 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
93
SIR AMELOT DE VERE.
A FRAGMENT OF UNPUBLISHED ROMANCE.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
For the brightest glance of her azure eye
Thou must be willing to live or die.
For the brightest smile of her radiant lip,
Or a kiss of her finger's rosy tip,
Thou must be willing to cast away
All that thou holdest dear to-day—
Kindred and country, and friendship true,
All that is old for one that is new.
Thou must make her famous o'er land and sea,
By dint of thy dauntless chivalry.
Thou must make her adored by one and all,
Whom thy sword shall save from Paynim thrall.
Thou must make her name a sovereign spell,
For all who own Amelot's Isabel,
That they who ne'er saw her shall strike for her fame,
And then render mercy in Isabel's name.
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
For the brightest glance of her azure eye
Thou must be willing to live or die.
For the brightest smile of her radiant lip,
Or a kiss of her finger's rosy tip,
Thou must be willing to cast away
All that thou holdest dear to-day—
Kindred and country, and friendship true,
All that is old for one that is new.
Thou must make her famous o'er land and sea,
By dint of thy dauntless chivalry.
Thou must make her adored by one and all,
Whom thy sword shall save from Paynim thrall.
Thou must make her name a sovereign spell,
For all who own Amelot's Isabel,
That they who ne'er saw her shall strike for her fame,
And then render mercy in Isabel's name.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
Thou must be first in the battle's brunt,
When the bravest shrink from its iron front;
The foremost to conquer, and first to spare,
Where fame is to win, thou must still be there.
Thou must be first in the courtly hall,
The star of the peaceful festival,
The foremost ever in ladies' grace,
Yet cold as snow to the fairest face.
Men must fear thee, and women love,
But thou must be true as the widowed dove.
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
94
When the bravest shrink from its iron front;
The foremost to conquer, and first to spare,
Where fame is to win, thou must still be there.
Thou must be first in the courtly hall,
The star of the peaceful festival,
The foremost ever in ladies' grace,
Yet cold as snow to the fairest face.
Men must fear thee, and women love,
But thou must be true as the widowed dove.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
Thou must be hers and hers alone,
In every thought thy soul doth own.
Not an eye for the brightest, or ear for the sweetest;
Courteous but cold unto all thou meetest;
Not a hope in thy heart but still to be near her;
All to worship, yet something to fear her.
And then, when thy fame is on every tongue,
Broad as thy banner in battle flung—
Then, when thy lance shall have given her glory,
And made her the theme of each minstrel's story;
When Europe, and Afric, and Araby,
Shall own her the brightest and best to be;
Then, when thy trust is in her alone,
Then, when thy life, thy soul is her own;
Then must thou hold thee guerdoned well,
By one cold smile from Isabel.
Like sunbeams on flowers her smiles shall fall,
Lovely and loving on one and all;
And thou shalt win no higher prize
Than leave to look in her lustrous eyes;
Or if she shall give thee her love to-day,
To-morrow's frost shall freeze it away.
And if thou lay thee down to-night,
Blessed with her promise of near delight,
To-morrow shall find her as cold and as far,
As the wintry sheen of the fartherest star.
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
Thou must be hers and hers alone,
In every thought thy soul doth own.
Not an eye for the brightest, or ear for the sweetest;
Courteous but cold unto all thou meetest;
Not a hope in thy heart but still to be near her;
All to worship, yet something to fear her.
And then, when thy fame is on every tongue,
Broad as thy banner in battle flung—
Then, when thy lance shall have given her glory,
And made her the theme of each minstrel's story;
When Europe, and Afric, and Araby,
Shall own her the brightest and best to be;
Then, when thy trust is in her alone,
Then, when thy life, thy soul is her own;
Then must thou hold thee guerdoned well,
By one cold smile from Isabel.
Like sunbeams on flowers her smiles shall fall,
Lovely and loving on one and all;
And thou shalt win no higher prize
Than leave to look in her lustrous eyes;
Or if she shall give thee her love to-day,
To-morrow's frost shall freeze it away.
95
Blessed with her promise of near delight,
To-morrow shall find her as cold and as far,
As the wintry sheen of the fartherest star.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
If thou wilt do all this I have spoken,
Thus as I rede thee, thy fate shall be wroken.
Thou shalt make her proud, herself to see
In the mirror of thy chivalry;
Thou shalt make her to love thy fame as her own;
To live in the light of thy great renown;
In thine absence to blush, when thou art but named;
To be eloquent if she hear thee blamed;
Yet then shall she love thy deeds, not thee,
For false is her bosom, and false shall be.
She shall wear thy hair, and wring thy heart,
Yet from her thrall thou shalt not depart.
She shall work thee woe, she shall work thee shame,
Yet thou shalt worship her still the same.
Thy friends she shall sever, thy peace undo,
Yet still shall thy love be loyal and true
All but thine honor shalt lose for her sake—
Pause then, nor rashly the strife undertake.
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
If thou wilt do all this I have spoken,
Thus as I rede thee, thy fate shall be wroken.
Thou shalt make her proud, herself to see
In the mirror of thy chivalry;
Thou shalt make her to love thy fame as her own;
To live in the light of thy great renown;
In thine absence to blush, when thou art but named;
To be eloquent if she hear thee blamed;
Yet then shall she love thy deeds, not thee,
For false is her bosom, and false shall be.
She shall wear thy hair, and wring thy heart,
Yet from her thrall thou shalt not depart.
She shall work thee woe, she shall work thee shame,
Yet thou shalt worship her still the same.
Thy friends she shall sever, thy peace undo,
Yet still shall thy love be loyal and true
All but thine honor shalt lose for her sake—
Pause then, nor rashly the strife undertake.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
Grant her the sweetest child of earth,
The loveliest creature of mortal birth,
Grant, if thou wilt, that she may be won,
As all things may beneath the sun,
By talent and toil, by sorrow and sinning—
Mark me well, is she worth the winning?”
He started from his magic sleep,
Beneath a cedar's thicket deep,
In a glade of Lebanon.
And was it fancy, was it sooth,
A form of air or a thing of truth?
Athwart the setting sun,
Clad in a robe of hazy light,
There seemed to float a vision bright
Between him and the hoary height
Of the old sacred hill.
He gazed, it faded from his eyn,
Till he could see the sunbeams shine
Beyond, in many a misty line,
And tip the green with golden hue,
And stream that waning vision through;
And yet could see it still.
He bounded forward. It was gone,
And in that haunted glade alone,
With bristling hair, but dauntless breast,
The chosen champion of the West
Stood like a carved stone.
Still in his ears those tones were ringing,
Softer than sweetest human singing;
Still he could hear the burthen float,
Clear as a seraph's liquid note;
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel.”
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
Grant her the sweetest child of earth,
The loveliest creature of mortal birth,
Grant, if thou wilt, that she may be won,
As all things may beneath the sun,
By talent and toil, by sorrow and sinning—
Mark me well, is she worth the winning?”
He started from his magic sleep,
Beneath a cedar's thicket deep,
96
And was it fancy, was it sooth,
A form of air or a thing of truth?
Athwart the setting sun,
Clad in a robe of hazy light,
There seemed to float a vision bright
Between him and the hoary height
Of the old sacred hill.
He gazed, it faded from his eyn,
Till he could see the sunbeams shine
Beyond, in many a misty line,
And tip the green with golden hue,
And stream that waning vision through;
And yet could see it still.
He bounded forward. It was gone,
And in that haunted glade alone,
With bristling hair, but dauntless breast,
The chosen champion of the West
Stood like a carved stone.
Still in his ears those tones were ringing,
Softer than sweetest human singing;
Still he could hear the burthen float,
Clear as a seraph's liquid note;
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel.”
And I will win her, by the grave
We fight from Infidels to save;
Nor might of man nor demon's power
Shall turn me! Is she not the flower,
The pride, the gem of English earth,
Where more of sweetness hath its birth
Than in the world beside?
And whoso saith she hath a peer
Beneath bright heaven, I tell him here—
I tell him, Amelot de Vere—
Let him be man of human mould,
Or fiendish knight, such as of old
With mortal champions vied,
Let him do on his arms of proof,
Or hold his coward head aloof—
I tell him he hath lied!”
We fight from Infidels to save;
Nor might of man nor demon's power
Shall turn me! Is she not the flower,
The pride, the gem of English earth,
Where more of sweetness hath its birth
Than in the world beside?
And whoso saith she hath a peer
Beneath bright heaven, I tell him here—
I tell him, Amelot de Vere—
97
Or fiendish knight, such as of old
With mortal champions vied,
Let him do on his arms of proof,
Or hold his coward head aloof—
I tell him he hath lied!”
He paused, as though he thought to see
The gleam of fiendish panoply,
With blazoned shield and waving plume,
Emerging from the cedars' gloom.
But all was silence deep and still
On Solomon's immortal hill.
The sunshine slept upon the sod,
The very cedars ceased to nod,
So tranquil was the glen.
He turned—he started, and his hand
Fell to the guard of his good brand:
Was it a trumpet's tone
That startled all the forest round,
And wakened, with defying sound,
The mountain echoes lone?
'Twas silence all; or if that peal
Was sooth which made his senses reel,
So soon it passed away,
That Amelot uncertain stood,
Whether the demons of the wood,
Or the mere coinings of his blood,
Distempered, and his dreaming brain,
Had mocked him once and yet again,
With cheats most like reality;
And to his dying day
He knew not. For such things fell out
In after time as made him doubt
Almost his own identity.
But now he turned him to the host
Encamped on Syria's sultry coast,
And as he passed the mountain down,
Amid the shadows falling brown,
And heavy dews, he only said,
With resolute gesture of his head,
And hand upon his war-sword's hilt,
The cross, “By all the blood we've spilt,
Let them bring all the powers of hell
To aid—I will win Isabel.”
[OMITTED]
The gleam of fiendish panoply,
With blazoned shield and waving plume,
Emerging from the cedars' gloom.
But all was silence deep and still
On Solomon's immortal hill.
The sunshine slept upon the sod,
The very cedars ceased to nod,
So tranquil was the glen.
He turned—he started, and his hand
Fell to the guard of his good brand:
Was it a trumpet's tone
That startled all the forest round,
And wakened, with defying sound,
The mountain echoes lone?
'Twas silence all; or if that peal
Was sooth which made his senses reel,
So soon it passed away,
That Amelot uncertain stood,
Whether the demons of the wood,
Or the mere coinings of his blood,
Distempered, and his dreaming brain,
Had mocked him once and yet again,
With cheats most like reality;
And to his dying day
He knew not. For such things fell out
In after time as made him doubt
Almost his own identity.
98
Encamped on Syria's sultry coast,
And as he passed the mountain down,
Amid the shadows falling brown,
And heavy dews, he only said,
With resolute gesture of his head,
And hand upon his war-sword's hilt,
The cross, “By all the blood we've spilt,
Let them bring all the powers of hell
To aid—I will win Isabel.”
[OMITTED]
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |