# The Jacquerie. A Fragment/Chapter I

This poem is one of five “chapters” and three “songs” that Sidney Lanier composed in Macon, Georgia in 1868. They were written as parts of a longer planned work, which was never completed before his untimely death at age 39.

### Chapter I

Once on a time, a Dawn, all red and bright Leapt on the conquered ramparts of the Night, And flamed, one brilliant instant, on the world, Then back into the historic moat was hurled And Night was King again, for many years. —Once on a time the Rose of Spring blushed out But Winter angrily withdrew it back Into his rough new-bursten husk, and shut The stern husk-leaves, and hid it many years. —Once Famine tricked himself with ears of corn, And Hate strung flowers on his spiked belt, And glum Revenge in silver lilies pranked him, And Lust put violets on his shameless front, And all minced forth o’ the street like holiday folk That sally off afield on Summer morns. —Once certain hounds that knew of many a chase, And bare great wounds of antler and of tusk That they had ta’en to give a lord some sport, —Good hounds, that would have died to give lords sport— Were so bewrayed and kicked by these same lords That all the pack turned tooth o’ the knights and bit As knights had been no better things than boars, And took revenge as bloody as a man’s, Unhoundlike, sudden, hot i’ the chops, and sweet. —Once sat a falcon on a lady’s wrist, Seeming to doze, with wrinkled eye-lid drawn, But dreaming hard of hoods and slaveries And of dim hungers in his heart and wings. Then, while the mistress gazed above for game, Sudden he flew into her painted face And hooked his horn-claws in her lily throat And drove his beak into her lips and eyes In fierce and hawkish kissing that did scar And mar the lady’s beauty evermore. —And once while Chivalry stood tall and lithe And flashed his sword above the stricken eyes Of all the simple peasant-folk of France: While Thought was keen and hot and quick, And did not play, as in these later days, Like summer-lightning flickering in the west —As little dreadful as if glow-worms lay In the cool and watery clouds and glimmered weak— But gleamed and struck at once or oak or man, And left not space for Time to wave his wing Betwixt the instantaneous flash and stroke: While yet the needs of life were brave and fierce And did not hide their deeds behind their words, And logic came not ‘twixt desire and act, And Want-and-Take was the whole Form of life: While Love had fires a-burning in his veins, And hidden Hate could flash into revenge: Ere yet young Trade was ’ware of his big thews Or dreamed that in the bolder afterdays He would hew down and bind old Chivalry And drag him to the highest height of fame And plunge him thence in the sea of still Romance To lie for aye in never-rusted mail Gleaming through quiet ripples of soft songs And sheens of old traditionary tales; — On such a time, a certain May arose From out that blue Sea that between five lands Lies like a violet midst of five large leaves, Arose from out this violet and flew on And stirred the spirits of the woods of France And smoothed the brows of moody Auvergne hills, And wrought warm sea-tints into maidens’ eyes, And calmed the wordy air of market-towns With faint suggestions blown from distant buds, Until the land seemed a mere dream of land, And, in this dream-field Life sat like a dove And cooed across unto her dove-mate Death, Brooding, pathetic, by a river, lone. Oh, sharper tangs pierced through this perfumed May. Strange aches sailed by with odors on the wind As when we kneel in flowers that grow on graves Of friends who died unworthy of our love. King John of France was proving such an ache In English prisons wide and fair and grand, Whose long expanses of green park and chace Did ape large liberty with such success As smiles of irony ape smiles of love. Down from the oaks of Hertford Castle park, Double with warm rose-breaths of southern Spring Came rumors, as if odors too had thorns, Sharp rumors, how the three Estates of France, Like old Three-headed Cerberus of Hell Had set upon the Duke of Normandy, Their rightful Regent, snarled in his great face, Snapped jagged teeth in inch-breadth of his throat, And blown such hot and savage breath upon him, That he had tossed great sops of royalty Unto the clamorous, three-mawed baying beast. And was not further on his way withal, And had but changed a snarl into a growl: How Arnold de Cervolles had ta’en the track That war had burned along the unhappy land, Shouting, ‘since France is then too poor to pay The soldiers that have bloody devoir done, And since needs must, pardie! a man must eat, Arm, gentlemen! swords slice as well as knives!’ And so had tempted stout men from the ranks, And now was adding robbers’ waste to war’s, Stealing the leavings of remorseless battle, And making gaunter the gaunt bones of want: How this Cervolles (called “Arch-priest” by the mass) Through warm Provence had marched and menace made Against Pope Innocent at Avignon, And how the Pope nor ate nor drank nor slept, Through godly fear concerning his red wines. For if these knaves should sack his holy house And all the blessed casks be knocked o’ the head, Horrendum! all his Holiness’ drink to be Profanely guzzled down the reeking throats Of scoundrels, and inflame them on to seize The massy coffers of the Church’s gold, And steal, mayhap, the carven silver shrine And all the golden crucifixes? No! — And so the holy father Pope made stir And had sent forth a legate to Cervolles, And treated with him, and made compromise, And, last, had bidden all the Arch-priest’s troop To come and banquet with him in his house, Where they did wassail high by night and day And Father Pope sat at the board and carved  Midst jokes that flowed full greasily, And priest and soldier trolled good songs for mass, And all the prayers the Priests made were, ‘pray, drink,’ And all the oaths the Soldiers swore were, ‘drink!’ Till Mirth sat like a jaunty postillon Upon the back of Time and urged him on With piquant spur, past chapel and past cross: How Charles, King of Navarre, in long duress By mandate of King John within the walls Of Crevacoeur and then of strong Alleres, In faithful ward of Sir Tristan du Bois, Was now escaped, had supped with Guy Kyrec, Had now a pardon of the Regent Duke By half compulsion of a Paris mob, Had turned the people’s love upon himself By smooth harangues, and now was bold to claim That France was not the Kingdom of King John, But, By our Lady, his, by right and worth, And so was plotting treason in the State, And laughing at weak Charles of Normandy. Nay, these had been like good news to the King, Were any man but bold enough to tell The King what [bitter] sayings men had made And hawked augmenting up and down the land Against the barons and great lords of France That fled from English arrows at Poictiers. Poictiers, Poictiers: this grain i’ the eye of France Had swelled it to a big and bloodshot ball That looked with rage upon a world askew. Poictiers’ disgrace was now but two years old, Yet so outrageous rank and full was grown That France was wholly overspread with shade, And bitter fruits lay on the untilled ground That stank and bred so foul contagious smells That not a nose in France but stood awry, Nor boor that cried not faugh! upon the air.