Canterbury Tales and Other Poems by Geoffrey Chaucer (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

an exalting, purifying, and honour-conferring power, which Chaucer has made in “The Court of Love,” is repeated in “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale.” At the same time, the close of the poem leads up to “The Assembly of Fowls;” for, on the appeal of the Nightingale, the dispute between her and the Cuckoo, on the merits and blessings of love, is referred to a parliament of birds, to be held on the morrow after Saint Valentine’s Day. True, the assembly of the feathered tribes described by Chaucer, though held on Saint Valentine’s Day, and engaged in the discussion of a controversy regarding love, is not occupied with the particular cause which in the present poem the Nightingale appeals to the parliament. But “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale” none the less serves as a link between the two poems; indicating as it does the nature of those controversies, in matters subject to the supreme control of the King and Queen of Love, which in the subsequent poem we find the courtiers, under the guise of birds, debating in full conclave and under legal forms. Exceedingly simple in conception, and written in a metre full of musical irregularity and forcible freedom, “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale” yields in vividness, delicacy, and grace to none of Chaucer’s minor poems. We are told that the poet, on the third night of May, is sleepless, and rises early in the morning, to try if he may hear the Nightingale sing. Wandering by a brook-side, he sits down on the flowery lawn, and ere long, lulled by the sweet melody of many birds and the well-according music of the stream, he falls into a kind of doze — “not all asleep, nor fully waking.” Then (an evil omen) he hears the Cuckoo sing before the Nightingale; but soon he hears the Nightingale request the Cuckoo to remove far away, and leave the place to birds that can sing. The Cuckoo enters into a defence of her song, which becomes a railing accusation against Love and a recital of the miseries which Love’s servants endure; the Nightingale vindicates Love in a lofty and tender strain, but is at last overcome with sorrow by the bitter words of the Cuckoo, and calls on the God of Love for help. On this the poet starts up, and, snatching a stone from the brook, throws it at the Cuckoo, who flies away full fast. The grateful Nightingale promises that, for this service, she will be her champion’s singer all that May; she warns him against believing the Cuckoo, the foe of Love; and then, having sung him one of her new songs, she flies away to all the other birds that are in that dale, assembles them, and demands that they should do her right upon the Cuckoo. By one assent it is agreed that a parliament shall be held, “the morrow after Saint Valentine’s Day,” under a maple before the window of Queen Philippa at Woodstock, when judgment shall be passed upon the Cuckoo; then the Nightingale flies into a hawthorn, and sings a lay of love so loud that the poet awakes. The five-line stanza, of which the first, second, and fifth lines agree in one rhyme, the third and fourth in another, is peculiar to this poem; and while the prevailing measure is the decasyllabic line used in the “Canterbury Tales,” many of the lines have one or two syllables less. The poem is given here without abridgement.]

(Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

 

THE God of Love, ah! benedicite,

How mighty and how great a lord is he! <1>

For he can make of lowe heartes high,

And of high low, and like for to die,

And harde heartes he can make free.

 

He can make, within a little stound, moment Of sicke folke whole, and fresh, and sound, And of the whole he can make sick;

He can bind, and unbinden eke,

What he will have bounden or unbound.

 

To tell his might my wit may not suffice; For he can make of wise folk full nice,* — *foolish For he may do all that he will devise, —

And lither* folke to destroye vice, *idle, vicious And proude heartes he can make agrise. tremble Shortly, all that ever he will he may; Against him dare no wight say nay;

For he can glad and grieve *whom him liketh. whom he pleases*

And who that he will, he laugheth or siketh, sigheth And most his might he sheddeth ever in May.

 

For every true gentle hearte free,

That with him is, or thinketh for to be, Against May now shall have some stirring, impulse Either to joy, or else to some mourning, In no season so much, as thinketh me.

 

For when that they may hear the birdes sing, And see the flowers and the leaves spring, That bringeth into hearte’s remembrance A manner ease, *medled with grievance, mingled with sorrow*

And lusty thoughtes full of great longing.

 

And of that longing cometh heaviness,

And thereof groweth greate sickeness,

And <2> for the lack of that that they desire: And thus in May be heartes set on fire, So that they brennen* forth in great distress. *burn I speake this of feeling truely;

If I be old and unlusty,

Yet I have felt the sickness thorough May *Both hot and cold, an access ev’ry day, every day a hot and a How sore, y-wis, there wot no wight but I. cold fit*

 

I am so shaken with the fevers white,

Of all this May sleep I but lite; little And also it is not like* unto me *pleasing That any hearte shoulde sleepy be,

In whom that Love his fiery dart will smite, But as I lay this other night waking,

I thought how lovers had a tokening, significance And among them it was a common tale,

That it were good to hear the nightingale Rather than the lewd cuckoo sing.

 

And then I thought, anon* it was day, *whenever I would go somewhere to assay

If that I might a nightingale hear;

For yet had I none heard of all that year, And it was then the thirde night of May.

 

And anon as I the day espied,

No longer would I in my bed abide;

But to a wood that was fast by,

I went forth alone boldely,

And held the way down by a brooke’s side, Till I came to a laund* of white and green, *lawn So fair a one had I never in been;

The ground was green, *y-powder’d with daisy, strewn with daisies*

The flowers and the *greves like high, bushes of the same height*

All green and white; was nothing elles seen.

 

There sat I down among the faire flow’rs, And saw the birdes trip out of their bow’rs, There as they rested them alle the night; They were so joyful of the daye’s light, They began of May for to do honours.

 

They coud* that service all by rote; *knew There was many a lovely note!

Some sange loud as they had plain’d,

And some in other manner voice feign’d, And some all out with the full throat.

 

They proined* them, and made them right gay, *preened their feathers And danc’d and leapt upon the spray;

And evermore two and two in fere, together Right so as they had chosen them to-year this year In Feverere* upon Saint Valentine’s Day. *February And the river that I sat upon, beside It made such a noise as it ran,

Accordant* with the birde’s harmony, *keeping time with Me thought it was the beste melody

That might be heard of any man.

 

And for delight, I wote never how,

I fell in such a slumber and a swow, — *swoon Not all asleep, nor fully waking, —

And in that swow me thought I hearde sing The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow;

 

And that was on a tree right faste by.

But who was then evil apaid but I? *dissatisfied “Now God,” quoth I, “that died on the crois, cross Give sorrow on thee, and on thy lewed voice!

Full little joy have I now of thy cry.”

 

And as I with the cuckoo thus gan chide, I heard, in the next bush beside,

A nightingale so lustily sing,

That her clear voice she made ring

Through all the greenwood wide.

 

“Ah, good Nightingale,” quoth I then,

“A little hast thou been too long hen; hence, absent For here hath been the lewd cuckow,

And sung songs rather* than hast thou: *sooner I pray to God that evil fire her bren!” burn But now I will you tell a wondrous thing: As long as I lay in that swooning,

Me thought I wist what the birds meant, And what they said, and what was their intent And of their speech I hadde good knowing.

 

There heard I the nightingale say:

“Now, good Cuckoo, go somewhere away,

And let us that can singe dwelle here; For ev’ry wight escheweth* thee to hear, shuns Thy songes be so elenge, in good fay.”* strange **faith “What,” quoth she, “what may thee all now It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou, For my song is both true and plain,

Although I cannot crakel* so in vain, *sing tremulously As thou dost in thy throat, I wot ne’er how.

 

“And ev’ry wight may understande me,

But, Nightingale, so may they not do thee, For thou hast many a nice quaint* cry; *foolish I have thee heard say, ‘ocy, ocy;’ <3>

How might I know what that should be?”

 

“Ah fool,” quoth she, “wost thou not what it is?

When that I say, ‘ocy, ocy,’ y-wis,

Then mean I that I woulde wonder fain

That all they were shamefully slain, *die That meanen aught againe love amiss.

 

“And also I would that all those were dead, That thinke not in love their life to lead, For who so will the god of Love not serve, I dare well say he is worthy to sterve, die And for that skill,* ‘ocy, ocy,’ I grede.”* reason **cry “Ey!” quoth the cuckoo, “this is a quaint* law, *strange That every wight shall love or be to-draw! torn to pieces But I forsake alle such company;

For mine intent is not for to die,

Nor ever, while I live, *on Love’s yoke to draw. to put on love’s yoke*

“For lovers be the folk that be alive, That most disease have, and most unthrive, misfortune And most endure sorrow, woe, and care, And leaste feelen of welfare:

What needeth it against the truth to strive?”

 

“What?” quoth she, “thou art all out of thy mind!

How mightest thou in thy churlishness find To speak of Love’s servants in this wise?

For in this world is none so good service To ev’ry wight that gentle is of kind; “For thereof truly cometh all gladness, All honour and all gentleness,

Worship, ease, and all hearte’s lust, pleasure Perfect joy, and full assured trust,

Jollity, pleasance, and freshness,

 

“Lowlihead, largess, and courtesy,

Seemelihead, and true company,

Dread of shame for to do amiss;

For he that truly Love’s servant is,

Were lother* to be shamed than to die. *more reluctant “And that this is sooth that I say,

In that belief I will live and dey;

And, Cuckoo, so I rede* that thou, do y-wis.” *counsel “Then,” quoth he, “let me never have bliss, If ever I to that counsail obey!

 

“Nightingale, thou speakest wondrous fair, But, for all that, is the sooth contrair; For love is in young folk but rage,

And in