The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 33, July, 1860. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      MARCADEE.

      I'm but a soldier of fortune, you see:

      Huzza!

      Glory and love,–they are nothing to me:

      Ha, ha!

      Glory's soon faded, and love is soon cold:

      Give me the solid, reliable gold:

      Hurrah for the gold!

      Country or king I have none, I am free:

      Huzza!

      Patriot's quarrel,– 'tis harvest for me:

      Ha, ha!

      A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,–

      I'd fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold:

      Hurrah for the gold!

      He turned to the king, as he finished the verse,

      And threw on the table a heavy purse

      With a pair of dice; another, I trow,

      Still lurked incog. for a lucky throw:–

      "'Tis mine; 'twas thine. If the king would play,

      Perchance he'd find his revenge to-day.

      Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin;

      I always repent–unless I win."

      Le jeu est fait. –"Well thrown! eleven!

      My purse is gone.–Double-six, by heaven!"

      At this unlucky point in the game

      A herald was ushered in. He came

      With a flag of truce, commissioned to say

      The garrison now were willing to lay

      The keys of the castle at his feet,

      If he'd let them go and let them eat:

      They'd done their best; could do no more

      Than humbly wait the fortune of war

      And Richard's word. It came in tones

      That grated harshly:–"D–n the bones

      And double-six! Marcadee, you've won.–

      Take back my word to each mother's son,

      And tell them Richard swore it:

      Be the smoke of their den their funeral pall!

      By the Holy Tomb, I'll hang them all!

      They've hung out so well behind their wall,

      They'll hang out well before it."

      Then Richard laughed in his hearty way,

      Enjoying his joke, as a monarch may;

      He laughed till he ached for want of breath:

      If it lacked in life, it was full of death:

      Like many, believing the next best thing

      To a joke with a point is a joke with a sting.

      Loud he laughed; but he laughed not long

      Ere he leaped to the back of his charger strong,

      And bounded forward, axe on high,

      Circling the tents with his battle-cry,–

      "Away! away! we shall win the day:

      In the front of the fight you'll find me:

      The first to get in my spurs shall win,–

      My boots to the wight behind me!"

      * * * They have reached the moat;

      The draw is up, but a wooden float

      Is thrust across, and onward they run;

      The bank is gained and the barbican won;

      The outer gate goes down with a crash;

      Through the portcullis they madly dash,

      And with shouts of triumph they now assail

      The innermost gate. The crushing hail

      Of rocks and beams goes through the mass,

      Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass;–

      They falter, they waver. A stalwart form

      Breaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm:

      'Tis the Lion King!–"How, now, ye knaves!

      Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!"–

      One blow to the left, one blow to the right,–

      Two recreants fall;–no more of flight.

      One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke,

      His curtle-axe rends the double oak.

      Down shower the missiles;–they fall in vain;

      They scatter like drops from the lion's mane.

      He is down,–he is up;–that right arm! how

      'Tis nerved with the strength of twenty, now!

      The barrier yields,–it shivers,–it falls.

      "Huzza! Saint George! to the walls! to the walls!

      Throw the rate to the moat! cut down! spare not!

      No quarter! remember–Je–su! I'm shot!"

      On a silken pallet lying, under hangings stiff with gold,

      Now is Coeur-de-Lion sighing, weakly sighing, he the bold!

      For with riches, power, and glory now forever he must part.

      They have told him he is dying. Keen remorse is at his heart

      Life is grateful, life is glorious, with the pulses bounding high

      In a warrior frame victorious: it were easy so to die.

      Yet to die is fearful ever; oh, how fearful, when the sum

      Of the past is lengthened murder,–and a fearful world to come!

      Where are now the wretched victims of his wrath? The deed is done.

      He has conquered. They have suffered. Yonder, blackening in the sun,

      From the battlements they're hanging. Little joy it gives to him

      Now to see the work of vengeance, when his eye is growing dim!

      One was saved,–the daring bowman who the fatal arrow sped;

      He was saved, but not for mercy; better numbered with the dead!

      Now, relenting, late repenting, Richard turns to Marcadee,

      Saying, "Haste, before I waver, bring the captive youth to me."

      He is brought, his feet in fetters, heavy shackles on his hands,

      And, with eye unflinching, gazing on the king, erect he stands.

      He is gazing not in anger, not for insult, not for show;

      But his soul, before its leaving, Richard's very soul would know.

      Death is certain,– death by torture: death for him can have no sting,

      If that arrow did its duty,–if he share it with the king.

      Were he trembling or defiant, were he less or more than bold,

      Once again to vengeful fury would he rouse the fiend of old

      That in Richard's breast is lurking, ready once again to spring.

      Dreading now that vengeful spirit, with a wavering voice, the king

      Questions impotently, wildly: