The bridal of Vaumond :: :: University of Virginia Library

It was the morn of a summer's day,
And brightly did its radiance play
On armour burnish'd fair;
The breeze that blythely swept the grove
A nodding field of plumes did move
All stately waving there:
But the beam that fir'd the warrior's heart,
From his lady's lovely eye did dart;
And glory's wing hath fann'd his plume,
As he rushes to fame or warrior's doom.

II.

Each tuneful songster rais'd his notes,
On every gale the music floats;
But the herald's voice and trumpet sound,
The charger's tramp, that shook the ground,
The shivering lance and clashing sword,
The warrior's melody afford.

III.

Two gallant lines on either side,
Of all fair Sicily the pride,
Flower of her chivalry,
In lengthen'd row the list divide,
And watch to swell the battle's tide,
The martial melody.
In war more terrible none stood,
The umpires of the field of blood;
But now, in mimic fight they share,
And blunted lance the champions bear.

IV.

Thron'd in the front a lovely band,
The peerless glory of the land,
Most noble and most fair,
Life of that martial revelry,
Survey'd the scene with anxious eye,
Each, for the knight who mastery
In her soft bosom bare;
For, strung to unison, a chord
Woke at the triumphs of his sword;
And still its low or lofty tone
Echo'd responsive to his own.

V.

O when the pride of war is o'er,
When battle's thunders wake no more,
Say, what were honour, life, and fame,
Earn'd mid pale flight, gaunt death, and flame,
If no soft heart thy triumph share,
Warrior, of all thy glory heir!

So mark we on the ivied wall,
Memorial sad of empire's fall,
—Where high-wrought courage breath'd its last,
Where guileful glory came and past,
Where waves the high grass o'er the grave,
Where lonely silence vigils keeps,
While, o'er the couches of the brave,
Oblivion, solemn hermit, sleeps,—
One beauteous flower its hues display,
Blooming in solitudes its day:
So, mingling with the trump's acclaim,
The lute's mild tones can move;
So, link'd with every warrior's fame,
Is every warrior's love!

VI.

Above the rest fair Margaret sat,
Conspicuous in her throne of state;

Margaret of Anjou, who was afterward married to Henry VI. of England; and of whose fortitude so many traditions have been preserved. See Notes to Shakspear's Henry VI. Part 1.

From bloodless strife and mimic fray,
The valiant maid turn'd not away;
Brac'd to endure the stern award,
That fate in her dark realms prepar'd.
Her mother's weakness less she felt
Than many a champion who knelt
And sued to win her hand;
Could better breast the blackest storm,
With softest soul and frailest form,
Than some who vow'd to shield from harm
Her person and her land.

VII.

She were a monarch's proudest gem,
The glory of his diadem!

But some there were who could not brook
Her bearing proud, and haughty look,
When, rob'd in modest maiden grace,
Fair Isabel her honour'd place
Held by that lady's side;
Her eyes dark glance, that minstrels prais'd,
To view the lists she scarcely rais'd;
They may not meet the glare where blaz'd
The sun's reflected tide.
For there was one, her bosom's lord,
A knight adoring and ador'd;
And one who would as high aspire,
The bridegroom chosen by her sire.
In different ranks the champions stood;
Now may thine arm—thy lance hold good—
Firm be thou in that stounde—
Keen be thine eye, and cool thy force,
Young Lodowick, when for the course
Awakes the trumpet's sound!

VIII.

Who is that chief of haughty mien,
With golden armour glittering sheen?
Sable the plume that shades a brow
Where pride and scornful daring throw
A dark and sombre cloud;—
Sable his steed of fiery mould,
That, foaming, champs the bit of gold,
Flings his black mane upon the breeze,
When he rides the battle's stormy seas,
The battle's ruler proud.
That champion's shield bore no device
Of fealty, war, or love;

No workman's craft with labour nice,
Its mimic skill did prove,
O'er that broad buckler, where you mark
Rude semblances and symbol dark;—
Chaldean characters they seem'd,
Sacred in distant ages deem'd.

The Sicilians say they are descended from Ham, or Cham; and Ceres was his daughter, who reigned over Sicily with great moderation. Palermo, the most ancient city in the island, is said to have been founded by the Chaldeans, when Isaac reigned in Damascus, and Esau in Idumæa. Many monuments, with Chaldean inscriptions, are found yet, some of which have been deciphered. Brydone, Hager, &c.

Those polish'd arms, that brazen shield,
In war were never known to yield;
That knight paus'd not for shivering lance,
And on his arms the weapons glance,
As when in Ætna's stormy breast
Cyclopean forges glow,
And the steadfast anvil in its rest
Feels not the mighty blow!
Vaumond! his name the harper sung,
His praise on lady's accents hung:
For giant danger's mighty form
Allur'd him in the wildest storm,
When boldest chiefs withdrew—
Like the fabled wind—around whose course,
As it sped along in its stemless force,
The clouds careering flew.

There is a wind called ctesias, which attracts the clouds. Aristotle.

IX.

Fix'd in its rest was every lance,
Each warrior cast a searching glance
On the opposing knight;
Prick'd up each steed his watchful ears,
Trembling with hope, until he hears
The summons for the fight.
Fair Margaret rais'd her truncheon high,
The pealing clang ascends the sky,

The trumpet's tone awoke—
Then to his saint and mistress fair
Address'd each knight an inward prayer,
And rush'd to meet the shock.
Not then the chance of modern war,
Or unseen death-ball, wing'd afar—
When prostrate hosts at one fell sweep,
Unstruggling, time's dark barrier leap,
Their shroud encircling smoke:
Then at fair bay each closing band
Ply'd at their need the mighty brand;
Then nerve and sinew lent their aid,
And drove all terribly the blade;
Then courage cool, yet wrought to dare
The direst exigence of war,
With lion heart and eagle eye,
Rode the red carnage steadfastly!

X.

As blooming on the checquer'd soil
—Where ruin fraught, in terror boil
The lava floods, to madness prest
In the Volcano's tortur'd breast—
The nodding grove ascends;
With peaceful flowers, that love the plains
Where lonely calmness ever reigns;—
So pleasure springs on danger's brink,
And such the draught that warriors drink,
When fame with peril blends!
In tranquil bowers of peace and rest,
He were for aye like him unblest,
On whom the vulture prey'd—

But in extremes, he life may know—
When grappling with his mortal foe—
Or, in revenge's softer hour,
When, in the foeman's treacherous bower,
He clasps the willing maid!

XI.

They meet, they pass, and wheel again
Their foaming steeds upon the plain;
Kindling anew with fiercer fire,
As when the fervent steeds aspire
Of day's high charioteer,—
Scaling the empyrean arch,
Their axles kindle in the march,
And brighter glow, and, dazzling, pour
Their glories half the concave o'er
In their untir'd career—
So woke the chiefs, while lances shiver'd,
And steeds, from rider's curb deliver'd,
Show'd all disorderly;
As when the midnight tempest wakes,
Where the deep forest bows and shakes,
Its lawless revelry,
With fitful pause and dying swell,
While the mountain echoes to the gale
With awful minstrelsy—
So rang around the battle peal,
With tramping steed and din of steel;
The while the field was lost and won,
And the trumpet ever and anon
Its voice sent cheerily.

XII.

Ah! why attempt the bootless reed!
Why seek the rhymer's sacred meed
In days when chivalry has fled,
Her soul, her fire, her bards are dead!
In climes remote from classic seas,
Where vainly on the hollow breeze
Echoes the fainter lay;
Where men are dull to poet's dream,
Or list perverse to every theme
Save that their sons essay!

XIII.

Then speed we onwards with our song—
A summer's morn they tilted long;
Hurl'd from his selle each knight, remain
But two unhors'd upon the plain,
And, flashing forth exultant glance,
Vaumond and Lodowick advance.
All eyes upon the chiefs were bent,
On every movement all intent
Were gazing on the strife;
All, save that maid whose fate I tell,
Dim grew the eye of Isabel;
For, on the issue of that fight
Hung the fair fame of her true knight,
Dearer than hope or life!

XIV.

Enkindled at the self-same shrine,
Awoke with energy divine
In either chief the fire;

As when the shuddering mountain shakes,
And the glowing torrent wildly breaks
Forth in impetuous ire—
Down, down, the fiery column speeds,
Nor, in its blasting progress heeds
Of God or man the bar;—
Nor holy relic, priestly spell,
Nor barefoot monks, their beads that tell,
Can stem the impending war—
Wild flies the swain, o'erwhelm'd his home;
The hamlet, and the regal dome;
Without a mark, without a trace,
To point their former resting-place,
One iron plain usurps the spot,
Once cherish'd, now remember'd not!
Down—down—with roar that shakes the heaven
The liquid lakes of hell are driven,
Till now the ocean sands they whelm—
Then shudders earth, to her central realm!
Then, mid the elemental roar
Nature her bounds can know no more!
In scorn, from out his coral bed,
The hoary sire exalts his head;
Smiles at the weak and vain descent
Of his sworn foe, all impotent!
So, waking into fiercest glow,
Young Lodowick rush'd on;
So sure, the Baron met his foe,
Of conquest's earnest won.

XV.

Thrice did they to the shock advance,
Thrice Lodowick's unharming lance

In the stern conflict fail'd—
And shivering thrice it left its rest
Against Vaumond's unyielding breast,
Nor yet his arm prevail'd.
Thrice did the youth his weapon weak
Renew, and rush again to seek
The scornful foe he brav'd;
No dint his buckler broad betray'd,
The faithless steel, around that laid,
No token there had grav'd.
Infuriate then upon the field
Flung Lodowick his shatter'd shield;
Collecting all his energies,
The last and desperate race he tries.

XVI.

But no! nor courage lash'd to rage,
Nor hate, nor wounded pride, that wage
A war that death shall scarce assuage,
Saves conquest's guerdon, valour's gage!
He falls—the cool, resistless blow,
Far from his charger, laid him low!
Stagger'd the steed—his armour rang
Upon the plain, the while its clang
Melodious to the Baron bold
The pæan of his victory told.

XVII.

And now fair Margaret's gentle tone
Gave, for the well-fought field, his own,
The proud reward of fame;

“Brave knight—accept thy well-earn'd meed;
And may it fire thee, at thy need,
With an undying flame!
The cross, that saw a Saviour bleed,
True knight will ever seek, to speed
His fortunes and his name.
Fight then with this before thy heart,
And what has death to terrify?
Comes he upon the foeman's dart,
That rends the twisted mail apart?
Faith is thy living panoply.
Yet, be the praise so justly bought
Theirs, who to win the field have fought,
Though thine the battle's chance;
Yet, be his honour ever high,
Who strove so long and gallantly,
To bear the palm of victory
From thy unfailing lance.
And blasted be the narrow heart,
That in fair praise can bear no part—
Cold, curdling, cheerless, that denies
Fame's dearest pledge, and valour's prize!”

XVIII.

She said—and as she spoke, she press'd
The hand of Isabel,
And deem'd, that through her tears, she guess'd
Her heart's emotions well—
On beauty's cheek the pearly flow
Is bright as heaven's mysterious bow—
But vain their lore—the sacred seers,
Who read the language of the spheres,
That magic deep to tell!

And when that gentle pressure rais'd
The glow of gratitude,
Was it that the proud chief was prais'd
Who now the victor stood?
And when that pressure was return'd
With feeling keen and quick,
Was't not, that boon, so justly earn'd
Was given to Lodowick?

XIX.

Bow'd on his knee the Baron bold,
And stoop'd to take the cross of gold;
He press'd it not, he kiss'd it not,
But the snow-white hand he kiss'd devout—
And if devotion's lustre grave
Shed o'er his brow one ray,
'Twas lit by that fair saint who gave
The triumph of the fray.