University of Virginia Library

SCENE XII.
THE COMBAT.

I.

“Summon the Baron of Vaumond
From treason foul and dæmon bond,
To cleanse his honour's stain!”
—I cannot tell the countless throng
Whose gathering thousands roll'd along
Upon the echoing plain;
As waves the serried grain, each crest
By every transient gale carest,
That undulating multitude
A mingling mass all anxious stood.

II.

About the barrier, far and near
They press its sides to gain,
Where the mail'd ranks with bristling spear
And flaming steel their might uprear,
Their foaming chargers rein.
Above, enthron'd in ermin'd state
The monarch of the pageant sate;
Beneath, an ancient, stern array
Were plac'd the umpires of the day:
Stream'd on their robes of sable die
The wintry honours blanch'd by time,—
But beam'd from every steady eye
The firmer glances of their prime.
The light from youth's inconstant orb
Is glorious as the summer tide;
But mists its brightness must absorb,
And shadows must its brilliance hide;
Keen—but not fierce, and cold—yet bright
The ray of age's chasten'd light.

III.

In sterner dignity uprose
Gonsalvo's form; where age's snows
For pity sue—yet awe inspire;
That lonely, widow'd, childless sire,
Whose heart pride would not break, and fed
The core on which remembrance prey'd,
That told of her, who all had been,—
Now worse than nought—of Imogen.

IV.

Now in the lists their palfreys pranc'd
As the shrill-ton'd heralds forth advanc'd;
The trumpet's pealing clangours broke—
With Vaumond's name the plains awoke;
Thrice, loud, distinctly sent, the sound—
While echo answer'd all aroud:
And as yon hills that circling sweep
Prolong'd the summons quick and deep,
Seem'd that the earth he would betray
Call'd him, the forfeit dread to pay.—
Died the third summon's distant note,
In lingering murmurs heard remote:
Thro' that vast crowd that hides the plain
Doth a stilly expectation reign,
As if they watch'd the appointed tide,
When heaven shall furl her arch of pride!

V.

Upon yon green hill's sunny brow
Flashes a gleaming blaze—
It shoots adown the dark sward now
Upon the eager gaze;
It is his glittering armour flings
Reflected day afar—
It is his coal-black steed that springs
Fleet as that day's high car!
And now he gains the circling bound
Where swarming vassals clos'd around;
In many a swell tumultuous thrown,
They scatter'd as his steed dash'd on;—
As when the billowy mists above
Down the veil'd mountain trembling move—
Successive rolls each mingling host,—
So, till that foaming courser crost
The barrier, from his ardent side
The severing myriads wild divide.

VI.

Forth from his selle the baron bold
Sprang in his coat of burning gold.
A priest before the conclave stood,
And bore on high the blessed wood,
Type of a suffering Saviour's wo,
Endur'd for guilty race below.
All vainly,—the accuser said,
For dark Vaumond that blood was shed!—
The old men who should doom award
Fix'd on the chief their stern regard;
And every knight's indignant look
Fell on him who his faith forsook.
Unbending, proud, amid his peers
His stalworth form Vaumond uprears;
With a swift glance, his eagle eye
Scann'd all the awful pageantry,
Then fix'd in sullen majesty.

VII.

Spoke then the king:—“Three years have past
Since among knights thy lot was cast;
Battling against the Saracen,
A youth unknown, I found thee then,
When from my crest thine arm turn'd far
The turban'd moslem's scimitar.
Thy arm in fight hath still prevail'd,
Thy breast in battle hath not quail'd,—
And thine was ever valour's boon;
Vaumond—now speak!—for here is one
Who saith thou hast forsworn the faith
Of daring knight in life and death;
Leagu'd with the mountain-spirits foul,
And purchas'd with thy desperate soul
These fair fields that have given thee birth,
Thy natal soil, thy fostering earth,—
To lord—when ruin's march hath past—
Dark monarch of the dismal waste.

VIII.

IX.

He said, and down his gauntlet flung;
The Baron's sword from its sheath hath sprung—
With its point he pierc'd the proffer'd glove,
And bore the deadly pledge above
In scornful mockery,—
“So be it as thyself hath spoken,
As with this firmly plighted token
So let it fare with thee!”

X.

Forth stept the priest; and spake the king,
—“Now grasp the cross and swear

The form of the old abjuration of sorcery, taken by champions before the battle is as follows:—“Hear this, ye judges, that I have this day neither eat, drank, nor have upon me, neither bone, brass, stone ne grass, nor any enchantment, sorcery, or witchcraft, whereby the law of God may be abased, or the law of the devil exalted. So help me God and his saints.”

That no unclean, unholy thing,
By magic fram'd, to aid ye bring
Nor spell nor talisman nor ring,
Nor charmed weapon bear:
God and his saints to mark the oath,
Now, in their presence, plight your troth.”

XI.

Lodowick knelt to the sacred sign,
And kneeling, grasp'd the cross divine,
As he magic aid denied;
Light turn'd the Baron on his heel,
And taunting shook his glittering steel,
As thus in scorn he cried:
“A soldier's faith is his bounding blood,
A soldier's sign is his broadsword good;
Mine honour and my life I plight,
Sole umpires of the truth of knight.”—
—“Swear!”—cried the starting conclave,—“swear!—
Or now our pendent sentence hear,
That gives thy castles to the flame,
To deathless infamy thy name,
Thy life—to yon broad spreading bough,
Thyself to the vulture and the crow,
Thy soul—to the fire that fiends prepare,—
Knight! yield thee now—or kneel and swear!”

XII.

Fiercely his haughty lip was curl'd
As he grasp'd the cross, so rude,
And on the earth the sign he hurl'd,
And trampled on the wood!
Wild gaz'd in horror that abbot gray,
As in dust the awful symbol lay;—
Upstarted all that conclave quick—
His faulchion broad bar'd Lodowick—
Every sword from its scabbard swung—
—When the Baron's brazen bugle rung;
The impending steel forgot its stroke
When rending earth in sunder broke!
The warriors mark'd with wild surprise
Black plumes and glittering helmets rise—
On that fell day, with shuddering awe,
A second iron birth earth saw!
From beneath their charger's tread
Rose full many an armed head,—
Forth they leapt, the shock to meet,
Mail'd in panoply complete!
—Burst one wild yell from all the plain,
The flying crowd prolong'd the strain—
Frequent their footing fail'd beneath
At the sound of the clanging clarion's breath,—
And swords and spears among them flash'd,
And host to host succeeding dash'd—
To gain the lists was their course held on,
Where now the conflict had begun.

XIII.

Mid uproar fierce and discord loud,
The rush and scattering of the crowd,
The clanging din of shivering steel,
And that dread trump's awaken'd peal,—
Around the throne to guard the king
Firm rooted form'd a brazen ring.
In legiance, more than armour mail'd.
By the fierce bandits round assail'd
They stood;—as vain the foemen pour'd
To break the ranks that girt their lord,
As if they strove, the sons of earth,
To tear spher'd Saturn from his girth.

XIV.

Wild, wild, around the swarming plain,
Pale terror and confusion reign;
As when the faithful guardians hold
Their watch amid the timorous fold,
And the prowling wolves by hunger lash'd
Amid their fleecy care have dash'd,
Scatters the multitude afar
While nobler foes maintain the war,—
So, mingling where the helpless prest,
Rung the shield, and shone the crest;
There the thundering charger neigh'd,
Sweeping there the hero's blade
In its bright circle as it swung
A halo fierce around him flung,
A fleeting diadem of flame.
A deathless symbol of revolving fame,
That metes eternity, unchang'd, the same!

XV.

They fall—that magic host—in death,
They draw, like man, a fleeting breath;
They bleed,—and fiercer strife awoke
When the red torrents round them broke.
Prest by the rush, when first was heard
The bugle note, the battle word,
Mid flying serf and troop of horse,
All vainly there the refluent course
Strove Lodowick to brave;—
Yet he saw his foeman's sable plume,
The battle-star of wrath and doom,
Upon the breezes wave;
Yet he heard his foeman's clarion shrill
That woke the voice of every hill,
In their wild echo maddening still,
Its tones of fury pour—
As if every fiend exultant lent
His breath to swell the notes it sent
Like their own deep'ning roar!

XVI.

As the black billow on the rock
Spreads o'er the deep its scatter'd flock,
Was the press in severing masses thrown;
And lo! a snorting steed
All riderless came bounding on—
And now the warrior's wish was won,
To aid him at his need.
One grasp arrests the charger's flight,
One vault, and mounted now the knight
Plung'd headlong in the burning fight;
His hot soul kindling at the sight
Outstripp'd the flying steed.

XVII.

Blow echoes blow—blood follows blood
Beneath war's iron hand,—
As from the black leaves of the wood
Where the unconscious hero stood
Upon the fatal strand.

Æneas, at the grave of Polydore.

And still the knights their ring made good,
That talisman left unsubdu'd
Their fealty to their native land.
Still urging where the tumult grows,
Th' avenging blade cleaves thickening foes—
Still from the gorge of earth they wake
In that fell revelry to partake—
Till the mounted chiefs amid the swell
Show'd, each the rock's tall pinnacle
Amid the heaving wastes of ocean;
As firm against the wild commotion—
But wave on wave, with ceaseless sway,
Will wear the solid rock away!

XVIII.

Trumpet's notes are loudly waking;
Down the hill, like torrent breaking,
Pours a motley half-arm'd troop
Of hardy liegemen true—
To hearts, that hopeless would not droop,
Now hope lent fervour new.
That gathering mist with the war-cloud blended,
The thunders of the strife ascended;
And darker its swart shadows pour
Along the sluggish tides of gore.
The peaceful steel that bade the field
The golden hopes of labour yield,
Now, in the iron harvest cast
Plate and mail and sinew brast,
Flash'd in the day's broad eye bright gleaming,
Then rose again, all purply streaming.
All rank was broke—save that firm girt
That guards the monarch, yet unhurt;
In war's delirium then began
The desp'rate strife of man with man,
One wild, continuous uproar drown'd
The yellings of the bugle's sound.

XIX.

XX.

The sun walks high in his pilgrimage,
He smiles at the wars that mortals wage,
And laughing, shakes his golden hair,
While battle drives uncheck'd his share;—
Onward in his slippery course
Plunging, tears the gory horse,
Where vassal, knight, and bandit spread,
Lie swelter'd in their common bed.
And where was Lodowick? where'er
The strife wax'd fiercest, he was there;
His charger slain, on foot he fought,
And still his foe thro' the battle sought;
But morn had wan'd away, and yet
Th' apostate traitor he had not met;
Tho' he saw his crest careering proud,
And heard his bugle, shrill and loud,—
He was borne away by the surging crowd.

XXI.

He eyed Vaumond on the battle's verge,
A flagging few to the combat urge;
Then, thro' the slaying and the slain,
Mowing his way, he strode amain,
Through the hot ploughshares of the fray,
In the high ordeal of the day;
His bassnett through its circuit raz'd,
Resounding still the wandering shield,—
Till full on his proud foe he gaz'd,
The traitor on his sight reveal'd.
“Now turn thee—craven renegade!”—
No further challenge was there said—
Quick from his Afric barb hath lit
The Baron bold his foe to meet:—
—“Now with my blood thy vengeance slake—
No odds to combat man I take—
And parle and priestcraft all aside,
Knight—let our feud at last be tried.”—
Even as he spake, his foeman's steel
Swung imminent in its flaming wheel
Above his head—but its descent
Its fury on the keen edge spent,
Where, planted in his stounde unchang'd,
The Baron's eye o'er Lodowick rang'd.
He mark'd not the faulchion's wanderings
As round him flash'd its curvetings;
In his foeman's eye he could detect
Where'er the stroke he would direct;
His eye the planet his course that show'd,
When wrath th' ascendant's monarch rode.

XXII.

While fought the chiefs, the few, whom fear
Or chance had left in battle's rear,
Had but one soul, and thought, and sight,
Addressing them to scan the fight.
Far off—a lingering host that fled
When first arose the bandits dread,
With timorous footsteps gain the spot
Where that eventful strife was fought.

XXIII.

When, as the eagle bears his prize,
Cleaving midway the startled skies,
The hungry vulture's pinions slope
Riding the light adown heaven's cope,
And the prey his iron talons pierce,
—That fight of horror is brief as fierce!
Their fluttering wings in terror bear
Afar each living thing in air,
As instant from his pride of place
Drops one dread tyrant of their race!
—Too desperate is that struggle now—
Too swift resounds each furious blow—
The combat cannot last!
Where the knit corslet clad the breast
The furious blade of Lodowick prest;
On the broad concave's iron bound
The rigid steel resistance found,
And swift in sunder brast!
—Back sprung the knight in swift recoil,
And a wild cry went forth the while
From the encircling host;
Above his fenceless prey uprais'd
The Baron's temper'd faulchion blaz'd,
And smil'd he, as it swung suspended,
As if, ere yet the steel descended,
He mock'd his foeman lost.—
A hasty glance to the vanquish'd show'd
Where hid in dust lay the sacred wood,
In that evil tide by thousands spurn'd
Where'er the course of battle turn'd;—
Uprooted from the clotted mould
Around it swung in his iron hold;
And as it cleft the sounding air
At Vaumond's bright helm levell'd fair,
—The Baron bent him to the blow—
Ha!—where that harness'd champion now?—

This incident, the hinge of the fable, is borrowed from a tale of Lewis's.

An elf, all wrinkled, crook'd, and gray,
Crouching beneath the cross upstarted—
That mighty form hath past away,
And like unreal light departed!

XXIV.

Fell the uplifted cross once more
From the wondering warrior's guard,
As a rushing fierce and a wild roar
Above him in air were heard.
A wight the shrinking mass broke through,
—The mountain peasant Lodowick knew,—
And as he gaz'd the elf upon
He shriek'd and cried—“my son! my son!”—
Chatter'd that hideous goblin foul,
His straggling locks of flame he rent,
Then with a yell like the midnight owl,
And a bound, from out their sight he went!

XXV.

Another stifled shriek—among
The motley group the warrior sprung;
There lay a form, how lovely! prest
Fast to a kneeling old man's breast;
The peasant's cap beside them thrown,
Her dark locks round luxuriant strown,
Her eye half clos'd,—his grasp within,—
“Tis the page! Paulo!”—“Imogen!”—
Aye, Imogen!—Gonsalvo there
Supports that fragile woman fair,
While the coarse crowd all idly look,
All, all the Father soften'd woke,
As the cold iron melts the ice;—
His pride was nature's sacrifice.
Beneath the day, the shallowest stream
The first, reflects the sparkling beam;
And lightest hearts for joy that live
The quickest tear to sorrow give;
But who shall speak the torrent wide
That gushing came from that heart of pride!

XXVI.

Quiver'd her pale lips—but no word
The listless crowd of strangers heard;
“For this I fell”—a father's ear
Caught them alone; a father's tear
Fell on her sheeted cheek;
Then slowly op'd her eyes—their fire
Quench'd—to the fix'd gaze of her sire,
Their beamings such as show the cell
Where the world-worn anchorite doth dwell,
The sufferer's annals speak.
Lock'd was their grasp—and while they gaz'd,
So fix'd, that mournful glance uprais'd,
So deeply calm that passion chaste,
They knew not when the spirit past!

XXVII.

Away! away! to the battle roar!
That bugle strain is heard no more;
That sable barb away hath sped,
The steed and his rider vanished;
The bandits look'd for the meteor crest,
They saw it not—still the foemen prest;—
They sunk on the earth, in spirit broke,
Or they fell, mow'd down like the mountain oak
Beneath the sturdy woodsmans stroke,
While his scythe the dauntless vassal plied,
And the death-bearing chargers ride!—
They plung'd into their darksome den,
Nor more in day emerg'd agen—
Them let the nightly wanderer shun,
Or unassoil'd, his doom is done!
But when the mountain shades grew long,
That merciless and dauntless throng,
Like autumn's shocks in the harvest lie,
Their grisly faces toward the sky;
And on each whisker'd lip you met
The lurid smile that linger'd yet
Of fierce disdain, unbending hate,—
Fearless, prayerless, in their fate!

XXVIII.

That eve—the trembling peasant says,
And crosses him, and to Mary prays—
A phantom gray before him fled—
Like mountain deer along it sped.
Shapeless and rude, 'twas seen to glide
Straight up the mountain's rugged side,
And, in the latest beam that fell
Upon its snow-capt pinnacle,
Tow'ring into gigantic size
Vanish'd for ever from his eyes.—
Marvel who may—believe who list—
Unheard, he reap'd his dark acquist—
The sole memorial of his fate,
“The serpent tempted, and he ate!”—

XXIX.

And have I, in my idle time,
Spun for such ear the untaught rhyme,
As must, in words precise be told,
How when the war-cloud far had roll'd,
And when the phantom wild was gone,
That rose upon the altar stone,
When doubts were clear'd and far off flew
As the eye of love their shades look'd through,
When the pious weeds for a sire were doff'd,
And sorrow sunk to memory soft—
How minstrels loud their tribute swell
At the Bridal of fair Isabel!

XXX.
L'ENVOY.