The Rhyme of Sir Christopher

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner,Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,From Merry England over the sea,Who stepped upon this continentAs if his august presence lentA glory to the colony.

You should have seen him in the streetOf the little Boston of Winthrop's time,His rapier dangling at his feetDoublet and hose and boots complete,Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume,Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume,Luxuriant curls and air sublime,And superior manners now obsolete!

He had a way of saying thingsThat made one think of courts and kings,And lords and ladies of high degree;So that not having been at courtSeemed something very little shortOf treason or lese-majesty,Such an accomplished knight was he.

His dwelling was just beyond the town,At what he called his country-seat;For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown,And weary grown of the world and its ways,He wished to pass the rest of his daysIn a private life and a calm retreat.

But a double life was the life he led,And, while professing to be in searchOf a godly course, and willing, he said,Nay, anxious to join the Puritan church,He made of all this but small account,And passed his idle hours insteadWith roystering Morton of Merry Mount,That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn,Lord of misrule and riot and sin,Who looked on the wine when it was red.

This country-seat was little moreThan a cabin of log's; but in front of the doorA modest flower-bed thickly sownWith sweet alyssum and columbineMade those who saw it at once divineThe touch of some other hand than his own.And first it was whispered, and then it was known,That he in secret was harboring thereA little lady with golden hair,Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wedIn the Italian manner, as men said,And great was the scandal everywhere.

But worse than this was the vague surmise,Though none could vouch for it or aver,That the Knight of the Holy SepulchreWas only a Papist in disguise;And the more to imbitter their bitter lives,And the more to trouble the public mind,Came letters from England, from two other wives,Whom he had carelessly left behind;Both of them letters of such a kindAs made the governor hold his breath;The one imploring him straight to sendThe husband home, that he might amend;The other asking his instant death,As the only way to make an end.

The wary governor deemed it right,When all this wickedness was revealed,To send his warrant signed and sealed,And take the body of the knight.Armed with this mighty instrument,The marshal, mounting his gallant steed,Rode forth from town at the top of his speed,And followed by all his bailiffs bold,As if on high achievement bent,To storm some castle or stronghold,Challenge the warders on the wall,And seize in his ancestral hallA robber-baron grim and old.

But when though all the dust and heatHe came to Sir Christopher's country-seat,No knight he found, nor warder there,But the little lady with golden hair,Who was gathering in the bright sunshineThe sweet alyssum and columbine;While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay,Being forewarned, through the postern gateOf his castle wall had tripped away,And was keeping a little holidayIn the forests, that bounded his estate.

Then as a trusty squire and trueThe marshal searched the castle through,Not crediting what the lady said;Searched from cellar to garret in vain,And, finding no knight, came out againAnd arrested the golden damsel instead,And bore her in triumph into the town,While from her eyes the tears rolled downOn the sweet alyssum and columbine,That she held in her fingers white and fine.

The governor's heart was moved to seeSo fair a creature caught withinThe snares of Satan and of sin,And he read her a little homilyOn the folly and wickedness of the livesOf women, half cousins and half wives;But, seeing that naught his words availed,He sent her away in a ship that sailedFor Merry England over the sea,To the other two wives in the old countree,To search her further, since he had failedTo come at the heart of the mystery.

Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered awayThrough pathless woods for a month and a day,Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at nightWith the noble savage, who took delightIn his feathered hat and his velvet vest,His gun and his rapier and the rest.But as soon as the noble savage heardThat a bounty was offered for this gay bird,He wanted to slay him out of hand,And bring in his beautiful scalp for a show,Like the glossy head of a kite or crow,Until he was made to understandThey wanted the bird alive, not dead;Then he followed him whithersoever he fled,Through forest and field, and hunted him down,And brought him prisoner into the town.

Alas! it was a rueful sight,To see this melancholy knightIn such a dismal and hapless case;His hat deformed by stain and dent,His plumage broken, his doublet rent,His beard and flowing locks forlorn,Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn,His boots with dust and mire besprent;But dignified in his disgrace,And wearing an unblushing face.And thus before the magistrateHe stood to hear the doom of fate.In vain he strove with wonted easeTo modify and extenuateHis evil deeds in church and state,For gone was now his power to please;And his pompous words had no more weightThan feathers flying in the breeze.

With suavity equal to his ownThe governor lent a patient earTo the speech evasive and highflown,In which he endeavored to make clearThat colonial laws were too severeWhen applied to a gallant cavalier,A gentleman born, and so well known,And accustomed to move in a higher sphere.

All this the Puritan governor heard,And deigned in answer never a word;But in summary manner shipped away,In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay,This splendid and famous cavalier,With his Rupert hat and his popery,To Merry England over the sea,As being unmeet to inhabit here.

Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher,Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,The first who furnished this barren landWith apples of Sodom and ropes of sand.