The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 33, July, 1860. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.
timely aid of a friend in need,
And, seldom as Richard felt the power
Of a service past, he remembered the deed
And cherished him ever from that hour:
He made him his bard, with nought to do
But court the ladies and court the Nine,
And every day bring something new
To sing for the revellers over their wine;
With once a year a pipe of Sherry,
A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison,
To make himself and his fellows merry,–
The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.
Marcadee was a stout Brabançon,
With conscience weak and muscles strong,
Who roamed about from clime to clime,
The side of virtue or yet of crime
Ready to take in a regular way
For any leader and regular pay;
Who trusted steel, and thought it odd
To fear the Devil or honor God.
His forte was not in the field alone,
He was no common fighter,
For in all accomplishments he shone,–
At least, in all the lighter.
To lance or lute alike au fait,
With grasp now firm, now light,
He flourished this to knightly lay,
And that to lay a knight.
Ready in fashion to lead the ton,
In the battle-field his men,
He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on,
Could walk his mile in ten.
And Nature gave him such a frame,
His tailor such a fit,
That, whether a head or a heart his aim,
He always made a hit.
Wherever he went, the ladies dear
Would very soon adore him,
And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,–
But never sneer before him!
Perhaps it fared with the ladies worse
Than it fared with their gallants;
For he broke a vow with as slight remorse
As he ever broke a lance.
Thus, tilting here and jilting there,
He fought a foe or he fooled a fair,
But little recking how;
So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain,
He might have made a capital Cain,
Or a splendid dandy now.
In short, if you looked o'er land and sea,
From London to the Niger,
You certainly must have said with me,–
If Richard was lion, Marcadee
Might well have been the tiger.
A month went by. They lay there still,
And chafed with nothing but time to kill,–
A tough old foe. Observe the way
They laid him out, as thus:–One day,–
'Twas after dinner and afternoon,
When the noise was over of knife and fork,
And only was heard an occasional cork
And Blondel idly thrumming a tune,–
King Richard pushed the wine along,
And rapped the table, and cried, "A song!
Dulness I hold a shame, a sin
Against good wine. Come, Blondel, begin!"
Blondel coughed,–was "half afraid,"–
Was "out last night on a serenade,
And caught a cold,"–his "voice was gone,–
And really, just now, his head"–"Go on!"
He bowed, and swept the chords– "Brrrrang"–
With a handful of notes, and thus he sang:–
BLONDEL.
Life is fleeting,–make it pleasant;
Care for nothing but the present;
For the past we leave behind us,
And the future may not find us.
Though we cannot shun its troubles,
Care and sorrow we may banish;
Though its pleasures are but bubbles,
Catch the bubbles ere they vanish.
There is joy we cannot measure,–
Joy we may not win with treasure.
When the glance of Beauty thrills us',
When her love with rapture fills us,
Let us seize it ere it passes;
Be our motto, "Love is mighty."
Fill, then, fill your brimming glasses!
Fill, and drink to Aphrodite!
Of course they drank with a right good will,
For they never missed a chance "to fill."
And yet a few, I'm sorry to own,
Made side-remarks in an undertone,
Like those we hear, when, nowadays,
Good-natured friends, with seeming praise,
Contrive to damn. In the midst of the hum
They heard a loud and slashing thrum:
'Twas the king: and each his breath drew in
Till you might have heard a falling pin.
Some little excuse, at first, he made,
While over the lute his fingers strayed:–
"You know my way,–as the fancies come,
I improvise."–There was ink on his thumb.
That morning, alone, good hours he spent
In writing despatches never sent.
RICHARD.
There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing
And Beauty is willing; but more
When the war-horse is gallantly prancing
And snuffing the battle afar,–
When the foe, with his banner advancing,
Is sounding the clarion of war.
Where the battle is deadly and gory,
Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed,
Where the path is before me to glory,
Is pleasure for me, and the best.
Let me live in proud chivalry's story,
Or die with my lance in its rest!
The plaudits followed him loud and free
As he tossed the lute to Marcadee,
Who caught it featly, bowing low,
And said, "My liege, I may not know
To improvise; but I'll give a song,
The song of our camp,–we've known it long.
It