University of Virginia Library

previous section Lays and Ballads from Ancient History
next section
1

I. PART FIRST.

Reign of William the Conqueror, 1066–1087.

The Conquest of England.

PART I.

Duke William stood on the Norman shore,
With all his merry men round;
And he will sail the blue seas o'er,
To land on English ground.
2

Saint Edward made him, ere he died,
Heir to the English throne;
But traitor Harold, in his pride,
Hath seized it for his own.
So the duke hath summon'd his vassals brave
From castle, cot, and tower;
And he will cross the rushing wave
To reckon with Harold's power.
They came, his liegemen stout and true,
With the serfs whom they commanded;
Some brought many, and some brought few,
But none came empty-handed.
By the trumpet-sound they gather'd around,
And the drum's inspiring roar;
And their spears shone bright as the stars of night
When they muster'd on the shore.
Whence comes yon graceful bark which glides
To the spot where the duke is standing,
And leaps the crests of the dancing tides
With an air of proud commanding?
The sails are of silk, and flutteringly
They wave in the breezes mild;
At the prow is a sculptured effigy
Of a fair and smiling child.
That smiling boy is carved in gold,
And the flag which gaily streams
Is thick with gems on every fold—
A palace that fair ship seems.
3

But who is the lady of lofty brow,
Bright eye, and arching lip,
Who waveth her white hand from the prow
Of the gay and stately ship?
She is known from afar by her graceful air,
And the circlet on her brows;
'Tis the Duchess Matilda, wise and fair,
Duke William's honour'd spouse.
To land full lightly vaulted she,
And up to the duke she came—
“My lord, accept this ship from me,
The Mora is its name.
Its chambers are deck'd for a monarch fit,
With cushions of velvet piled;
The form at the prow—look well on it—
'Tis the form of our youngest child.
My hand it was that 'broider'd the sail,
Though the tear was in mine eye—
God send my lord a favouring gale,
And a joyous victory!”
“Thanks, lady, thanks,” the duke replied,
“Right princely is thy gift;
Soon leaping from its painted side,
My good sword will I lift.
When its gay pennon streameth far,
My heart shall look to thee
As the pilot's eye to the northern star,
Guiding us o'er the sea.
4

Farewell, my lady and my wife,
So loyal, fair, and true;
If I come back to thee with life,
I will come with honour too.”
“Farewell, my hero—knighthood's flower—
My husband and my lord!”
Right tender was that parting hour;
Right fond each parting word.
The lady's tears, e'en while she spake,
Did fast and freely start;
And many a sigh did slowly break
From Duke William's mighty heart.
“Adieu!” he cried: in speechless grief
Matilda sought her bower;
And to his good ship sprang the chief,
With all his armèd power.
Away with a breeze that curls the seas
And scatters the foam as a cloud,
Each light bark rides on the bounding tides,
Like a knight on a courser proud.
They sail'd all the night; but when morning shone bright,
And the duke he gazed around,
Not a sail could be traced on the ocean's wide waste,
Not a bark could there be found.
“How may this be,” quoth the duke at last,
“That we are thus left alone?
My wife's fair ship, thou travellest fast;
Of our comrades see I none.
5

Go up to the mast-head speedily,
My squire. What meets thine eye?”
“Nought save the grey far-stretching sea,
And the cloudy morning sky.”
“Now, by my faith,” said Duke William then,
“Ill shall we fare I trow,
If I am met without my men
By the angry English now.
Go up again—what seest thou now,
My squire so brave and true?”
“Where the blue sea-line with the sky doth join
A darksome speck I view.”
“A babe may grow to a monarch free,
To a storm a little cloud;
God send that tiny speck may be
My gallant ship and proud!
Go up once more—gaze o'er the sea:
Good squire, what seest thou there?”
“Hurra!” cried he, “'tis a forest I see
Of tall masts rising fair.
They are coming, they are coming, as come the clouds
When the storm gathers fast on high;
When noiseless and light, and too swift for sight,
They cover the wide blue sky.”
The sea grew white with a thousand sails
On its distant billows riding,
Spreading their wings to the wanton gales,
Like the birds around them gliding.
6

The fresh breeze fann'd the Conqueror's cheek,
And the Conqueror's heart beat high—
“Our arms are strong, and our foes are weak,
We are sailing to victory.”

PART II.

The morn was bright, the sky was blue,
And each Norman heart was gay,
When swift as a bird the Mora flew
Into fair Hastings bay.
Full soon Duke William sprang to land
With a proud and knightly grace;
But he miss'd his step on the treach'rous sand,—
He fell upon his face!
Now foul befall thee, treach'rous shore,
Thou hast laid a good knight low;
A knight who hath never fallen before
By the stroke of any foe.
Ill be thy name, thou faithless sand:
Of foes we may all beware;
But how can the brave heart understand
That which is false and fair?
Pale grew the cheeks of the Normans then,—
“An omen!” they loudly cry:
“Let us go o'er the main to our homes again;
We will not stay here to die.”
7

But up leap'd the joyous duke from earth,
And shook his fair plume on high;
Untamed was his laugh in its ringing mirth,
Unquench'd was his proud bright eye.
His grasp it was full of the yellow sea-sand,
And he shouted, “My men, what ho!
See, I have England in my hand—
Do ye think I will let it go?”
Loudly then answer'd his warriors bold:
“True be thy daring word!
We will follow thee till our hearts wax cold—
God save our conquering lord!”
They built on the shore a fort of wood,
They framed it cunningly;
Its beams so strong, and its walls so good,
They had brought with them o'er the sea.
But they were not aware that a knight stood there,
And watch'd them whiles they wrought;
Behind an oak-tree unseen stood he,
And gazed on the growing fort.
Then with eager speed he mounted his steed,
And away to Earl Harold he hied.
“Evil, great king, are the news I bring—
Duke William hath cross'd the tide.
Duke William of Normandy, mighty and strong,
He hath landed at Pevensie;
And with him a fierce and a terrible throng
Of the knights of his own countrie.
8

They have built them a fort upon Hastings beach,
The like was never known;
No time is there now for dallying speech,
Arm, arm thee for thy throne!”
“I laugh at thy news,” Lord Harold he cried;
“For in annal and in song
Shall be told, how we taught this man of pride
His weakness and his wrong.
Arm, my brave Saxons, mount and arm—
Ye know that our cause is just;
Ere a night and a day hath glided away
Our foes shall bite the dust!”
The armies are marching—the two great hosts—
Behold, they are sweeping past;
The sound of their step on the echoing coasts
Was like a rushing blast.
They met when the western sun grew pale,
At twilight's peaceful hour;
When eve was spreading her soft grey veil
O'er hill, and field, and tower.
Sternly they gazed on each bright array,
By the moonbeams rising slow;
Like men who felt that by break of day
They should stand as foe to foe.
How did the Saxons pass that night?
In wassail and revelry;
Reckless they drank till the pure moon sank,
And the sun rose from the sea.
9

How did the Normans pass that night?
In fasting and in prayer;
They kneel'd on the sod, and they cried to their God,
And their solemn hymns fill'd the air.
“Mine arms, mine arms!” Duke William cried,
When he saw the first glimpse of dawn;
“Each moment is lost till my steed I bestride—
Sound ye the battle-horn.”
He buckled his cuirass blue and sheen,
And he brandish'd his sword so bright;
In helmet and plume was there never seen
A fairer or statelier knight.
Proudly he strode from his milk-white tent,
And high on his steed did spring;
Each man that saw him as he went
Said, “Yonder rides a king!”
The battle was long, the battle was fierce,—
It is an awful sight
When keen swords strike, and when swift darts pierce,
From morn till dewy night.
Full many a gallant knight was slain,
And many a joyous steed;
And blood was pour'd like summer rain
Or the last eve's flowing mead.
The Saxons turn'd, the Saxons fled—
How could they choose but yield,
When they saw Earl Harold lying dead
Beside his useless shield?
10

Now is Duke William England's king,
That great and mighty chief;
The Normans are blithe as the merry spring,
But mute is the Saxon's grief.
Good news, good news to Normandie,
Where the fair Matilda mourns;
'Twas a duke who left her to cross the sea,
But 'tis a king returns.
They rear'd an abbey where Harold fell,
A stately pile and fair;
Through its still, grey walls the solemn bell
Oft summon'd to praise and prayer.
It is standing yet—a monument
Whose old and crumbling wall
To the gazer's eye is eloquent
Of Harold's fame and fall.
11

Reign of William Rufus, 1087–1100.

The New Forest.

There moves a sad procession
Across the silent vale,
With backward-glancing eyes of grief,
And tearful cheeks all pale.
Scatter'd and slow, without array,
With wavering feet they go,
Yet with a kind of solemn pace—
The measured tread of woe.
There women pause and tremble,
And weep with breaking heart;
While men, with deeply knitted brows,
Stride mutely on apart.
There infants cling upon the breast,
Their own accustom'd place;
And children gaze up askingly
Into each darken'd face.
For the king has sent his soldiers,
Who strike and pity not:
They have razed to the earth each smiling home—
They have burn'd each lowly cot.
It was the ruthless Conqueror
By whom this deed was done;
And yet more fierce and hard of heart
Was Rufus, his stern son.
12

So they leave each humble cottage,
Where they so long have dwelt,
Where morn and eve to simple prayer,
With thankful hearts, they knelt—
Places all brighten'd with the joy
Of sweet domestic years,
And spots made holy by the flow
Of unforgotten tears.
And the gardens are uprooted,
And the walls cast down around;
It is all a spacious wilderness—
The king's great hunting-ground!
While hopeless, homeless, shelterless,
Those exiles wander on;
And most of them lie down to die,
Ere many days are gone.
O Forest! green New Forest!
Home of the bird and breeze,
With all thy soft and sweeping glades,
And long dim aisles of trees;
Like some ancestral palace,
Thou standest proud and fair,
Yet is each tree a monument
To Death and lone Despair!
And thou, relentless tyrant,
Ride forth and chase the deer,
With a heart that never melted yet
To pity or to fear.
But for all these broken spirits,
And for all these wasted homes,
13

God will avenge the fatherless—
The day of reckoning comes!
To hunt rode fierce King Rufus,
Upon a holy morn—
The Church had summon'd him to pray,
But he held the Church in scorn.
Sir Walter Tyrrel rode with him,
And drew his good bow-string;
He drew the string to smite a deer,
But his arrow smote the king!
Down from his startled charger
The death-struck monarch falls;
Sir Walter fled afar for fear,
And turn'd not at his calls.
On the spot where his strong hand had made
So many desolate
He died with none to pity him—
Such was the tyrant's fate!
None mourn'd for cruel Rufus:
With pomp they buried him;
But no heart grieved beside his bier—
No kindly eye grew dim;
But poor men lifted up their heads,
And clasp'd their hands, and said,
“Thank God, the ruthless Conqueror
And his stern son are dead!”
Remember, oh, remember,
Ye who shudder at my lay,
These cruel men were children once,
As ye are now were they:
14

They sported round a mother's seat,
They pray'd beside her knee;
She gazed into their cloudless eyes,
And ask'd, “What will they be?”
Alas! unhappy mothers,
If ye could then have known
How crime would make each soft young heart
As cold and hard as stone,
Ye would have wish'd them in their graves
Ere life had pass'd its spring.
Ah, friends, keep watch upon your hearts—
Sin is a fearful thing.
15

Reign of Henry I., 1100–1135.

The Knighting of Count Geoffrey of Anjou.

Oh, listen, ye dames and ye lordlings all;
For never before or since
Was there known so stately a festival
As that which at Rouen did befall
At the knighting of a prince.
Count Geoffrey of Anjou was his name,
And the race of our noblest kings—
The great Plantagenets, whose fame
Old England should ever be proud to claim—
From this gallant warrior springs.
That name Count Geoffrey did first assume
When, riding to the chase,
He wore in his casque, instead of plume,
A nodding crest of the yellow broom,
In its fresh and fragrant grace.
The train it is moving with stately march
Through the abbey's magnificent gate;
The lances are group'd beneath corbel and arch,
Like a forest fair of the slender larch,
So airy, and tall, and straight.
The bishop walk'd first in his mitre and gown,—
A reverend prelate was he,
With his bare silver tresses in place of a crown;
Next came great King Henry of learned renown,
From England beyond the sea.
16

There were heroes and chieftains undaunted in war,—
In peace gentle, generous, and true;
With a step like a monarch, a glance like a star,
Came the Empress Matilda from Germany far,—
The betroth'd of the Count of Anjou.
As they paced up the aisle to the organ's slow strain,
Like unrolling a blazonried page,
The walls of the grey abbey echo'd again,
And its outspreading arches seem'd blessing the train
With the muteness and fervour of age.
The high mass is over, the aspirant kneels
At the feet of King Henry the wise;
What strength and what hope in his spirit he feels,
As the vow of his knighthood he solemnly seals
With his lips, and his heart, and his eyes!
The monarch he lifted a Damascene blade
O'er the kneeling count's brow on high;
A blow on his shoulder full gently he laid,
And by that little action a knight he is made,
Baptised into chivalry!
“Bear thou this blow,” said the king to the knight,
“But never bear blow again;
For thy sword is to keep thine honour white,
And thine honour must keep thy good sword bright,
And both must be free from stain.
Thou takest a pledge upon thee now
To be loyal, and true, and brave,
Ever to succour the weak and low,
And to make the fierce oppressor bow,
And the helpless to aid and save.
17

Firm to thy God and thine honour's laws,
Remember this solemn word,
That the knight who ever his good sword draws
Save in a fair and a righteous cause
Is worthy to lose that sword.
Two cuisses of steel I give to thee,
Proof against blade and dart;
Even so thy virtue proof should be
'Gainst the strokes of that ghostly enemy
Who wars upon the heart.
I give thee two spurs of gold so bright—
They are badges of chivalry;
Thou must use them as becomes a knight,
Still to press onward in the fight,
And never to turn and flee.
I give thee a glorious steed from Spain—
A steed with a martial voice;
As his docile neck obeys the rein,
So shouldst thou bend beneath the chain
Of the lady of thy choice.
I give thee a helm with a dancing crest;
And like that airy plume,
The heart that beats thy steely vest
Should ever be lightsome in thy breast,
Unshadow'd by fortune's gloom.
Rise up a knight!” With a joyous spring
Count Geoffrey leap'd on high;
18

His sword he clasp'd like a living thing,—
“For God, my lady, and my king!
Be this my battle-cry.”
Matilda's hand hath buckled his spurs—
A happy heart was his;
And surely a happy task was hers,
For blest is the bride who ministers
To her husband's fame and bliss.
Lightly he sprang on his best of steeds,
Which stood at the abbey-door;
In his flashing eye each gazer reads
A promise bright of valorous deeds,
As he gallops fair Rouen o'er.
Blithely he rides in the people's sight,
While the joyous heralds cry,
“God's blessing on Geoffrey the new-made knight—
Long may he live, and well may he fight,
And nobly at last may he die!”
 

“He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off.”—Job xxxix. 25.

19

Reign of Stephen, 1135–1154.

The Escape of the Empress Matilda.

Through changeful clouds of night
The winter moon was gliding,
Like a bird with wings of light
On the buoyant breezes riding;
Fair was the scene, and strangely wild,
Beneath her meek transparent ray;
For the snow, in glittering masses piled,
Gave back a light that mock'd the day.
It lay in shining heaps,
Like pearls of purest brightness;
It clothed the woods and steeps
In robes of bridal whiteness;
And high its crystal ramparts rose
Along old Thames's alter'd shore;
With one wide field of foam-like snows
The mighty stream was frozen o'er.
There Oxford Castle frown'd,
'Neath silken banners streaming,
With rebel spears around,
Between the snow-clifts gleaming.
The haughty empress weeps within—
Tears from a heart that scorns to stoop—
20

And the pains of famine now begin
To prey upon her loyal troop.
Full sadly spake the bands
Of yielding on the morrow;
Then wrung the queen her hands,
Crying, in wrathful sorrow,
“Ah, Gloucester! ah, my brother dear!
Thou truest and thou best of men!
'Twould not be thus if thou wert here—
Right soon should I be rescued then!”
Down gazed those valiant lords,
Their grief and shame were bitter;
Alas, ungrateful words!
Thy tears, O queen, were fitter;
For true of heart and strong of hand,
Each warrior fenced thee with his life;
But when stern Famine bares her brand,
Man can but perish in the strife!
Out spake a maiden then:
“Counsel my lady needeth;
When fails the wit of men,
Oft woman's wit succeedeth.
At Wallingford, Earl Robert bides,
To guard thy son, thine England's heir:
Can we not cross the frozen tides,
To seek for aid and safety there?”
“Not so, alas! not so!
Long is the way, and dreary;
How shall we pass the foe—
We, faint, and worn, and weary?”
21

“Doubt nothing,” said that damsel bold;
“But only trust thyself to me,
And thou shalt learn how fearless-soul'd
An English maiden dares to be!”
“Farewell, ye noble hearts;
God take you to his keeping!
Behold, your queen departs
From friends so loyal, weeping!”
Matilda donned a milk-white vest;
And that same damsel, fair and true,
In robes of stainless white was dress'd,
Like the cold snow's unspotted hue.
With linkèd cords they bound
The empress and her maiden;
O cords, be strong and sound,
For dearly are ye laden!
They lighted noiselessly and fair
Upon the river's glassy bed;
The silence of the midnight air
Received no echo from their tread.
They fled, like startled deer
From the eager huntsman trooping,
Beneath the ice-hills clear
Full oft for shelter stooping.
The watchmen gazed adown the stream,
As they paced around the rebel-camp:
“See how the flying snow-flakes gleam
Under the moon's resplendent lamp.”
Six weary miles they fled,
With fear and weakness striving,
22

Their cheeks as white with dread
As the snows against them driving.
They paused awhile at Abington,
While steeds were brought of fleetest power;
To Wallingford they hurried on,
And reach'd it ere the dawn's first hour.
Her steed the empress check'd,
Scarce could her limbs sustain her;
Little of that she reck'd,
Nought now hath power to pain her.
Widely Earl Robert flings the gates,
His sister and his queen to greet;
He leads her where prince Henry waits,
And ah, their first embrace was sweet!
Matilda wept apart,
Gentle and calm her weeping,
Softening her haughty heart,
Like dew the hard earth steeping.
Her young son in her arms she press'd:
“With thee,” she cried, “thou child most dear,
And with my brother's generous breast
To shield me, there is nought I fear.
Let honour due and fair
To this my maid be given;
Bless we with praise and prayer
The pitying God of heaven;
His hand hath saved me from my foes,
His hand shall still my friends sustain;
Thanks be to God! I am with those
Who are my heart's beloved again!”
 

The escape of Matilda took place as narrated in the ballad; but the maiden who is there supposed to suggest the scheme is an imaginary personage.

23

The English Merchant and the Saracen Lady.

LAY THE FIRST.

It was a merchant, a merchant of fame,
And he sail'd to the Holy Land;
Gilbert à Becket was his name;
And he went to trade with the Syrians rich
For velvets, and satins, and jewels, which
He might sell on the western strand.
But the luckless merchant was captive ta'en
By a Turcoman fierce and rude;
They bound his limbs with a galling chain,
And they set him to labour, early and late,
In the gardens which lay round the palace-gate
Of the terrible chief Mahmoud.
It was there he met with a Saracen maid
Of virtue and beauty rare:
And, behold, our merchant forgot his trade;
His English habits aside he flung,
And he learn'd to speak with a Saracen tongue,
For the sake of that damsel fair.
He taught Zarina the Christian's lore;
And the hours sped swiftly by,
When together they trod the lonely shore,
And she listen'd to him with a willing ear,
And he gazed in her eyes so deep and clear,
By the light of the morning sky.
24

They plighted their faith, and they vow'd to wed,
If Gilbert should e'er be free;
How could she doubt a word he said?
For her heart was trustful, pure, and mild,
Like the heart of a young unfearing child,
And she loved him hopefully.
But days stole on, and months stole on,
And Gilbert was captive yet;
A long, long year had come and gone,
When the maiden wander'd with earnest eye
To the shadowy walk 'neath the palm-trees high,
Where oft before they met.
“I am a Christian, my Gilbert, now,”
The Saracen lady said;
The tone of her voice was sweet and low,
Like the voice of the night-breeze, cool and calm,
When it sighs through the leaves of the murmuring palm,
Of its own light sounds afraid.
“At eve and at morn to thy God I pray;
Oh, why should I linger here?
Let us flee to thine England, far away;
The God we serve shall guide our bark
Over the desert of waters dark;
For how can a Christian fear?
I will send to thee at the hour of eve,
When the curtains are drawn o'er heaven;
And I shall not weep for the friends I leave,
For I am an orphan, and ne'er have known
A gentle word or a kindly tone,
Save such as thou hast given.
25

My gems shall purchase a gallant boat,
And a crew of skilful men:
Oh, when on the fetterless waves we float,
With the wide blue sky and the wide blue sea
Stretching around us triumphantly,
Wilt thou not bless me then?”
He kiss'd her hand, and he vow'd to come;
And the night was calm and fair:
Oh, how the captive thought on home,
As he gazed the dashing waters o'er,
And noiselessly paced the rugged shore;
But Zarina was not there!
He look'd to the east, he look'd to the west,
But her form he could not see;
And fear struck cold upon his breast,
For he almost fancied the stars so pale
Had watch'd their meeting, and told their tale
To some ruthless enemy.
He look'd to the south, he look'd to the north,
A light, light step he hears!
And a figure steps from the shadows forth—
But, alas for Zarina, it is not she!
It is but her faithful nurse Safiè,
And her eyes are dim with tears.
“Oh, listen,” she cried, in bitter woe,
“Zarina is captive made!
Sir Christian, Sir Christian, alone must thou go;
Thy way is still clear; but they know that she
Was wont to wander at eve with thee,
By treacherous lips betray'd.
26

She bids thee flee to thine own fair land,
For thou canst not aid her here.”
The old nurse pointed with her hand.
Gilbert à Becket he grieved and sigh'd;
But he saw the bark on the white waves ride,
And he thought on England dear.
“Adieu, my lady,” at last he said,
While the nurse in silence wept;
“Oh, I ne'er will forget my Saracen maid,
But I'll gather an army, firm and brave,
And come to seek thee across the wave!”
He spake, and on board he leapt.
Away flies the bark o'er the billowy foam,
As though her sails were wings—
She seems to know she is travelling home;
And at last good Gilbert à Becket stands
On the noblest land of all earthly lands—
Oh, how his glad heart springs!

LAY THE SECOND.

Where is Zarina? A captive lone
She sits, with tearful eye;
Till two long years are come and gone,
And at last, when her ruthless gaolers slept,
One eve of beauty, forth she crept
To gaze from the lattice high.
27

The wall was steep, yet she dared to leap—
Safe on the turf doth she stand!
'Tis pleasant to be on the green earth free;
Yet where shall the hapless maiden go,
For the English tongue she doth not know,
Though she seeks the English land?
She hath wander'd down to the shore, and there
Is a bark about to sail,
With tapering masts that seem'd to bear,
Upon their crests so slight and high,
The outspread curtains of the sky,
Hung o'er with star-lamps pale.
Oft hath the maiden her lover heard,
When he spake of his far-off home;
Back to her lip returns the word,
And “London! London!” in haste she cries,
With a piteous tone and with streaming eyes,
While the seamen around her come.
“It is sad and strange,” said the sailors then,
“That the damsel weepeth thus;
But oh, let it never be said that men
Look'd on a woman in sore distress,
And gave no aid to her feebleness!—
The maiden shall sail with us!”
So they took her in; and Zarina smiled,
And thank'd them with her eyes;
Gentle she was as a chidden child;
But the mariners could not understand
The wondrous words of the eastern land,
So they sail'd in silent wise.
28

They came to shore at fair Stamboul,
And the maiden roam'd all night
Through its streets, so calm, and still, and cool;
And to every passer-by that came
She murmur'd forth the one dear name,
Clasping her hands so white.
Some turn'd aside with careless pride,
And some with angry frown;
With a curious ear some turn'd to hear;
But the word she spake each passer knew,
For London is known the wide world through,
From England's fair renown.
From place to place did the maiden stray,
And still that little word
Was her only guide on her venturous way.
Full many a pitying stranger gave
Aid to her journey by land and wave,
When her low sweet voice was heard.
And oft at eve would Zarina stand
On the edge of the darkening flood,
And sing the lays of her own far land:
So sweet was her voice when she sang of home,
That the listening peasants would round her come,
Proffering their simple food.
Thus when full many a month had pass'd
Of wearisome wanderings long,
To the wish'd-for place she was borne at last;
And the maiden gaz'd with bewilder'd eye
On each spreading roof and turret high,
Mid London's hurrying throng.
29

Through all that maze of square and street
With pleading looks she went;
And still her weary voice was sweet.
But now was “Gilbert” the name she cried:
The world of London is very wide,
And they knew not whom she meant.
Gilbert!—her lover's name—how oft
Had she breath'd that sound before!
Her eye grew bright, her tone grew soft;
For she thought that life and hope must dwell
In the precious name she loved so well;
And her troubles all seem'd o'er.
Now Gilbert à Becket was dwelling there,
Like a merchant-prince was he;
His gardens were wide, and his halls were fair;
His servants flatter'd, his minstrels play'd;—
He had almost forgotten his Saracen maid,
And their parting beyond the sea.
But word was brought, as he sate at meat,
Of a damsel fair and sad,
Who wander'd for ever through square and street,
With claspèd hands and strength o'erspent,
Murmuring, “Gilbert!” as she went,
Like one possess'd, or mad.
Gilbert à Becket, he straightway rose,
For his conscience prick'd him sore;
Forth from his splendid hall he goes—
A well-known voice is in his ears,
And he sees a fair face veil'd in tears,
And he thinks on the Syrian shore.
30

Forth to Zarina in haste he came,
Oh, how could he ever forget?
“Gilbert!” she cries—'tis the selfsame name,
But, ah! what a changed and joyous tone,
For the maiden's heart is no more alone,
And the lovers at last are met!
He took that happy wanderer home,
He placed her at his side;
O'er desert plain, and o'er ocean's foam,
She hath come, with her changeless love and faith;
And now there is nothing can part, save death,
The bridegroom and the bride!
The maiden was led to the holy font,
They named her “Matilda” there;
Yet ever was Gilbert à Becket wont,
In his joyous home, with a sweet wife blest,
To say that he loved Zarina best,
His Saracen true and fair.
Their first-born son was a priest of power,
Who ruled on English ground—
His fame remaineth to this hour!
God send to every valiant knight
A lady as true, and a home as bright,
As Gilbert the merchant found!
31

Reign of Henry II., 1154–1189.

Earl Strongbow.

Earl Strongbow lies in Dublin towers,
Begirt by a mighty host;
At the horn's wild sound they have gather'd around
From forest, hill, and coast.
There are thirty thousand island men,
With spears, and bows, and darts;
Earl Strongbow has not one to ten—
Six hundred gallant hearts!
Six hundred gallant hearts had he,
And not a blade beside;
But these did battle valorously
For Strongbow and his bride.
Fair Eva wept, fair Eva pray'd,
And wrung her hands of snow;
Alas! her tears are little aid
Against the ruthless foe!
The brave earl sate at his castle-board
At the close of a summer's day;
Freely the generous wine was pour'd
As they feasted the eve away;
He gazed on the manly brows around—
Cried he, “We may yet hold out,
For our walls so strong will shield us long,
And our hearts are full as stout!”
32

They answer'd his words by a ringing cheer,
And Milo de Cogan spoke;
“We lack but bold Fitzstephen here,
With his hand and heart of oak;
In Carrig fair, Fitzstephen rests;
But knew he of our need,
Soon should we see his courser free
Come leaping o'er the mead.”
As he spake, a page came up the hall,
Like a ghost of the drown'd his seeming;
Pale was his face and feeble his pace,
And his vest all drench'd and streaming.
“Lord baron,” he cried, “unseen did I glide
Through the midst of yon mighty foe,
Thy moat did I swim, as the twilight sank dim,
And I bear thee news of woe!
Be sad, be sad! thou hast look'd thy last
On the bold Fitzstephen's brow;
His knightly limbs ere morn be past
Shall feed the hooded crow.
Beset by a force of fearful strength,
By want and famine worn,
His gallant heart gives way at length,
And he must yield ere morn.
He sends thee this glove of steel by me;
And he bade me pray ye all
To give a mass to his memory,
And a sigh to grace his fall.”
Sadly the token Earl Strongbow took,
While sorrow, shame, and ire
33

Strove for a while in his downcast look;
But anon his eyes shot fire!
“Answer me, friends,” he cried; “if thus
Our danger and need were known,
Would not Fitzstephen die for us?
And now, shall he fall alone?”
Up leap'd they all at those stirring words,
And they shook the ancient hall
With the angry clash of their outdrawn swords,
And their shouts, “We are ready all!”
Ready were all—ah, noble few,
Ready ye were to die!
That heart is chill which feels no thrill
At your fidelity!
One swift embrace exchanging then,
Like friends who part ere death,
They rush on the foe, as the mountain-piled snow
Rushes down on the plains beneath!
Ah, knew'st thou, Eva, good and fair,
Kneeling with lifted hands,
How he whose name thou breath'st in prayer
By death beleaguer'd stands,
Paler would grow thy cheeks' soft glow,
Sadder thine eyes' soft light,
But prouder still thy trembling heart,
To be wife to such a knight!
Come forth, come forth from thy lonely bower,
A messenger rides below;
“Oh, bring'st thou news from Dublin's tower?
Speak, is it weal or woe?”
34

“Joy, lady, joy—these wond'ring eyes
Have look'd on deeds of fame;
Joy—for the earth, the sea, the skies,
Ring with Earl Pembroke's name!
That tiny band, I saw it dash
Through the enemy's gather'd crowd,
It was like the slender lightning's flash
Cleaving the massy cloud.
Clear shot they through—on either hand
Their foes nor fight nor fly,
But stand, as trembling sheep might stand
When a lion hath darted by!
And when they came to Carrig fair,
Trembling their eyes beheld
Its lonely banners rock the air,
Its heights unsentinell'd;
Its troops, a sad and downcast host,
Slow moving to the gate,
Leaving their leader at his post,
Death's welcome stroke to wait!
‘To the rescue, ho!’ they charge the foe
With a torrent's headlong might;
With answering shout the troops rush out
And join that desperate fight.
Oh, who shall say what Fitzstephen felt
When, from his tower on high,
He saw the light of their lances bright
Gleaming against the sky?
Oh, who shall say what Fitzstephen felt
When the glorious fight was done,
35

And his friend he prest to his fervent breast,
As a mother clasps her son!”
Fair Eva kneel'd on the flowery mead,
But never a word she spoke;
When hark! the tramp of a coming steed
That joyful silence broke.
In glistening steel, with armèd heel,
And tall plume stooping low,
With pennon fair, that wooes the air,
A warrior nears them now;
His step is light, and his smile is bright,
As he flings down his charger's rein:
Oh! this is Pembroke's graceful knight—
He is come to his own again!
“Now, welcome home, mine honour'd lord!
Proud should old England be
To learn from thy resistless sword
Pure faith and chivalry!
Oh, I have wept from sun to sun,
A sad and widow'd wife;
But I would not wish thy deed undone,
Though it had cost thy life!”
36

Reign of Richard the First, 1189–1199.

The Captivity of Coeur de Lion.

IN FIVE LAYS.

LAY THE FIRST. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE KING.

In the realm of sunny Palestine,
Realm of the rose, the palm, the vine,
The warrior-king hath fought;
And the valour of his strong right hand
Free passage through that hallow'd land
For Christian men hath wrought.
Now may the pilgrim fearless tread
The spot that held his Saviour dead,
And fearless kneel to pay
His vows before that sacred shrine,
In the land of sunny Palestine,
Where Christians love to pray.
And the warrior-king hath won him fame,
A mighty and a glorious name
Is his, the wide world through;
For his deeds on that far eastern shore,
Done in a righteous cause, seem more
Than man alone might do.
37

A generous knight he was, who strove
For fame, and piety, and love,
Not for base earthly gain:
He saw his comrades share the spoil
Won by his valour and his toil,
With careless, calm disdain.
Enough it was for him to feel
That for his God he drew his steel,
And for his faith was bold;
And he thought one smile so gently bright,
Given by his lady to her knight,
Was worth a world of gold.
And he knew that he should leave behind
The legacy to all mankind
Of an undying name;
A name to thrill the brave, and make
The very coward's heart awake
To not ignoble shame.
And now, his toils and dangers o'er,
Joyous he quits that eastern shore;
Oh, let him journey fast!
For his eager heart with hope doth beat,
He pants once more to set his feet
On England's soil at last.
Yet are there foes upon his way
To strike, beleaguer, and waylay;—
The promise-breaking Greek,
The lord of France's lovely land,
And Austria's duke, as strong of hand
As he of wit is weak.
38

In a Templar's garb the king is drest,
The white cross gleams upon his breast:
Safe in this strange disguise
He hopes to join his lady dear,
And read his welcome in the tear
That bathes her gentle eyes.
Look forth, look forth from England's shore!
Look forth, look forth, the far seas o'er!
When will his swift bark come?
Oh, swift and sure the bark should be
Which bears across the willing sea
Our wanderer to his home!
Take up, take up the strain of grief!
Lost is our warrior and our chief!
Foes lurk'd upon his path.
Nor close disguise, nor linkèd mail,
Nor faith, nor chivalry avail
To save him from their wrath.
Captive he is; but to what foe,
Alas, his English do not know!
A dark and sunless gloom
Hath closed above that noble head,
As closeth o'er the newly dead
The cold and changeless tomb!
39

LAY THE SECOND. THE COMPLAINT OF CŒUR DE LION IN HIS CAPTIVITY.

I was a king of fearless might,
I was a warrior and a knight,
My soul was like the morning light,
So sparkling in its buoyancy!
I am a captive sad and lone,
And all my glorious things are gone,
Except the heart that is mine own,
Unchanging in its royalty!
The sword that I was wont to wield,
The dancing plume, the knightly shield,
The clarion calling to the field,
Are lost to my captivity!
The crown that I was wont to wear,
The robe of pride, the sceptre fair,—
These are not mine, though mine they were,—
Gone are the signs of majesty!
Oh, that I were a simple hind,
Slavish in toil, and weak in mind,
So I might feel the morning wind
Sweep o'er my forehead joyously!
Oh, that I were a village maid,
To weeping prone, of wars afraid,
So I might tread the mossy glade,
Unthinking and at liberty!
40

The rills along my native plains
Are murmuring forth their gladsome strains;
And the gay breeze that scorneth chains
Is blowing fresh and wantonly!
The birds that skim my native air
Are pouring forth sweet music there;
The woods are green, the hills are fair,
While I am in captivity!
My strength is worn, my spirits sink,
My heart does every thing but shrink;
Alas, my people, do ye think
Upon your king regretfully?
My queen, my wife, my lady! thou
Of the blue eye and dazzling brow,
Say, art thou weeping for me now,
In sad and patient constancy?
Do ye remember me? Oh, fast
The weary months are gliding past:
Will they bring liberty at last?
Or have ye all forgotten me?
Ah, friends! if ye were thus distress'd,
Thus chain'd, insulted, and oppress'd,
Ye would not find this faithful breast
So careless of your memory!
Ah, lady! did a tear but steep
Those moonlight eyes, so still and deep,
41

Here is a heart, ere thou shouldst weep,
That would rejoice to die for thee!
Hard is the lesson I must learn,
How changeless faith meets false return;
The love I give I cannot earn
As strong in its fidelity!
My God, for Thee my sword I drew;
Thy foes my strong arm overthrew;
Oh, do not Thou forget me too;
Give aid in mine extremity!
Upon Thy love my heart shall lean
Even in my dungeon's gloomy scene;
Forgotten by my friends and queen,
In Thee I find sufficiency!
 

Berengaria of Navarre, a princess of great beauty and gentleness.

LAY THE THIRD. THE LAMENT OF THE ENGLISH FOR THE CAPTIVITY OF CŒUR DE LION.

We have lost our hero-monarch, our lion-king is ta'en,
Around his free and knightly limbs is bound the shameful chain;
The eye which used to marshal us is waxing faint and dim,
For the light of day, which shines on us, is shut and barr'd from him.
Alas, alas, for England! our princely chief is lost;
And powerless is the mighty arm that hath struck down a host;
Our people hath no ruler, no tenant hath our throne;
And we know not where the enemy hath laid our glorious one.
42

We have follow'd him to battle in the far-off eastern climes;
We have watch'd his matchless valour a thousand, thousand times;
We have seen the humbled Saracen kneel low to kiss his robe;
For his fame hath but one limit—the limit of the globe!
For his coronal of glory he won the brightest gem
Where the stately palms are circling thy land, Jerusalem!
The very air that fans thy domes is vocal with his name,
And the pale cheek of each infidel pays tribute to his fame.
His eye was like the lightning, his arm was like its stroke,
When it shivers into shapeless dust the gnarl'd and massy oak;
His voice was like a trumpet with a challenge in its tone,
Yet sweet as the wild lark that sings in field and forest lone.
But now there is a fetter on that firm and noble hand,
And mute is that imperial voice whose accent was command;
That eye of bright authority is waxing faint and dim,
For the beams of day, the breath of morn—all, all are barr'd from him!
Oh, is it wily Philip who hath wrought thee this mischance,
Because thine English banner did outstrip the flag of France?
Or is it specious Burgundy, that soft and carpet-knight,
Because thy foot hath ever been before him in the fight?
Or is it craven Austria, who plann'd the false surprise,
In vengeance for the lofty scorn of thine undaunted eyes?
Well hath thy soul disdain'd him, and well thine eye hath spurn'd
The canning envy of the base, which in his spirit burn'd.
43

Out on thee, recreant Austria! in battle thou wouldst be
Full glad to sue for mercy to the Lion on thy knee;
Thou art not meet to serve him as a squire or as a slave;
Alas, that craft and dastardy prevail against the brave!
We have sheath'd our useless weapons, we have flung our helmets down,
Our steeds are uncaparison'd, our clarions are unblown;
Why should the joyous clarion sound, to cheer us on the foe?
Thou art not here to marshal us, so wherefore should we go?
All powerless are thy warriors—they know not where thou art;
They can but lock thy bitter wrongs within each burning heart;
For thee the minstrel only his lay of mourning sings,
Thou monarch of all heroes! thou hero among kings!

LAY THE FOURTH. BLONDEL AND CŒUR DE LION.

A minstrel cross'd the summer sea,
With haste that never tarried;
A sword upon his thigh had he,
And a golden lute he carried.
He wander'd east, he wander'd west,
The way was long and dreary;
But the minstrel never paused to rest,
Though faint he grew, and weary.
44

On, on he went, by night, by noon,
His eager steps renewing,
On, when the calm and peaceful moon
To sweet repose was wooing.
Where'er a castle to the skies
Its haughty front was raising,
The minstrel paused with anxious eyes,
As though his heart were gazing.
He paced the battled walls around,
Beneath fair banners flying;
He struck his lute of silver sound,
And seem'd to wait replying.
He sang a wild, unfinish'd lay;
Then paused, his sad head shaking,
He turn'd and went upon his way,
As though his heart were breaking.
Who is the minstrel? late and long
He roams, to no man speaking;
'Tis Blondel, 'tis the prince of song,
His captive master seeking!
Lo, to a lonely tower and grey
Once more the bard advances;
Once more his eyes the wall survey
With sad and asking glances.
Hark to his strain! how changed and low
Upon the ear 'tis stealing;
Its notes give language to the woe
Which his sad heart is feeling.
45

Oft hath he waked that strain before,
By dames and lords surrounded,
When Richard, skill'd in minstrel lore,
His lute, in answer, sounded.
Each courtier-critic smooth'd his brow
When that voice and lute were blended;
Ah, if those lov'd sounds answer now,
His minstrel's search is ended!

Blondel's Song.

Two brothers once did weeping part
On the edge of the sea so blue;
The one was fair and false of heart,
The other was gallant and true.
The true knight sail'd to a distant strand
For the holy cross to fight;
The false knight seized his wealth and land,
And revell'd from morn till night.
Like a prince he sate in his hall of state,
And his vassals came at his word,
Their homage they paid and their suits they made
As though he had been their lord.
There came a stranger into the hall,
And spake, on bended knee,
“Sir baron, art thou the lord of all
The lands that around I see?”
The minstrel paused; but hark! but hark!
Is it the wild wind sighing?
'Tis a voice of power from the old grey tower
To the minstrel's voice replying!
46

[Blondel's song continued.

“I am their lord,” the false knight cried,
With a glance of scorn and a smile of pride—
Pride in his own disgrace.
His head the stranger slowly raised—
It was a brother's eye that gazed
Upon the traitor's face.
Loud rose the vassals' joyous shout,
While the craven lord, in fear and doubt,
Down from his throne did come.
“Oh! is it thus,” his brother cried,
Opening his arms of pardon wide,
“Thou giv'st me welcome home?”
“Ah, what revenge can ever be
So sweet as pardon full and free?”
No more! Though strong and clear
The king's voice sounded on the blast,
His minstrel's tears broke forth so fast
That the words he could not hear!
“He is found! he is found!” the minstrel cries,
With a faltering voice, and with streaming eyes;
“My hero! my king! I have found thee now,
Though I must not gaze on thy glorious brow.
That voice, that voice! I have heard it oft,
When the banners waved in the skies aloft;
And it rang through the air like a summons high,
Nerving the hearts of the brave to die!
47

God bless thee! God cheer thee! oh, sink thou not
Under the weight of thy woful lot!
I seek thine England, thine isle of the sea,
Thy home which hath never forgotten thee!
My voice to her farthest shores shall ring,
And tell the land of her captive king;
And thy chains shall be broken, and thou shalt be
Again in the land of thy fathers, free!
Then let not the beauty of hope depart
Out of the depths of thy lion heart;
Think on thy God in thy lonely cell!
His blessing be on thee! my chief, farewell!”
Mute is the bard's exulting tone,
And the captive king is left alone;
But past were grief, and fear, and gloom
Away from his narrow prison-room.
All joyous is the place, and bright
With his own heart's reflected light;
Sweet tears are in his warrior eye,
For he thinks on faith and loyalty.
His queen is weeping for his lot;
His English hearts forget him not:
And hope, and strength, and patience, now
Resume their throne upon his brow.
48

LAY THE FIFTH. THE RETURN OF CŒUR DE LION.

Shout forth for joy, old England—our noble king is come!
God bless thee, generous Richard, oh, welcome, welcome home!
Long hast thou been a captive, and long thine isle hath mourn'd;
Long, long thy queen hath wept for thee, but now thou art return'd.
There's rejoicing in the palace, there is gladness in the cot;
There is no lip of prince, or peer, or serf, that smileth not;
For our hero is come back to us, our noble king is come:
God bless thee, lion-hearted one! oh, welcome, welcome home!
The queen look'd from her chamber, she look'd toward the sea,
“Oh, where is now the gallant bark that brings my love to me?”
When she heard that bark was coming she donn'd her best array,
And she went in joyous eagerness to meet him by the way.
Down to the shore she hurried, no word her haste might check,
She cast herself into his arms, she wept upon his neck,
Crying, “Hail to thee, mine only one! thank God that thou art come!
My hero and my husband, oh, welcome, welcome home!”
Prince John beheld his brother: at first he thought to fly,
For he knew he was a traitor, and he dared not meet that eye;
Yet he turn'd to sue for mercy, he kneel'd upon his knee,—
“For Christ's dear sake, my brother, I pray you pardon me!”
“I forgive thee,” said the hero, with a glance of calm regret;
“Forget not thou my pardon, as I thy fault forget.”
God bless thee, thou forgiving one, for mercy art thou come;
Our generous-hearted hero, oh, welcome, welcome home!
49

Rejoice, rejoice, old England, exult from shore to shore!
Thy hero is come back again, thy day of grief is o'er!
Oh, base and cruel were the hands that bound him in a chain;
He hath shaken off those fetters, as the lion shakes his mane!
He is come to those who love him,—our own, our noble king;
Our hearts unfold to hail him, like buds to hail the spring.
Come forth, come forth to meet him! thank God that he is come!
Our free and fearless-hearted one, oh, welcome, welcome home!
50

Coeur de Lion and his Horse.

“Ah, Fanuel, my noble horse, and art thou, art thou slain?
Wilt thou never bear me to the chase or the battle-field again?
Thou wert a steed of peerless might, a steed of strength and glee;
Right faithful wert thou to thy lord, and well thy lord loved thee.
Thou wouldst answer, when I named thee, with a joyous neigh and proud,
For thy voice was like a cymbal's, so exulting and so loud;
Thou wouldst arch thy neck, and stamp thy foot, for joy when I came near;
Thou wert eager to look lovely in the eyes of one so dear.
If other knight dared ride thee, with gay and reckless bound,
As a billow shakes the foam away, thou'dst toss him to the ground:
Yet gentle wert thou in thy strength; my lady-love might dare
To twine her fingers in thy mane, as in a child's bright hair.
Thou didst not start nor tremble at the sound of clashing swords;
Thy spirit in the battle was as eager as thy lord's;
Like him, thy fittest place was where the closing lines engage,
When thou wouldst snort and shake thy mane, like a lion in his rage.
A friend and a companion thou wert unto my heart;
Alas, alas, my noble steed, and is it thus we part?
Low on the ground, and lifeless, I see thy graceful head;
My voice awakes thee not,—by this, I know that thou art dead.
51

I must leave thee on the burning sands, beneath the eastern sun,
Like a worn and sleeping warrior whose battle-task is done;
Yet thou shalt not be forgotten by thy master and thy friend;
Where'er my name is known on earth, thy glory shall extend.”
King Richard thus lamented for his steed when it was slain;
But he turn'd him to the combat, and he drew his sword again;
“Take back thy barb, good Longsword; mount, mount, and be thou mute;
For I will not fight on horseback, if thou must fight a-foot.”
But the mighty sultan Saladin had watch'd our gallant king,
How he bore him in the battle like an eagle on the wing;
He saw his charger bleeding; he saw the hero fight
On foot amid his followers, a fearless-hearted knight.
He bade a coal-black steed be brought, and to his page he spake,
“Lead this to yonder chieftain—bid him ride it for my sake:
Fair courtesy beseemeth the lofty in degree;
And to honour such a hero, doth honour unto me.”
The page he bow'd full lowly, that courser's rein he took,
And he led him where King Richard had kneel'd beside a brook;
All heated with the battle, he had cast his helm aside,
And he stoop'd to bathe his forehead in the cold and glassy tide.
“O king, the mighty Saladin hath sent this steed to thee.”
Thus spake the page full humbly, and dropp'd upon his knee:
King Richard smooth'd that charger's mane, and stroked his graceful head;
“Go thank your courteous master,” right graciously he said.
52

“Much shall I prize thee for his sake, my steed of glossy black!”
With that he grasp'd the courser's mane, to leap upon his back:
But Longsword came to check him, that brave and loyal count;
“Nay, nay, my liege—your pardon—let me try him ere you mount.”
“Who doubts the noble sultan's faith?” King Richard sternly said;
But the earl was in the saddle ere the answer well was made:
Oh, fair and knightly was his seat upon the gilded selle;
And he prick'd the charger's side, resolved to try his mettle well.
The Arab feels a stranger's spur, a stranger's hand he knows;
Down to the dust right scornfully he bends his haughty brows;
Then tossing up his wrathful head, he scour'd across the plain,
Like the wild bull of the jungle, in his fury and disdain.
Away, away, with frantic speed, across the flying sand,
He rushes like a torrent freed, uncheck'd by human hand;
Nor did he stay his headlong race until his path had crost,
Like a flash of summer lightning, the Paynim's startled host.
He came to where the sultan stood, his ancient master dear,
And there he paused; and sweet it was his joyous neigh to hear:
He laid his head right lovingly against the sultan's breast,
With wistful and expectant eyes that ask'd to be caress'd.
Oh, deeply blush'd brave Saladin! he blush'd for noble shame,
Lest the stain of such a stratagem should light upon his fame;
He bent full low his turban'd brow, and scarce his eyes could lift,
As he craved of good Earl William a pardon for his gift.
53

“Now grieve not, gallant sultan,” quoth the earl in earnest tone;
“For the great heart of King Richard is noble as thine own:
No doubt is in his confidence; as soon would he believe
That he could be dishonour'd, as that thou couldst thus deceive.”
Of joyous heart was Saladin that thus the earl should say;
He bade his slaves caparison a steed of silver-grey;
And with many a phrase of courtesy, and many a fair excuse,
He sent that docile charger for good King Richard's use.
To that steed, in fair remembrance of the sultan true and brave,
The stately name of Saladin our gallant monarch gave.
Thus to his foe each warrior-king was courteous as a brother;
Oh, thus should generous enemies do honour to each other!
 

William, Earl of Salisbury, Surnamed Longsword.

54

Reign of King John, 1199–1216.

The Lay of the fearless De Courcy.

The fame of the fearless De Courcy
Is boundless as the air;
With his own right hand he won the land
Of Ulster, green and fair!
But he lieth low in a dungeon now,
Powerless, in proud despair;
For false King John hath cast him in,
And closely chain'd him there.
The noble knight was weary
At morn, and eve, and noon;
For chilly bright seem'd dawn's soft light,
And icily shone the moon:
No gleaming mail gave back the rays
Of the dim unfriendly sky,
And the proud free stars disdain'd to gaze
Through his lattice, barr'd and high.
But when the trumpet-note of war
Rang through his narrow room,
Telling of banners streaming far,
Of knight, and steed, and plume;
Of the wild mêlée, and the sabre's clash,
How would his spirit bound!
Yet ever after the lightning's flash
Night closeth darker round.
55

Down would he sink on the floor again,
Like the pilgrim who sinks on some desert plain,
Even while his thirsting ear can trace
The hum of distant streams;
Or the maimèd hound, who hears the chase
Sweep past him in his dreams.
The false king sate in his hall of state
'Mid knights and nobles free;
“Who is there,” he cried, “who will cross the tide,
And do battle in France for me?
There is cast on mine honour a fearful stain,
The death of the boy who ruled Bretagne;
And the monarch of France, my bold suzerain,
Hath bidden a champion for me appear,
My fame from this darkening blot to clear.
Speak—is your silence the silence of fear,
My knights and my nobles? Frowning and pale
Your faces grow as I tell my tale!
Is there not one of this knightly ring
Who dares do battle for his king?”
The warriors they heard, but they spake not a word;
The earth some gazed upon,
And some did raise a stedfast gaze
To the face of false King John.
Think ye they fear'd? They were Englishmen all,
Though mutely they sate in their monarch's hall;
The heroes of many a well-fought day,
Who loved the sound of a gathering fray,
56

Even as the lonely shepherd loves
The herds' soft bell in the mountain-groves.
Why were they silent? There was not one
Who could trust the word of false King John;
And their cheeks grew pallid as they thought
On the deed of blood by his base hand wrought;
Pale, with a brave heart's generous fear,
When forced a tale of shame to hear.
'Twas a coward whiteness then did chase
The glow of shame from the false king's face;
And he turn'd aside, in bootless pride,
That witness of his guilt to hide;
Yet every heart around him there
Witness against him more strongly bare!
Oh, out then spake the beauteous queen:
“A captive lord I know,
Whose loyal heart hath ever been
Eager to meet the foe;
Were true De Courcy here this day,
Freed from his galling chain,
Never, oh never, should scoffers say,
That amid all England's rank and might,
Their king had sought him a loyal knight,
And sought such knight in vain!”
Up started the monarch, and clear'd his brow,
And bade them summon De Courcy now.
Swiftly his messengers hasted away,
And sought the cell where the hero lay;
57

They bade him arise at his master's call,
And follow their steps to the stately hall.
He is brought before the council,—
There are chains upon his hands;
With his silver hair, that aged knight,
Like a rock o'erhung with foam-wreaths white,
Proudly and calmly stands.
He gazes on the monarch
With a stern and starlike eye;
And the company muse and marvel much,
That the light of the old man's eye is such,
After long captivity.
His fetters hang upon him
Like an unheeded thing;
Or like a robe of purple, worn
With graceful and indifferent scorn
By some great-hearted king.
And strange it was to witness
How the false king look'd aside;
For he dared not meet his captive's eye!
Thus ever the spirit's royalty
Is greater than pomp and pride!
The false king spake to his squires around,
And his lifted voice had an angry sound;
“Strike ye the chains from each knightly limb!
Who was so bold as to fetter him?
Warrior, believe me, no hest of mine
Bade them fetter a form like thine;
Thy sovereign knoweth thy fame too well.”
He paused, and a cloud on his dark brow fell;
58

For the knight still gazed upon him,
And his eye was like a star;
And the words on the lips of the false king died,
Like the murmuring sounds of an ebbing tide
By the traveller heard afar.
From the warrior's form they loosed the chain;
His face was lighted with calm disdain;
Nor cheek, nor lip, nor eye, gave token
Even that he knew his chains were broken.
He spake—no music, loud or clear,
Was in the voice of the grey-hair'd knight;
But a low stern sound, like that ye hear
In the march of a mail-clad host by night.
“Brother of Cœur de Lion,” said he,
“These chains have not dishonour'd me!”
There was crushing scorn in each simple word,
Mightier than battle-axe or sword.
Not long did the heart of the false king thrill
To the touch of passing shame,
For it was hard, and mean, and chill;
As breezes sweep o'er a frozen rill,
Leaving it cold and unbroken still,—
That feeling went and came;
And now to the knight he made reply,
Pleading his cause right craftily;
Skill'd was his tongue in specious use
Of promise fair and of feign'd excuse,
Blended with words of strong appeal
To love of fame and to loyal zeal.
At length he ceased; and every eye
Gazed on De Courcy wistfully.
59

“Speak!” cried the king in that fearful pause;
“Wilt thou not champion thy monarch's cause?”
The old knight struck his foot on the ground,
Like a war-horse hearing the trumpet sound;
And he spake with a voice of thunder,
Solemn and fierce in tone,
Waving his hand to the stately band
Who stood by the monarch's throne,
As a warrior might wave his flashing glaive
When cheering his squadrons on;
“I will fight for the honour of England,
Though not for false King John!”
He turn'd and strode from the lofty hall,
Nor seem'd to hear the sudden cheer
Which burst, as he spake, from the lips of all.
And when he stood in the air without,
He paused as if in joyful doubt;
To the forests green and the wide blue sky
Stretching his arms embracingly,
With stately tread and uplifted head,
As a good steed tosses back his mane
When they loose his neck from the servile rein;
Ye know not, ye who are always free,
How precious a thing is liberty!
“O world!” he cried; “sky, river, hill!
Ye wear the garments of beauty still;
How have ye kept your youth so fair,
While age has whiten'd this hoary hair?”
60

But when the squire, who watch'd his lord,
Gave to his hand his ancient sword,
The hilt he press'd to his eager breast,
Like one who a long-lost friend hath met;
And joyously said, as he kiss'd the blade,
“Methinks there is youth in my spirit yet.
For France! for France! o'er the waters blue;
False king, dear land, adieu, adieu!”
He hath cross'd the booming ocean,
On the shore he plants his lance;
And he sends his daring challenge
Into the heart of France:
“Lo, here I stand for England,
Queen of the silver main!
To guard her fame and to cleanse her name
From slander's darkening stain!
Advance, advance! ye knights of France;
Give answer to my call!
Lo, here I stand for England!
And I defy ye all!”
From the east and the north came champions forth—
They came in a knightly crowd;
From the south and the west each generous breast
Throbb'd at that summons proud.
But though brave was each lord, and keen each sword,
No warrior could withstand
The strength of the hero-spirit
Which nerved that old man's hand.
He is conqueror in the battle;
He hath won the wreath of bay;
61

To the shining crown of his fair renown
He hath added another ray;
He hath drawn his sword for England;
He hath fought for her spotless name;
And the isle resounds to her farthest bounds
With her grey-hair'd hero's fame.
In the ears of the craven monarch
Oft must this burthen ring,—
“Though the crown be thine and the royal line,
He is in heart thy king!”
So they gave this graceful honour
To the bold De Courcy's race,
That they ever should dare their helms to wear
Before the king's own face:
And the sons of that line of heroes
To this day their right assume;
For, when every head is unbonneted,
They walk in cap and plume!
 

Prince Arthur of Brittany, whose melancholy fate has been too often the theme of song and story to require notice here.

Isabella of Angoulême, wife to King John, celebrated for her beauty and high spirit.

The reader of German will here recognise an exquisite stanza from Uhland, very inadequately rendered.

The present representative of the house of De Courcy is Lord Kinsale.

62

The Lament of Eleanor of Bretagne.

[_]

[Eleanor was so beautiful that she was called “The Pearl of Brittany.” She was the sister of Prince Arthur; and after the murder of her brother she was imprisoned in Bristol Castle by the cruel and tyrannical John, where she died after a captivity of many years.]

Comfort me, O my God!
Mine only hope Thou art!
The strokes of Thine afflicting rod
Fall heavy on my heart.
Oh, who would wish to live
When life's bright flowers decay!
Oh, had I power to give
This weight of life away!
Comfort me, O my God!
Thou didst Thyself endure
Full many a bitter pang;
Thou, the All-holy, the All-pure,
Upon the cross didst hang.
My feet are on the track
Trodden erewhile by Thine;—
Ah, do not cast me back
On this weak heart of mine!
Comfort me, O my God!
I will pour forth my woes
Into Thy pitying ear.
Stern, stern must be the hearts of those
Whose hands confined me here;
In the morning of my days,
In the spring of guiltless mirth,
63

Never again to gaze
Free on the gladsome earth!
Comfort me, O my God!
'Twas said that I was fair
As the white gem of the sea;
They named me, in my native air,
The Pearl of Brittany:
At tourneys have I been,
And they chose me, far and near,
To reign the tourney's queen,—
I, the poor captive here.
Comfort me, O my God!
But I do not now regret
My splendour, doom'd to fade;
My changing beauty I forget;—
But oh, the wood's deep shade,
The free bird's gushing songs,
The sound of murmuring seas,—
For these my spirit longs,
And for dearer things than these.
Comfort me, O my God!
I had a brother then,
Whose place was in my heart;—
Oh, give me my beloved again,
And freedom may depart!
How shall I breathe the tone
Of that name,—the lost—the dear?
Arthur! mine own, mine own!—
Alas, thou canst not hear!
Comfort me, O my God!
64

They murder'd him by night,
In the sweetness of his youth,
His brow all bright with boyhood's light,
Clear as the beams of truth.
Falaise, thy walls, Falaise,
Behold a fearful thing,
For his brother's child a brother slays,
And a traitor stabs his king!
Comfort me, O my God!
Yes, king thou shouldst have been
Of this isle of high renown;
But death's wide gulf is now between
Thee and thy thorny crown.
My brother! thou wert mine!
Of crowns I little reck;
But, oh, that I could twine
These arms about thy neck.
Comfort me, O my God!
Sleep on, sweet Arthur, sleep
In thy calm and happy grave;
How couldst thou bear to see me weep,
And not have power to save?
Farewell! And shall I waste
My weary life away
In weeping for the past?
No! let me kneel and pray,
Comfort me, O my God!
That wailing voice hath ceased,
It melted into tears;
65

And death's sure hand the maid released,
After long mournful years.
In her beauty and her bloom
She was borne to that dark hold;
Thence was she carried to her tomb,
Grey-hair'd, and wan, and old!
66

Reign of Henry the Third, 1216–1272.

The Prince and the Outlaw.

Oh, it was our gallant Prince Edward,
Rode forth into Alton wood;
His plume was white, his sword was bright,
His heart was brave and good;
He saw the sunlight through the trees,
Checkering the grassy earth;
He felt the breath of the summer breeze,
And his spirit was full of mirth.
It was there he met with a stranger knight,
With disdain upon his face;
His mail was worn, and his eye spake scorn,
And full stately was his pace.
“Now who art thou, of the darksome brow,
Who wanderest here so free?”
“Oh, I'm one that will walk the green green woods,
And never ask leave of thee.”
“How now, thou churl?” quoth the angry prince,
“Ask pardon on thy knee!
I am England's heir, of my wrath beware,
Or ill shall it fare with thee.”
“Art thou England's heir?” quoth the outlaw bold;
“Well, if thy words be true,
I see not why, such a knight as I
Should fear for such as you.
67

I am Adam de Gordon, a noble free;
Perchance thou hast heard my name.”
“I have heard it, I trow (quoth the prince), and thou
Art a traitor of blackest fame.
Yield thee to me!” But the outlaw cried,
“Now, if thou knowest not fear,
Out with thy sword! by a good knight's word,
I will give thee battle here.”
“Come on!” cried that prince of dauntless heart;
“Yet pause while I alight,
For I never will play the craven's part,
At odds with thee to fight.”
He sprang from his steed, he drew his blade,
And a terrible fray began,
The very first stroke that Prince Edward made,
Blood from the Gordon ran.
At the second stroke that Prince Edward made,
The Gordon fell on his knee;
But he did not kneel to cry for aid—
Of a loftier heart was he.
To his feet he sprang, and the angry clang
Of their flashing swords did sound
Far through the green and solemn woods,
Stretching in beauty round.
The Gordon is pale, and his strength doth fail,
And his blood is ebbing fast,
But the spirit so high, in his flashing eye
Is dauntless to the last.
He hath struck the prince on his mailèd breast,
But the prince laugh'd scornfully;
68

“Oh, was it the wood-breeze stirr'd my vest,
Or a leaf from yonder tree?”
There is bitter grief in the Gordon's eye,
For he feels his strength depart;
It is not that he fears to die—
To be conquer'd grieves his heart;
He sinks, like a gallant ship o'erthrown
By the blast and the driving surf:
“I yield me not!” is his last faint tone,
As he falls on the trampled turf.
The prince was proud as a reinless steed—
Pride is an evil thing—
But the heart he bore was a heart indeed,
Right worthy of a king;
He sheath'd his blade, he sprang to aid
The Gordon as he lay.
“Rise up,” cried he, “my valorous foe,
Thou hast borne thee well to-day.”
He kneel'd by his side, he stanch'd the tide
Of life-blood flowing free;
With his scarf he bound each gaping wound,
And he sooth'd their agony.
He lifted the Gordon on his steed,
Himself he held the rein:
“I hold thee,” he said, “for a knight indeed,
And I give thee thy life again.”
There was bitter grief in the Gordon's eye,
Not for defeat that grief,
But he wept for his broken loyalty
To such a generous chief.
69

Humbly he bent his knightly head
With a changed and gentle brow:
“Oh, pardon! I yield, I yield!” he said;
“I am truly conquer'd now.”
Behold how mercy softeneth still
The haughtiest heart that beats;
Pride with disdain may be answer'd again,
But pardon at once defeats.
The brave man felt forgiveness melt
A heart by fear unshaken;
He was ready to die, for his loyalty
To the prince he had forsaken.
Prince Edward hath brought him to Guilford Tower
Ere that summer's day is o'er;
He hath led him in to the secret bower
Of his fair wife Alianore;
His mother, the lady of gay Provence,
And his sire, the king, were there;
Oh, scarcely the Gordon dared advance
In a presence so stately and fair.
But the prince hath kneel'd at his father's feet,—
For the Gordon's life he sues;
His lady so fair, she join'd his prayer;
And how should the king refuse?
Can he his own dear son withstand,
So duteous, brave, and true;
And the loveliest lady in all the land
Kneeling before him too?
70

“My children, arise!” the old king said,
And a tear was in his eye;
He laid his hand on each bright young head,
And he bless'd them fervently.
“With a joyful heart I grant your prayer,
And I bid the Gordon live;
Oh, the happiest part of a monarch's care
Is to pity and forgive.”
Then spake the queen so fair and free,—
“The Gordon I will make
Steward of my royal house,” quoth she,
“For these dear children's sake.”
May every prince be as generous
(Be this our prayer to Heaven),
And may every gallant rebel thus
Repent and be forgiven.
 

Alianore, or Eleonora, princess of Castile.

Eleanor of Provence, wife to King Henry the Third.

71

Reign of Edward I., 1272–1307.

The Death of King Henry the Third.

At Sicily's court Prince Edward sate,
Of a joyous heart was he,
For he came from afar from the holy war,
From battle and victory.
There strode a messenger into the hall,
He kneel'd upon his knee;
“What news dost thou bring,” quoth Sicily's king,
“From the fair isle of the sea?”
“I come to Prince Edward,” the messenger cried,
“And with heavy news I come;
For at eventide his young son died—
He died in his English home!”
Fair Elinore wrings her lily hands
In a mother's bitter woe;
But firm and grave Prince Edward stands,
Like a knight who meets his foe.
“Take comfort, Alianore, my wife,
Submit thee to this pain;
For it is but the God who giveth life
Recalling His gift again.”
Oh, not the less fair Elinore weeps,
Her lips can speak no word;
But her dark eyes raise their tearful gaze
Up to her stedfast lord.
72

Another step on the marble floor;
'Tis the prince's page, I trow—
His page who fought on the Syrian shore;
He cometh sad and slow.
Fair Elinore rose in hope and fear;
Wildly that page she met,
It was as though she hoped to hear
That her child was living yet.
“Ah, master mine,” the sad page said,
“God smiteth oft and sore:
Thy little daughter dear is dead!”
He could not utter more.
Fair Elinore raised one bitter wail,
And she swoon'd upon the ground;
Prince Edward's face grew somewhat pale,
But he did not breathe a sound.
And mute he stood for a moment's space,
Then slow and calmly spake,
“Bear ye the princess from the place,
Her gentle heart will break;
Tend her with care, and comfort her.”
Then to the king said he,
“My lord, I grieve thy festal eve
Should thus be marr'd for me.”
Oh, greatly marvell'd Sicily's lord
His stately air to see;
He dared not speak one pitying word,
But he watch'd him reverently.
Silent were all in the royal hall;
Not a breath was heard, until
73

A footstep fell like death's slow knell,
And every heart stood still.
A squire kneel'd lowly on the floor,
And he spake in humble tone,
“Henry of England breathes no more:
Thine are the crown and throne.”
A sudden change o'er the prince's brow
Like a cloud's swift shadow swept;
The strength of his heart forsook him now—
He hid his face and wept.
Oh, greatly marvell'd Sicily's king
When the hero's tears he saw;
From a warrior-soul those tears did spring,
And the king stood mute with awe;
But at last he spake:“O valorous prince,
Right strangely hast thou done:
Thou didst shed no tear for thy daughter dear!
Thou weepedst not for thy son!
But now thine aged sire is dead,
Like a worn-out pilgrim sleeping,
Though he leaves a crown for thy royal head,
Thou like a child art weeping!”
His noble face did Prince Edward raise,
And his tears became him now,
Like dew-drops sheen on the laurel green,
When it binds a conqueror's brow.
“Ah, king,” he said, “when infants die,
We mourn but for a day;
For God can restore as many more,
Lovely and loved as they:
74

But when a noble father dies,
Our tears pour forth like rain;
Once from high Heaven is a father given,
Once—and, oh, never again!”
75

Reign of Edward II., 1307–1327.

The Tournament.

The churches twelve of Wallingford
A stately sight they were,
When gleaming shields were hanging
From every column fair;
For a mile around the city
Earth's alter'd face was bright
With banner and pavilion,
With steed, and squire, and knight.
For king Edward holds a tournament;
His heralds, far and near,
Have borne the joyous message
To baron, prince, and peer.
They are coming in by thousands;
Woe to that warrior's fame
Whose knightly shield its place must yield
At the wand's light touch of shame!
The airs of heaven were wearied,
Long ere that morning shone,
With the sounds of clashing armour
And the horn's exulting tone;
Down many a woodland avenue,
Up many a grassy slope,
Came troops of glittering horsemen,
All gay with knightly hope.
76

And the serf forsook his labour,
And the ladye left her bower,—
They gather like the clouds of heaven
Before an April shower.
The lists are fairly order'd,
And every heart beats high
When the clarion's thrilling summons
Tells that the hour is nigh.
They have left each gay pavilion,
They are moving o'er the plain;
There rides Sir Piers de Gaveston,
Chief of a king-like train:
By his proud and stately bearing,
By his fair and rich array,
Ye might take him for a monarch
Upon his crowning day;
But like to plants that wither
In the hot sirocco's path,
So every face he passes
Grows pale with sudden wrath.
Ah, little scest thou, Gaveston,
With thy bright and reckless eye,
The doom that is before thee,
And the death that thou must die!
Yet the scowling gloom of Pembroke,
And Warwick's haughty glance,
The mutter'd curse of Arundel,
And Evreux' look askance,
The sullen frown of Lancaster,
And Warren's wrathful mien,
77

The bright and angry blushes
On the fair cheeks of the queen;
Her eye's disdainful beauty
As she pass'd the foe she scorn'd—
These might have warn'd that boaster:
He was not to be warn'd!
And there rode hapless Edward,
A graceful prince and gay;
But weakness in his ready laugh
And his eye's uncertain ray;
Who dream'd, that saw his maiden-grasp
On his palfrey's broider'd reins,
That the blood of the old Plantagenets
Was running in his veins!
And there rode fair Queen Isabelle,
A girl scarce fifteen years;
Like a swan on a breezeless river
Her snowy neck she rears;
Her beauty's proud magnificence
Was matchless in the world,
But ah! beneath its sweet rose-wreath
Lay the dread serpent curl'd.
Her smile of treacherous softness,
Her dark and glittering eye,
Were like a slumbering tempest
In the depths of a tropic sky.
On moved the gay procession,
And many a dame did lead
By the shining rein of a silver chain
Her warrior's pacing steed;
78

Each mantle gemm'd floats gaily,
Each courser stamps and fumes,
'Tis a heaving sea, whose billows free
Are banners and dancing plumes.
Oh, for the tongue of a minstrel
To tell in lightning words
The deeds of that glorious tournament,
The fame of those flashing swords!
How a fair and a queenly circle
Beheld the knights engage,
Like clear stars watching stedfastly
The foaming ocean's rage;
And amid those brows of beauty
Lofty and calm arose
The head of some ancient hero
Wearing its crown of snows;
'Twas a thrilling sight to witness
Each worn-out warrior's gaze
On a strife where he must not mingle,
On the deeds of his younger days.
Like walls of glittering armour
At first the champions stand,
As the Red Sea stood when its raging flood
Was cleft by God's own hand.
And the crash of their strong ranks charging
Arose when they met on the plain,
Like the roar of those bursting waters
Rushing together again.
Hark, how the watchful heralds
The shouts of their onset gave,
79

“Charge, warriors! Death to horses!
Fame to the sons of the brave!”
Those shouts are rising louder
At every well-aim'd blow,
Or whenever a lance is shiver'd
Fairly on breast or brow.
The air is full of battle,
It is full of the trumpets' sound,
Of the tramp of dashing horses,
And the cries of the crowd around;
The earth is strown with beauty,
It is strown with fair plumes torn,
With glove, and scarf, and streamer,
For the love of ladies worn;
But each maiden watch'd her champion,
And oft her white hands sent
Fresh gifts for every token
That was lost in the tournament.
Oh! with such eyes above them,
Such voices to cheer the strife,
No marvel those warriors tilted
Like men who are tilting for life!
But at length the sports are over!
Changed was the joyous scene,
When many a knight lay gasping,
Unhorsed upon the green;
Their squires are near to raise them,
They bear them soft and slow,
And loving eyes all mournful
Attend them as they go.
Not oft was life in danger;
Yet might those sweet eyes grieve
80

That in their sight, their own true knight
Should not the wreath receive.
Now shout ye for the victor!
The warrior to whose sword
Lady, and prince, and herald
The prize of fame award!
Doubt not his heart is thrilling
Thus on the turf to kneel,
While lovely hands unloose the bands
That clasp his helm of steel!
While every lip is busy
With the honour of his name,
And with glowing cheeks, each good knight speaks
The story of his fame!
Dear are thy gifts, O glory!
Dear is thy crown unstain'd,
When the true heart bears witness
That it was nobly gain'd!
Room for the queen! she cometh
To grace the conqueror now,
With a chaplet of green laurel
She stoops to wreath his brow!
A kiss—a gem—a garland—
These hath his good lance won,
And the king's own lips give honour
To the deeds that he hath done.
With dance, and song, and banquet,
The festive day shall close,
Till, wearied out with pleasure,
The warriors seek repose.
81

Yet lasts the giddy revel
Till the shining east grows pale,—
Ah, what a bright beginning
For such a darksome tale!
Even then the storm had gather'd
Which should burst in coming years,
For the reign of the second Edward
Was a reign of blood and tears!
82

Reign of Edward III., 1327–1377.

The Black Prince of England.

I'll tell you a tale of a knight, my boy,
The bravest that ever was known;
A lion he was in the fight, my boy,
A lamb when the battle was done.
Oh, he need not be named; for who has not heard
Of the glorious son of King Edward the Third?
Armour he wore as black as jet;
His sword was keen and good;
He conquer'd every foe he met,
And he spared them when subdued.
Valiant and generous, and gentle and bold,
Was the Black Prince of England in days of old.
Often he charged with spear and lance
At the head of his valorous knights;
But the battle of Poictiers, won in France,
Was the noblest of all his fights;
And every British heart should be
Proud when it thinks of that victory.
The French were many—the English few;
But the Black Prince little heeded:
His knights, he knew, were brave and true;
Their arms were all he needed.
He ask'd not how many might be the foe;
Where are they? was all that he sought to know.
83

So he spurr'd his steed, and he couch'd his lance,
And the battle was won and lost;
Captive he took King John of France,
The chief of that mighty host:
Faint grew the heart of each gallant foe;
Their leader was taken; their hopes were low.
Brave were the French; but at last they yield,
All wearied and worn out:
The prince is conqueror of the field;
And the English soldiers shout,
“God save our prince, our mighty lord!
Victory waiteth on his sword!”
Of all the knights who fought that day,
James Audley was the best;
His wounds were three, won valiantly,
On cheek, and brow, and breast:
And the Black Prince said, when the fight was o'er,
He never had seen such a knight before.
And did they chain King John of France?
Was he in dungeon laid?
Oh, little ye know what a generous foe
Our English Edward made!
A gentle heart, and an arm of might—
These are the things that make a knight.
He set King John on a lofty steed,
White as the driven snow,
And without all pride he rode beside,
On a palfrey slight and low:
He spoke to the king with a reverent mien,
As though the king had his captor been.
84

He treated King John like an honour'd guest;
When at the feast he sate
With courteous air, and with forehead bare,
The prince did on him wait;
And even when they to England came,
Our generous hero was the same.
But the prisoner's heart it grew not light,
For all the prince could say:
A captive king and a conquer'd knight,
Oh, how could he be gay?
E'en while his courteous words were speaking,
For his own dear France his heart was breaking.
Another lay shall the story tell
Of this valiant king and true:
He loved the Black Prince passing well,
And his worth full well he knew.
Then let us all unite to praise
That hero of the olden days.
The Romans, when they won the day
And bore their captives home,
Caused them to march in sad array,
Fetter'd and chain'd, through Rome;
And every foe, though good and brave,
They held as victim or as slave.
But ours was a Christian conqueror,
Generous, and true, and kind:
Though the grave has now closed o'er his brow,
He hath left this rule behind,—
That valour should ever wedded be
To mercy, and not to cruelty.
85

The Captivity of King John of France.

“In mine own land the sun shines bright,
The morning breeze blows fair;
I must not look upon that light,
I must not feel that air.
The chain is heavy on my heart,
Although my limbs are free;
A bitter, bitter loss thou art,
O precious liberty!”
It was King John lamented thus,
With many a mournful word;
But gentle, kind, and chivalrous,
Was the heart of him who heard:
The Black Prince came—he loved to bring
Comfort and sweet relief,
So he spake softly to the king,
And strove to soothe his grief.
“Now cheer thee, noble friend!” he said;
“Right bravely didst thou fight;
Thine honour is untarnishèd;
Thou art a stainless knight.
That man should ne'er desponding be
Who winneth fame in strife;
'Tis a better thing than liberty,
A better thing than life.
I grant thee one full year,” he said;
“For a year thou shalt be free:
Go back to France, and there persuade
Thy lords to ransom thee.
86

But if thy ransom they refuse,
And do not heed thy pain,
Our realm must not its captive lose—
Thou must return again.
So pledge me now thy royal word,
And pledge it solemnly,
That thou, the captive of my sword,
Wilt faithful be to me.”
The king he pledged his royal faith—
He pledged it gladsomely;
He promised to be true till death:
Of joyous heart was he.
Then did those generous foes embrace
Closely as brethren might,—
“Farewell, and God be with your grace;”—
“Farewell, thou peerless knight.”
The wind was fair, the sea was blue,
The sky without a speck,
When the good ship o'er the waters flew,
With King John upon its deck.
With eager hope his heart beat high
When he sprang on his own dear shore;
But sad and downcast was his eye
Ere one brief month was o'er.
Glad were the lords of lovely France
When they beheld their king;
But, oh! how alter'd was their glance,
When he spoke of ransoming!
They told of wasted revenues,
Of fortunes waxing low;
87

And when their words did not refuse,
Their looks said plainly, “No.”
Sore grew the heart of that good king,
As closed the winter drear;
And when the rose proclaim'd the spring,
He hail'd it with a tear.
For the year was gliding fast away,
And gold he could not gain,
And honour summon'd him to pay
His freedom back again.
And now the summer-noon is bright,
The warm breeze woos the scent
From a thousand flowers of red and white—
The year is fully spent!
“Paris, farewell, thou ancient town!
Farewell, my woods and plains!
Farewell, my kingdom and my crown!
And welcome, English chains!
Trim, trim the bark, and hoist the sail,
And bid my train advance,
I have found that loyal faith may fail—
I leave thee, thankless France.”
These bitter words spake good King John;
But his liegemen counsel gave:
“What recks it that the year is gone?
There yet is time to save.
Thou standest yet on thine own good land,
Forget thy plighted word,—
Remain! and to thy foe's demand
We'll answer with the sword.”
88

But the good King John spake firm and bold;
And oh! his words should be
Graven in characters of gold
On each heart's memory:
“Were truth disowned by all mankind,
A scorned and banished thing,
A resting-place it still should find
In the breast of every king.”
Again the good ship cleaves the sea
Before a favouring air,
But it beareth to captivity,
And not to freedom fair.
Yet when King John set foot on land,
Sad he could scarcely be,
For the Black Prince took him by the hand,
And welcomed him courteously.
To Savoy Castle he was brought,
With fair and royal state:
Full many a squire, in rich attire,
Did on his pleasure wait.
They did not as a prisoner hold
That noble king and true,
But as dear guest, whose high behest
'Twas honour and joy to do.
Of treaty and of ransom then
The prince and he had speech;
Like friends and fellow-countrymen,
Great was the love of each;
No angry thought—no gesture proud,
Not a hasty word they spoke,
89

But a brotherhood of heart they vowed,
And its bond they never broke.
In Savoy Castle died King John—
They buried him royally;
And grief through all the land is gone
That such a knight should die.
And the prince was wont to say this thing
Whene'er his name was spoken,—
“He was a warrior and a king
Whose word was never broken.”
90

The Six Burghers of Calais.

The burghers six of Calais,
True were they and brave;
To save their fellow-townsmen
Their lives they freely gave.
Will ye hear their story?
Come listen to my lay,
I will tell ye of King Edward,
The gallant and the gay.
Edward the Third of England,
A mighty prince was he;
To win the town of Calais
He hath cross'd the sea,
With all his gallant nobles,
And all his soldiers brave,—
They were a stately party
To ride upon the wave!
Around the walls of Calais
They waited many a day,
Till the king's right royal spirit
Grew weary of delay:
His eagerness avail'd not,
The city still held out;
The king grew very angry,
But still the walls were stout.
The fury of a monarch
A stone wall cannot rend,
91

As little is it able
A lofty heart to bend;
But a mightier than King Edward
Assail'd those stedfast men,—
The slow strong hand of Famine
Was closing on them then.
The feeble ones grew feebler,
The mighty ones grew weak;
Dim was each eye, though dauntless,
And pale was every cheek:
But round about the city
That ruthless army stayed,
So to their fainting hunger
No food might be conveyed.
The governor of Calais,
A stalwart knight was he,
For his king and for his country
He had fought right valiantly;
But he found his valour useless,
And he saw his soldiers die,
So he came before the English,
And spake with dignity:
“What terms, what terms, King Edward,
What terms wilt thou accord,
If I yield this goodly city
To own thee for its lord?”
King Edward gave him answer,—
His wrath was very hot,—
92

“Ye rebel hounds of Calais,
Your crimes I pardon not.
Six of your richest burghers
As captives I demand,
On every neck a halter,
A chain on every hand;
And when their lives have answered
For this their city's crime,
Then will I think of mercy,—
Till then, it is not time.”
The governor was silent,
His heart was full of pain;
Then spake Sir Walter Manny,
Chief of the monarch's train:
“The fittest time for mercy,
My liege, is ever—now;
Oh, turn away thine anger!
Oh, do not knit thy brow!
Call back thy words, King Edward,
Call back what thou hast said,
For thou canst not call the spirit
Back to the gallant dead.”
“Now hold thy peace, Sir Walter,”
The monarch sternly cried;
“I will not be entreated,
I will not be defied!
Be silent, all my nobles:
And thou, Sir John de Vienne,
Come with six wealthy burghers,
Or come thou not agen!”
93

The king he spake so fiercely
That no one dared reply;
Sir John went back to Calais
Slowly and mournfully.
The warriors and the burghers
He summoned to his hall,
And he told King Edward's pleasure,
Full sadly, to them all:
“My friends and fellow-townsmen,
Ye hear the tyrant's will;
We had better die together,
And keep our city still!”
There was silence for a moment,—
They were feeble, they were few,
But one spirit was among them,
Which nothing could subdue;
Out cried a generous burgher:
“Oh, never be it said
That the loyal hearts of Calais
To die could be afraid!
First of the destined captives
I name myself for death,
And in my Saviour's mercy
Undoubting is my faith.”
The name of this true hero
Ye should keep with reverent care;
Let it never be forgotten!—
It was Eustace de St. Pierre.
Like a watchfire lit at midnight—
Strike but a single spark,
94

And the eager flame spreads quickly
Where all before was dark;
So were their spirits kindled
By the word of bold St. Pierre,
His faith and his devotion
Gave strength to their despair.
Five other noble merchants
Their names that instant gave,
To join with generous Eustace
Their countrymen to save:
Their comrades wept around them
Tears for such parting meet;
And they led those willing captives
To stern King Edward's feet.
They came in brave obedience
To Edward's fierce command;
On every neck a halter,
A chain on every hand.
Now when the king beheld them,
Right fiery grew his eye,—
“Strike off their heads!” he thundered;
“Each man of them shall die!”
But forth stepped Queen Philippa,
The gentle, good, and fair;
She kneeled before King Edward,
And thus she spake her prayer:
(It was a sight full touching
That honoured queen to see,
95

Before the knights and nobles,
Low kneeling on her knee.)
“My loving lord and husband,”—
'Twas thus the fair queen spake,—
“Grant me these generous captives,
Oh, spare them for my sake!
I am thy true companion;
I crossed the stormy sea,
A weak and fearful woman,
And all for love of thee.
I have been faithful to thee
Through all our wedded life,
Nor didst thou ever find me
A disobedient wife;
Then do not thou repulse me
In this my first request;
Grant me their lives, I pray thee,—
In nought have they transgress'd.”
The king look'd long upon her:
“I would thou wert not here!
Yet I refuse thee nothing,
Because thou art so dear.”
Up sprang that joyous lady,
And eagerly she bade
That they should loose the fetters
Upon those captives laid.
From round their necks she loosened
The cruel halter's band;
To each a golden noble
She gave with her own hand;
96

She bade them be conducted
Back to their native place,—
To friends, and wives, and children,
To the joy of their embrace.
Oh, who shall paint their meeting!
Oh, who shall speak their bliss!
Too weak for aught so mighty
The power of language is.
How did the fond eyes brighten
Around each quiet hearth!
The peace of such deep rapture
Is seldom given to earth.
Oh, out then spake King Edward:
“How different are our parts!
I may win fair cities,
But my queen she winneth hearts.
God bless thee, sweet Philippa;
And mayst thou ever be
As dear to all the English
As now thou art to me!”
 

Sir John de Vienne, a knight of great valour, was then governor of Calais.

Philippa of Hainault, the fair and virtuous wife of Edward III.

97

Reign of Richard II., 1377–1399.

The little Queen.

A little child—scarce eight years old—
And she was crowned a queen!
Oh, strange and scarcely to be told
Must her young thoughts have been;
For how should pomp, and storm, and strife,
And prideful discontent,
With childhood's soft and dreamy life
Be for an instant blent?
They took her from her mother's care,
They bore her o'er the sea,
And to the King of England fair
Wedded her solemnly.
Oh, much that mother's heart must miss,
At morn and evening hours,
Her little one's accustom'd kiss,
Dropping like dew on flowers.
Beneath grey Windsor's stately shade,
The aspect of her life
98

Seem'd a green, quiet, forest glade,
With songs and wood-flowers rife.
No cloud to mar, no grief to break
Its spell so sweet and deep;
'Twas like the picture on a lake
When breezes are asleep.
King Richard was a gentle king;
His visits came like those
Which the gay sunshine makes in spring
To rouse the slumbering rose.
Her childish tasks were flung away,
While, laughing at her glee,
The monarch mingled in her play,
And loved its liberty.
Or down some cool, dark avenue,
Hand clasping hand, they roam,
While in her gaze his fancy drew
Pictures of days to come;
Little reck'd she of crown or throne,
Of regal pomp and pride;
“Oh, would I were a woman grown,
To make thee blest!” she cried.
Ah, little knewest thou, gentle king,
Nor thou, fair infant queen,
The storms which coming days should bring
To mar so sweet a scene;
Rebellion fierce and tameless scorn
Wax'd rampant in the land,
99

Till sword and sceptre both were torn
From good King Richard's hand.
To Havering Bower the queen was brought,
Where, captive and subdued,
Too soon her childish heart was taught
The cares of womanhood.
The tempest of her sudden grief
Came like a frost in spring,
That withers every bud and leaf
Before its blossoming.
Sternly her sullen guards refuse
All tidings of her lord;
Her eager quest she oft renews,
But they answer not a word.
Strange fears upon her youthful breast
With dark forebodings fell;
But still his name in prayer she blest,
And still she loved him well.
At length, one summer's morn, 'tis said,
Forth journeying from her bower,
She met the rebel troop who led
Her monarch to the Tower;
O piteous meeting! Grave surprise
Check'd even the gaoler train,
When from that child's young earnest eyes
The tears brake forth like rain.
She spake not many words, but strove,
In broken phrase and brief,
100

Somewhat of comfort and of love
To mingle with his grief;
“God will protect thee in thy fall,”
(Thus sobb'd the captive queen);
“Oh, father, mother, husband, all,
Thou unto me hast been!”
It is sad to see an infant fade
Beneath our very gaze,
As a lily in some poisonous shade
Droops, withers, and decays;
It is sad to see the eye's pure light
Grow fainter, day by day,
And the young, young life, so fresh and bright,
Ebb gradually away.
But sadder when the heart's young life
In the glory of its morn
Is dimm'd by grief, and marr'd by strife,
And stifled ere it dawn;
When childhood's hopes are changed to fears,
And childhood's mirth to gloom,
And life's great treasure-house of tears
Is open'd in life's bloom!
His crown, his hopes, his freedom gone,
King Richard pined away,
Till they slew him in his dungeon lone,
Like a lion brave at bay;
In vain his single strength he sets
'Gainst the rebels' leaguèd power,
101

Though the soul of the Plantagenets
Was strong in him that hour.
Long, long the false usurper tried,
With speech and promise fair,
To win his captive queen as bride
For Henry, England's heir.
Ever she answer'd stedfastly,
As one that shrank from strife,
“King Richard's widow will I die,
As I have lived his wife!
Still are mine eyes with weeping dim;
And 'twere a fearful thing
That I should wed the son of him
Who slew my gentle king.”
In woe her snowy hands she wrung,
And went to weep apart;
'Twas marvel that a child so young
Should be so true of heart.
Thus years all bootlessly were spent
In pleadings strong but vain;
Till, freed at last, the exile went
Back to her France again.
Oh, trust me, many tears she shed
As she forsook the land
Where the lord she loved so much lay dead,
Slain by a traitor's hand.
A place of grief had England been—
Of grief, and woe, and wrong,
102

Crushing the heart of that child-queen,
So desolate and young.
Yet firm was she, though wrath might burn,
And civil war rage wild.
Ah, let all men a lesson learn
From that fair, faithful child!
 

The princess Isabelle of France, who was married to King Richard II. ere she had completed her ninth year. He was then about thirty years old.

previous section Lays and Ballads from Ancient History
next section