 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
VII.
Spoke then the king:—“Three years have pastSince 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
157
Thy natal soil, thy fostering earth,—
To lord—when ruin's march hath past—
Dark monarch of the dismal waste.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |