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THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE

FROM CHAUCER

                                   I

          THE God of Love--"ah, benedicite!"
          How mighty and how great a Lord is he!
          For he of low hearts can make high, of high
          He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
          And hard-hearts he can make them kind and free.

                                   II

          Within a little time, as hath been found,
          He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound:
          Them who are whole in body and in mind,
          He can make sick,--bind can he and unbind
          All that he will have bound, or have unbound.

                                  III

          To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
          Foolish men he can make them out of wise;--
          For he may do all that he will devise;
          Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
          And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.

                                   IV

          In brief, the whole of what he will, he may;
          Against him dare not any wight say nay;
          To humble or afflict whome'er he will,
          To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
          But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.

                                   V

          For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
          That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
          Now against May shall have some stirring--whether
          To joy, or be it to some mourning; never
          At other time, methinks, in like degree.

                                   VI

          For now when they may hear the small birds' song,
          And see the budding leaves the branches throng,
          This unto their remembrance doth bring
          All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing;
          And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.

                                  VII

          And of that longing heaviness doth come,
          Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home:
          Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
          And thus in May their hearts are set on fire,
          So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.

                                  VIII

          In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now
          Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
          Yet have I felt of sickness through the May,
          Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,--
          How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.

                                   IX

          Such shaking doth the fever in me keep
          Through all this May that I have little sleep;
          And also 'tis not likely unto me,
          That any living heart should sleepy be
          In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep.

                                   X

          But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
          I of a token thought which Lovers heed;
          How among them it was a common tale,
          That it was good to hear the Nightingale,
          Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered.

                                   XI

          And then I thought anon as it was day,
          I gladly would go somewhere to essay
          If I perchance a Nightingale might hear,
          For yet had I heard none, of all that year,
          And it was then the third night of the May.

                                  XII

          And soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
          No longer would I in my bed abide,
          But straightway to a wood that was hard by,
          Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,
          And held the pathway down by a brookside;

                                  XIII

          Till to a lawn I came all white and green,
          I in so fair a one had never been.
          The ground was green, with daisy powdered over;
          Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
          All green and white; and nothing else was seen.

                                  XIV

          There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers,
          And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers,
          Where they had rested them all night; and they,
          Who were so joyful at the light of day,
          Began to honour May with all their powers.

                                   XV

          Well did they know that service all by rote,
          And there was many and many a lovely note,
          Some, singing loud, as if they had complained;
          Some with their notes another manner feigned;
          And some did sing all out with the full throat.

                                  XVI

          They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay,
          Dancing and leaping light upon the spray;
          And ever two and two together were,
          The same as they had chosen for the year,
          Upon Saint Valentine's returning day.

                                  XVII

          Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon,
          Was making such a noise as it ran on
          Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony;
          Methought that it was the best melody
          Which ever to man's ear a passage won.

                                  XVIII

          And for delight, but how I never wot,
          I in a slumber and a swoon was caught,
          Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly;
          And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy,
          Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought.

                                  XIX

          And that was right upon a tree fast by,
          And who was then ill satisfied but I?
          Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood,
          From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good,
          Full little joy have I now of thy cry.

                                   XX

          And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide,
          In the next bush that was me fast beside,
          I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
          That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
          Echoing thorough all the green wood wide.

                                  XXI

          Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer,
          Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long;
          For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here,
          And she hath been before thee with her song;
          Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.

                                  XXII

          But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray;
          As long as in that swooning-fit I lay,
          Methought I wist right well what these birds meant,
          And had good knowing both of their intent,
          And of their speech, and all that they would say.

                                  XXIII

          The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:--
          Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake,
          And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here;
          For every wight eschews thy song to hear,
          Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.

                                  XXIV

          What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now?
          It seems to me I sing as well as thou;
          For mine's a song that is both true and plain,--
          Although I cannot quaver so in vain
          As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.

                                  XXV

          All men may understanding have of me,
          But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee;
          For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:--
          Thou say'st OSEE, OSEE, then how may I
          Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?

                                  XXVI

          Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is?
          Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis,
          Then mean I, that I should be wonderous fain
          That shamefully they one and all were slain,
          Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.

                                  XXVII

          And also would I that they all were dead,
          Who do not think in love their life to lead;
          For who is loth the God of Love to obey,
          Is only fit to die, I dare well say,
          And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed!

                                 XXVIII

          Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law,
          That all must love or die; but I withdraw,
          And take my leave of all such company,
          For mine intent it neither is to die,
          Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw.

                                  XXIX

          For lovers of all folk that be alive,
          The most disquiet have and least do thrive;
          Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care,
          And the least welfare cometh to their share;
          What need is there against the truth to strive?

                                  XXX

          What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind,
          That in thy churlishness a cause canst find
          To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood;
          For in this world no service is so good
          To every wight that gentle is of kind.

                                  XXXI

          For thereof comes all goodness and all worth;
          All gentiless and honour thence come forth;
          Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure,
          And full-assured trust, joy without measure,
          And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth;

                                  XXXII

          And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy,
          And seemliness, and faithful company,
          And dread of shame that will not do amiss;
          For he that faithfully Love's servant is,
          Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die.

                                 XXXIII

          And that the very truth it is which I
          Now say--in such belief I'll live and die;
          And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.
          Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss,
          If with that counsel I do e'er comply.

                                  XXXIV

          Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair,
          Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere;
          For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis:
          And Love in old folk a great dotage is;
          Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair.

                                  XXXV

          For thereof come all contraries to gladness!
          Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness,
          Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate,
          Dishonour, shame, envy importunate,
          Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness.

                                  XXXVI

          Loving is aye an office of despair,
          And one thing is therein which is not fair;
          For whoso gets of love a little bliss,
          Unless it alway stay with him, I wis
          He may full soon go with an old man's hair.

                                 XXXVII

          And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh,
          For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry,
          If long time from thy mate thou be, or far,
          Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are;
          Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I.

                                 XXXVIII

          Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen!
          The God of Love afflict thee with all teen,
          For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold;
          For many a one hath virtues manifold,
          Who had been nought, if Love had never been.

                                  XXXIX

          For evermore his servants Love amendeth,
          And he from every blemish them defendeth;
          And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,
          In loyalty, and worshipful desire,
          And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.

                                   XL

          Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still,
          For Love no reason hath but his own will;--
          For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy;
          True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,
          He lets them perish through that grievous ill.

                                  XLI

          With such a master would I never be;
          For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,
          And knows not when he hurts and when he heals;
          Within this court full seldom Truth avails,
          So diverse in his wilfulness is he.

                                  XLII

          Then of the Nightingale did I take note,
          How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought,
          And said, Alas! that ever I was born,
          Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,--
          And with that word, she into tears burst out.

                                  XLIII

          Alas, alas! my very heart will break,
          Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak
          Of Love, and of his holy services;
          Now, God of Love; thou help me in some wise,
          That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.

                                  XLIV

          And so methought I started up anon,
          And to the brook I ran and got a stone,
          Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast,
          And he for dread did fly away full fast;
          And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone.

                                  XLV

          And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye,
          Kept crying "Farewell!--farewell, Popinjay!"
          As if in scornful mockery of me;
          And on I hunted him from tree to tree,
          Till he was far, all out of sight, away.

                                  XLVI

          Then straightway came the Nightingale to me,
          And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee,
          That thou wert near to rescue me; and now,
          Unto the God of Love I make a vow,
          That all this May I will thy songstress be.

                                  XLVII

          Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said,
          By this mishap no longer be dismayed,
          Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me;
          Yet if I live it shall amended be,
          When next May comes, if I am not afraid.

                                 XLVIII

          And one thing will I counsel thee also,
          The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw;
          All that she said is an outrageous lie.
          Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I,
          For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.

                                  XLIX

          Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine;
          This May-time, every day before thou dine,
          Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I,
          Although for pain thou may'st be like to die,
          Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine.

                                   L

          And mind always that thou be good and true,
          And I will sing one song, of many new,
          For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;
          And then did she begin this song full high,
          "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue."

                                   LI

          And soon as she had sung it to the end,
          Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend;
          And, God of Love, that can right well and may,
          Send unto thee as mickle joy this day,
          As ever he to Lover yet did send.

                                  LII

          Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me;
          I pray to God with her always to be,
          And joy of love to send her evermore;
          And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore,
          For there is not so false a bird as she.

                                  LIII

          Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale,
          To all the Birds that lodged within that dale,
          And gathered each and all into one place;
          And them besought to hear her doleful case,
          And thus it was that she began her tale.

                                  LIV

          The Cuckoo--'tis not well that I should hide
          How she and I did each the other chide,
          And without ceasing, since it was daylight;
          And now I pray you all to do me right
          Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.

                                   LV

          Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave;
          This matter asketh counsel good as grave,
          For birds we are--all here together brought;
          And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not;
          And therefore we a Parliament will have.

                                  LVI

          And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord,
          And other Peers whose names are on record;
          A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent,
          And judgment there be given; or that intent
          Failing, we finally shall make accord.

                                  LVII

          And all this shall be done, without a nay,
          The morrow after Saint Valentine's day,
          Under a maple that is well beseen,
          Before the chamber-window of the Queen,
          At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.

                                  LVIII

          She thanked them; and then her leave she took,
          And flew into a hawthorn by that brook;
          And there she sate and sung--upon that tree--
          "For term of life Love shall have hold of me"--
          So loudly, that I with that song awoke.

          Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know,
          For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence,
          Who did on thee the hardiness bestow
          To appear before my Lady? but a sense
          Thou surely hast of her benevolence,
          Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give;
          For of all good she is the best alive.

          Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness,
          To show to her some pleasant meanings writ
          In winning words, since through her gentiless,
          Thee she accepts as for her service fit!
          Oh! it repents me I have neither wit
          Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give;
          For of all good she is the best alive.

          Beseech her meekly with all lowliness,
          Though I be far from her I reverence,
          To think upon my truth and stedfastness,
          And to abridge my sorrow's violence,
          Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience,
          She of her liking proof to me would give;
          For of all good she is the best alive.

                                L'ENVOY

          Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness!
          Luna by night, with heavenly influence
          Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse,
          Write, and allay, by your beneficence,
          My sighs breathed forth in silence,--comfort give!
          Since of all good, you are the best alive.

                                EXPLICIT


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