ARGUMENT.
CONVENT SACKED BY THE ENGLISH. — BATTLE BETWEEN ST. GEORGE OF ENGLAND, AND DENIS, PATRON SAINT OF FRANCE.
Now, free from useless preface I shall tell,
How the two lovers in their cloistered cell,
With joys forbidden, both alike oppressed,
Extended near each other, sunk to rest;
Enjoying that sweet sleep the weary own,
When Morpheus on their lids erects his throne.
Sudden a dreadful din drives sleep afar,
On all sides gleams the horrid torch of war;
Death, ghastly death, then blazes to their view,
As streams of blood the convent’s site bedew;
This troop marauding of Britannia’s soil,
Gaul’s ranks had beaten in a recent broil;
The conquered, sword in hand, scoured o’er the plain,
By victors followed, who pursued amain;
Striking and crying, almost out of breath —
“Agnes restore, or instant meet your death.”
But naught knew any creature of the fair,
Till hoary Colin, who of flocks had care,
Bespoke them thus: “Sirs, yesterday my sight
Was struck with paragon of beauty bright,
Who, toward the dusk, passed yonder convent gate.”
“Anon!” the English cried, with souls elate,
“‘Tis Agnes there’s no doubt. By Heavens! ‘tis she;
Let’s on.” The cruel cohort instantly,
Gained of the convent wall the holy steep;
Thus raging wolves rush ‘midst a flock of sheep.
Of dormitory, they each cell inspect;
The chapel, caves, no corner they neglect —
These enemies of such as laud Heaven’s name,
View all, devoid of scruple or of shame;
Ah, sisters, Anna, Ursula, Marton,
Why raise your eyes — where would ye fly anon?
Poor moaning doves, why seek the holy place,
Trembling, confounded, ye the shrine embrace;
That holy altar feared, and found to be
The sacred safeguard of your chastity;
Amidst this direful peril, what are vows?
Ye supplicate in vain your Heavenly spouse.
Before his shrine, nay, even in his view,
Poor flocks your cruel ravishers pursue,
To profanate that faith so pure and blessed,
Which your sweet lips with innocence professed.
Some readers, of earth’s worldly race the sons,
Immodest souls, the enemies of nuns;
Sarcastic jokers, dare with playful wit,
Poor violated dames, with tauntings hit;
Let them say on. — Alas! my sisters dear,
How dreadful ‘tis, such tender hearts to jeer;
For timid, harmless beauties, framed like ye,
To strive from homicidal arms to flee;
Disgusting kisses on your lips to feel,
From felons reeking with gore’s smoking seal.
Who by an act ferocious and abhorred —
The eyes on fire, lips that blaspheme the Lord,
Mingling the outrage with voluptuous glow,
Thus seek with brutal love your overthrow;
Whose poisonous breath infects the zephyrs bland:
The bristly beard — the hard infuriate hand,
The hideous form — arms black, with gore impressed,
Appear to strike with death where they caressed;
In fine, they seemed to these strange frenzies given,
Fiends; violating Angels, blessed of Heaven!
Crime had already to their shameless view,
Tinged fronts of each chaste fair with crimson hue;
Sister Ribondi, so devout and sage,
Was doomed to meet fierce Shipunk’s carnal rage.
Wharton, vile infidel — bold Barclay, too,
Poor sister Amidon, alike pursue.
They weep, they pray, and swear; press, push and run;
When in the tumult’s seen Besogne the nun,
With Bard and Parson fighting, who employ,
All means to put in force their lustful joy,
Both ignorant that Besogne is — a boy.
Nor was’t thou, Agnes, ‘midst this sorrowing band,
To be neglected by despoiler’s hand;
Tender, enchanting object, ‘twas thy lot
Always to sin, whether thou wouldst or not;
The murderous chief of this obdurate crew,
Courageous victor, he sped after you;
While troops obedient, in their passions still,
Resigned this honor to his potent will.
Yet Fate though harsh, will sometimes deign befriend,
And of our woes at length proclaim the end;
For as these gentlemen of Britain’s Isle,
With foul pollution thus had dared defile,
Of the Saint Sion, this most sacred place,
From Heaven’s high vault Gaul’s patron full of grace,
Good Denis, to bright virtue always kind,
Found means to ‘scape from thence and leave behind
Fierce, turbulent St. George, of France the foe;
From Paradise he bent his course below.
But, in descending to our earthly sphere,
No more on sunbeam did our sage appear,
Since too apparent then his course had been,
He went the god of mystery to win;
Sire, sage, and cunning, foe of noise and light,
Who flies on every side, and goes by night,
He favors (and ‘tis pity) rogues that steal;
But leads the man impressed by wisdom’s seal.
To church and court he hies; at all times there,
While anciently of love he had the care.
He first enveloped in a cloud obscure,
Good Denis; and forthwith commenced his tour,
By secret path, which no one yet had gone,
Whispering quite low, and sideway moving on.
The faithful guardian of Gaul’s goodly set,
Not far from Blois, the maid of Orleans met;
Who of gross muleteer the back bestrode,
Advancing gently by a secret road;
Offering up prayers that some adventure kind,
Might lead her in the end her arms to find;
When Denis from afar beheld the maid,
With tone benign the gentle patron said:
“Welcome my virgin! welcome Joan, who brings
Succor alike to maidens and to kings,
Come lend thine aid to chastity at bay,
And curb anon of furious lust the sway;
Come! that thine arm avenging lily’s flower,
May save my tender flock in this dread hour;
Yon convent view — they violate — time flies,
Come then, my maid.” — He spoke and Joan straight hies,
While Gaul’s dear patron, as her squire in rear,
With lusty stripes, whips on the muleteer.
Here then thou art my Joan, ‘midst this foul crew,
Who with the nuns their recreant acts pursue.
Joan was en cuerpo, when a Briton’s eyes,
With look unblushing, greet the wished for prize;
He covets her, and thinks some maiden gay
Has sought the sisters to enjoy the fray;
Then flies the fair to meet, and forthwith seeks
To taint her modesty with loathsome freaks;
When straight the scimitar’s keen blow replies,
Smack on his nose, and low the monster lies,
Swearing that oath by Frenchmen all revered,
Expressive word — to pleasure’s feats endeared;
Word by profane and vulgar tongues revealed,
With scorn pronounced, when they to passion yield.
Trampling his corpse, with crimson current dyed,
Joan to this wicked people forthwith cried:
“Cease, cruel troop, leave innocence alone,
Base violators; fear just Heaven — fear Joan.”
Each miscreant bent on sin and void of shame,
Heard nought, attentive only to his dame;
Thus asses will ‘mid flowers their course pursue,
Spite of the cries of man and master too.
Joan, who their deeds audacious thus descries,
Transported feels a saintly horror rise;
Invoking Heaven, and backed by Denis’ power,
With glave in hand, of blows she deals a shower,
From nape to nape, and thence from spine to spine,
Cutting and slashing with her blade divine:
Transpiercing, for intended crime the one,
Another striking for offences done;
Miscreants bedewing with a sanguine flow,
Each for profaning gentle nun — laid low,
Whose soul thus speeding by foul transport fed,
Dying in sinful joy, to Satan sped.
Unblushing Wharton, whose illicit fire
Had to its acme spurred his soul’s desire;
Obdurate Wharton proved the only knight,
Who now from shackles free, stood bold, upright;
Then seized his arms and with undaunted look,
Awaiting Joan, a different posture took.
O thou great saint, the state’s protecting shield,
Denis, who saw this well contested field,
Deign to my faithful muse those feats indite,
Which Joan enacted to thy reverend sight;
Joan trembled first and cast a wondering stare:
“My saint, dear Denis, what do I see there?
My breastplate, all those arms which destiny
Ordained as presents thou should’st give to me,
On that Hell-hardened back now strike my view,
He wears my helm and under vestments too.”
Joan reasoned justly, she had truth to quote;
For when sweet Agnes swapped her petticoat,
And in these arms was cap-a-pie equipped,
Whereof by rude John Chandos she was stripped;
Sir Isaac Wharton, Chandos’ knight, anon,
Seizing this coat of mail, had put it on.
O Joan of Arc, of heroines the flower,
For arms divine you fought with matchless power;
For thy great monarch Charles so long abused,
A hundred Benedictine nuns misused;
For Denis, charged their chastity to shield,
Denis, who saw her dauntless dare the field
With broadsword striking hard her own breastplate,
And shaded by its plume, the helm on pate.
In Ætna’s gulfs which fire and forge contain,
Of sooty Vulcan and his one-eyed train:
On sparkling anvil sounding constant knell,
More quick or heavier, hammers never fell;
When for dread thunder’s lord the forges glow,
Prepared his cannons — too much braved below.
In iron clad — our Briton full of pride,
Falls back — his soul with wonder stupefied,
To find himself attacked with giant rage,
By brunette buxom and so young of age;
To view her naked filled him with remorse,
To wound that body robbed his arm of force,
He but defends himself and backward moves,
Admiring of his foe the charms he loves;
Those treasures which impel his heart to scorn
The martial virtues which her soul adorn.
St. George enthroned in Paradise so fair,
No longer seeing Brother Denis there,
Began to doubt that Gallia’s saint was flown
To succor those to whom his heart was prone;
Through all the expanse of the azure plain,
He bent his scrutinizing glance in vain;
Nor wavered long, but called his gallant steed,
That horse whereof in legend much we read.
The palfrey came — George mounted, ‘gins to ride,
With spear in rest, the broadsword at his side;
He goes and gallops o’er that endless space
Which daring mortals vainly seek to trace,
Those heavenly realms — spheres that with light abound,
Which visionary Reni makes turn round;
‘Mid endless chaos of a dust refined,
Whirlwinds most subtle rolling in the wind,
The which e’en Newton to strange dreams inclined,
Will have it turn, of compass reft and guide,
Around mere nothing, through the vacuum wide.
St. George inflamed, his rage then boiling high,
Traversed this void in twinkling of an eye,
The soil by Loire’s stream watered straight to gain,
Where Denis thought to chant the victor’s strain;
‘Tis thus we sometimes view at dead of night
A comet in its vast career of light;
Sparkling emit a most horrific blaze,
Its tail appears and men feel dire amaze;
The Pope is awed, and the world, struck with fear,
Firmly believes the wines will fail that year.
As in the distance valiant George descries
Mister St. Denis, he feels choler rise;
And brandishing aloft his lance awhile,
Pronounced these words in Homer’s choicest style
“O! Denis, weak and peevish foe,
Timid support of feeble race below;
‘Tis thus you visit earth with secret guile,
To cut my heroes’ throats of Albion’s Isle;
Dost think Fate’s destinies thou canst control
With jackass, feeble arm and woman’s soul?
Of my dread vengeance art thou not afraid,
Which soon shall punish France, thyself and maid
Thy sad sconce shaking on thy twisted neck,
Hath once before thy carcase ceased to deck;
I wish to crop, e’en in thy church’s face,
Thy bald pate set but badly in its place,
And send thee packing to thy Paris’ walls,
Fit patron of thy tender cockney Gauls;
In thine own suburbs where thy mass is said,
There rest and let them once more kiss thy head.
The goodly Denis raising clasped hands high,
With noble pious tone made this reply:
“O Great St. George! O Brother, famed of mine,
Wilt thou to fury’s voice for aye incline?
Since first we both to Heaven received the call,
Thine heart devout, hath always nurtured gall;
Is it then fit, thrice happy as we are,
Two saints enchased, lauded by men afar;
We, who to others should examples set,
Must we by quarrels thus ourselves forget?
Wilt thou a cruel war now seek to wage,
In realms where peace should all thy thoughts engage?
How long then of thy soil will saintly band,
In Paradise the flag of strife expand?
O Britons! nation fierce; too bold by far,
Just Heaven in turn will wage the wrathful war;
And of your mode of acting weary grown,
Will to your jealous cares no more be prone,
For devotees from you are never known;
Ah! wretched saint, though pious, choleric,
Damned patron of a race of blood ne’er sick;
Be tractable, and in Heaven’s name leave me
To save my king and rule Gaul’s destiny.”
At this harangue, George bursting with fell rage,
On visage pictured fury’s crimson page;
And bending on the Paris saint his eyes,
He felt his strength and courage doubly rise, —
Denis, he judged the sovereign of poltroons,
On whom he pounced — thus falcon darts eftsoons
And seizes tender pigeons for its prey, —
Denis falls back and prudent utters bray.
Thus summoning his faithful ass outright,
The donkey winged, his succor and delight.
“Come,” he exclaimed, “come and my life defend” —
Denis forgot thus speaking to his friend,
That never saint of life can see an end.
From Italy our dappled of gray hue,
Just then arrived — and I narrator true,
Why he returned already have displayed.
To saint his back he bent, with saddle ‘rayed;
When patron firmly on his Neddy placed,
By kindling valor, felt his heart enchased!
With subtle malice he from earth had ta’en,
A sword so lately grasped by Briton slain;
Then brandishing the fatal glave to sight,
St. George he pushes, presses, grapples tight.
Great Albion’s chief by indignation led,
Aims three dread blows at his devoted head;
The whole are parried, Denis guards his sconce,
Directing in return his blows at once
Upon the horse, and eke his cavalier,
From steel electric vivid sparks appear;
Now as the weapons cross, they cut and thrust,
Each moment either seems of warrior first;
Seeking to strike helm, gorget, glory bright,
And spot so delicate with laces dight;
Where, ‘neath the cuirass, braguette greets the sight.
These vain attempts made both more ardent far;
Oft ‘twixt them balanced was the fate of war;
When lo! the ass’s tones discordant sound
As grating octaves harshly bray around, —
Heaven trembles; echo from the wood’s recess,
The din repeats, while shuddering with distress,
St. George turned pale; good Denis keen I trow,
Made feint, and with celestial back-hand blow,
Of Albion’s chief did the proboscis clip,
And on his saddle bow rolled bleeding tip.
George without nose, but not of courage void,
Revenges honor of his face annoyed,
Profaning Heaven with English d —— —— n subjoined,
One blow of scimitar forthwith purloined
From Denis that, which on a Thursday morn,
Of old from Malchus, was by Peter shorn.
At this rare sight and voice deserving praise
Of the saint ass — at sound of dreadful brays,
All trembled in the Heavenly concave high;
The beamy portal of the starry sky
Burst ope, and from the vaults where seraphs dwell,
Issued at length the archangel Gabriel,
Who graceful poised upon his pinions bright,
Sailed gently through the realms of endless light;
That rod supporting, which in days of yore,
Towards the Nile the prophet Moses bore,
When the Red Sea submissive stopped its waves,
And kings and people thus found watery graves.
“What is’t I see?” the angel wrathful cried,
“Two patron saints, offsprings to Heaven allied:
Eternal spirits of the power of peace,
Fighting like mortals; ye bid concord cease:
Let woman’s stupid race to blows aspire,
To man leave baleful passions, flame, and fire;
Abandon straight to Sin’s profane control,
Of this vile crew each gross and wicked soul,
In vice created, and to death consigned;
But ye immortal sons of Heaven refined,
Nourished forever with ambrosia pure,
Would ye such blissful scenes no more endure?
Are ye stark mad? — Good Heaven! an ear, a nose
Ye who on mercy and sweet grace repose,
The precepts of pure concord to instil,
Can ye, for things like these pursue the will
Of foolish passions and their cause embrace?
Either renounce the bright empyreal space,
Or instant yield submissive to my laws;
Let charity within plead her own cause;
Thou, insolent St. George, pick up that ear,
And you, good Mister Denis, also hear,
That nose resume, and with your fingers blessed,
In its own place let each thing henceforth rest.”
Denis, with hand submissive, forthwith goes
To join the tip on mutilated nose,
And George devout, the ear to Denis takes,
By him cut off, each sign of cross then makes,
An oremus to Gabriel muttering sweet:
Forthwith of flesh the cartilages meet;
In fine, both miens assume their wonted grace,
Blood, fibres, skin, each hardens in its place,
Leaving no vestige in this saintly pair,
Of shivered nose, and sconce of ear quite bare:
‘Tis thus with saintly flesh, fat, firm, and fair.
Then Gabriel said, with presidential voice,
“‘Tis well, embrace;” there was in faith no choice;
So Denis void of hate or passion’s glow,
With honest heart, anon, embraced his foe;
But George as kissing, cherished vengeful fit,
And swore that Denis should not thus be quit.
The great archangel, this embracing o’er,
Received my two saints gracious as before,
With one on either side empyreum sought,
Where nectarine bumpers to each saint were brought.
Few readers will believe this combat brave;
But near those walls Scamander’s waters lave,
Of old was chronicled a deed of fame,
When gods Olympian armed for battle came,
Alike by England’s Milton are enrolled,
Of angels winged, a legion manifold;
Reddening celestial plains with sanguine tide,
Mountains by hundreds scattered far and wide,
And what’s still worse from cannon-firing ball;7
Wherefore, if Michael ere the Devil’s fall,
With Satan fought, each to support his cause,
Sure Messieurs George and Denis by such laws
Were right in bidding hostile banners float,
And striving each to cut the other’s throat.
But if in Heaven sweet peace was thus restored,
Alas! on earth such proved not yet the word;
Fell scene accursed of discord and of blows;
Good Charles went everywhere, nor knew repose,
Sighed Agnes’ name, and sought, and wept her fate;
And yet the thundering Joan forever great,
With bloody sword that owned no victor’s will,
Prepared to give fierce Wharton straight his fill;
She struck; — the blow upon the spot just placed,
Whereby the convent had been late debased.
Wharton reeled backwards, and his trenchant steel
Fled from his grasp impressed with mortal seal;
He fell, denying all the saints in death.
The tribe of ancient nuns, anon, takes breath,
And at the feet of Amazon august,
Viewing the Cavalier consigned to dust,
Cried, saying, “Aves — Ah! how just the case,
That punishment should strike the sinning place.’’
Sister Ribondi, who in vestry room,
Had bowed obedient to the victor’s doom;
While weeping still for the departed, sighed,
And offering thanks, as she the sinner eyed,
Exclaimed in charitable tones: “Than he,
Alas! alas! none could more guilty be!!”
END OF CANTO XI.