Various - The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 33, July, 1860

Once, the Castle of Chalus, crowned
With sullen battlements, stood and frowned
On the sullen plain around it;
But Richard of England came one day,
And the Castle of Chalus passed away
In such a rapid and sure decay
No modern yet has found it.

Who has not heard of the Lion King
Who made the harps of the minstrels ring?
Oh, well they might imagine it
Hard for chivalry's ranks to show
A knight more gallant to face a foe,
With a firmer lance or a heavier blow,
Than Richard I. Plantagenet;

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.