William G. Carpenter

Dev-Ex Passes the Bourne

Robert Devereux, Third Earl of Essex (“Dev-Ex”), served as captain-general of the Parliamentary army from 1642 to 1645, when the “war party” in Parliament engineered the Self-Denying Ordinance, which resulted in the appointment of Sir Thomas Fairfax in his place. In this excerpt from a poem on the English Civil War, he has fallen ill hunting in Windsor Forest.

When Dev-Ex raised his eyes, he saw a crowd 
of noble men and women standing before him, 
resplendent in their voluminous courtier’s garb 
and smiling artlessly to wish him welcome: 
his lordly father, heavy-eyed and bearded; 
his old grandmother Knollys, Countess of Leicester; 
his mother, Frances, Countess of Clanricarde; 
his aunts, Penelope Blount, Countess of Devonshire, 
mother of Mountjoy Blount,* who fought for Charles, 
antea, of Rich-Holland and Rich-Warwick, 
and Dorothy, who was Countess of Northumberland, 
mother of Percy-N and Lucy Percy;* 
his sister, who was Lady Dorothy Shirley;* 
her sweet son, Sir Charles,* newly deceased; 
and Sir Walter,* Dev-Ex’ base-born half-brother, 
a lifelong friend and ally in the Commons. 
Beside their father stood a well-formed youth, 
who had his mother’s roseate, soft charm, 
whom Dev-Ex knew to be his much-rued son.*

More plainly dressed, he saw the friends he missed, 
Hampden, Pym, and godly Greville-Brooke. 
None of the Stuarts he had known were present, 
Prince Henry nor King James. Nor Anne of Denmark. 
Nor Henrietta Maria’s father, Henry. 
Nor any of the Howards. Frances, Suffolk.* 
Nor Nottingham.* Northampton.* Strafford. Laud. 
He anxiously demanded of his father, 
“Where are my enemies? Is this a trial? 
Who shall judge my cause? May I have counsel?” 
His grandmother replied, “What see you, Robin? 
Do we seem eager to hear testimony?” 
“I see the shadowy hall where we tried Strafford,” 
he said, “and scaffolding to seat the thousands.” 
His grandmother and father traded glances. 
“Tis strange,” his father said, who’d twice been tried. 
The Countess said, “Tis a figment of your sorrow. 
To us, we stand beneath a cloudless heaven, 
the Lord God’s sunlight pouring through our souls. 
We’ve come to lead you into His great city.” 

“The scaffolds,” said his father, “hold the thousands, 
soldiers and subjects, all who prayed for you 
and your success commanding the Houses’ armies. 
Your kinsfolk through the centuries have gathered, 
and curious souls who recognize your virtue. 
Even an angel, here or there, perhaps, 
in honor of your military toils. 
You were the best of us,” his father added, 
“in life, that is. At least the equal of 
Sir Walter, our Lord Chancellor of Ireland, 
who joined the Duke of York at First St. Albans;* 
or William who allied himself with Montfort* 
and died for English liberties at Evesham;* 
or Richard Sans Peur, who retook his country; 
or William Long Espee, who fought to hold it; 
or Rollo, who won country and salvation.” 

“You have your Cadiz victory,” Dev-Ex said, 
first noticing the faded braid of scars 
that circumscribed his father’s bearded neck. 
“And you your Turnham Green,” his father answered, 
“your Gloucester, Cirencester, and First Newbury. 
You were not driven mad by a mad sovereign, 
but met Charles in the field, man to man.” 
No need to name notorious debacles; 
the sky was clear, just as the Countess said. 
Dev-Ex tossed his hat (which came from where?) 
and heard a heartfelt roar of approbation. 

  He saw an open gate in the high stone wall, 
broader, taller than any of London’s seven. 
“So much for the strait gate,” he muttered softly. 
The sunlight dimmed. “What suits our souls in life,” 
the Countess said with no reproachful tone, 
“may not conduce to health and growth thereafter.” 
“What is this place?” asked Dev-Ex as they passed 
beneath the hugeous, menacing portcullis. 
“Not Tartarus, I hope. I see no rivers. 
No Styx, no Cocytus, no Phlegethon. 
I see no ferryman. Will I be judged?” 
The Second Earl smiled in loving fashion. 
“Nor Minos, nor no Rhadamanthus neither. 
Old fables for our betterment,” he said. 
“Even the Unquenched Worm and Lake of Flame.” 
The Countess said, “He can restrain His flames.” 

  Within the gate, a paved square seemed to extend 
for several furlongs west and south and east. 
Dev-Ex saw the crowd had dissipated. 
Houses and numerous churches lined the square. 
The Second Earl, Dev-Ex’ father, said: 
“All through our lives, we train our wills and minds. 
We form our habits in the flesh and spirit. 
Each deed, each word, each thought, for good or ill.” 
The Countess stopped and took her grandson’s arm. 
“Here we choose the souls with whom we wish 
to spend the rest of time approaching God. 
We give ourselves to prayerful exercises, 
reforming mind and will to heal the hurts 
our souls received when we made room for sin – 
to train ourselves to battle with the Dragon. 
You were always dear to me, young Robin. 
I choose you. And many others here.” 

  Dev-Ex smiled and placed his hand on hers. 
“And I choose you, most willingly, forever. 
But what you say – what you describe, dear Gammer – 
tis purgatory – no warrant, if I recall – 
a vain thing – and repugnant to the Word.” 
The Second Earl cut in. “No, son,” he said. 
“Tis Christian liberty. We choose our friends. 
We choose the path we wish to walk with them. 
Yes, live with us, as your grandmother offers.” 
“Most happily,” said Dev-Ex, “yea, forever. 
But how forgive our debtors, whom we see not? 
How reconcile with our absent brothers? 
So much I want to know and understand, 
and beg forgiveness where I surely erred.” 
Now Dev-Ex’ father and his father’s mother 
each laid a courteous hand on Dev-Ex’ shoulder. 

    “You are good,” his grandmother concluded. 
“Your brother’s here – but that’s not what you’re asking. 
You’ll learn, as you aspire to your salvation, 
you are not ready to forsake your post 
to bring ambiguous solace to another, 
whom you conceive your kindliness will bless. 
You’re free, of course, to seek out any person, 
living or dead, and speak what speech you will, 
of comfort, admonition, or confession, 
but most here will acknowledge we’re not fit 
to intervene in other souls’ occasions.” 

    “Ah,” said Dev-Ex, turning to his father, 
“then it wasn’t you who came to me in the forest? 
Shining like Helios or Phoebus Apollo? 
An angel, was it? A vision of Our Lord?” 

    “I’ve not yet seen an angel, or Our Lord,” 
the Second Earl said, as they neared a church 
that could have stood in any town in England. 
“I am not worthy, yet, of such high favor. 
Perhaps you are. You’ve suffered much, my son. 
But if you look for someone who’s not here, 
she’s gone elsewhere for reasons of her own. 
There are other gates and places here. 
Her, or their, affinity has charted, 
we pray, a different course to eternal life. 
But if she castigates herself and others 
for every wound inflicted and received, 
her soul has chosen hurt above salvation 
and hourly disdains Our Savior’s love. 
Such souls compose an affinity of malice, 
of cruelty improved by emulation. 
That sort of spirit seldom hesitates 
to propagate its pains upon the living.” 
The church door was open. The usher beckoned. 

    “You’ll find,” the Countess, Dev-Ex’ avia said, 
“the foibles, vices, lies, misunderstandings, 
the ugly crimes, the sin, the sin, the sin, 
all run together in one sickening flood, 
and we pay less and less attention to them. 
Instead, we’re captivated by God’s plan 
to bring even the wickedest to Him.” 

    “So join us, Robin,” said the Second Earl, 
“join us in preparing for the struggle.” 
They found their places. It was Evening Prayer. 
“O Lord, open Thou our lips,” the priest entreated. 
Dev-Ex thought he recognized the man. 
He answered, “And our mouth shall show forth Thy praise.” 
Dev-Ex breathed his last. He relaxed his grip, 
gently letting fall Rich-Holland’s* hand. 

Notes

*Mountjoy Blount 1597-1666, Earl of Newport

*Lucy Percy Hay 1599-1660, Countess of Carlisle

*Lady Dorothy Devereux Shirley 1600-1636

*Sir Charles Shirley 1623-1646

*Sir Walter Devereux MP 1591-1641

*Robert Devereux 1636-1636, Viscount Hereford

*Thomas Howard 1561-1626, 1st Earl of Suffolk, 4th creation

*Charles Howard 1536-1624, 1st Earl of Nottingham, 6th creation

*Henry Howard 1540-1614, Earl of Northampton, 4th creation

*May 22, 1455

*Simon de Montfort 1208-1265, 6th Earl of Leicester, 1st creation

*Aug 12, 1465

*Henry Rich 1590-1649, Earl of Holland

Other excerpts from this work available online

"The Sword of Gideon" at Expansive Poetry Online

"The Loss of the West" at Illuminations of the Fantastic

"Dispatches from 1643" at The Brazen Head

William G. Carpenter is the author of Eþandun (Beavers Pond Press: St. Paul, Minn., 2020), an epic poem relating young King Alfred’s struggle with the invading Danes in 878. Excerpts of his current project on the English Civil War have been posted at Expansive Poetry Online, The Brazen Head, and Illuminations of the Fantastic.