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

      Or gayer withal: for he loved his joke,

      As well as he loved, with slashing stroke,

      The haughtiest helm to hack at:

      Wine or blood he laughingly poured;

      'Twas a lightsome word or a heavy sword,

      As he found a foe or a festive board,

      With a skull or a joke to crack at.

      Yet some their candid belief avow,

      That, if Richard lived in England now,

      And his lot were only a common one,

      He ne'er had meddled with kings or states,

      But might have been a bruiser of pates

      And champion now of the "heavy weights,"–

      A first-rate "Fighting Phenomenon."

      A vassal bound in peace and war

      To Richard I. was Vidomar,–

      A noble as proud and needy

      As ever before that monarch bowed,

      But not so needy and not so proud

      As the monarch himself was greedy.

      Vicomte was he of the Limousin,

      Where stones were thick and crops were thin,

      And profits small and slow to come in.

      But slow and sure, the father's plan, did

      Not suit the son. Sire lived close-handed;

      Became, not rich, but very landed.

      The only debt that ever he made

      Was Nature's debt, and that he paid

      About the time of the Third Crusade,–

      A time when the fashion was fully set

      By Richard of running in tilts and debt,

      When plumes were high and prudence low,

      And every knight felt bound to "go

      The pace," and just like Richard do,

      By running his purse and a Paynim through.

      Yet do not suppose that Vidomar

      Was ever a knight in the Holy War:

      For Richard many a Saracen's head

      Had lopped before the old Count was dead;

      And Richard was home from Palestine,

      Home from the dungeon of Tiernstein,

      And many a Christian corpse had made,

      Ere the time in which the story is laid.

      But the fashion he set became so strong,

      That Vidomar was hurried along,

      And did as many a peer has done

      On reaching a title and twenty-one,

      And met the fate that will meet a peer

      Who lives in state on nothing a year.

      Deserted by all, except some Jews,

      Holding old post-obits and IOUs,

      Who hunted him up and hunted him down,

      He left Limoges, the capital town,

      For his country castle Chalus,

      (As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair,

      To give their estates a chance to air,)

      And went to turning fallows;

      At least, he ordered it, (much the same,)

      And went himself in pursuit of game

      Or any rural pleasure,

      Till one fine day, as he rode away,

      A serf came running behind to say

      They'd found a crock of treasure.

      No more he thought of hawk or hound,

      But spurred to the spot, and there he found,

      Beyond his boldest thoughts,

      A sum to set him afloat again,–

      The leading figure, 'twas very plain,

      Was followed by several 0s.

      Oh, who can tell of the schemes that flew

      Through his head, as the treasure met his view,

      And he knew that again his note was good?

      He may have felt as a debtor would

      Who has dodged a dogging dun,

      Or a bank-cashier in his hour of dread

      With brokers behind and breakers ahead,

      Or a blood with his last "upon the red,"–

      And each expecting a run.

      What should he do? 'Twas very true

      That all of his debts were overdue;

      But the "real- whole-souled" must use their gold

      To run new scores,–not to pay off old.

      That night he lay till the break of day,

      The doubtful question solving:

      Himself in his bed, and that in his head,

      He kept by turns revolving.

      That selfsame day, not very far

      From the country castle of Vidomar,

      The king had been progressing:

      A courtly phrase, when the king was out

      On a chivalrous bender; any route

      As good as another: what about

      Were little good in guessing.

      That night, as he sat and drank, he frowned,

      While courtiers moodily stood around,

      All wondering what the journey meant,

      Till a scout reported, "Treasure found!"–

      With a rap that made the glasses bound,

      He swore, "By Arthur's table round,

      I'll have another tournament!"

      No more, as he sat and drank, he frowned,

      Or courtiers moodily stood around,

      But all were singing, drinking;

      And louder than all the songs he led,

      And louder he said, "Ho! pass the red!"

      Till he went to bed with a ring in his head

      That seemed like gold a- chinking.

      'Twere wrong to infer from what you're read

      That Richard awoke with an aching head;

      For nerves like his resisted

      With wonderful ease what we might deem

      Enough to stagger a Polypheme,

      And his spirits would never more than seem

      A trifle too much "assisted."

      And yet in the morn no fumes were there,

      And his eyes were bright,–almost as a pair

      Of eyes that you and I know;

      For his head, the best authorities write,

      (See the Story of Tuck,) was always right

      And sound as ever after a night

      Of "Pellite curas vino!"

      As