Part 7 (1/2)

A traitor false, false lying clerk!” quoth he, ”Thou shalt be slain by heaven's dignity, Who rudely dar'st disparage with foul lie My daughter that is come of lineage high!”

And by the throat he Allen grasped amain; And caught him, yet more furiously, again, And on his nose he smote him with his fist!

Down ran the b.l.o.o.d.y stream upon his breast, And on the floor they tumble, heel and crown, And shake the house--it seemed all coming down.

And up they rise, and down again they roll; Till that the Miller, stumbling o'er a coal, Went plunging headlong like a bull at bait, And met his wife, and both fell flat as slate.

”Help, holy cross of Bromeholm!” loud she cried, ”And all ye martyrs, fight upon my side!

In ma.n.u.s tuas--help!--on thee I call!

Simon, awake! the fiend on me doth fall: He crusheth me--help!--I am well-nigh dead: He lieth along my heart, and heels, and head.

Help, Simkin! for the false clerks rage and fight!”

Now sprang up John as fast as ever he might, And graspeth by the dark walls to and fro To find a staff: the wife starts up also.

She knew the place far better than this John, And by the wall she caught a staff anon.

She saw a little s.h.i.+mmering of a light, For at an hole in shone the moon all bright, And by that gleam she saw the struggling two, But knew not, as for certain, who was who, Save that she saw a white thing in her eye.

And when that she this white thing 'gan espy, She thought that Allen did a nightcap wear, And with the staff she drew near, and more near, And, thinking 'twas the clerk, she smote at full Disdainful Simkin on his bald ape's skull.

Down goes the Miller, crying, ”Harow, I die!”

These clerks they beat him well, and let him lie.

They make them ready, and take their horse anon, And eke their meal, and on their way are gone; And from behind the mill-door took their cake, Of half a bushel of flour--a right good bake.

CHAUCER'S POEM OF THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE MODERNISED BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1.

The G.o.d 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.

2.

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.

3.

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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

6.

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.

7.

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.

8.

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.

9.