Classic Poem

Before his Lion Court,
Keen for the tourney's sport,
King Francis sat on a day.
Around were the mighty ones of the land,
And up in a balcony, close at hand,
The ladies in bright array.

And as with his finger a sign he made,
Wide opened the gates in the palisade;
A lion is seen
With stately mien.
He glares around,
But makes no sound;
He yawns disdain,
And shakes his mane,
And stretching once more,
Lies down on the floor.

Another sign is made by the King
A neighbouring portal open to fling —
With a furious crash
And a ponderous dash
A tiger springs in.
The lion he views,
And with roaring pursues,
And lashes his tail
Like the sweep of a flail;
He exhibits his fangs,
And cautiously hangs,
At a distance secure
From the lion demure,
And snarls and howls —
Then quietly prowls
And lies at the lion's side.

Again a signal is made by the King.
The doors of a den are opened wide,
And forth a couple of leopards glide.
With lust of battle they prowl around,
Then furious on to the tiger bound.
But they succumb to the terrible paws,
And next the lion opens his jaws
And roars aloud: then all is still.
With glaring eyes with lust which thrill,
There the terrible beasts of prey,
Ranged in an awful circle, lay.

Then some fair hand from the terrace above
Into the lists let fall her glove.
Fluttering down from the gallery gay,
Between the lion and tiger it lay.

With a bantering tone fair Cunigonde
To the Knight Delorges cried: —
" An thy love for me, Sir Knight, be as fond
As often thou hast sighed,
Then bring me, I pray thee, my glove again "

The Knight, unanswering, vaulted amain
Into the lists from above.
With confident stride and an easy grace
He boldly affronted that horrible place,
And rescued the delicate glove.
With terrified wonder the stirring sight
Was witnessed by every lady and Knight,
And as he returned with the glove in his grip
His praises resounded from lip to lip.
And Cunigonde with a tender glance,
Which seemed to augur his fortunate chance,
Stepped forward her lover to greet.
But he hurled the rescued glove in her face:
" Thy thanks, my Lady, are out of place! "
— And they parted, never to meet.