The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

A lady's gift I sing, which meant in blame,
His glorious hauberk to a knight became,
And in the field such dire belabouring bore,
As gentle armour never stood before;
A song of love, fit for the purest ears,
With smiles begun and clos'd, and manhood in the tears.

There liv'd a knight, when knighthood was in flow'r,
Who charm'd alike the tilt-yard and the bow'r;
Young, handsome, blythe, loyal and brave of course,
He stuck as firmly to his friend as horse;
And only show'd, for so complete a youth,
Somewhat too perfect a regard for truth.
He own'd 'twas inconvenient; sometimes felt
A wish 'twere buckled in another's belt;
Doubted its modesty, its use, its right,
Yet after all remain'd the same true knight:
So potent is a custom early taught;
And to such straits may honest men be brought.

'Tis true, to be believ'd was held a claim
Of gentle blood, and not to be, a shame:—
A liar, notorious as the noonday sun,
Was bound to fight you, if you call'd him one:—
But yet to be so nice, and stand, profess'd,
All truth, was held a pedantry at best;
Invidious by the men; and by the fair
A thing at once to dote on and beware.
What bliss to meet his flatteries, eye to eye!
But could he not, then, tell one little lie?

At length, our hero found, to take his part,
A lovely girl, a quick and virgin heart,
One that believ'd what any friend averr'd,
Much more the whisp'rer of earth's sweetest word.
He lov'd her for her cordial, trusting ways,
Her love of love, and readiness to praise;
And she lov'd him because he told her so,
And truth makes true love doubly sweet to know.

It chanc'd this lady in relation stood
To one as beautiful, but not so good,
Who had been blaz'd, for what indeed she was,
By a young lord, over his hippocras,
Her lover once, but now so far from tender,
He swore he'd kick her very least defender.

The world look'd hard for some one of her kin
To teach this spark to look to his own skin;
But no one came: the lady wept for spite:
At length her cousin ask'd it of the knight.

The knight look'd troubled to the last degree,
Turn'd pale, then red, but said it could not be.
With many sighs he said it, many pray'rs
To be well construed—nay, at last with tears:
And own'd a knight might possibly be better,
Who read the truth less nicely to the letter;
But 'twas his weakness—'twas his education,—
A dying priest had taught him, his relation,
A kind of saint, who meant him for the church,
And thus had left his breeding in the lurch;
The good old man! he lov'd him, and took blame
(He own'd it) thus to mix his love with shame:
“But oh reflect, my sweet one,” cried the youth,
“How you yourself have lov'd me for my truth;
How I love you for loving it, and how
Secure it makes us of our mutual vow.
To feel this hand, to look into those eyes,—
It makes me feel as sure as of the earth and skies.”

“I did love, and I do,” the lady cried,
With hand but half allow'd, and cheek aside;
“But then I thought you took me at my word,
And would have scorn'd what I pronounc'd absurd.
My cousin's wrong'd; I'm sure of it; do you
Be sure as well, and show what you can do:
Let but one mind be seen betwixt us two.”

In vain our hero, while his aspect glow'd
To hear these lovely words, the difference show'd
'Twixt her kind wishes and an ill desert:
The more he talk'd, the more her pride was hurt,
Till rais'd from glow to glow, and tear to tear,
And pique to injury, she spoke of fear.

“Fear!” cried the knight, blushing because he blush'd,
While sorrow through his gaze in wonder rush'd;

“Had I been present when this lord was heard,
I might perhaps have stopp'd him with a word;
One word (had I suspected it) to show
How ignorant you were of what all know;
And with what passion you could take the part
Of one, unworthy of your loving heart:
But when I know the truth, and know that he
Knew not, nor thought, of either you or me,
And when I'm call'd on, and in open day,
To swear that true is false, and yea is nay,
And know I'm in a lie, and yet go through it,
By all that's blest I own I cannot do it.
Let me but feel me buckled for the right,
And come a world in arms, I'm still a knight:
But give my foe the truth, and me the fraud,
And the pale scholar of the priest is awed.”

“Say not the word,” the hasty fair one cried:
“I see it all, and wish I might have died.
Go, Sir, oh go! a soldier and afraid!
Was it for this you lov'd a trusting maid?
Your presence kills me, Sir, with shame and grief.”—
She said; and sunk in tears and handkerchief.

“Ah, Mabel,” said the knight, as with a kiss
He bow'd on her dropp'd head, “you'll mourn for this.”
He look'd upon her glossy locks, admir'd
Their gentleness for once, and with a sigh retir'd.

From day to day Sir Hugh has paced his floor,
Look'd out of window, listen'd at the door,
Wrote twice; wrote thrice; learnt of her health; took up
His lute, his book; fill'd, and forgot, a cup;
Tried all but pride, and found no comfort still:
Lov'd him she had, but more had loved her will.

It chanc'd a short time after, that the king
Proclaim'd a joust at the return of spring:
The suburb was all hammers, boards, and crowd;
The knights and tailors pleas'd, the ladies proud;
All but our hero, and the cousins twain,
Who nurs'd their several sullenness of pain,

And tore in secret much their mental hair;
The ladies that they had no lovers there,
The gentle knight in amorous despair.
The lord who had denounc'd the light one's name,
Seeing no step to vindicate her fame,
And hearing of her cousin's broken vow,
Would laugh, and lift his shoulders and his brow,
And talk of tricks that run in families;
And then he'd lift his glass, and looking wise,
Drink to the health of “Truth betwixt two Lies.”
Two fluster'd fools, though brave, and men of birth,
There were, who join'd in this unseemly mirth;
Fellows who knew, and knew it to their shame,
The worth of one, and chaff of t'other dame.
These clubb'd their jealousies, revenge, and spite,
Till broad the scandal grew, and reach'd the knight.

Our lover heard with mingled rage and joy,
Then rose from out his grief, and call'd his boy,
(A pretty page with letter-bearing face,)
And wrote his mistress to implore her grace;
Her grace and pardon to implore, and some
Small favour for the battle, now to come,—
A glove, a string, aught but a cruel No,
To plume his next day's pounce upon the foe.
The page returns with doubt upon his eyes,
And brings a packet which his lord unties.
“My lady wrote not, saw me not,” he said,
“But sends that answer to the note instead.”
“This string,” exclaims the knight,—“Cut it.” They lift
A lid of pasteboard, and behold—a shift!