Classic Poem

HE is bound for the wars,
He is armed for the fight,
With lion-like sinews,
And the heart of a knight;
All hidden in steel,
Like the sun in a cloud,
And he calls for his charger,
Who neigheth aloud;
And he calls for his page,
Who comes forth like the light;
And they mount and ride off,
For the Brescian fight.

Count Gaston de Foix
Is the heir of Narbonne,
But his page is an orphan,
Known, — link'd unto none;
The master is young,
But as bold as the blast;
The servant all tender, —
Too tender to last;
A bud that was born
For the summer-soft skies,
But left to wild winter,
Is trampled and dies!

" Come forward, my young one,
Ride on by my side;
What, child, wilt thou quell
The Castilian pride? "
Thus speaks the gay soldier,
His heart in his smile,
But his page blushes deep,
(Was it anger?) — the while:
Was it anger? Ah, no:
For the tender dark eye,
Saith — " Master, for thee
I will live, I will die!"

They speed to the field,
All arrayed for the fight,
And Brescia falleth,
Like fruit in a blight;
Scarce a blow for a battle,
A shout for her fame;
All 's lost, — given up
To the sound of a name!
But Ravenna hath soldiers,
Whose hearts are more bold,
Whose wine is all Spanish,
Whose pay is all gold.

So he turns, with a laugh
Of contempt for his foe,
And he girdeth his sword,
For a weightier blow.
Straight forward he rideth
'Till night's in the sky,
When the page and the master
Together must lie.
Where loiters the page?
Ha! he hangeth his head,
And with forehead like fire
He shunneth the bed.

" Now rest thee, my weary one;
Drown thee in sleep!
The great sun himself
Lieth down in the deep;
The beast on his pasture,
The bird on his bough,
The lord and the servant
Are slumberers now. "
" I am wont, " sighed the page,
" A long watching to keep;
But my lord shall lie down
While I charm him to sleep. "

Soon (cased in his armour)
Down lieth the knight,
And the page he is tuning
His cittern aright;
At last, through a voice
That is tender and low,
The melody mourns
Like a stream at its flow;
Sad, gentle, uncertain,
As the life of a dream;
And thus the page singeth,
With love for his theme:

SONG .

1.

There lived a lady, long ago;
Her heart was sad and dark, — ah, me!
Dark with a single secret woe,
That none could ever see!

2.

She left her home, she lost her pride,
Forgot the jeering world, — ah, me!
And followed a knight, and fought, and died,
All for the love of — chivalry!

She died, — and when in her last dull sleep,
She lay all pale and cold, — ah, me!
They read of a love as wild and deep
As the dark deep sea!

The song's at an end!
But the singer, so young,
Still weeps at the music
That fell from his tongue:
His hands are enclasped;
His cheeks are on fire;
And his black locks, unloosened,
Lie mixed with the wire:
But his lord — he reposes
As calm as the night,
Until dawn cometh forth,
With her summons of light:

Then — onwards they ride
Under clouds of the vine;
Now silent, now singing
Old stories divine:
Now resting awhile,
Near the cool of a stream,
Now wild for the battle;
Now lost in a dream:
At last — they are threading
The forest of pines,
And Ravenna, beleaguer'd
By chivalry, shines!

*****

Ravenna! Ravenna!
Now " God for the right!"
For the Gaul and the Spaniard
Are full in the fight.
French squadrons are charging,
Some conquer, some reel;
Wild trumpets are braying
Aloud for Castile!
Each cannon that roareth
Bears blood on its sound,
And the dead and the dying
Lie thick on the ground.

Now shrieks are the music
That's borne on the gust,
And the groan of the war-horse
Who dies in the dust:
Now Spaniards are cheered
By the " honour" they love;
Now France by the flower
That bloometh above;
And, indeed, o'er the riot,
The steam, and the cloud,
Still the Oriflame floateth, —
The pride of the proud!

What ho! for King Louis!
What ho! for Narbonne!
Come soldiers! 'tis Gaston
Who leadeth ye on!
'Tis Gaston, your brother,
Who waveth his hand;
Who fights, as ye fight,
For the vine-covered land!
'Tis Gaston, — 'tis Gaston,
The last of his name,
Who fights for sweet France,
And will die for her fame!

" Come forward! Come" — Ha!
What is doing? He stops!
Why? why? By Saint Denis,
He staggers, — he drops!
'Twas something — 'twas nothing —
A shot and a sound;

Yet the ever-bright hero
Lies low on the ground!
He loseth his eye-sight;
He loseth his breath;
He smiles — Ah! his beauty
Is darkened by death!

No pause — not an instant,
For wailing or woe!
For the battle still rageth;
Still fighteth the foe;
Again roar the cannon;
Again flies the ball;
And the heart of the Spamard
Spouts blood on the Gaul!
Strong armour is riven,
Proud courage laid low,
And Frenchmen and foemen
Are dead at a blow!

Oh, the bellowing thunders!
The shudders — the shocks!
When thousands 'gainst thousands
Come clashing like rocks!
When the rain is all scarlet,
And clouds are half fire,
And men's sinews are snapped
Like the threads of a lyre!
When each litter's a hearse,
And each bullet a knell;
When each breath is a curse,
And each bosom — a hell!

*****

Mourn, Soldiers, — he's dead!
The last heir of Narbonne!
The bravest — the best!
But the battle is won!
The Spaniards have flown,
To their fosse-cover'd tent;
And the victors are left
To rejoice, — and lament!
They still have proud leaders,
Still chivalry brave;
But the first of their heroes
Lies dumb in the grave!

They bear him in honour;
They laurel his head;
But, who meets the pale burthen,
And drops by the dead?
The Page? — no, — the W OMAN !
Who followed her love,
And who 'll follow him still
(If it may be) — above:
Who 'll watch him, and tend him,
On earth, or in sky;
Who was ready to live for him,
Ready to die!

... A Month has flown by,
On the wings of the year;
And a train of sad maidens
Droop after a bier;
No crown on the coffin;
No name on the lid;
Yet the flow'r of all Provence
Within it is hid!
Blanche — Countess, — and heiress.
Once bright as the sun,
Lies dim, by the side
Of the heir of Narbonne!

Oh, Courage! dost always
Pay blood for a name?
True Love! must thou ever -more
Die for thy fame!
'Twere sweet — could it be,
That the lover should dwell
In the bosom (a heaven!)
He loveth so well:
But, if not — why then, Death,
Be thou just to his worth,
And sweep him at once
From the scorn of the earth!