Yet scope for mirth it might have well afforded
To modern misses of our British breed; And grave Blue-stockings would, no doubt, have said, "Godiva's heart was better than her head."
Had she at some snug boarding-school been placed,
Of modern growth, for female education,
She would have had a most uncommon taste,
And I might now have printed her oration.
Her native genius she would then have graced
With stores of every sort of information,
And had, at twelve years old, more general knowledge
Than boys of fifteen gain at Eton College.
She turned, and left his lordship sore perplexed,
He almost questioned if he were awake,
And knew not whether to feel pleased or vexed;
Still less, what step it would be right to take.
He "wondered what the devil she 'd do next,
Who could so bold a resolution make;"
And felt a sort of shame that he'd consented,
And, for the first time in his life, repented.
But then, he felt he never could retract,
(At least he would not—which was much the same),
And if his wife thought proper thus to act,
He couldn't help it—he was not to blame!
So that day, after breakfast, off he packed
A trumpeter (I quite forget his name)
To tell the people, in the market-place,
His wife's intention-and his own disgrace.
It was an idle morn in Coventry,
The people wandered through the gloomy mart; Labour with hope was o'er, and listlessly
Their footsteps traversed each unheeded part; Despair was yielding fast to apathy—
They were prepared to die,—and every
Its weight of woe had half forgot to feel,—
When in their ears shrill rung a trumpet-peal.
There was a sudden crowding round the space
Whence the sound came-and then from man to man, Throughout the full and spacious market-place,
A sudden, cold, electric shudder ran;
And each glanced quickly on his neighbour's face,
As if the working of his thought to scan,-
And then in every countenance were blent
Joy, love, and anger, and astonishment.
A breathless pause succeeded, then arose
A low and gathering murmur in the crowd,
Like the far peal that breaks the dread repose
Cast by the shadow of a thunder-cloud :
And fast and far that thrilling murmur flows
On through the multitude-yet grows not loud,—
Slowly it died, and nought but trampling feet
Of crowds dispersing sounded in the street.
Noon came, yet ne'er in Coventry had reigned,
At deepest midnight, silence so profound;
In the wide streets no human form remained,
It seemed as Death had swallowed all around;
It was like that enchanted city, feigned
In Oriental Tales, where all were bound
In magic slumbers, and transformed to stone-
A story pretty generally known.
What were Godiva's thoughts at that dread hour
In her lone chamber? Silent did she kneel,-
Her deep blue eyes raised meekly to the Power
Of Heaven, in dumb, yet eloquent appeal.
Thus prayed the gentle lady in her bower,
Till o'er her sorrows peace began to steal,
And the calm rapture of the silent skies
Had sunk into her spirit, through her eyes.
The lady rose from prayer, with cheek o'er-flushed,
And eyes all radiant with celestial fire;
The anguished beatings of her heart were hushed,
So calmly heaven-ward did her thoughts aspire.
A moment's pause-and then she deeply blushed,
As, trembling, she unclasped her rich attire,
And, shrinking from the sun-light, shone confest
The ripe and dazzling beauties of her breast.
And when her white and radiant limbs lay bare,
The fillet from her brow the dame unbound,
And let the traces of her raven hair
Flow down in wavy lightness to the ground,
Till half they veiled her limbs and bosom fair,
In dark and shadowy beauty floating round,
As clouds, in the still firmament of June,
Shade the pale splendours of the midnight moon.
But then her spirit fell, when thus alone
She stood in the deep silence of her bower; And felt that there she was beheld by none
Save one unknown, supreme, eternal Power.
She dared not raise her meek eyes, trembling one, Again from earth; she could have wished that hour Rather in view of thousands to have stood,
Than in that still and awful solitude.
Away-away! with wild and hurried pace,
Through many a long and echoing room she stole ; No voice arrests her ear, no human face
Bursts on the dreary wildness of her soul. All silent now is that proud dwelling place,— till she reach the goal;
The portal past—she sees her palfrey stand,
Held by a weak and weeping maiden's hand.
Away, away!-the lady hath departed;
The freedom of the land will soon be won:-
Rejoice, ye wronged, and spurned, and broken-hearted,
Rejoice! -for your deliverance is begun.
It's full five minutes since Godiva started,
She'll be among you before half-past one;
Therefore, take care, both bachelors and spouses,
All but the blind, to keep within your houses.
Godiva passed, but all had disappeared,
Each in his dwelling's innermost recess;
One would have thought all mortal eyes had feared
To gaze upon her dazzling loveliness.
Sudden her palfrey stopped, and neighed and reared,
And pricked his ears-as if he would express
That there was something wicked in the wind;
Godiva trembled, and held fast behind.
And here I also must remark, that this is
With ladies very frequently the case,
And beg to hint to all equestrian misses,
That horses' backs are not their proper place.
A woman's forte is music-love-or kisses,
Not leaping gates, or galloping a race;
I used sometimes to ride with them of yore,
And always found them an infernal bore.
The steed grew quiet, and a piercing cry
Burst on Godiva's ear;-she started, and
Beheld a man, who, in a window high,
Shaded his dim eyes with his trembling hand!
He had been led by curiosity
To see her pass, and there had ta'en his stand;
And as he gazed ('t is thus the story's read),
His eye-balls sunk and shrivelled in his head!
I know not, gentles, whether this be true,
If so, you'll own his punishment was just;
Poor wretch!-full dearly had he cause to rue
His prying temper, or unbridled lust.
No more could he his daily toil pursue-
He was a tinker-but his tools might rust;
He might dispose of all his stock of metal,
For ne'er, thence-forward, could he mend a kettle.
Alas! poor Peeping Tom!—Godiva kept
And fed him.-Reader, now my tale is told; I need not state how all the peasants wept,
And laughed, and blest their Countess-young and old
That night Godiva very soundly slept-
I grieve to add she caught a trifling cold;
Leofric's heart was so extremely full,
He roasted for the populace a bull.
There stood an ancient Cross at Coventry,
Pulled down, of late, by order of the Mayor,
Because 't was clear its downfall must be nigh,
And 't would be too expensive to repair;
It bore two figures carved—and you might spy
Beneath them 'graved, in letters large and fair,
"Godiva! Leofric, for love of thee,
Doth make henceforth fair Coventry toll free."
The tale 's believed by all the population,
And still a sham Godiva, every year,
Is carried by the Mayor and Corporation
In grand procession—and the mob get beer.
Gentles, I've spent my fit of inspiration,
Which being over, I must leave you here; And for Godiva-hope you'll decent think her, Laugh at her husband, and forgive the tinker. The Etonian.
BY THOMAS DOUBLEDAY, ESQ.
HARDLY we breathe, although the air be free.
How massively doth awful nature pile
The living rock, like some cathedral aisle,
Sacred to silence and the solemn sea!
How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly,
And under its glassed surface seems to smile,
With many hues, a mimic grove the while,
Of foliage submarine-shrub, flower, and tree!
Beautiful scene! and fitted to alure
The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid;
Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed,
'Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure,
May sport, at noontide, in the caverned shade,
Cold as the shadow, as the waters pure.
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