# The Jacquerie. A Fragment/Chapter IV

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 IV

Lord Raoul drew rein with all his company, And urged his horse i’ the crowd, to gain fair view Of him that spoke, and stopped at last, and sat Still, underneath where Gris Grillon was laid, And heard, somewhile, with languid scornful gaze, The friar putting blame on priest and knight. But presently, as ’twere in weariness, He gazed about, and then above, and so Made mark of Gris Grillon.  “So, there, old man, Thou hast more brows than legs!”  “I would,” quoth Gris, “That thou, upon a certain time I wot, Hadst had less legs and bigger brows, my Lord!” Then all the flatterers and their squires cried out Solicitous, with various voice, “Go to, Old Rogue,” or “Shall I brain him, my good Lord?” Or, “So, let me but chuck him from his perch,” Or, “Slice his tongue to piece his leg withal,” Or, “Send his eyes to look for his missing arms.” But my Lord Raoul was in the mood, to-day, Which craves suggestions simply with a view To flout them in the face, and so waved hand Backward, and stayed the on-pressing sycophants Eager to buy rich praise with bravery cheap. “I would know why,” —he said— “thou wishedst me Less legs and bigger brows; and when?”  “Wouldst know? Learn then,” cried Gris Grillon and stirred himself, In a great spasm of passion mixed with pain; “An thou hadst had more courage and less speed, Then, ah my God! then could not I have been That piteous gibe of a man thou see’st I am. Sir, having no disease, nor any taint Nor old hereditament of sin or shame, —But, feeling the brave bound and energy Of daring health that leaps along the veins— As a hart upon his river banks at morn, —Sir, wild with the urgings and hot strenuous beats Of manhood’s heart in this full-sinewed breast Which thou may’st even now discern is mine, —Sir, full aware, each instant in each day, Of motions of great muscles, once were mine, And thrill of tense thew-knots, and stinging sense Of nerves, nice, capable and delicate: —Sir, visited each hour by passions great That lack all instrument of utterance, Passion of love—that hath no arm to curve; Passion of speed—that hath no limb to stretch; Yea, even that poor feeling of desire Simply to turn me from this side to that, (Which brooded on, into wild passion grows By reason of the impotence that broods) Balked of its end and unachievable Without assistance of some foreign arm, —Sir, moved and thrilled like any perfect man, O, trebly moved and thrilled, since poor desires That are of small import to happy men Who easily can compass them, to me Become mere hopeless Heavens or actual Hells, —Sir, strengthened so with manhood’s seasoned soul, I lie in this damned cradle day and night, Still, still, so still, my Lord: less than a babe In powers but more than any man in needs; Dreaming, with open eye, of days when men Have fallen cloven through steel and bone and flesh At single strokes of this—of that big arm Once wielded aught a mortal arm might wield, Waking a prey to any foolish gnat That wills to conquer my defenceless brow And sit thereon in triumph; hounded ever By small necessities of barest use Which, since I cannot compass them alone, Do snarl my helplessness into mine ear, Howling behind me that I have no hands, And yelping round me that I have no feet: So that my heart is stretched by tiny ills That are so much the larger that I knew In bygone days how trifling small they were: —Dungeoned in wicker, strong as ’twere in stone; —Fast chained with nothing, firmer than with steel; —Captive in limb, yet free in eye and ear, Sole tenant of this puny Hell in Heaven: —And this—all this—because I was a man! For, in the battle—ha, thou know’st, pale-face! When that the four great English horsemen bore So bloodily on thee, I leapt to front To front of thee—of thee—and fought four blades, Thinking to win thee time to snatch thy breath, And, by a rearing fore-hoof stricken down,  Mine eyes, through blood, my brain, through pain, —Midst of a dim hot uproar fainting down— Were ’ware of thee, far rearward, fleeing! Hound!”