Imaginary Conversations and Poems Part 12

_G.o.diva._ Oh, never say that! What! think upon goodness when you can be good? Let not the infants cry for sustenance! The Mother of Our Blessed Lord will hear them; us never, never afterward.

_Leofric._ Here comes the bishop: we are but one mile from the walls.

Why dismountest thou? no bishop can expect this. G.o.diva! my honour and rank among men are humbled by this. Earl G.o.dwin will hear of it. Up!

up! the bishop hath seen it: he urgeth his horse onward. Dost thou not hear him now upon the solid turf behind thee?

_G.o.diva._ Never, no, never will I rise, O Leofric, until you remit this most impious task--this tax on hard labour, on hard life.

_Leofric._ Turn round: look how the fat nag canters, as to the tune of a sinner's psalm, slow and hard-breathing. What reason or right can the people have to complain, while their bishop's steed is so sleek and well caparisoned? Inclination to change, desire to abolish old usages. Up! up! for shame! They shall smart for it, idlers! Sir Bishop, I must blush for my young bride.

_G.o.diva._ My husband, my husband! will you pardon the city?

_Leofric._ Sir Bishop! I could think you would have seen her in this plight. Will I pardon? Yea, G.o.diva, by the holy rood, will I pardon the city, when thou ridest naked at noontide through the streets!

_G.o.diva._ O my dear, cruel Leofric, where is the heart you gave me? It was not so: can mine have hardened it?

_Bishop._ Earl, thou abashest thy spouse; she turneth pale, and weepeth. Lady G.o.diva, peace be with thee.

_G.o.diva._ Thanks, holy man! peace will be with me when peace is with your city. Did you hear my lord's cruel word?

_Bishop._ I did, lady.

_G.o.diva._ Will you remember it, and pray against it?

_Bishop._ Wilt _thou_ forget it, daughter?

_G.o.diva._ I am not offended.

_Bishop._ Angel of peace and purity!

_G.o.diva._ But treasure it up in your heart: deem it an incense, good only when it is consumed and spent, ascending with prayer and sacrifice. And, now, what was it?

_Bishop._ Christ save us! that He will pardon the city when thou ridest naked through the streets at noon.

_G.o.diva._ Did he swear an oath?

_Bishop._ He sware by the holy rood.

_G.o.diva._ My Redeemer, Thou hast heard it! save the city!

_Leofric._ We are now upon the beginning of the pavement: these are the suburbs. Let us think of feasting: we may pray afterward; to-morrow we shall rest.

_G.o.diva._ No judgments, then, to-morrow, Leofric?

_Leofric._ None: we will carouse.

_G.o.diva._ The saints of heaven have given me strength and confidence; my prayers are heard; the heart of my beloved is now softened.

_Leofric._ Ay, ay.

_G.o.diva._ Say, dearest Leofric, is there indeed no other hope, no other mediation?

_Leofric._ I have sworn. Beside, thou hast made me redden and turn my face away from thee, and all the knaves have seen it: this adds to the city's crime.

_G.o.diva._ I have blushed, too, Leofric, and was not rash nor obdurate.

_Leofric._ But thou, my sweetest, art given to blus.h.i.+ng: there is no conquering it in thee. I wish thou hadst not alighted so hastily and roughly: it hath shaken down a sheaf of thy hair. Take heed thou sit not upon it, lest it anguish thee. Well done! it mingleth now sweetly with the cloth of gold upon the saddle, running here and there, as if it had life and faculties and business, and were working thereupon some newer and cunninger device. O my beauteous Eve! there is a Paradise about thee! the world is refreshed as thou movest and breathest on it. I cannot see or think of evil where thou art. I could throw my arms even here about thee. No signs for me! no shaking of sunbeams! no reproof or frown of wonderment.--I _will_ say it--now, then, for worse--I could close with my kisses thy half-open lips, ay, and those lovely and loving eyes, before the people.

_G.o.diva._ To-morrow you shall kiss me, and they shall bless you for it. I shall be very pale, for to-night I must fast and pray.

_Leofric._ I do not hear thee; the voices of the folk are so loud under this archway.

_G.o.diva._ [_To herself._] G.o.d help them! good kind souls! I hope they will not crowd about me so to-morrow. O Leofric! could my name be forgotten, and yours alone remembered! But perhaps my innocence may save me from reproach; and how many as innocent are in fear and famine! No eye will open on me but fresh from tears. What a young mother for so large a family! Shall my youth harm me? Under G.o.d's hand it gives me courage. Ah! when will the morning come? Ah! when will the noon be over?

The story of G.o.diva, at one of whose festivals or fairs I was present in my boyhood, has always much interested me; and I wrote a poem on it, sitting, I remember, by the _square pool_ at Rugby. When I showed it to the friend in whom I had most confidence, he began to scoff at the subject; and, on his reaching the last line, his laughter was loud and immoderate.

This conversation has brought both laughter and stanza back to me, and the earnestness with which I entreated and implored my friend _not to tell the lads_, so heart-strickenly and desperately was I ashamed. The verses are these, if any one else should wish another laugh at me:

'In every hour, in every mood, O lady, it is sweet and good To bathe the soul in prayer; And, at the close of such a day, When we have ceased to bless and pray, To dream on thy long hair.'

May the peppermint be still growing on the bank in that place!

ESs.e.x AND SPENSER

_Ess.e.x._ Instantly on hearing of thy arrival from Ireland, I sent a message to thee, good Edmund, that I might learn, from one so judicious and dispa.s.sionate as thou art, the real state of things in that distracted country; it having pleased the queen's Majesty to think of appointing me her deputy, in order to bring the rebellious to submission.

_Spenser._ Wisely and well considered; but more worthily of her judgment than her affection. May your lords.h.i.+p overcome, as you have ever done, the difficulties and dangers you foresee.

_Ess.e.x._ We grow weak by striking at random; and knowing that I must strike, and strike heavily, I would fain see exactly where the stroke shall fall.

Now what tale have you for us?

_Spenser._ Interrogate me, my lord, that I may answer each question distinctly, my mind being in sad confusion at what I have seen and undergone.

_Ess.e.x._ Give me thy account and opinion of these very affairs as thou leftest them; for I would rather know one part well than all imperfectly; and the violences of which I have heard within the day surpa.s.s belief.

Why weepest thou, my gentle Spenser? Have the rebels sacked thy house?

_Spenser._ They have plundered and utterly destroyed it.

_Ess.e.x._ I grieve for thee, and will see thee righted.

_Spenser._ In this they have little harmed me.

_Ess.e.x._ How! I have heard it reported that thy grounds are fertile, and thy mansion large and pleasant.

_Spenser._ If river and lake and meadow-ground and mountain could render any place the abode of pleasantness, pleasant was mine, indeed!