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a collection of literature from poets, bards, songwriters, and skalds in the SCA

Know this old castle welle

olivier's picture
olivier
Poem (Canso): 

Know this old castle welle, upon whose stone
You tread, and in whose walles lived once a manne
Whose grace and vertue there twin hath bene none,
Though we myghte imitate him, as we canne.

Althogh many him knew, but few they were
Ageynst the host of those who lacked that pryse.
Hope we thus that these rocks the wether beare
And by his memory virtue then ryse.

The keeps fundatioun Eneas set,
Its arches Boece and Pythagros raysed;
Throgh Orfeo beautee and kyndnesse met
And Troilus the fruites of long labours praysed.

Step then onto this hallowed coble grounde
And thinke upon what of him now remaines:
The forme to which his spirit hath no bounde,
Save that which true nobilitie engraines.

His brow, this halle, where wisdome did resyde
And spring forwarde in aide to al he knew;
So that not he alone his wit colde gyde,
But in eache soul the seedes of reason grew.

Upon the gate his face was flag of joye,
That he might also share of lyf his love:
None he denied, no thoughte did him annoy,
And shewed how to live welle as writ above.

He did serve honestely, with heralds tonge,
To speake corteous and eke in ful truth
For king and realme, and ladie, do no wronge
But nurture many hearts to sweete rebirth.

His eye, that towre above, which surveiled all
And judged with only love and mercie greate,
Myghte have in other no swich wherwithal
To rejecte crueltie or vice defeate.

These men, extensions of his mighty handes,
Labor and help with all that they can reche
And serve the folke of his beloved landes,
To his own payne would gladde he others tecche.

That throne, his hearte, was not gilded so welle
As oughte, if such virtue can be so clad
In leaf or cloth that suits mannes rough clay shelle;
No cloak for swich pure love hath yet been made.

His forme the rampart is, and walls without,
That did encircle and enframe his soule.
There wille and wyt did baser passions rout
Together making of the manne this whole.

Yet even nowe the fair halles emptied are,
And cracke the stones under the weight of tyme;
O happy knight, whose castell was thy care,
Sleepe well to musicke of a cosmic ryme.

And as for us, that shelter in hys shade,
May we but reade the longe lines of his face,
That somdaye share his virtue as a trade
And witnesse how the Son doth mete His Grace.

Documentation / Explanation (Razo): 

This poem was written in honor of Duke Gyrth Oldcastle of Ravenspur, who passed away on November 12, 2004. He was a paragon of chivalry and courtesy, and while I did not know him well during his life, I hope that those who did might be comforted by the poor tribute I could offer to a man whom many of us in the SCA owe a great debt.

I based this poem (I hope fittingly!) on Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey's, 1542 (or so) tribute to Sir Thomas Wyatt, “Wyatt resteth here.”

Wyatt was essentially the first English Renaissance poet - he introduced the works of Petrarch to Henry VIII's court with his own sometimes-loose translations of the Rime Sparse.

Howard was a generation after Wyatt, and had an education that Wyatt couldn't afford - Howard studied the classics and looked to them for guidance and inspiration in his works. He invented blank verse to translate Virgil's Aeneid into a proper English form. He (like Wyatt in this regard) studied and imitated Chaucer for English poetry, but Howard also imitated Wyatt (beyond just translating Petrarch himself!), whom he considered the 'new' classic poet to emulate.

"Wyatt resteth here" is 38 lines long - 1 line for each year of Wyatt's life. I made Gyrth's 52 lines, because I understand he was very close to his 52nd birthday if not there already. Plus, it allows for every line to have a rhyme, while 51 doesn't.

I hoped to imitate the best of the English poets to give him something that he might find suitable, though perhaps (and modestly so) unwarranted.