King Richard mounts his palfrey grey,
And England's best are in array;
For lordly blood and knighthood bold
Do mortal fight on Naseby Wold.
Wherefore is Carodac spear in rest?
Swarthy Britomart targe on breast?
Not for tilt, or tourney light,
But in deep defiance of deadly fight.
Horse to horse, and hand to hand,
God to speed, and his own red brand:—
Woe worth the day, woe worth the feud,
When the falcon stoops for the falcon's blood
"Twas whisperd, somewhat of deadly wrong,
Of treason foul, and slanderous tongue;—
Some talkt of woman's wandering eye,
Far on the shores of Paynimie.
A Palmer spoke of murder's stain,-
Swords red, but not on battle plain,
I reck not,'tis as legends tell,-
None know how so dark a feud befell!
Certes! was seen a ladye there;—
(When was feud without ladye fair?)
Darkly bedight in foreign weed,
And proudly borne on an Eastern steed.
Maidens lip like hers ne'er smiled;
Maidens eye was ne'er so wild:-
Saint Mary! yonder lip and eye
Have more than earthly witchery!
Jesu! 'twas an awful day,
When spirits mingled with earthly clay:—
Eastern lore hath sung her birth,
She was no ladye of nether earth!
Strange legends of her youth were told,
That India's seas had o'er her rolld;
That her sire was ruler in Oceans caves,
O'er Genii of the pearly waves.
Her mother was queen of Fairy Lands,
Crystal isles, and golden sands;-
And she,-the child of another sphere
Yes! Love, in pain, in peril proved;-
And who can doubt, that once has loved?
She has left her fathers caverns swart,
And crosst the wave with Sir Britomart.
Queen-like, around the lists she rides;
But her brow is dark as an Afric bride's;
For she has tried her magic power,-
But a mightier spell rules the battle-hour.
Hark! peals the heralds challenge loud,-
The warders are pricking through the crowd,-
The clarion sounds;-with a torrents force
Parts from his stance each barbed horse.
The spurs were red in the coursers side,
Ere the first note of battle died:
A second-and in mid career
Reels the steed, and cracks the spear!
Sir Britomarts horse was a noble one,
Matchless in blood and mighty in bone;
Araby's steeds, he had beaten them all,—
But he was not bred in earthly stall!
There are sprites of the air, and sprites of the sea,
Jesu shield us!-that such should be!—
Now, ladyes all, read me my rede,
Whence came he, that coal-black steed?
But Carodac bore him like stubborn rock:
And the Paynim barb reeld at the shock:
Heaven's own hand was in the deed,
Or he had not quaild to earthly steed.
The girths are snapt on his panting sides,
The hand has dropt from the rein that guides:
Yon ashen lance, so good and so true,
Has pierced Sir Britomart through and through!
The clarions rung, and ladyes wept,
And many a Leech has forward stept,
To staunch and to talk as Leech does now;
But the sweat of death is on his brow!
In shorter gasps his breath came and went,
Like the forest's groan when the storm is spent,— And ever, with a torrents flood,
The priest would pray with the dying knight,
That his soul would pass, as pass it might;
But better the friar at home may preach,-
And he swore aloud at the trembling Leech!
His lips are moving, but not in prayer,
Though the blanch of death is settling there:-
He is trying to name his ladye's name,-
Few sounds were heard,-that ladye came.
O! Death is deadly wherever he be,
On the lonely wild, or the pathless sea;
But deadlier, wilder, in field or hall
When youth and strength before him fall.
To die, when life is but begun,—
To look your last on the blessed sun;
With the charnel-worm long vigils to keep,-
Or to sleep that last and awful sleep:
To clasp a hand, while your tongue can say—
A moment-and mine will be but clay;-
To gaze on the eye that is best and dearest,
And know, that Night to your own is nearest!
O! this is death in his deadliest mood,-
Worse than battle, worse than blood;
Worse than rack, when sinews start:-
Such was the death of Sir Britomart!
There is a light form oer him bending,―
There is a breast his pillow lending,
O! were the snow-wreath half as white,
No moon would shine on an Alpine night.
There is an eye that looks in his,—
Glazed and haggard and dim as it is:-
But the glaze and the dimness awhile can fly,
When he meets the beam of his Leila's eye.
So dark, so full, in its vivid glowing,
No light is quencht, though tears are flowing;
But her cheek is red in a crimson flood,
And her bosom steept in his hearts best blood!
She weeps no more on a senseless corse:-
Mount, gallant knights; to horse! to horse!
Say not tis woman's wrath you fly,-
No womans war is in that eye:
Ye have dared the tiger in his den,-
Ye quaild not before the Saracen,—
Ye have heard the Soldans battle-cry,-
Now,-hear the oath of Zatanai!
That oath is one of woe and fear,-
Deadly to speak, and deadly to hear;-
Twas framed in murkiest realms of air,
And sworn by fiends in their despair:
Few lived that heard the first brief word;-
The dark heath rockt before the third:-
Fiendish was it,-fiendish wrought;-
I must do penance for the thought!
Sir Carodac went o'er land and flood,
To fight for his faith, and the holy rood;
He has been six summers in Paynim land,
And deadly and keen was his knightly brana
The Soldan came with his spear in rest,
And challenged of England's band the best:
But the Soldan fled like the fleecy rack,
For England's best was Sir Carodac.
He was foremost when Salem's towers were won;
He was first on the walls of Ascalon:-
But whether in fight, or in tourney ring,
A solemn voice was whispering;—
'O! the Christian knight of his spear may boast; He may 'scape the sea, he may 'scape the host;
Pirate and Paynim-one or both
But he cannot 'scape that Ladye's oath.'
The ships are ploughing the northern foam,
And Carodac is welcomed home;
His foot is on his own white sand,
And his face is turnd to his fathers land!
Onward they prickt, his good steed and he,
O'er hill and dale, right merrily;-
But the sun went down the hills beneath,
And the moon rose pale on a blasted heath:
Onward he prickt,—but spur and rein
To the weary horse are all in vain;—
And he paused-for, beneath the moon-beam cold,
|