A Forest Scene in the Days of Wickliffe
A little child she read a book
Beside an open door;
And, as she read page after page,
She wonder’d more and more.
Her little finger carefully
Went pointing out the place;—
Her golden locks hung drooping down,
And shadow’d half her face.
The open book lay on her knee,
Her eyes on it were bent;
And as she read page after page,
The colour came and went.
She sate upon a mossy stone
An open door beside;
And round, for miles on every hand,
Stretch’d out a forest wide.
The summer sun shone on the trees,
The deer lay in the shade;
And overhead the singing birds
Their pleasant clamour made.
There was no garden round the house.
And it was low and small,—
The forest sward grew to the door;
The lichens on the wall.
There was no garden round about,
Yet flowers were growing free,
The cowslip and the daffodil,
Upon the forest-lea.
The butterfly went flitting by,
The bees were in the flowers;
But the little child sate steadfastly,
As she had sate for hours.
“Why sit you here, my little maid?”
An aged pilgrim spake;
The little child look’d upward from her book,
Like one but just awake.
Back fell her locks of golden hair,
And solemn was her look,
And thus she answer’d, witlessly,
“Oh, sir, I read this book!”
“And what is there within that book
To win a child like thee?—
Up! join thy mates, the merry birds,
And frolic with the bee!”
“Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book,
I love it more than play;—
I’ve read all legends, but this one
Ne’er saw I till this day.
“And there is something in this book
That makes all care be gone,—
And yet I weep, I know not why,
As I go reading on!”
“Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read
A book with mickle heed?—
Books are for clerks—the King himself
Hath much ado to read!”
“My father is a forrester—
A bowman keen and good;
He keeps the deer within their bound,
And worketh in the wood.
“My mother died in Candlemas,—
The flowers are all in blow
Upon her grave at Allonby
Down in the dale below.”
This said, unto her book she turned,
As steadfast as before;
“Nay,” said the pilgrim, “nay, not yet,
And you must tell me more.
“Who was it taught you thus to read?”
“Ah, sir, it was my mother,—
She taught me both to read and spell—
And so she taught my brother;
“My brother dwells at Allonby
With the good monks alway;—
And this new book he brought to me,
But only for one day.
“Oh, sir, it is a wondrous book,
Better than Charlemagne,—
And, be you pleased to leave me now,
I’ll read in it again!”
“Nay, read to me,” the pilgrim said;
And the little child went on,
To read of Christ, as was set forth
In the Gospel of St. John.
On, on she read, and gentle tears
Adown her cheeks did slide;
The pilgrim sate, with bended head,
And he wept at her side.
“I’ve heard,” said he, “the Archbishop,
I’ve heard the Pope of Rome,
But never did their spoken words
Thus to my spirit come!
“The book, it is a blessed book!
Its name, what may it be?”
Said she, “They are the words of Christ
That I have read to thee;
Now done into the English tongue
For folks unlearn’d as we!”
“Sancta Marie!” said the man,
Our canons have decreed
That this is an unholy book
For simple folks to read!
“Sancta Maria! Bless’d be God!
Had this good book been mine,
I need not have gone on pilgrimage
To holy Palestine!
“Give me the book, and let me read!
My soul is strangely stirr’d;—
They are such words of love and truth
As ne’er before I heard!”
The little girl gave up the book,
And the pilgrim, old and brown,
With reverent lips did kiss the page,
Then on the stone sat down.
And aye he read page after page;
Page after page he turn’d;
And as he read their blessed words
His heart within him burn’d.
Still, still the book the old man read,
As he would ne’er have done;
From the hour of noon he read the book,
Unto the set of sun.
The little child she brought him out
A cake of wheaten bread;
But it lay unbroke at eventide;
Nor did he raise his head
Until he every written page
Within the book had read.
Then came the sturdy forester
Along the homeward track,
Whistling aloud a hunting tune,
With a slain deer on his back.
Loud greeting gave the forester
Unto the pilgrim poor;
The old man rose with thoughtful brow,
And enter’d at the door.
The two had sate them down to meat,
And the pilgrim ’gan to tell
How he had eaten on Olivet,
And drank at Jacob’s well.
And then he told how he had knelt
Where’er our Lord had pray’d;
How he had in the Garden been,
And the tomb where he was laid;—
And then he turned unto the book,
And read, in English plain,
How Christ had died on Calvary;
How he had risen again;
And all his comfortable words,
His deeds of mercy all,
He read, and of the widow’s mite,
And the poor prodigal.
As water to the parched soil,
As to the hungry, bread,
So fell upon the woodman’s soul
Each word the pilgrim read.
Thus through the midnight did they read,
Until the dawn of day;
And then came in the woodman’s son
To fetch the book away.
All quick and troubled was his speech,
His face was pale with dread,
For he said, “The King hath made a law
That the book must not be read,—
For it was such a fearful heresy,
The holy Abbot said.”
The End