Constance De Castile A Poem, in Ten Cantos. By William Sotheby |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | CANTO VII. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Constance De Castile |  |
CANTO VII.
I.
Sweet is it, when the spirit is at rest,And peace attunes the mind,
On the green down at summer tide reclin'd
To listen to the whisper of the wind:
And, on the clouds that canopy the west,
Round the slope sun's vast orbit roll'd
O'er billows of the molten gold,
Catch in quick colours, ere they fade,
The seraph's plume with light inlaid,
And picture fair in blissful dream
Bright visions floating on eve's roseate beam!
II.
Far different they by hope betray'd,Thou, Julian! and the hapless Maid!
They on the cliff where tempests swept
Through the long day sad vigils kept,
There commun'd with the evening star
Till night drove up her ebon car.
Then—ere they slowly left the steep,
Pale moon-beams saw the mourners weep,
And gazing on the vacant main
Shape in each cloud a sail—in vain.—
III.
Yet, gentle spirits of the airWho to the couch of woe repair,
And in a dream of bliss impart
The balm that heals a bleeding heart,
On guardian wing their vigils kept,
Where innocence and Constance slept.
In vision, to her charmed sight
Blue ocean show'd its mirror bright;
There, 'mid fair gales, a galley brave
In shadow dancing on the wave,
Loos'd every sail for voyage spread,
And Julian there the Virgin led,
And o'er the veil that dimm'd her charms
A voice in dream was heard to say,
“Speed, gentle Virgin! speed thy way!
“I will the dark eclipse remove,
“Or die thy willing victim, Love.”
So blissful visions wing'd the night,
And bright hope watch'd the dawn of light.
IV.
Still, still the adverse breeze unkindAt Bayonne England's host confin'd.
Day after day, hour after hour,
The Monarch, on Corunna's tow'r,
Heard but the ceaseless tempest blow,
And ocean roll its surge below.
A bright oar sparkles on the main.
“Blow, warder! blow the welcome strain!
“Tell the glad tidings o'er and o'er:
“A sail salutes Corunna's shore,
“A galley anchors on the strand:
“A shout—'Tis England's!—hails the land.
“Castro! on thee thy Monarch calls:
“Brave chief! defend thy native walls!
“Yon bark shall freely spread the sail,
“Ere close the jousts and festive day
“To Bourdeaux Castile's King convey:
“And Constance, fairest of the fair,
“High-honour'd, greet her champion there.”
V.
Along the bosom of the deep,Love, o'er thy charge strict vigils keep!
Lo! where yon rock embays the tides
The Paynim's watchful galley rides.
Oh, turn the hostile prow aside,
From the stern Moor fair Constance save!
Be thou the helm's-man, smooth the wave,
And to her knight the Virgin guide!
While proudly heralding her way
Once more I strike the minstrel lay,
The pomp of antique days recall,
And jousts at solemn festival!
VI.
Mid the vast champaign where GaronneRolls his majestic waters down,
The circuit of the lists enclose,
While all the strength of Aquitaine
In gay confusion throngs the plain,
A proud pavilion seen afar
O'erlooks the field of mimic war.
Mail'd knights, and beauteous dames around
Glitter in festive splendour crown'd.
On storied tapestry, these repose,
On flower'd brocade and tissue, those,
And, o'er them, in Damascus spun,
Rich shadowy silks subdue the sun.
VII.
There, girt with crown of sovereignty,Beneath a gorgeous canopy,
'Mid blazon'd banners widely streaming,
And pennons in the sun-beam gleaming,
Bourdeaux' high Lord in pomp of state
Enthron'd with fair Joanna sate.
VIII.
Bright on the canopy was seenRich broidery wrought by England's Queen,
A present to that festive hour,
A gift to Aquitania's pow'r.
IX.
Aye, since her Boy's triumphant day,When first he won his spurs of gold,
The heroine on that broidery bold
Philippa of Hainault, the glorious consort of Edward the Third, and the mother of a race of heroes—of her heroic spirit, and native tenderness, no other proofs are requisite, than the victory of Nevil's Cross, where the King of Scotland was taken prisoner, and her pathetic pleading for the condemned burghers of Calais.
Ceas'd not to trace his peerless way;
And ever as the sable mail
Arose conspicuous on her sight,
While the maternal cheek turn'd pale,
Shed tears of wonder and delight
O'er Crecy's rout, o'er Poictier's flight.
X.
Her son in sable mail array'd.
His barb's wide nostrils breath'd forth war,
And thick the blood-drops from his mane
That floated on the gale afar,
Stream'd o'er pale chiefs that strow'd the plain
Round Alenson and Flanders slain.
There, at each side, a brave knight lay:
And still they seem'd their charge to keep;
So past their gallant souls away.
“The King of Bohemia was the son of Henry of Luxemburgh, Emperor of Germany, and a soldier of great reputation. He was now almost blind with old age, and the loss of one of his eyes in the Italian wars. He said to the commanders of his forces, before the battle of Crecy, ‘Gentlemen, you are my men, my companions and friends in this expedition: I only now desire this last piece of service from you, that you would bring me forward so near to these Englishmen, that I may deal among them one good stroke with my sword.’ They obeyed him, and that they might not be separated, fastened their horses' bridles together, and so were found the next day, slain on the body of their King.” Collins's Life of the Black Prince, p. 19.
Whose height o'er-look'd the host below,
Crown'd Edward, pointing to his Son,
Seem'd wondering at the battle won.
“Sir John Chandos said to the Prince, ‘Sir, sir, now push forward, for the day is ours: God will this day put it in your hand.’ The Prince replied; ‘John, get forward; you shall not see me turn my back this day, but I will always be among the foremost.’ He then said to Sir Walter Woodland, his bannerbearer, ‘Banner, advance, in the name of God and St. George.’ The knight obeyed the commands of the Prince.” Johnes's Froiss. vol. i. p. 430.
His banner red with victory,
And round the prince his barons stood,
And wav'd their falchions dropping blood,
The Conqueror in his close embrace
Clasp'd Audeley, weak with many a wound,
I cannot, for the honour of chivalry, resist the insertion of the following extract from Froissart. “When the army at Poictiers was drawn up in order of battle, the Lord James Audeley said to the Prince, ‘Sir, I have ever served most loyally your father, and yourself, and shall continue so to do as long as I have life. Dear Sir, I must now acquaint you, that formerly I made a vow, if ever I should be engaged in any battle where the King your father or any of his sons were, that I would be the foremost in the attack, and the best combatant on his side, or die in the attempt. I beg therefore most earnestly, as a reward for any services I may have done, that you would grant me permission honourably to quit you, that I may post myself in such wise to accomplish my vow.’ The Prince granted his request, and holding out his hand to him, said, ‘Sir James, God grant that this day you may shine in valour above all other knights.’ The knight then set off, and posted himself at the front of the battalion, with only four squires whom he had detained with him to guard his person. The Lord James Audeley, with the assistance of his four squires, was always engaged in the heat of the battle. He was severely wounded in the body, head, and face: and, as long as his strength and breath permitted him he maintained the fight, and advanced forward: he continued to do so until he was covered with blood: then, towards the close of the engagement, his four squires, who were as his body guard, took him, and led him out of the engagement, very weak and wounded, towards a hedge, that he might cool and take breath. They disarmed him as gently as they could, in order to examine his wounds, dress them, and sew up the most dangerous. After the victory, the Prince enquired if any one knew what was become of Lord James Audeley: ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied some of the company, ‘he is very badly wounded, and is lying in a litter hard by.’ ‘By my troth,’ replied the Prince, ‘I am sore vexed that he is so wounded. See, I beg of you, if he be able to bear being carried hither: otherwise I will come and visit him.’ Two knights directly left the Prince, and coming to Lord James, told him how desirous the Prince was of seeing him. ‘A thousand thanks to the Prince,’ answered Lord James, ‘for condescending to remember so poor a knight as myself.’ He then called eight of his servants, and had himself borne in his litter to where the Prince was. When he was come into his presence, the Prince bent down over him and embraced him, saying, ‘My Lord James, I am bound to honour you very much: for by your valour this day, you have acquired glory and renown above us all, and your prowess has proved you the bravest knight.’” Johnes's Froiss. vol. i.
And kist him fainting on the ground:
A smile was on brave Audeley's face.
That swarm'd tumultuously along,
Warwick, and Cobham's out-stretch'd lance
Shielded from insult captive France.
XI.
Thus, all came out, and met the eyeIn bold and beauteous imag'ry:
Flow'r-de-luces twin'd between,
All, the broidery of the Queen.
XII.
At noon, before the shouting trainUprose the Lord of Aquitaine,
And wide the signal flag unroll'd.
Here, Arthur's mailed knights advance,
There, the paladins of France:
Burns the bright field with floating gold.
XIII.
A lady starr'd with jewels o'er,
With hooded falcon on her hand
Leads one by one the knightly band,
A dwarf and page at either side
Rein in her palfrey's foaming pride.
A herald, ushering in, declares
Whose blazon'd arms each warrior bears,
Pomp and pageantry attending,
Truth with sweet illusion blending,
And minstrels, whose accordant rhymes
Wing fancy back to antique times.
XIV.
Led by the harp, and choral strain,First, Arthur's pageant fill'd the plain.
Arthur's pageant is composed from the old romances of Lancelot du Lac, and the Morte Arthur, and to those, passim, I must refer the reader for a more intimate acquaintance with the fair but frail Guinever, the gigantic Ryence, the enchanter Merlin, and Sir Gawain, and Sir Lyonel, and Sir Galahad, and the renowned knights of the round table.
High on a throne of golden hue,
Towr'd Guinever, in jewell'd sheen:
Twelve monarchs chain'd her chariot drew,
Gigantic Ryence at their head,
His stole with beard of kings o'erspread.
There, Merlin, the enchanter, seen,
With quaint device, and subtile sleight,
Shifting his shapes before the sight.
Whatever form the juggler wore,
Fell from his lip prophetic lore,
And many a wild and wondrous lay
Accompanied his changeful way.
XV.
Now, softly flow'd the slumbrous spellThat charm'd the tow'rs of Tintagel,
And on the Castle's sea-girt keep
Seal'd the warder's eye in sleep,
When Uther in Gorlois' arms
Deceitful clasp'd Igerne's charms.
Now, loudly rung the magic strain
That Merlin pour'd on Sarum's plain,
The wizard wing'd the mountain pile,
“No man knowes, saith Huntingdon, how, or why they came here. The cause thus take from the British story: Hengist, under colour of a friendly treaty with Vortigern at Amesbury—there trayterously slew CDIX. noble Bretons, and kept the King prisoner. Some thirty years after, King Ambros, to honour with one monument the names of so many murdred worthies, by help of Uterpen-dragon's forcies, and Merlin's magique, got them transported from off a plain, (others say, a hill) neare Naas in Kildare in Ireland, hither, to remain as a trophy, not of victory, but of wronged innocence. This Merlin persuaded the King, that they were medicinall, and first brought out of the utmost parts of Afrique, by giants, which thence came to inhabit Ireland.” Notes on Drayton's Poly Olbion, p. 50.
That erst with magic drugs embu'd
Lone 'mid the wilds of Afric stood:
Then pois'd the rocks on Sarum's heath,
And call'd the slain that groan'd beneath
To curse the spot where Britons bled,
And vex the shade of Hengist dead.
XVI.
Thus swell'd the pageant on the sight,And England's chiefs, knight after knight,
Came mask'd in mail of heroes old:
Gawain in storied rhymes enroll'd,
Sir Lyonel, and Agravane,
Brave Gareth, fam'd in minstrel tale,
And far-renowned Aglovale.
There Lamorake's renowned might:
And Ewain's strength, who turn'd away
Thy vengeful sword, Morgan la Faye!
And that adventurous errant knight
Who trac'd the questing monster's flight,
Regardless of the deaf'ning roar:
And Percival of Pellenor.
Whose faith atchiev'd the Sangreall:
And Tristan, gallant, gay, and bold.—
XVII.
Round Tristan, clad in vesture green,Tall youths like foresters were seen:
The Morte Arthur tell us, “that Tristan laboured ever in hunting and hawking, so that we never read of no gentleman more that so used himself therein. And as the book saith, he began good measures of blowing of blasts of venery, and of chace, and of all manner of vermins.” See p. 257 of Sir Tristrem, a metrical romance, delightfully illustrated by my friend Walter Scott, the enthusiastic minstrel of the present day, and who unites the accuracy of the antiquarian to the genius of the poet.
Their quivers graceful swung behind,
Their bow-strings whistled in the wind.
These, on high the boar-spear rais'd,
Before them, blood-hounds earthward gaz'd:
Those, in the slip fleet grey-hounds led,
Or held the hawk in Norway bred.
And some, with artful change of sound,
And strain of cunning melody,
(The hunter knows its mystery,)
The horn and wreathed bugle wound,
And widely blew the wood-notes round.
Yet, ever-more, before his way,
A plaintive harp tun'd Tristan's lay.
Fair virgins bow'd the neck to hear,
Their bosoms heaving to the story
Of Yseud's charms, and Tristan's glory,
How both, in beauty's bright career,
In the sweet season of their growing.
XVIII.
Last came, with many a poursuivant,Clarion and harp, and minstrel chant,
The knight, the champion without peer,
The youth belov'd of Guinever,
Such as from Joyeuse Garde he rode,
And his barb'd battle steed bestrode.
But—what brave hero, chief of fame
In Launcelot's high honours, came?
Why graven on his golden shield,
That casts new lustre o'er the field,
A Virgin like a form of light
Half-hid beneath a veil of night,
And round the buckler's wreath enroll'd
In characters embost with gold,
“I will the dark eclipse remove,
“Or die thy willing victim, Love?”
Why round his golden helmet wind
Fair wreaths of pearls with gems intwin'd?
Those wreaths of pearls, 'twas Constance gave;
'Tis Lancaster,—the gay—the brave—
Blew from a trump defiance wide,
“Chiefs! when the tourney course is run,
“This glorious day, ere set of sun,
“The fair Castillian's chosen knight,
“In honour of her peerless charms
“Here challenges to mortal fight
“The bravest of the brave in arms.”
Fam'd Lancaster thus past along:
And all was wonder, shout, and song.
XIX.
Like Paladins of Charlemain,Earl Roland, Olivier the bold,
Fierce Ogier, far-renowned Dane,
And peers in glory's page enroll'd,
Gaul arm'd her warriors mail'd in gold.
XX.
While the rivals in their mightCouch the spear, and claim the fight,
And, fiercely neighing, steed 'gainst steed
With proud defiance fills the mead:
Wherefore rings that thrilling cry?
Whence the voice of agony?
The rashness of his speed restrain.
On Lancaster, why loudly call,
Why on bent knee before him fall?
Why, stain'd with blood, thy hands uprear?
“Speed the wing'd vengeance of thy spear!
“At Bourdeaux, now, beneath yon walls
“On thee, her champion, Constance calls.
“A Paynim sail, an armed host
“That chas'd our bark from coast to coast,
“With Christian blood dyes Garonne's wave:
“Constance, Castillia's heiress, save!
“For her I die, and bless the wound.”
He spake, and fainted on the ground.
XXI.
“To arms”—exclaim'd Lancastria's lord,—“Warriors! speed on!—unsheath the sword!—
“To arms, to arms!”—at once the train
At Lancaster's high call are gone
From the gay tilting of the plain
To combat on the vext Garonne,
To prove their might by hardihood,
And stain their tourney pomp with blood.
XXII.
Bathes with blood the tourney ground?
Thou, whose deep groan, whose thrilling cry,
Whose voice of wilder'd agony
Bade Lancaster fair Constance save?
'Twas Julian—Julian stem'd the wave,
And while his wounds distain'd the tide
Unwearied gain'd the Garonne's side.
That in the van of battle seen
Glow'd with the fire which nerv'd thy arm,
When 'mid the Paynims, bath'd in blood,
Thy breast 'twixt death and Constance stood.—
Her danger, like a magic charm,
Transform'd thy nature, and endued
With more than mortal hardihood.
XXIII.
Where Bourdeaux' tow'rs o'erlook the tide,Th' encount'ring vessels, side by side,
With dreadful clamour, heard afar,
Clash in the hideous shock of war.
Mail'd Edward, issuing from the tow'r,
His galley arms, arrays his pow'r.
XXIV.
Speed, Conqueror,—speed!—the Paynims flingTheir fetters round Castillia's King,
And rudely seize the captive Maid.
What earthly pow'r shall Constance aid?
Lo!—Lancaster high waves the blade,
And bold the peerless fair to save,
Or, greatly perish in the wave,
Spurs down the stream his foaming steed.
Fill'd with his fire, with lightning speed,
The rival chiefs, knight urging knight,
Stem the deep flood, and join the fight.
XXV.
But—foremost, in Castillia's viewTo the fair Maid her champion flew.
'Twas love—'twas beauty's virgin charm
Brac'd with resistless strength his arm.
In vain their ranks the Paynims clos'd,
Wing'd arrowy clouds in vain oppos'd:
Thick on his helm the tempest rung,
Through clashing blades the hero sprung;
This hand on high the buckler held,
That, arm'd with death, the Moors repell'd;
Bristling the horrors of his mane,
With eye that rolls in living fire
Springs on the herd, and wastes the plain:
Thus, conqu'ring in Castillia's sight,
Her champion turn'd the foe to flight.
The hero has yon chieftain slain,
Has freed the king from servile chain,
Then, at thy feet, enchanting Maid,
The homage of his falchion laid.
XXVI.
'Tis beauty, 'tis heroic fame,Heart, answering heart, that fann'd the flame,
And from their kindling glances stole
The look that melted soul with soul.
XXVII.
And, sooth to say, a form more fairNe'er claim'd heroic valor's aid.
Was it a vision of the air,
A gay illusion floating there
In fancy's loveliest hues array'd?
All loose, and lightly on the gale
And to and fro the fluttering veil
Deepen'd her blush divinely glowing:
While, from its shade, more beamy bright
By fits her beauty flash'd on sight,
And gave a grace that varying play'd
Like changeful magic o'er the Maid.
XXVIII.
Rung never yet from town or tow'rFreed from harsh yoke of foreign pow'r,
Shout, such as echo'd far and wide
From ranks that throng'd the Garonne's side,
When Constance, 'mid the knightly band,
Leant graceful on her champion's hand,
Sprung with light foot on shore, and hail'd the stranger land.
XXIX.
Yet—as the Virgin past alongThrough the arm'd chiefs, and gathering throng,
While choirs of youths and maidens gay
Fresh garlanding with flow'rs the way,
Before her foot-step laurels flung,
And tow'r to tow'r exultant rung:
For Pedro spake a daughter's fear.
XXX.
Onward with stately paces slowStept the proud King in gloomy woe.
In vain, 'mid shout and minstrelsy,
A herald on his bended knee
Gave solemn greeting, and implor'd
Castile to grace the banquet board:
Pedro exclaim'd with mournful air,
“To Bourdeaux' lord commend me fair!
“To-morrow at his throne I plead:
“Never—till Castile's cause succeed,
“Our lips the festive banquet share.”
He spake, and from the public view
With Constance, sad and slow, withdrew.
| Constance De Castile | |