English Narrative Poems Part 19

And back with the current's force they reel Like a leaf that's drawn to a water-wheel.

'Neath the s.h.i.+p's travail they scarce might float, But he rose and stood in the rocking boat.

Low the poor s.h.i.+p leaned on the tide: 125 O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, The sister toiled to the brother's side.

He reached an oar to her from below, And stiffened his arms to clutch her so. 130 And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat.

And down to the boat they leaped and fell: It turned as a bucket turns in a well, And nothing was there but the surge and swell.

The Prince that was and the King to come, 135 There in an instant gone to his doom,

In spite of all England's bended knee And maugre[278] the Norman fealty!

He was a Prince of l.u.s.t and pride; He showed no grace till the hour he died. 140

When he should be king, he oft would vow, He'd yoke the peasant to his own plough.

O'er him the s.h.i.+ps score their furrows now.

G.o.d only knows where his soul did wake, But I saw him die for his sister's sake. 145

By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.

(_Lands are swayed by a king on a throne._)

'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 150 (_The sea hath no king but G.o.d alone._)

And now the end came o'er the waters' womb Like the last great Day that's yet to come.

With prayers in vain and curses in vain, The White s.h.i.+p sundered on the mid-main: 155

And what were men and what was a s.h.i.+p Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.

I Berold was down in the sea; And pa.s.sing strange though the thing may be, Of dreams then known I remember me. 160

Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand When morning lights the sails to land:

And blithe is Honfleur's[279] echoing gloam When mothers call the children home:

And high do the bells of Rouen beat 165 When the Body of Christ[280] goes down the street.

These things and the like were heard and shown In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;

And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, And not these things, to be all a dream. 170

The s.h.i.+p was gone and the crowd was gone, And the deep shuddered and the moon shone:

And in a strait grasp my arms did span The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; And on it with me was another man. 175

Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea-sky, We told our names, that man and I.

"O I am G.o.defroy l'Aigle hight,[281]

And son I am to a belted knight."

"And I am Berold the butcher's son 180 Who slays the beasts in Rouen town."

Then cried we upon G.o.d's name, as we Did drift on the bitter winter sea.

But lo! a third man rose o'er the wave, And we said, "Thank G.o.d! us three may He save!" 185

He clutched to the yard with panting stare, And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there.

He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he.

"Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!"

And loosed his hold and sank through the sea. 190

And soul with soul again in that s.p.a.ce We two were together face to face:

And each knew each, as the moment sped, Less for one living than for one dead:

And every still star overhead 195 Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead.

And the hours pa.s.sed; till the n.o.ble's son Sighed, "G.o.d be thy help! my strength's foredone[282]!

"O farewell, friend, for I can no more!"

"Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er. 200

Three hundred souls were all lost but one, And I drifted over the sea alone.

At last the morning rose on the sea Like an angel's wing that beat tow'ds me.

Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat; 205 Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher-boat.

The sun was high o'er the eastern brim As I praised G.o.d and gave thanks to Him.

That day I told my tale to a priest, 210 Who charged me, till the shrift[283] were releas'd, That I should keep it in mine own breast.

And with the priest I thence did fare To King Henry's court at Winchester.[284]

We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, 215 And he wept and mourned again and again, As if his own son had been slain:

And round us ever there crowded fast Great men with faces all aghast:

And who so bold that might tell the thing 220 Which now they knew to their lord the King?

Much woe I learned in their communing.

The King had watched with a heart sore stirred For two whole days, and this was the third:

And still to all his court would he say, 225 "What keeps my son so long away?"

And they said: "The ports lie far and wide That skirt the swell of the English tide;