The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Now whether shame she means me, or my bliss,”
The knight he cries, “thank her for this, for this!”
And as he spoke, he smother'd up a kiss:—
“To-morrow sees me panoplied indeed,
And blessed be the thought shall clasp me while I bleed!”

Next day the lists are set, the trumpets blown,
And grace requested for a knight unknown.
Who summons, and to mortal fight defies,
Three lordly knights for most unlordly calumnies.
What calumnies they are, he need not tell;
Their names and consciences will serve as well.
The names are then resounded through the place,
And tow'rds the entrance turns the universal face.

With scorn and rage the sturdy gallants hear,
And ask what madman wants a sepulchre;
But when the stranger, with his face unshown,
Rides in, accoutred in a shift alone,
(For on his trunk at least was naught beside)
The doubtful laughter in amazement died.
'Twas clear the champion would be drench'd with wounds,
Yet see how calm he rides the accustom'd rounds.
His mould is manly as the lawn is frail,
A shield is on his arm, his legs and thighs in mail;—
The herald's laws forbid a wounded steed;—
All strain their eyes, and on the shift they read,
Written in black, and answering to the part
The motto spoke of, “It has touch'd her heart.”

To admiration deep th' amazement turns,
The dumbness to discourse, which deeply burns;
Till the four parties to their posts fall in,
And soft eyes dazzle, ere the blows begin.

No stint or measure in his gallantry
The stranger knew; but took at once all three:
The trumpets blew their blast of bloody weather,
The swords are out, the warriors rush together,
And with such bulk and tempest comes the knight,
One of the three is overborne outright,
Saddle and man, and snaps his wrist. The wretch
Proclaims his rage and torture in a screech.
The three had thought to save the shift, and bring
The wearer down, for laughter to the king:
But seeing what they see, and both on fire
To reach him first, they turn and charge in ire,

And mix the fight; and such a storm succeeds
Of clatt'ring shields, and helms, and hurtling steeds,
With such a toil pell-mell, now that, now this,
Above, beneath, and rage of hit and miss,
And horses half on ground, or staring high,
And crouching skill, and trampling sov'reignty,
That never was beheld a sight so fit
To baffle and turn pale the gazer's wit.
Nathless such skill the marv'llous knight display'd,
The shift some time was spotless as the maid;
Till a great gush proclaiming blood was drawn,
Redder and redder grew the dainty lawn,
And drench'd and dripping, not a thread there stood,
But what was bath'd in his benignant blood.
Sudden he turn'd; and whirling like a wheel,
In both their teeth sent round the whistling steel;
Then with a jovial wrist, he flash'd it down,
And cleft the right man's shoulder to the bone;
Who fell, and like the first was borne aside:
“Is it a devil, or a saint?” they cried:
A tenderer murmur midst the ladies ran:
With tears they bless'd “the angel of a man.”

The gallant lord was now the only foe,
And fresh he seem'd: the knight could not be so;
In that last blow his strength must have been summ'd;
His arm appears unhing'd, his brain benumb'd;
And as the sword seems carving him to death,
At ev'ry gash the crowd draw in their breath.
Sudden the blades are snapp'd; the clubs of steel
Are call'd; the stranger is observ'd to reel;
Then grasps with both his hands the saddle-bow,
And bends for breath; the people cry “No! No!”
And all the court unconsciously arise:
The ladies on the king turn weeping eyes,
And manly pray'rs are mix'd with sobs and cries.
The monarch was about to part the fight,
When, his club brought, sore passion seized the knight,
Who grasp'd it, rais'd it like an iron frown,
And rising in his stirrups, sent it down:

It met the other's, taking heavier pains,
And dash'd it, club and helmet, in his brains.
A stifled shriek is heard, the victim falls,
The victor too: “Help! Help!” the monarch calls;
A shout, half terror, shakes the suburb walls.

His helm unloos'd, they recognize the face
Of the best knight that ever bore disgrace,
Now seeming dead, and gone to his long rest
In comfort cold of that hard-hearted vest.
The loveliest ladies kiss him as he lay,
Then watch the leech, who cuts his vest away,
And clears his wounds. The weeping dames prepare
Linen and balms, and part his forlorn hair,
And let upon his face the blessed air.

Meanwhile the tidings to his mistress come,
Who clasps her hands and for a while is dumb;
Then owns the secret why the shift was sent,
But said he far exceeded what she meant.
Pale and despairing to the spot she flies,
Where in his death-like rest her lover lies,
And prays to be let in:—they let her in:
She sees his hands laid straight, and his pale chin,
Nor dares advance to look upon his face,
Till round her come the ladies in the place,
Who comfort her, and say she must complete
The cure, and set her in the nurse's seat.

All day she watch'd, all night, and all next day,
And scarcely turn'd her face, except to pray,
Till the third morn; when, breathing with a moan,
And feeling the soft hand that clasp'd his own,
He woke, and saw the face that had not ceas'd
To haunt his thoughts, in forest or at feast,
Visibly present, sweet with begging fears,
And eyes that lov'd him through remorseful tears.
Ah! love is a soft thing; and strongest eyes
Might answer, as his did, with wells of balmy rise.

What need I say? a loitering cure is his,
But full of sweets, and precious memories,
And whispers, laden from the land of bliss.
Sir Hugo with the lark has left his bed;
'Tis June; 'tis lover's month; in short, they wed.
But how? like other people, you suppose,
In silks and state, as all good story goes.
The bridegroom did, and never look'd so well,
Not e'en when in the shift he fought pell-mell;
But the fair bride, instead of things that bless
Wedding-day eyes, display'd a marvellous dress,—
Marvellous, and homely, and in open sight;
The people were so mov'd, they wept outright.

For lo! with hair let loose about her ears,
And taper in her hand the fair appears,
And naked feet, a rosy saint at shrift,
And round her bosom hangs the ruddy shift:
Tatter'd it hangs, all cut and carv'd to rags;
Not fairer droop, when the great organ drags
Its thunders forth, a church's hundred flags.
With glimmering tears she hastens to his feet,
And kneels to kiss them in the public street,
Then takes his hand, and ere she will arise,
Entreats for pardon at his gracious eyes;
And hopes he will not scorn her love for life,
As his most humble and most honour'd wife.

Awhile her lord, with manly deference stood
Wrapt in the sweetness of that angel mood;
Then stoop'd, and on her brow his soul impress'd,
And at the altar thus the bride was dress'd.