« 前へ次へ »
Ab, minstrels! when the Table Round Arose, with all its warriors crown'd, There was a theme for bards to sound
In triumph to their string! Five hundred years are past and gone, But Time shall draw his dying groan, Ere lie behold the British throne
Begirt with such a ring!
Lifted the cup, in act to drink.
still can show the dint,
Until he gain'd the hill;
He stood, exhausted, still.
Or Carlisle fair and free.
The flower of chivalry.
And love-lorn Tristrem there;
Brunor and Bevidere.
Sir Carodac thc keen,
Look'd stol’a-wise on the queen. (5)
XI. Full fifteen years, and more, were sped, Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head. Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought, The Saxous to subjection brought; (3) Rython, the mighty giant, slain By his good brand, relieved Bretagne; The Pictishi Gillamore in fight, And Roman Lucius, own'a bis might; And wide were through the world renownd The glories of his Table Round. Each knight, who sought adventurous fame, To the boid court of Britain came, And all who suffer'd causeless wrong, From tyrant proud or faitour strong, Sought Arthur's presence to complain, Nor there for aid implored in vain.
XIV. When wine and mirilı did most abound, And harpers play'd their blithest round, A shrilly trumpet shook the ground,
And marshals cleard the ring; A maiden, on a palfrey white, Heading a band of damsels bright, Paced through the circle, to alighit
And kneel before the king.
Almost cried, «Guendolen!»
Than of the race of men;
Pendragon's, you might ken,
XII. For this the king, with pomp and pride, lleld solemn court at Whitsuntide,
And summond prince and peer,
To come from far and near.
In lists to break a spear;
Before him must appear.
XV. Faltering, yet gracefully, she said«Great prince! behold an orphan maid, In lier departed mother's name, A father's vow'd protection claim; The vow was sworn in desert lone, Jo the deep valley of St John.»—
There were two who loved their neighbours' wives,
And one who loved his own. (6) The first was Lancelot de Lac,
The second Tristrem bold,
Who won the cup of gold, 6)
(Thereof came jeer and laughs), He as the mate of lady true, Alone the
could quaff. Thougu envy's tongue would fain surmise, That, but for
very shame, Sir Carodac, co fight that prize, Had given both спр
and dame. Yet, since but one of that fair court
Was true to wedlock's shrine,
He shall be free from mine,
At once the king the suppliant raised,
Take buckler, spear, and brand!
Shall win my Gynethi's hand.
Shall bring a noble dower;
And Carlisle town and tower.»--
To page and squire that cried, Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight! "T is not each day that a warrior's might
May win a royal bride.»Then cloaks and
of maintenance In haste aside they fling; The helmets glance, and gleams the lance,
And the steel-weaved hauberks ring, Small care had they of their peaceful array,
They might gather it that wolde;
Were fifty champions free,
They all arise, but three.
One gallant could withhold,
For penance or for gold.
Among the troop were thrown,
And plain of honour flown.
With buckling spur and belt,
Were neither scen nor felt.
Each gallant turns aside,
And Carlisle tower and town;
That ever leir'd a crown.--
And strike their visors down.
XX. « Thou seest, my child, as promise-bound, I bid the trump for tourney sound, Take thou my warder, as the queen And umpire of the martial scene; But mark thou this:-as Beauty bright, Is polar star to valiant knight, As at her word his sword he draws, His fairest guerdon ber applause, So gentle maid should never ask Of knighthood vain and dangerous task; And Beauty's eyes
should ever be Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, And Beauty's breath should whisper peace, And bid the storm of batile cease. I tell thee this, lest all too far These knights urge tourney into war. Blithe at the trumpet let them so, And fairly counter blow for blow:No striplings these,' who'succour need For a razed helm or falling steed. Bul, Gynetlı, when the strife grows warm, And threatens death or deadly harm, Thy sire entreats, thy king commands, Thou drop the warder from thy hands. Trust thou tlıy father with thy fate, Doubt not be chuse thee fitting mate; Nor be it said, through Gynethi's pride A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.»-
XVIII. The champions, arm'd in martial sort,
Have throng'd into the list,
Are from the lourney miss'd.
For faith so constant shown,
Their meeting was a goodly sight,
While plate and mail held true.
Should this encounter rue.
The merry green-wood through.
She put the warder by: – « Reserve thy boon, my liege, » she said, « Thus chaffer'd down and limited, Debased and narrow'd, for a maid
Of less degree than I.
Than Britain's king holds me!
His barren hill and lee. King Arthur swore, ' by crown and sword, “As belted knight, and Britain's lord, * That a whole summer's day should strive * His knights, the bravest knights alive!' Recal thine oath! and to her glen Poor Gyneth can return agen; Not on thy daughter will the stain, That soils thy sword and crown, remain. But think not she will e'er be bride Save to the bravest, proved and tried; Pendragon's daughter will not fear For clashing sword or splinterd spear,
Nor shrink though blood should flow; And all too weil sad Guendolen Hath taught the frithlessness of men, That child of hers should pity when
Their meed they undergo.»
spears drew blood, the swords struck slame, And, horse and man, to ground there came
Knights who shall rise no more!
And pennons stream'd with gore.
Unheeding where they fell;
The sinking seaman's knell!
eye Might the brave strife of chivalry
Awhile antroubled view;
And spare dark Mordred's crime;
Of chivalry the prime.
And quaked with ruth and fear;
And chid the rising tear.
And many a champion more;
Lies gasping in his gore. Vanoc, by mighty Morolt pressid Even to the confines of the list, Young Vanoc of the beardless face (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race), O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, His heart's blood dyed lier sandals red. But then the sky was overcast, Then howl'd at onee a whirlwind's blast,
And, rent by sudden throes, Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, And from the gulph, -tremendous birth!
The form of Merlin rose.
And sternly raised bis hand :« Madmen,» he said, « your strife forbear! And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear
The doom thy fates demand !
While her wondrons tale was new,
END OF LYULPH'S TALE.
XXVII. As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye Slumber's load begins to lie; Fear and anger vainly strive Still to keep its light alive. Twice, with effort and with pause, O'er her brow her hand she draws; Twice her strength in vain she tries, From the fatal chair to rise; Merlin's magic doom is spoken, Vanoc's death must now be wroken, Slow tie dark-fringed eye-lids fall, Curtaining each azure ball, Slowly as on summer eves Violets fold their dusky leaves. The weighty baton of command Now bears down her sinking hand, On her shoulder droops her nd; Nel of pearl and golden thread, Bursting, gave her locks to flow O'er her arm and breast of snow. And so lovely seem'd she there, Spell-bound in her ivory chair, That lier angry sire, repentings Craved stern Merlin for relenting, And the champions, for bier sake, Would again the contest wake; Till, in necromantic night, Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.
Lordlings and willings not a few,
Yet ill at ease with nought to do.
Some phantom, fashionably thin,
And lounging gape, or sneering grin,
XXVIII. Still she bears her weird alone, In the Valley of Saint John; And her semblance oft will seem Mingling in a champion's dream, Of her weary lot to plain, And crave his aid to burst her chain,
UJ. Or grant the hour be all too soon For Hessian boot and pantaloon, And grant the lounger seldom strays Beyond the smooth and gravel'd maze, Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train Holds hearts of more adventurous strain. Artists are hers, who scorn to trace Their rules from Nature's boundless grace, But their right paramount assert To limit her by pedant art, Damning whale'er of vast and fair Exceeds a canvas three feet square. This thicket, for their gumption fit, May furnish such a happy bit. Bards, 100, are hers, wont to recite Their own sweet lays by waxen light,
Half in the salver's tinkle drown'a,
Forgive me, love, I cannot bear
if wealth and high degree
III. But oh, my Lucy, say how long We still must dread this trilling throng, And sloop to bide, with coward art, The genuine feelings of the bicar!! No parents thine, whose just command Should rule their child's obedient hand; Thy guardians, with contending voice, Press each his individual choice. And which is Lucy's !--Can it be That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pio. Who loves in the saloon to show The arms that pever knew a foe; Whose sabre trails along the yround, Whose legs in shapeless boots are drown'd; A new Achilles, sure,--the steel Fled from his breast to fence his heel; One, for the simple manly grace That wont to deck our martial race, Who comes in foreign trashery
Of tinkling chain and spur,
Of feathiers, lace, and fur:
VI. What sight, what signal of alarm, That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm! Or is it, that the rugged way Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay? Oh, no! for on the vale and brake Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake, And this trim sward of velvet green Were carpet for the fairy queen. That pressure slight was but to tell That Lucy loves bier Arthur well, And fain would banish from his mind Suspicious fear and doubt unkind.
So early train'd for statesman's part,
As themes that he has got by heart; Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach, Whose logic is from Single-speech; Who scorns the meanest thought to vent, Save in the phrase of Parliament; Who, in a tale of cat and mouse, Calls « order,» and « divides the house,» Who « craves permission to reply,» Wbose « poble friend is in his
eye ;» Whose loving tender some have reckond A motion, you should gladly second ?
VII But wouldst thou bid the demons fly Like mist before the dawning sky, There is but one resistless spellSay, wilt thou guess, or must I tell ? 'T were hard to name in minstrel phrase, A landaulet and four blood-bays, But bards agree this wizard band Can but bound in Northern Land. 'T is there--nay, draw not back thy hand! "T is there this slender finger round Must golden amulet be bound, Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer, Can change to rapture lover's care, And doubt and jealousy shall die, And fears give place to ecstacy.
V. What, neither? Can there be a third, To such resistess swains preferr'd ?O why, my Lucy, turn aside, With that quick glance of injured pride?
VIII. Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long Has been thy lover's tale and song. O why so silent, Jore, I pray? Have I not spoke the livelong day? And will not Lucy deign to say
One word her friend to bless ? I ask but one-a simple sound, Within three little letters bound,
O let the word be YES!
"The trammels of the palfraye pleased his sight, And the horse-millanere his head with roses dight..
RowLet's Ballads of Charitie.