The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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| XV. | XV. BUTTRESS |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
406
XV. BUTTRESS
Lord Ronald by the gay torch-light
Held revel in his hall;
He broached my First, that jovial Knight,
And pledged his vassals tall;
The red stream went from wood to can
And then from can to mouth,
And the deuce a man knew how it ran
Nor heeded north or south:
“Let the health go wide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he saw the river flow;—
“One cup to-night to the noblest bride
And one to the stoutest foe!”
Held revel in his hall;
He broached my First, that jovial Knight,
And pledged his vassals tall;
The red stream went from wood to can
And then from can to mouth,
And the deuce a man knew how it ran
Nor heeded north or south:
“Let the health go wide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he saw the river flow;—
“One cup to-night to the noblest bride
And one to the stoutest foe!”
Lord Ronald kneeled, when the morning came,
Low in his mistress' bower;
And she gave him my Second, that beauteous dame,
For a spell in danger's hour;
Her silver shears were not at hand;
And she smiled a playful smile,
As she cleft it with her lover's brand,
And grew not pale the while:
And “Ride, and ride!” Lord Ronald cried,
As he kissed its auburn glow;
“For he that woos the noblest bride
Must beard the stoutest foe!”
Low in his mistress' bower;
And she gave him my Second, that beauteous dame,
For a spell in danger's hour;
Her silver shears were not at hand;
And she smiled a playful smile,
As she cleft it with her lover's brand,
And grew not pale the while:
407
As he kissed its auburn glow;
“For he that woos the noblest bride
Must beard the stoutest foe!”
Lord Ronald stood, when the day shone fair,
In his garb of glittering mail,
And marked how my Whole was crumbling there
With the battle's iron hail:
The bastion and the battlement
On many a craven crown
Like rocks from some huge mountain rent
Were trembling darkly down:
“Whate'er betide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he bade his trumpets blow:
“I shall win to-day the noblest bride,
Or fall by the stoutest foe!”
In his garb of glittering mail,
And marked how my Whole was crumbling there
With the battle's iron hail:
The bastion and the battlement
On many a craven crown
Like rocks from some huge mountain rent
Were trembling darkly down:
“Whate'er betide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he bade his trumpets blow:
“I shall win to-day the noblest bride,
Or fall by the stoutest foe!”
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |