Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BOKE OF THE PURPLE FAUCON, by REGINALD HEBER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BOKE OF THE PURPLE FAUCON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Yt is a kynge both fyne and felle
Last Line: * * * *
Subject(s): Chivalry; Knights & Knighthood; Love


Icy commence le Romaunt du Grand Roye Pantagruelle.

YT is a kynge both fyne and felle,
That hyght Sir Claudyus Pantagruelle, --
The fynest and fellest, more or lesse,
Of alle the kynges in Heathenesse.
That Syre was Soudan of Surrye,
Of CEstrick and of Cappadocie,
His Eme was Lorde I understonde
Of all Cathaye and of Boehman Londe.
LXX Dukes, that were soe wighte,
[Le Royaume de Pantagruelle.]
Served him by daie and by nighte.
Thereto he made him a lothely messe,
Everie morninge more or lesse,
A manne chylde of VII yere age,
Thereof he seethed hys pottage.
[Comment Pantagruelle tenayt bonne table, et fesoyt belle chere;]
Everie knyghte who went that waye
His nose and ears was fayne to paye;
Sothely, as the Romaunts telle,
For the Dyner of Pantagruelle.
Yn all the londes of Ethiopee
[et estoyt digne roy.]
Was ne so worthy a kinge as hee.

Ande it befelle upon a daye
Thys Pantagruelle he went to playe
With his Ladye thatte was so brighte,
[Comment il aimoyt la Royne Cycile.]
Yn her bowre yn alle mennes syghte.
Thatte Lady was hyghte Cycelee;
And thereto sange shee
Alle into Grekysh as she colde best, --
"Lambeth, Sadeck, Apocatest;"
Namely, "My love yf thou wouldest wynne
Bringe wyth thee a purple falcon ynne."

Thatte laye made hym sadde and sowre,
And careful came hee adowne the towre.
[Comment Pantagruelle estoyt mescontent.]
He layde his hedde upon a stone;
For sorrow his lyfe was well nigh gone;
He sobbed amayne and sighed sore
"Alacke Cycile, for evermore."
Hys page he broughte him hys helmette,
[Ses armures.]
Thatte was cleped Alphabet;
He donned hys bootes made of the skyn
Of Loup-garou and of Gobbelyn,
And hys hauberke that was soe harde
Ywoven welle of spykenarde.
Virgile hadde made that cote-armure
[Li graund magycien Virgile.]
With Maumetry fenced and guarded sure;
And Hypocras and Arystote
Had woven the rynges of thatte cote.
He tooke hys spere that was so strong,
Hys axe was sharpe, his sworde was long,
And thys the devyse upon his sheilde --
A red rose yn a greene fielde,
And under, yn language of Syrie,
"Belle rose que tu es jolye."
Ycy commence le II Chant du Bon Roy Pantagruelle.

Lysten Lordynges to the tale
Of Pantagruelle and hys travayle.
He through many a lande has gone,
Pantagruelle hymself alone;
Many a hyll most hyghe has clome,
Many a broade rivere has swome.
He paste through Cathaye and Picardie,
[Ses Voyages.]
Babylon, Scotland, and Italie;
And asked of alle as yt befelle,
But of no adventure herde he telle,
Tyl after manie a wearie daye,
Lyghtly he came to a foreste graye:
Manie an auncient oke dyd growe,
Doddered and frynged with mysletoe;
Manie an ashe of paly hue
Whyspered yn every breeze that blewe.
Pantagruelle hath sworne by Mahoune,
[Li Ser ment de Pantagruelle.]
Bye Termagaunt and by Abadoune,
Bye Venus, thatte was so sterne and stronge,
And Apollin with hornes longe,
And other fiendes of Maumetrye,
That the ende of that foreste he would see.

Lysten Lordinges the soothe I tell:
Nothyng was true that here befelle,
But all the okes that flourished soe free,
[La Forest enchantee.]
Flourished only in grammarie;
In that same foreste nothing grewe
But broad and darke the boughes of yew.
Sothely I tell you and indede
There was many a wicked weede;
There was the wolf-bane greene and highe,
Whoso smelleth the same shall die,
And the long grasse wyth poyson mixed,
Adders coyled and hyssed betwixt.

Yn thatte same chace myghte noe man hear
Hunter or horne or hounde or deer;
Neyther dared yn thatte wood to goe
Coney or martin, or hare or doe.
Nor on the shawe the byrdes gay,
Starling, Cuckoo, or Popynjay;
But Gryphon fanged, and bristly boare,
Gnarred and fomed hys way before,
And the beeste who can falsely weepe,
Crocodilus, was here goode chepe;
Satyr, and Leopard, and Tygris,
Bloody Camelopardalys,
And every make of beastes bolde,
Nestled and roared in that their holde.
Dayes and nyghtes but only IV,
And Pantagruelle could ryde no more.
Hys shoulders were by hys helmet worne,
He was a wearye wyghte forlorne,
And hys cheeke thatte was soe redde,
Colde and darke as the beaten ledde.
Hys destriere might no further passe,
[Sa Misere.]
It lothed to taste that evyl grasse.
Heavy he clombe from offe hys steede,
Of hys lyfe he stoode in drede:
"Alacke, alacke, Cycelie,
Here I dye for love of thee!"
Forth through the thorny brake hee paste,
Tylle he came to a poole at laste;
And bye that poole of water clere
Satte a manne chylde of seven yere;
Clothed he was in scarlet and graine,
Cloth of silver and cordovaine;
As a field flower he was faire,
Seemed he was some Erle's heir,
And perchynge on hys wriste so free,
A purple Faucon there was to see.
Courteous hee turned hym to that Peere,
But Pantagruelle made sory cheare.
Highe and stately that boye hym bare,
And bade hym abyde hys Father there.
When the Father was there yn place,
Never had knyght so foul a face;
He was tusked as anie boare,
Brystly behind and eke before;
Lyons staring as they were wood,
Salvage bull that liveth on blood,
He was fylthy as any sowe,
Blacke and hairy as a blacke cowe;
All yn a holy priest's attyre,
Never was seene so fowle a syre.
* * * *





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