He that would climb so lofty a tree,

Or spring such a gulf as divides her from thee,
Must dare some high deed, by which all men may see
His ambition is backed by his hie chivalrie.

'Therefore thus speaks my lady,' the fair page he said,
And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head:
'Fling aside the good armour in which thou art clad,
And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead,
For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle-of thread:
And charge thus attired, in the tournament dread,
And fight, as thy wont is, where most blood is shed,
And bring honour away, or remain with the dead.'

Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast, The knight the weed hath taken, and reverently hath

kissed:

'Now blessed be the moment, the messenger be blest! Much honoured do I hold me in my lady's high behest; And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed dressed, To the best armed champion I will not veil my crest; But if I live and bear me well, 't is her turn to take the test.'

Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay of the Bloody Vest.

FYTTE SECOND

The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant feats:

There was winning of honour, and losing of seats:

There was hewing with falchions, and splintering of

staves,

The victors won glory, the vanquished won graves.
Oh, many a knight there fought bravely and well,
Yet one was accounted his peers to excel,

And 't was he whose sole armour on body and breast
Seemed the weed of a damsel when bound for her rest.

There were some dealt him wounds, that were bloody and sore,

But others respected his plight, and forebore.

'It is some oath of honour,' they said, 'and I trow, 'T were unknightly to slay him achieving his vow.' Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the tournament cease, He flung down his warder, the trumpets sung peace; And the judges declare, and competitors yield, That the Knight of the Night-gear was first in the field.

The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was nigher,
When before the fair Princess low louted a squire,
And delivered a garment unseemly to view,

With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hacked and pierced

through;

All rent and all tattered, all clotted with blood,
With foam of the horses, with dust, and with mud;
Not the point of that lady's small finger, I ween,
Could have rested on spot was unsullied and clean.

'This token my master, Sir Thomas à Kent,

Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent:

He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit,
He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in his suit;
Through life's utmost peril the prize I have won,
And now must the faith of my mistress be shown;
For she who prompts knights on such danger to run
Must avouch his true service in front of the sun.

'I restore,' says my master, 'the garment I've worn, And I claim of the Princess to don it in turn.

For its stains and its rents she should prize it the more, Since by shame 't is unsullied, though crimsoned with

gore.'

Then deep blushed the Princess, yet kissed she and pressed

The blood-spotted robes to her lips, and her breast.

'Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall show If I value the blood on this garment or no.'

And when it was time for the nobles to pass
In solemn procession to minster and mass,

The first walked the Princess in purple and pall,
But the blood-besmeared night-robe she wore over all;
And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at dine,

When she knelt to her father and proffered the wine,
Over all her rich robes and state jewels she wore
That wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore.

Then lords whispered ladies, as well you may think, And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and wink:

And the Prince, who in anger and shame had looked

down,

Turned at length to his daughter, and spoke with a

frown:

'Now since thou hast published thy folly and guilt,
E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast spilt;
Yet sore for your boldness you both will repent,
When you wander as exiles from fair Benevent.'

Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he stood,
Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of mood;

'The blood that I lost for this daughter of thine,
I poured forth as freely as flask gives its wine:
And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame,
Do not doubt I will save her from suffering and shame;
And light will she reck of thy princedom and rent,
When I hail her, in England, the Countess of Kent.'

VERSES FROM WOODSTOCK

Published in 1826

I

'BY PATHLESS MARCH, BY GREENWOOD TREE'

From Chapter XIV

By pathless march, by greenwood tree,
It is thy weird to follow me:

To follow me through the ghastly moonlight,
To follow me through the shadows of night,
To follow me, comrade, still art thou bound:
I conjure thee by the unstanched wound,
I conjure thee by the last words I spoke,
When the body slept and the spirit awoke,
In the very last pangs of the deadly stroke!

II

GLEE FOR KING CHARLES

From Chapter xx

BRING the bowl which you boast,

Fill it up to the brim;

'Tis to him we love most,

And to all who love him.