 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
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ISABELLE DE CROYE.
On, soldiers of St. Louis!—On, gallant youths of France!
Ride for the Boar of Ardennes—upon him with the lance!
Upon him—spur and spare not, until his blood be spilt;—
And he—the curs'd of Heaven—lie as deep in gore as guilt!
Ride for the Boar of Ardennes—upon him with the lance!
Upon him—spur and spare not, until his blood be spilt;—
And he—the curs'd of Heaven—lie as deep in gore as guilt!
Think of our noble Prelate—that white anointed brow,
All cloven by the brutal axe—and spur for Vengeance now!
Think of the murderer, De La Marck, and of his ruffian horde—
And on them, like a thunderbolt, with arrow, spear, and sword!
All cloven by the brutal axe—and spur for Vengeance now!
Think of the murderer, De La Marck, and of his ruffian horde—
And on them, like a thunderbolt, with arrow, spear, and sword!
And fast and far—from hall and tower—prince, peer, and knight sweep by,
The banners of the fleur-de-lis rush, like a storm, on high!
And many an upward gaze is cast—as rank by rank march on,
Where crowd the fair and beauteous o'er the gateway of Peronne.
The banners of the fleur-de-lis rush, like a storm, on high!
And many an upward gaze is cast—as rank by rank march on,
Where crowd the fair and beauteous o'er the gateway of Peronne.
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There, lovely as the face of morn, when light hath kissed its cheek,
And golden clouds around its brow in grace and beauty break;
The love of every minstrel lute—the theme of every lay—
Fair Isabelle de Croye appeared, and bore all hearts away!
And golden clouds around its brow in grace and beauty break;
The love of every minstrel lute—the theme of every lay—
Fair Isabelle de Croye appeared, and bore all hearts away!
Yet she—for whom e'en royalty had sought, and sued in vain,—
She, whom the Prince of Orleans had perill'd life to gain;
The shrine of every soldier's hope, the star of every glance,
Prefers a knight of Scotland to all the peers of France.
She, whom the Prince of Orleans had perill'd life to gain;
The shrine of every soldier's hope, the star of every glance,
Prefers a knight of Scotland to all the peers of France.
While swiftly 'neath the battlements, in chivalrous array,
Advance the spears of Crawford, of Crevecœur, and Dunois;
The thoughtful cheek of Isabelle waxed pale as if with woe,
Till Quentin, and the Scottish guard, sprang forth in gallant show!
Advance the spears of Crawford, of Crevecœur, and Dunois;
The thoughtful cheek of Isabelle waxed pale as if with woe,
Till Quentin, and the Scottish guard, sprang forth in gallant show!
Then flushed her brow with crimson—then throbb'd her snowy breast—
And love, in every glance and grace, came beauteously confest;
Oh, scarcely could her trembling breath the simplest word command,
When Quentin's favour'd lance convey'd a letter to her hand!
And love, in every glance and grace, came beauteously confest;
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When Quentin's favour'd lance convey'd a letter to her hand!
“Farewell, love, ne'er to see me more—or see me crown'd with fame!
To win thy hand I first must win a Hero's lofty name;
And I have vowed by Scotia's saint!—by Honour's sacred shrine!
That yon bright orb shall see me dead—or Conquest see me thine!
To win thy hand I first must win a Hero's lofty name;
And I have vowed by Scotia's saint!—by Honour's sacred shrine!
That yon bright orb shall see me dead—or Conquest see me thine!
“Farewell! thine hand is still the prize for which I venture all!
And if—oh, if—dear Isabelle, despite of hope, I fall!
Forget not 'mid the courtly throng, when others bend the knee,
The heart that 'mid the battle died—and died still loving thee!”
And if—oh, if—dear Isabelle, despite of hope, I fall!
Forget not 'mid the courtly throng, when others bend the knee,
The heart that 'mid the battle died—and died still loving thee!”
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