Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
II.
Then the Bishop of Avignon came, and knelt at the feet of the champion,
Prayed him to tarry awhile, and not to lead yet to the battle.
“Strike at the English, the knaves!” cried the proud prince, smiling in anger;
“This day,” said the heir to the throne, “we must win honour or perish.”
Taking the flag in his hand, he swore to lead on with the foremost.—
Close, and deadly, and thick shot the threatening ranks of the archers,
Drawing together their shafts, equal in skill and in courage.—
As the prince rode leisurely on, deep through the flood of the battle,
Stripes of crimson and white adorned his numberless trappings:
“These are womanly things!” cried the brave young prince of Bohemia;
“Away with this gilding and fur, this tinsel unstained by the battle—
These chains of jewels and gold, mere marks for the shafts of an archer!
Kings in the days of romance wore rude steel forged with the hammer,
Close-fitting hauberk with links defying the Mussulman sabres;
My father's is beaten and bruised, and split with Carpathian arrows,
Crimson with blood from the heart of Paynims, slain in the mêlée;
This badge I wear on my shield was won in the fray with the heathen.
These plumes of an ostrich were torn from the brow of an infidel Soldan,
To-day they shall glimmer afar o'er the tempest and roar of the onset.—
Leave women ermine and fur, soft mantles satin and silken;
Give me a clothing of steel, and adamant dug from the mountain,
Steel that may laugh at the swords and splinter the lances of iron,
Deriding even the stones from the catapults groaning and shrieking.”
So said the prince as he mounted and rode down the hill to the battle:
You have read of the knights of romance—Perceforest, Tristram, and Arthur,
The giant whose mantle was trimmed with the beards of the kings he had vanquished,
Launcelot, Knight of the Lake, and Percival, slayer of dragons
Yet these, though noble and rich, were clad like labouring peasants
Compared to the barons and earls who encircled the Prince of Bohemia.—
Gabriel Count of Bayonne cried, “To-day will be saddest of any,
Knights of Cyprus and Crete, if we beat not these English in battle.”
Prayed him to tarry awhile, and not to lead yet to the battle.
“Strike at the English, the knaves!” cried the proud prince, smiling in anger;
“This day,” said the heir to the throne, “we must win honour or perish.”
Taking the flag in his hand, he swore to lead on with the foremost.—
Close, and deadly, and thick shot the threatening ranks of the archers,
Drawing together their shafts, equal in skill and in courage.—
As the prince rode leisurely on, deep through the flood of the battle,
Stripes of crimson and white adorned his numberless trappings:
“These are womanly things!” cried the brave young prince of Bohemia;
“Away with this gilding and fur, this tinsel unstained by the battle—
These chains of jewels and gold, mere marks for the shafts of an archer!
Kings in the days of romance wore rude steel forged with the hammer,
Close-fitting hauberk with links defying the Mussulman sabres;
My father's is beaten and bruised, and split with Carpathian arrows,
Crimson with blood from the heart of Paynims, slain in the mêlée;
This badge I wear on my shield was won in the fray with the heathen.
These plumes of an ostrich were torn from the brow of an infidel Soldan,
To-day they shall glimmer afar o'er the tempest and roar of the onset.—
Leave women ermine and fur, soft mantles satin and silken;
Give me a clothing of steel, and adamant dug from the mountain,
Steel that may laugh at the swords and splinter the lances of iron,
Deriding even the stones from the catapults groaning and shrieking.”
So said the prince as he mounted and rode down the hill to the battle:
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The giant whose mantle was trimmed with the beards of the kings he had vanquished,
Launcelot, Knight of the Lake, and Percival, slayer of dragons
Yet these, though noble and rich, were clad like labouring peasants
Compared to the barons and earls who encircled the Prince of Bohemia.—
Gabriel Count of Bayonne cried, “To-day will be saddest of any,
Knights of Cyprus and Crete, if we beat not these English in battle.”
Many the valorous deed as the axes shivered the lances,
As helms flashed sparkles of fire like the anvil under the hammer;
Flights of arrows and bolts flew thick as the swallows in Autumn,
'Gainst the puissant monarch's array, 'gainst the horses blazoned and barded.
All the cross-bowmen of France led on the chosen battalion,
Close as the hairs of a brush were the numberless heads of the lances,
And through them, like roar of the beasts heard by night in a tropical forest,
Came cries of “St. Dennis for France!” “St. Dennis for France and the Lilies!”
As the sun, breaking out of a cloud, shone on the swords and the armour.
While the trumpets were sounding, and rang with a merry and chivalrous cadence,
From the sky came flying a dove and perched on the staff of a banner;
Then they knew they were favoured of God, and clamoured, and all moved together.
“Advance!” loud shouted the prince, “and bear down these ravening robbers.
Chandos, and Talbot, and Scrope, guards the dark clusters of archers;
The Duke of Athens is down, swept off by the hurrying eddies,
And under an oak in a lane lies stretched Sir Reginald D'Artois.”
Then, making the sign of the cross, and raising his eyes unto heaven,
“Now is the season for death,” cried the prince, and spurred to the rescue;
“Neville and Darcy and Scrope are hemming us in with their horses;
Strike, for the glory of God, strike, for the flag of St. Dennis!
Make us a way through the press, or die in the gap we have cloven;
As is the usage of knights we will dig out a grave with our axes.
Now, by St. Anthony's head, to the death of a knight or to conquest!”
Then the prince leaped again on his steed, and hurled in the thick of the battle.
As helms flashed sparkles of fire like the anvil under the hammer;
Flights of arrows and bolts flew thick as the swallows in Autumn,
'Gainst the puissant monarch's array, 'gainst the horses blazoned and barded.
All the cross-bowmen of France led on the chosen battalion,
Close as the hairs of a brush were the numberless heads of the lances,
And through them, like roar of the beasts heard by night in a tropical forest,
Came cries of “St. Dennis for France!” “St. Dennis for France and the Lilies!”
As the sun, breaking out of a cloud, shone on the swords and the armour.
While the trumpets were sounding, and rang with a merry and chivalrous cadence,
From the sky came flying a dove and perched on the staff of a banner;
Then they knew they were favoured of God, and clamoured, and all moved together.
“Advance!” loud shouted the prince, “and bear down these ravening robbers.
Chandos, and Talbot, and Scrope, guards the dark clusters of archers;
The Duke of Athens is down, swept off by the hurrying eddies,
And under an oak in a lane lies stretched Sir Reginald D'Artois.”
Then, making the sign of the cross, and raising his eyes unto heaven,
“Now is the season for death,” cried the prince, and spurred to the rescue;
“Neville and Darcy and Scrope are hemming us in with their horses;
Strike, for the glory of God, strike, for the flag of St. Dennis!
Make us a way through the press, or die in the gap we have cloven;
As is the usage of knights we will dig out a grave with our axes.
Now, by St. Anthony's head, to the death of a knight or to conquest!”
Then the prince leaped again on his steed, and hurled in the thick of the battle.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |