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by Thomas Percy, Reliques of Ancient
English Poetry (1765). Percy's source: Richard Johnson, Seven
Champions of Christendome (1597).
Listen, lords, in
bower and hall,
I sing the wonderous birth
Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm
Rid monsters from the earth:
Distressed ladies to
relieve
He travell'd many a day;
In honour of the Christian faith,
Which shall endure for aye.
In Coventry sometime
did dwell
A knight of worthy fame,
High steward of this noble realme;
Lord Albert was his name.
He had to wife a
princely dame,
Whose beauty did excell.
This virtuous lady, being with child,
In sudden sadness fell:
For thirty nights no
sooner sleep
Had clos'd her wakeful eyes,
But, lo! a foul and fearful dream
Her fancy would surprize:
She dreamt a dragon
fierce and fell
Conceiv'd within her womb;
Whose mortal fangs her body rent
Ere he to life could come.
All woe-begone, and
sad was she;
She nourisht constant woe:
Yet strove to hide it from her lord,
Lest he should sorrow know.
In vain she strove,
her tender lord,
Who watch'd her slightest look,
Discover'd soon her secret pain,
And soon that pain partook.
And when to him the
fearful cause
She weeping did impart,
With kindest speech he strove to heal
The anguish of her heart.
Be comforted, my
lady dear,
Those pearly drops refrain;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll try to ease thy pain.
And for this foul
and fearful dream,
That causeth all thy woe,
Trust me I'll travel far away
But I'll the meaning knowe.
Then giving many a
fond embrace,
And shedding many a teare,
To the weïrd lady of the woods
He purpos'd to repaire.
To the weïrd lady of
the woods,
Full long and many a day,
Thro' lonely shades, and thickets rough
He winds his weary way.
At length he reach'd
a dreary dell
With dismal yews o'erhung;
Where cypress spred it's mournful boughs,
And pois'nous nightshade sprung.
No chearful gleams
here pierc'd the gloom,
He hears no chearful sound;
But shrill night-ravens' yelling scream,
And serpents hissing round.
The shriek of
fiends, and damned ghosts
Ran howling thro' his ear:
A chilling horror froze his heart,
Tho' all unus'd to fear.
Three times he
strives to win his way,
And pierce those sickly dews:
Three times to bear his trembling corse
His knocking knees refuse.
At length upon his
beating breast
He signs the holy crosse;
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th' unhallow'd mosse.
Beneath a pendant
craggry cliff,
All vaulted like a grave,
And opening in the solid rock,
He found the inchanted cave.
An iron gate clos'd
up the mouth,
All hideous and forlorne;
And, fasten'd by a silver chain,
Near hung a brazed horne.
Then offering up a
secret prayer,
Three times he blowes amaine:
Three times a deepe and hollow sound
Did answer him againe.
"Sir knight, thy
lady beares a son,
Who, like a dragon bright,
Shall prove most dreadful to his foes,
And terrible in fight.
His name advanc'd in
future times
On banners shall be worn:
But lo! thy lady's life must passe
Before he can be born."
All sore opprest
with fear and doubt
Long time lord Albert stood;
At length he winds his doubtful way
Back thro' the dreary wood.
Eager to clasp his
lovely dame
Then fast he travels back:
But when he reach'd his castle gate,
His gate was hung with black.
In every court and
hall he found
A sullen silence reigne;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maidens' plaine;
And bitterly lament
and weep,
With many a grievous grone:
Then sore his bleeding heart misgave,
His lady's life was gone.
With faultering step
he enters in,
Yet half affraid to goe;
With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.
"Three times the sun
hath rose and set;"
They said, then stopt to weep:
"Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare
In death's eternal sleep.
For, ah! in travel
sore she fell,
So sore that she must dye;
Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
Could ease her presentlye.
But when a cunning
leech was fet,
Too soon declared he,
She, or her babe must lose its life;
Both saved could not be.
Now take my life,
thy lady said,
My little infant save:
And 0 commend me to my lord,
When I am laid in grave.
0 tell him how that
precious babe
Cost him a tender wife
And teach my son to lisp her name,
Who died to save his life.
Then calling still
upon thy name,
And praying still for thee;
Without repining or complaint,
Her gentle soul did flee."
What tongue can
paint lord Albret's woe,
The bitter tears he shed,
The bitter pangs that wrung his heart,
To find his lady dead?
He beat his breast:
he tore his hair;
And shedding many a tear,
At length he askt to see his son;
The son that cost so dear.
New sorrowe seiz'd
the damsells all:
At length they faultering say;
"Alas! my lord, how shall we tell?
Thy son is stoln away.
Fair as the sweetest
flower of spring,
Such was his infant mien:
And on his little body stampt
Three wonderous marks were seen:
A blood-red cross
was on his arm;
A dragon on his breast:
A little garter all of gold
Was round his leg exprest.
Three carefull
nurses we provide
Our little lord to keep:
One gave him sucke, one gave him food,
And one did lull to sleep.
But lo! all in the
dead of night,
We heard a fearful sound:
Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook;
And lightning flasht around.
Dead with affright
at first we lay;
But rousing up anon,
We ran to see our little lord:
Our little lord was gone!
But how or where we
could not tell;
For lying on the ground,
In deep and magic slumbers laid,
The nurses there we found."
"0 grief on grief!"
lord Albret said:
No more his tongue cou'd say,
When falling in a deadly swoone,
Long time he lifeless lay.
At length restor'd
to life and sense
He nourisht endless woe,
No future joy his heart could taste,
No future comfort know.
So withers on the
mountain top
A fair and stately oake,
Whose vigorous arms are torne away,
By some rude thunder-stroke.
At length his castle
irksome grew,
He loathes his wonted home;
His native country he forsakes
In foreign lands to roame.
There up and downe
he wandered far,
Clad in a palmer's gown;
Till his brown locks grew white as wool,
His beard as thistle down.
At length, all
wearied, down in death
He laid his reverend head.
Meantime amid the lonely wilds
His litttle son was bred.
There the weïrd lady
of the woods
Had borne him far away,
And train'd him up in feates of armes,
And every martial play.
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