

Release Date: July 29, 2003 [EBook #8639]
[Most recently updated: March 22, 2020] 

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team




Poems

by Robert Southey

1799


A Ballad, Shewing how an old Woman rode Double, and who rode before
her.


heavy black illustration (woodcut) of the title ­ worth seeing!

A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quædam malefica, in villâ quæ
Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulæ amatrix ac petulantiæ, flagitiis modum
usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica
permansit. Hæc die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro
delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris
cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso
rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum
ultimum meum pervenit aratrum. quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit;
muliere vero percunctatâ ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii
tui obitum & totius familiæ ejus ex subitâ ruinâ interitum. Hoc quoque
dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata;
sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit
superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit;
advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri,
meo miserabili fato dæmoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium
vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi
inter hæc mala, spes vestræ religionis, quæ meam solidaret animam
desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra dæmones, tutores contra
sævissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vitæ perveni, rogo vos
per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me
defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite,
operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus
cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta
psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum
celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus.
Ita si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quartâ die me infodite humo.
Factumque est ut præceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil
lacrymæ, nil demum valuere catenæ. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum
chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Dæmones ostium
ecclesiæ confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas
negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem quæ fortior erat, illibata manebat.
Tertiâ autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium,
omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dæmonum, et
vultu cæteris terribilior & staturâ eminentior, januas Ecclesiæ; impetu
violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis,
metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Dæmon
ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen
mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Quâ respondente, quod
nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus
cathenam quæ cæterorum ferociam dæmonum deluserat, velut stuppeum
vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem
palam omnibus ab ecclesiâ extraxit, ubi præ foribus niger equus superbe
hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super
quem misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit.
Audiebantur tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles,
auxilium postulantes.

Ista itaque quæ retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati
Gregorii dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesiâ sepultam, a
dæmonibus foras ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir
fortudinis, qui Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit,
exactis vitæ suæ diebus, in Ecclesiâ beati Dionysii legitur fuisse
sepultus. Sed quia patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum
Galliæ, pro stipendio commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a
malignis spiritibus de sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in
hodiernum diem nusquam comparuit.

_Matthew of Westminster_.

 This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the _Nuremberg
 Chronicle_, from which the wooden cut is taken.






 A Ballad, Shewing how an old Woman rode Double, and who rode before
 her.

The Raven croak’d as she sate at her meal,
 And the Old Woman knew what he said,
 And she grew pale at the Raven’s tale,
 And sicken’d and went to her bed.

 Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,
 The Old Woman of Berkeley said,
 The monk my son, and my daughter the nun
 Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.

 The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
 Their way to Berkeley went,
 And they have brought with pious thought
 The holy sacrament.

 The old Woman shriek’d as they entered her door,
 ’Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,
 Now take the sacrament away
 For mercy, my children dear!

 Her lip it trembled with agony,
 The sweat ran down her brow,
 I have tortures in store for evermore,
 Oh! spare me my children now!

 Away they sent the sacrament,
 The fit it left her weak,
 She look’d at her children with ghastly eyes
 And faintly struggled to speak.

 All kind of sin I have rioted in
 And the judgment now must be,
 But I secured my childrens souls,
 Oh! pray my children for me.

 I have suck’d the breath of sleeping babes,
 The fiends have been my slaves,
 I have nointed myself with infants fat,
 And feasted on rifled graves.

 And the fiend will fetch me now in fire
 My witchcrafts to atone,
 And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave
 Shall never have rest in my own.

 Bless I intreat my winding sheet
 My children I beg of you!
 And with holy water sprinkle my shroud
 And sprinkle my coffin too.

 And let me be chain’d in my coffin of stone
 And fasten it strong I implore
 With iron bars, and let it be chain’d
 With three chains to the church floor.

 And bless the chains and sprinkle them,
 And let fifty priests stand round,
 Who night and day the mass may say
 Where I lie on the ground.

 And let fifty choristers be there
 The funeral dirge to sing,
 Who day and night by the taper’s light
 Their aid to me may bring.

 Let the church bells all both great and small
 Be toll’d by night and day,
 To drive from thence the fiends who come
 To bear my corpse away.

 And ever have the church door barr’d
 After the even song,
 And I beseech you children dear
 Let the bars and bolts be strong.

 And let this be three days and nights
 My wretched corpse to save,
 Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng
 And then I may rest in my grave.

 The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down
 And her eyes grew deadly dim,
 Short came her breath and the struggle of death
 Did loosen every limb.

 They blest the old woman’s winding sheet
 With rites and prayers as due,
 With holy water they sprinkled her shroud
 And they sprinkled her coffin too.

 And they chain’d her in her coffin of stone
 And with iron barr’d it down,
 And in the church with three strong chains
 They chain’d it to the ground.

 And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
 And fifty priests stood round,
 By night and day the mass to say
 Where she lay on the ground.

 And fifty choristers were there
 To sing the funeral song,
 And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand
 Of all the sacred throng.

 To see the priests and choristers
 It was a goodly sight,
 Each holding, as it were a staff,
 A taper burning bright.

 And the church bells all both great and small
 Did toll so loud and long,
 And they have barr’d the church door hard
 After the even song.

 And the first night the taper’s light
 Burnt steadily and clear.
 But they without a hideous rout
 Of angry fiends could hear;

 A hideous roar at the church door
 Like a long thunder peal,
 And the priests they pray’d and the choristers sung
 Louder in fearful zeal.

 Loud toll’d the bell, the priests pray’d well,
 The tapers they burnt bright,
 The monk her son, and her daughter the nun
 They told their beads all night.

 The cock he crew, away they flew
 The fiends from the herald of day,
 And undisturb’d the choristers sing
 And the fifty priests they pray.

 The second night the taper’s light
 Burnt dismally and blue,
 And every one saw his neighbour’s face
 Like a dead man’s face to view.

 And yells and cries without arise
 That the stoutest heart might shock,
 And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring
 Over a mountain rock.

 The monk and nun they told their beads
 As fast as they could tell,
 And aye as louder grew the noise
 The faster went the bell.

 Louder and louder the choristers sung
 As they trembled more and more,
 And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid,
 They never had prayed so before.

 The cock he crew, away they flew
 The fiends from the herald of day,
 And undisturb’d the choristers sing
 And the fifty priests they pray.

 The third night came and the tapers flame
 A hideous stench did make,
 And they burnt as though they had been dipt
 In the burning brimstone lake.

 And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,
 Grew momently more and more,
 And strokes as of a battering ram
 Did shake the strong church door.

 The bellmen they for very fear
 Could toll the bell no longer,
 And still as louder grew the strokes
 Their fear it grew the stronger.

 The monk and nun forgot their beads,
 They fell on the ground dismay’d,
 There was not a single saint in heaven
 Whom they did not call to aid.

 And the choristers song that late was so strong
 Grew a quaver of consternation,
 For the church did rock as an earthquake shock
 Uplifted its foundation.

 And a sound was heard like the trumpet’s blast
 That shall one day wake the dead,
 The strong church door could bear no more
 And the bolts and the bars they fled.

 And the taper’s light was extinguish’d quite,
 And the choristers faintly sung,
 And the priests dismay’d, panted and prayed
 Till fear froze every tongue.

 And in He came with eyes of flame
 The Fiend to fetch the dead,
 And all the church with his presence glowed
 Like a fiery furnace red.

 He laid his hand on the iron chains
 And like flax they moulder’d asunder,
 And the coffin lid that was barr’d so firm
 He burst with his voice of thunder.

 And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise
 And come with her master away,
 And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse,
 At the voice she was forced to obey.

 She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,
 Her dead flesh quivered with fear,
 And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave
 Never did mortal hear.

 She followed the fiend to the church door,
 There stood a black horse there,
 His breath was red like furnace smoke,
 His eyes like a meteor’s glare.

 The fiendish force flung her on the horse
 And he leapt up before,
 And away like the lightning’s speed they went
 And she was seen no more.

 They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks
 For four miles round they could hear,
 And children at rest at their mother’s breast,
 Started and screamed with fear.