Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake
Thomas Chatterton (1752–1770)An Excellent Ballad of Charity
I
And hot upon the meads did cast his ray:
The apple ruddied from its paly green,
And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;
The pied chelàndry sang the livelong day:
’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the ground was dight in its most deft aumere.
Dead still the air and eke the welkin blue,
When from the sea arist in drear array
A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,
The which full fast unto the woodland drew,
Hiding at once the Sunnè’s festive face;
And the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.
Which did unto Saint Godwyn’s convent lead,
A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,
Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed,
Long breast-full of the miseries of need.
Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?
He had no housen there, nor any convent nigh.
How woe-begone, how withered, sapless, dead!
Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursèd man,
Haste to thy coffin, thy sole slumbering-bed!
Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head
Are Charity and Love among high elves;
The Knights and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.
The sunburnt meadows smoke and drink the rain;
The coming ghastness doth the cattle appal,
And the full flocks are driving o’er the plain;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters gush again;
The welkin opes, the yellow levin flies,
And the hot fiery steam in the wide flame-lowe dies.
Moves slowly on, and then upswollen clangs,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drown’d,
Still on the affrighted ear of terror hangs;
The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swangs;
Again the levin and the thunder pours,
And the full clouds are burst at once in stormy showers.
The Abbot of Saint Godwyn’s convent came;
His chapournette was drenchèd with the rain,
His painted girdle met with mickle shame;
He backwards told his bederoll at the same.
The storm increasèd, and he drew aside,
With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.
With a gold button fastened near his chin;
His autremete was edged with golden twine,
And his peak’d shoe a lordling’s might have been;
Full well it showed he counted cost no sin:
The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight,
For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.
‘O let me wait within your convent-door
Till the sun shineth high above our head
And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor:
No house, nor friend, nor money in my pouch;
All that I call my own is this my silver crouch.
This is no season alms and prayers to give;
My porter never lets a beggar in;
None touch my ring who not in honour live.’
And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,
And shot upon the ground his glaring ray:
The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.
Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen,
Not dight full proud nor buttoned up in gold;
His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean;
A Limitour he was, of order seen;
And from the pathway side then turnèd he,
Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.
‘For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake!’
The Limitour then loosened his pouch-thread
And did thereout a groat of silver take;
The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake.
‘Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care;
We are God’s stewards all,—nought of our own we bear.
Scarce any give a rentroll to their Lord:
Here, take my semicope,—thou’rt bare, I see;
’Tis thine; the Saints will give me my reward!’
He left the pilgrim and his way aborde.
Virgin and holy Saints who sit in gloure,
Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!