辈

CANTO FIRST

I

WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain

That may match with the Baron of Triermain?

She must be lovely and constant and kind,

Holy and pure and humble of mind,

Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood,

Courteous and generous and noble of blood-
Lovely as the sun's first ray

When it breaks the clouds of an April day;

Constant and true as the widowed dove,
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave
Where never sunbeam kissed the wave;

Humble as maiden that loves in vain,
Holy as hermit's vesper strain;

Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies,

Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned,

Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met

In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet

Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

See Note 2.

II

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,
His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep.
He had been pricking against the Scot,

The foray was long and the skirmish hot;
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight
Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still,
Harpers must lull him to his rest

With the slow soft tunes he loves the best
Till sleep sink down upon his breast,

Like the dew on a summer hill.

III

It was the dawn of an autumn day;
The sun was struggling with frost-fog grey
That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head,
And faintly gleamed each painted pane
Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that baron bold awoke.

Starting he woke and loudly did call,
Rousing his menials in bower and hall

While hastily he spoke.

IV

'Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall,

So sweet, so soft, so faint,

It seemed an angel's whispered call

To an expiring saint?

And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where
Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow,
With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,
And her graceful step and her angel air,
And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair,
That passed from my bower e'en now!'

V

Answered him Richard de Bretville; he

Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy,

'Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sat since midnight close,

When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings
Murmured from our melting strings,

And hushed you to repose.
Had a harp-note sounded here,
It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-formed sigh
When she thinks her lover near.'

Answered Philip of Fasthwaite tall;

He kept guard in the outer-hall, 'Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal crossed;

Else had I heard the steps, though low And light they fell as when earth receives In morn of frost the withered leaves

That drop when no winds blow.'

VI

'Then come thou hither, Henry, my page,
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,
When that dark castle, tower, and spire,
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And reddened all the Nine-stane Hill,

And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering smoke, Made the warrior's heart-blood chill.

The trustiest thou of all my train,

My fleetest courser thou must rein,
And ride to Lyulph's tower,

And from the Baron of Triermain

Greet well that sage of power.

He is sprung from Druid sires

And British bards that tuned their lyres

To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,

And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.1
Gifted like his gifted race,

He the characters can trace
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,

Of kingdoms' fall and fate of wars,

From mystic dreams and course of stars.

He shall tell if middle earth

To that enchanting shape gave birth,

Or if 't was but an airy thing

Such as fantastic slumbers bring,

Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes
Or fading tints of western skies.
For, by the blessed rood I swear,

If that fair form breathe vital air,
No other maiden by my side

Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!'

VII

The faithful page he mounts his steed, And soon he crossed green Irthing's mead,

Dashed o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,

And Eden barred his course in vain.

He passed red Penrith's Table Round,"

1 See Note 3.

See Note 4.