 | England |  |
181
RICHARD CŒUR DE LION. A.D. 1189.
“Against whose fury and unmatched force,
The awless lion could not wage the fight,
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.”
—Shakspeare.
The awless lion could not wage the fight,
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.”
—Shakspeare.
How shall I do fit honour to a king
So like a hero of the olden time;
How shall I twice of great Achilles sing,
Already sung in strains the most sublime.
Suffice it, he was brave, and dared to climb
The height, whereon immortal heroes sleep.
Frank, generous, brave, such as the lofty rhyme
Delights to praise; his heart was rich and deep;
We cherish such king's life, and for his death we weep.
So like a hero of the olden time;
How shall I twice of great Achilles sing,
Already sung in strains the most sublime.
Suffice it, he was brave, and dared to climb
The height, whereon immortal heroes sleep.
Frank, generous, brave, such as the lofty rhyme
Delights to praise; his heart was rich and deep;
We cherish such king's life, and for his death we weep.
He drove the Wolf of Scotland to his den,
France trembled when his eagle tower'd on high:
He dragg'd the crescent from Jerusalem,
And rear'd the red-cross banner to the sky.
Death felt the glance of his imperial eye;
No danger daunted him; he rose the most
When life's wild billows strove most wrathfully.
The earth he made his play ground, and the boast
Of kings to him were nought but school boys' frowns when crost.
France trembled when his eagle tower'd on high:
He dragg'd the crescent from Jerusalem,
And rear'd the red-cross banner to the sky.
Death felt the glance of his imperial eye;
No danger daunted him; he rose the most
When life's wild billows strove most wrathfully.
The earth he made his play ground, and the boast
Of kings to him were nought but school boys' frowns when crost.
182
Where, Chivalry—where was thy earliest home?
What numerous names were thine—where sprung thy seed?
Say, was thy noblest birth in Greece or Rome?
Or from the buried cities?—or the breed
That ages lived, and died without their meed
Of the immortal page: love swaddled thee,
And honour gave thee food when thou hadst need.
Valour first taught thy steps to wander free—
A maiden glov'd thy hand, whose name was Courtesy.
What numerous names were thine—where sprung thy seed?
Say, was thy noblest birth in Greece or Rome?
Or from the buried cities?—or the breed
That ages lived, and died without their meed
Of the immortal page: love swaddled thee,
And honour gave thee food when thou hadst need.
Valour first taught thy steps to wander free—
A maiden glov'd thy hand, whose name was Courtesy.
The eyes of kings and queens beheld thee there,
And noblest maidens leant the pearled brow—
Joy for the tournament! then didst thou bear
Thy plumes the loftiest—then full well, I trow,
Thy heart beat highest—would it were so now.
Young princes died for love: a lady's smile
Was won by streams of blood: the sovereign glow
Of beauty fill'd with hope the whole green isle:
Oh, for the snowy breast that pillow'd so much toil!
And noblest maidens leant the pearled brow—
Joy for the tournament! then didst thou bear
Thy plumes the loftiest—then full well, I trow,
Thy heart beat highest—would it were so now.
Young princes died for love: a lady's smile
Was won by streams of blood: the sovereign glow
Of beauty fill'd with hope the whole green isle:
Oh, for the snowy breast that pillow'd so much toil!
Oh, for the banners, flaring in the sun—
The glittering lance—the gorgeous pageantry—
The bright eyes looking down on glory won—
The sound of after mirth and revelry!
Then, Love, thy voice was as the mighty sea;
The forests owned thee, and the earth was young
With thy first smiles; and all men knelt to thee;
And the warm winds thy constant praises sung,
And, chiming with thy hymns, the spheres their echoes rung.
The glittering lance—the gorgeous pageantry—
The bright eyes looking down on glory won—
The sound of after mirth and revelry!
Then, Love, thy voice was as the mighty sea;
The forests owned thee, and the earth was young
With thy first smiles; and all men knelt to thee;
And the warm winds thy constant praises sung,
And, chiming with thy hymns, the spheres their echoes rung.
183
The woods were sacred places, only known
To bird, and flower, and leaf, and running stream;
Untouch'd, might beauty wander, and alone;
For all was soft and holy as a dream;
And chivalry sent down its brightest beam:
Yea, chivalry, gave all things speech and thought
Courteous,—gentle looks and deeds supreme;
It gave us loves that later times have not,
And tales that glorify full many a blessed spot.
To bird, and flower, and leaf, and running stream;
Untouch'd, might beauty wander, and alone;
For all was soft and holy as a dream;
And chivalry sent down its brightest beam:
Yea, chivalry, gave all things speech and thought
Courteous,—gentle looks and deeds supreme;
It gave us loves that later times have not,
And tales that glorify full many a blessed spot.
The serenade, song, laugh, and dance were thine,
In castled hall, or from the wild sea-shore;
To drive the invading foe to ocean's brine;
To hold, lest haughty valour should run o'er,
Teaching meet words to courts; and, what is more,
Teaching fit acts to all, so all might learn
To bear with much, ere any hate they bore:
Yet, when a jest on honour's truth should turn,
Resting not till the jest should have its fit return.
In castled hall, or from the wild sea-shore;
To drive the invading foe to ocean's brine;
To hold, lest haughty valour should run o'er,
Teaching meet words to courts; and, what is more,
Teaching fit acts to all, so all might learn
To bear with much, ere any hate they bore:
Yet, when a jest on honour's truth should turn,
Resting not till the jest should have its fit return.
Sure, in those times there roll'd a fresher air—
There beam'd a mellower light—there spake a tone,
From heaven, unto the heart amid despair:
Men seem'd of loftier stature; their deeds shone
Prouder, methinks, than now, that seem as none:
Or how did the old bards ascend so far,
As he who sent forth Una all alone?
Imagination then was a bright star,
And walk'd among the heavens in majesty afar.
There beam'd a mellower light—there spake a tone,
From heaven, unto the heart amid despair:
Men seem'd of loftier stature; their deeds shone
Prouder, methinks, than now, that seem as none:
Or how did the old bards ascend so far,
As he who sent forth Una all alone?
Imagination then was a bright star,
And walk'd among the heavens in majesty afar.
184
Hail, then, to chivalry! and softened down
To modern usage, still we cry, all hail!
What though a pearl hath fallen from its crown—
What though its cheek hath wax'd a little pale—
What though its once proud limbs are somewhat frail;
Still lives and breathes it through the fallen land,
Harrow'd in empire; yet it cannot fail
On every shore to have a faithful band,
Who listen to its laws, and bow to its command.
To modern usage, still we cry, all hail!
What though a pearl hath fallen from its crown—
What though its cheek hath wax'd a little pale—
What though its once proud limbs are somewhat frail;
Still lives and breathes it through the fallen land,
Harrow'd in empire; yet it cannot fail
On every shore to have a faithful band,
Who listen to its laws, and bow to its command.
But where is Cœur de Lion?—Where is he?
His battles all are won—the war is past;
The Saracen hath bowed the stubborn knee—
Each ancient foe stands trembling and aghast,
And England's banner floats the passing blast:
His queen hath gain'd her throne, and wears her crown—
His ships are safe—his warriors rest at last.
But where is Cœur de Lion?—He alone
Is sought to bear the sceptre, and to fill the throne!
His battles all are won—the war is past;
The Saracen hath bowed the stubborn knee—
Each ancient foe stands trembling and aghast,
And England's banner floats the passing blast:
His queen hath gain'd her throne, and wears her crown—
His ships are safe—his warriors rest at last.
But where is Cœur de Lion?—He alone
Is sought to bear the sceptre, and to fill the throne!
The prison of a far land holds his form;
Chain'd on the stones, the damp upon his beard:
Yea, he who rul'd, a god amid the storm—
He, whose loud voice, aye first in strife was heard—
The conqueror of the crescent—England's lord—
Is bound in chains, and that Duke bars his door—
The Austrian whom he kick'd!—No angry word
Breaks from the prisoner; happy as before:
The more that they oppress, his spirit swells the more.
Chain'd on the stones, the damp upon his beard:
Yea, he who rul'd, a god amid the storm—
He, whose loud voice, aye first in strife was heard—
The conqueror of the crescent—England's lord—
Is bound in chains, and that Duke bars his door—
The Austrian whom he kick'd!—No angry word
Breaks from the prisoner; happy as before:
The more that they oppress, his spirit swells the more.
185
Aye, and far off old England's bells are ringing,
And pleasure sits upon her gaudy throne;
The birds have had their merry May-time singing,
Save the sweet Nightingale, that chaunts alone.
The wild flowers from their forest haunts are gone;
The harvest's voice is o'er; among the trees
The young winds warble not their various song;
The scents and hues of summer feed the breeze,
Whilst England's king must rot in chains beyond the seas.
And pleasure sits upon her gaudy throne;
The birds have had their merry May-time singing,
Save the sweet Nightingale, that chaunts alone.
The wild flowers from their forest haunts are gone;
The harvest's voice is o'er; among the trees
The young winds warble not their various song;
The scents and hues of summer feed the breeze,
Whilst England's king must rot in chains beyond the seas.
Hark! hark! is it a spirit on the air,
Warbling her dreams?—It is a heavenly song;
Yea, sweet as if an angel chaunted there,
The holy language that in heaven is sung.
'Twas the same voice he lov'd when he was young;
That wiled him in the garden bower, and sent
Through his rapt soul the melody of song.
And, now again, the strain celestial went
To heart and brain, and swelled in wildest languishment.
Warbling her dreams?—It is a heavenly song;
Yea, sweet as if an angel chaunted there,
The holy language that in heaven is sung.
'Twas the same voice he lov'd when he was young;
That wiled him in the garden bower, and sent
Through his rapt soul the melody of song.
And, now again, the strain celestial went
To heart and brain, and swelled in wildest languishment.
Up rose the king, and sung a tender lay,
Of sweet reply, the maiden lov'd of old:
The ditty murmur'd on the air away:
He paused; the minstrel's voice answered more bold,
A song of ancient war, and warlike, roll'd;
His heart beats wildly high—a moment more,
That form is in his arms, all wan and cold.
Again, and his chains rattle on the floor;
And now the monarch strides along the lone sea-shore.
Of sweet reply, the maiden lov'd of old:
The ditty murmur'd on the air away:
He paused; the minstrel's voice answered more bold,
A song of ancient war, and warlike, roll'd;
His heart beats wildly high—a moment more,
That form is in his arms, all wan and cold.
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And now the monarch strides along the lone sea-shore.
Proud was the day for England, when loud gun
And abbey-bell told of their king return'd:
Millions of voices fill'd the air; the sun
Was scar'd, so many were the fires that burn'd:
With joy great England's heart was overturn'd.
No trophy won—no mighty kingdom gain'd—
Might match this monarch thus, in prison mourned;
The very heavens applauding echoes rain'd,
And gladness fill'd the land that could not be restrained!
And abbey-bell told of their king return'd:
Millions of voices fill'd the air; the sun
Was scar'd, so many were the fires that burn'd:
With joy great England's heart was overturn'd.
No trophy won—no mighty kingdom gain'd—
Might match this monarch thus, in prison mourned;
The very heavens applauding echoes rain'd,
And gladness fill'd the land that could not be restrained!
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