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

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 suits not well this tinkle and thrum,
But needs to be heard with a rattling drum.
Ho, there! Tambour!–He knows it well,–
'The Brabançon!'–Now make it tell;
Let your elbows now with a spirit wag
In the outside roll and the double drag."

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: "Prisoner, tell me, what of ill
Ever I have done to thee or thine, that me thou wouldest kill?"
Higher, prouder still he bears him; o'er his countenance appear,
Flitting quickly, looks of wonder and of scorn: what does he hear?