 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
112
THE REVENGE OF ROSAMOND.
[“Alboin, the conqueror of Rome, in a palace near Verona, feasted the companions of his arms. After draining many capacious bowls of Falernian wine, he called for the skull of Cunimund. The cup of victory was accepted with horrid applause by the circle of Lombard chiefs. ‘Fill it again with wine!’ exclaimed the inhuman conqueror. ‘Carry this goblet to the queen, inform her it is the skull of her father, and request in my name, she would rejoice with him.’ In an agony of grief and rage, Rosamond had strength to utter:—‘Let the will of my lord be obeyed,’ and touching it with her lips, pronounced a silent imprecation, that the insult should be washed away in the blood of Alboin.”]—
Gibbon. “And this is blood for blood.”—Barry Cornwall.
The haughty king of Lombardy, the conqueror of Rome
His valiant chiefs convened within his splendid palace-home,
And loudly spoke, surveying the circle with his eye—
“Each guest with rich Falernian, his wassail cup fill high!
With those the blood-bought spoils of conquest shall be shared,
Who, undismayed, the perils of battle with me dared;
Let those who bravely follow my pathway o'er the slain,
At banquet-board, with Alboin the flowing goblet drain.’
“Long life,” replied each reveller, “to our unrivalled king!”
And, with applauding shouts, they made the vaulted palace ring.
With savage exultation, then, the wine-awakened throng
Recalled their deeds of hardihood, and sang the battle-song;
The king, with martial ardor and potent draughts inflamed,
To one of his attendants near, ferociously exclaimed:
“Bring forth the skull of Cunimund, to grace the banquet-hall;
The memory of glorious deeds that goblet will recall!
Bring forth the precious trophy!—The relic of a foe
Can even give Falernian wine a richer taste and glow.
Let purple nectar occupy the palace of the soul,
For meet it is the warrior should drink from such a bowl!”
The reckless king received it with a loud and scornful laugh,
And from the cup of victory he bade each Lombard quaff;
Then said in bitter irony:—“Fill up the bowl again,
And carry to my blooming queen this relic of the slain;
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When sparkling in the grinning skull of her lamented sire:
And, page, be sure to bring me back fair Rosamond's reply—
Discharge thine errand faithfully, or by this hand you die!”
With words it were impossible to paint the burst of rage
With which the queen accepted the goblet from the page;
Though strength she had to utter:—“His will I shall obey,”
In secret she resolved her wrongs with blood to wash away.
Then to her lips she wildly raised with trembling hand the brim,
While gushing tears of agony her beauteous eyes made dim.
The base, inhuman husband soon, with love and wine inspired,
From the festive board unto his downy couch retired.
The injured queen his weary head did pillow on her breast,
And, with caress affectionate, the monarch lull to rest;
Then slyly left the chamber, and gave a signal-word,
And stealthy steps approaching her were indistinctly heard.
At length masqued figures entered; in each determined hand,
A taper faintly shedding light, disclosed the battle-brand.
“Tread softly, brave avengers, and not the sleeper rouse:
For few in prowess match the king,” whispered the false spouse.
“What is your errand, warriors?” alarmed the monarch spoke:
The answer to his question was the deadly sabre-stroke.
His keen and trusty battle-blade hung useless by his side,
Prevented from unsheathing it by his revengeful bride.
When, bleeding from an hundred wounds, she saw her lord expire,
Burst forth, “I now have well revenged the murder of my sire;”
And spurning fiercely with her foot his wound-disfigured clay,
“My wrongs,” she cried exultingly, “in blood are washed away.”
Though partially the elements may yield to man's control,
He cannot calm in woman scorned the tempest of the soul.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |