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Whan Aprill’s ghost, with shoures late and sly,
Had wash’d the bookes clean of memory,
I, pilgrim poor, to Caunterbury wente,
For mirth and penance, both in one y-meinte.
Our Hoost, that lov’d a tart and learned tale,
Bad me rehearse a storie sherp and stale—
“Nat stale,” quod I, “but yren-hote and bright,
Of chaunged crookes and crozier’d new delight.”
Lo, first there rood a lady, fressh y-mitred,
A Prelatessë, smylende, sleek, and flitred;
“Dame Sarra” y-clept (so singen clerkes thin),
That wrote her crede with goos-quill made of tin—
Full light it scriven was, and soon amendid,
As wind of court or journale list pretendid.
She spak ful softe of “chois” and “autonomie,”
With termes newe y-brouht from Sorbonie;
And whyl she louted low to worldes eares,
She prunèd Doctrine’s thornës into peares.
“Peace! Peace!” quod she, “let conscïence be plaine,”
Yet bade the trump to pipe a courtly strain;
With rochet white and wimple press-release,
She bless’d debate and chrism’d Compromise.
Her crook look’d glauncing as a looking-glasse—
It stered not the sheepe, but check’d the classe.
Anon ther steppeth Reginald, Pole y-hote,
Last Catholike of Cantaur by that lot,
With Rome ful fasten’d in his brest y-stitched,
A martyr’s kin, in exil often pitched.
No tweet he knew, ne pressë for to please,
But Latin psalm and penitential knees;
His pall was gravë cloth, nat stage’s lawn,
His signet: tears that water’d England’s dawn.
He banquetteth not with noveltie for sauce,
But serveth Truth, tho’ garlanded with loss;
His “yea” was yea, his “nay” a nailèd nay,
As Peter’s barque did round the headland sway.
“Good Dame,” quod Pole (I herd it in my dreem),
“Thy woordës trippe as swallows at the streme;
But Faith, that once for all delyverèd,
Abhorreth gloss where blood is newly shed.
Lo, mother Church is nat a merchaunt’s stall,
To weigh the lambs by market’s festival;
Nor may a crook, y-shap’d of courtly reed,
Grow green by praysing weeds for wheaten seed.”
She smyled—O sleek curteisye of our age!—
And turn’d her pastorellë to a page;
“Sir Cardinal,” quod she, “be debonaire:
We play at synod; every voice a chair.
The world is wyde, and many tents are spred;
Let lex caritatis cover all that’s said.”
Thus, with a bow that might a sceptre bend,
She grac’d the gate and never touch’d the end.
But I, that am a pilgrim mean and thin,
In alehouse light I mark’d the jingling din:
How verity, that simple, sharp, and spare,
Sat like a widow, hooded, on a chair;
And Policy, that wanton curate spry,
Danc’d ringës round her with a moral eye.
The Host, that loveth sauce of quick desport,
Cried, “Knight! Clerk! Nun! Bring forth a brisk report—
Which crozier keepeth crookëd backes more straite:
The oken staff, or scepter varnish’d late?”
Then spak an olde Plowman by the fire:
“Whan fields ben thynne and wolves to foldes enquire,
The shepherd’s craft is not to please the moon,
But cry ‘Avaunt!’ and break the robber soon.”
“Y-wis,” quod I, “and he that loveth peace
Must hold his peace to Martyr’s master-piece.”
Envoy:
Go, litel balade, with thy pricky style,
And aske the learned for to bide a while;
If any stomak quake at ironie,
Pray hem remembre Pole’s fidelitie:
For Canterbury’s stones—tho’ kingdoms vary—
Know who did blede, and who but bade to tarry.
And if thou finde a crook that’s made of glass,
Crave grace of God—lest everie wolf may pass.
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When April’s ghost, with late and crafty showers,
had washed the books clean of memory,
I, a poor pilgrim, went to Canterbury
for merriment and penance, both together.
Our Host, who loved a sharp, learned tale,
bade me tell a story, “sharp yet stale.”
“Not stale,” said I, “but iron-hot and bright—
of altered crooks and newly crosiered delights.”
Look—first there rode a lady, newly mitred,
a Prelatess, smiling, sleek, glittering;
called “Dame Sarah” (so these thin-nerved clerks sing),
who wrote her creed with a tin goose-quill—
written very lightly, soon amended,
whenever courts or journals changed their wind.
She spoke very softly of “choice” and “autonomy,”
with new terms shipped in from the Sorbonne;
and while she bowed low to the world’s ears,
she trimmed the thorns of Doctrine into soft pears.
“Peace! Peace!” she cried, “let conscience be plain,”
yet bade the trumpet play a courtly tune;
in white rochet with a press-release for wimple,
she blessed debate and anointed Compromise.
Her crozier shone like a looking-glass—
not steering sheep, but managing the audience.
Soon there stepped Reginald—called Pole—
the last Catholic Archbishop of Canterbury;
Rome was stitched fast within his breast,
kin to martyrs, often flung into exile.
He knew no tweets, nor flattered the press—
only Latin psalms and penitential knees.
His pall was grave-cloth, not theatrical lawn;
his seal: the tears that watered England’s dawn.
He did not feast with novelty as sauce;
he served the Truth, though crowned with loss.
His “yea” was yea; his “nay,” a nailed nay—
as Peter’s barque swung round the headland.
“Good Lady,” said Pole (I heard it in a dream),
“Your words flit like swallows over the stream;
but the Faith, once for all delivered,
abhors fine gloss where blood lies fresh.
Behold—Mother Church is no merchant’s stall,
to weigh her lambs by market holidays;
nor can a crook, shaped from courtly reeds,
turn green by praising weeds as wheat.”
She smiled—O the sleek courtesy of our age!—
and turned her pastoral staff into a page;
“Sir Cardinal,” she said, “be debonair:
we play at synod—every voice gets a chair.
The world is wide; many tents are spread;
let the law of charity cover all that’s said.”
Thus, with a bow that could bend a scepter,
she graced the threshold, never reaching the substance.
But I—a lean, lowly pilgrim—
in tavern light watched the jangling din:
how Truth, simple, sharp, and spare,
sat like a hooded widow on a chair;
while Policy, that frisky little curate,
danced circles round her with righteous eyes.
The Host, who loves a quick, spicy sport,
cried, “Knight! Clerk! Nun! Give us a brisk report—
which crozier straightens crooked backs more:
the oaken staff, or the newly varnished scepter?”
Then an old Plowman spoke by the fire:
“When fields grow thin and wolves nose round the folds,
the shepherd’s art is not to please the moon,
but shout ‘Begone!’ and smash the thief at once.”
“Indeed,” said I, “and he who loves peace
must submit his calm to the Martyr’s masterpiece (the Cross).”
Envoy:
Go, little ballad, with your prickly style,
and ask the learned to linger for a while;
if any stomach quakes at irony,
beg them remember Pole’s fidelity:
for Canterbury’s stones—though realms may change—
know who bled, and who merely counseled delay.
And if you find a crozier made of glass,
ask God for grace—lest every wolf slip past.
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In the course of human events, 7:05 was when the sun rose here.
