Menella Bute Smedley (Менелла Бьют Смедли)
The Tournament
The churches twelve of Wallingford A stately sight they were, When gleaming shields were hanging From every column fair; For a mile around the city Earth's alter'd face was bright With banner and pavilion, With steed, and squire, and knight. For king Edward holds a tournament; His heralds, far and near, Have borne the joyous message To baron, prince, and peer. They are coming in by thousands; Woe to that warrior's fame Whose knightly shield its place must yield At the wand's light touch of shame! The airs of heaven were wearied, Long ere that morning shone, With the sounds of clashing armour And the horn's exulting tone; Down many a woodland avenue, Up many a grassy slope, Came troops of glittering horsemen, All gay with knightly hope. And the serf forsook his labour, And the ladye left her bower,— They gather like the clouds of heaven Before an April shower. The lists are fairly order'd, And every heart beats high When the clarion's thrilling summons Tells that the hour is nigh. They have left each gay pavilion, They are moving o'er the plain; There rides Sir Piers de Gaveston, Chief of a king-like train: By his proud and stately bearing, By his fair and rich array, Ye might take him for a monarch Upon his crowning day; But like to plants that wither In the hot sirocco's path, So every face he passes Grows pale with sudden wrath. Ah, little scest thou, Gaveston, With thy bright and reckless eye, The doom that is before thee, And the death that thou must die! Yet the scowling gloom of Pembroke, And Warwick's haughty glance, The mutter'd curse of Arundel, And Evreux' look askance, The sullen frown of Lancaster, And Warren's wrathful mien, The bright and angry blushes On the fair cheeks of the queen; Her eye's disdainful beauty As she pass'd the foe she scorn'd— These might have warn'd that boaster: He was not to be warn'd! And there rode hapless Edward, A graceful prince and gay; But weakness in his ready laugh And his eye's uncertain ray; Who dream'd, that saw his maiden-grasp On his palfrey's broider'd reins, That the blood of the old Plantagenets Was running in his veins! And there rode fair Queen Isabelle, A girl scarce fifteen years; Like a swan on a breezeless river Her snowy neck she rears; Her beauty's proud magnificence Was matchless in the world, But ah! beneath its sweet rose-wreath Lay the dread serpent curl'd. Her smile of treacherous softness, Her dark and glittering eye, Were like a slumbering tempest In the depths of a tropic sky. On moved the gay procession, And many a dame did lead By the shining rein of a silver chain Her warrior's pacing steed; Each mantle gemm'd floats gaily, Each courser stamps and fumes, 'Tis a heaving sea, whose billows free Are banners and dancing plumes. Oh, for the tongue of a minstrel To tell in lightning words The deeds of that glorious tournament, The fame of those flashing swords! How a fair and a queenly circle Beheld the knights engage, Like clear stars watching stedfastly The foaming ocean's rage; And amid those brows of beauty Lofty and calm arose The head of some ancient hero Wearing its crown of snows; 'Twas a thrilling sight to witness Each worn-out warrior's gaze On a strife where he must not mingle, On the deeds of his younger days. Like walls of glittering armour At first the champions stand, As the Red Sea stood when its raging flood Was cleft by God's own hand. And the crash of their strong ranks charging Arose when they met on the plain, Like the roar of those bursting waters Rushing together again. Hark, how the watchful heralds The shouts of their onset gave, “Charge, warriors! Death to horses! Fame to the sons of the brave!” Those shouts are rising louder At every well-aim'd blow, Or whenever a lance is shiver'd Fairly on breast or brow. The air is full of battle, It is full of the trumpets' sound, Of the tramp of dashing horses, And the cries of the crowd around; The earth is strown with beauty, It is strown with fair plumes torn, With glove, and scarf, and streamer, For the love of ladies worn; But each maiden watch'd her champion, And oft her white hands sent Fresh gifts for every token That was lost in the tournament. Oh! with such eyes above them, Such voices to cheer the strife, No marvel those warriors tilted Like men who are tilting for life! But at length the sports are over! Changed was the joyous scene, When many a knight lay gasping, Unhorsed upon the green; Their squires are near to raise them, They bear them soft and slow, And loving eyes all mournful Attend them as they go. Not oft was life in danger; Yet might those sweet eyes grieve That in their sight, their own true knight Should not the wreath receive. Now shout ye for the victor! The warrior to whose sword Lady, and prince, and herald The prize of fame award! Doubt not his heart is thrilling Thus on the turf to kneel, While lovely hands unloose the bands That clasp his helm of steel! While every lip is busy With the honour of his name, And with glowing cheeks, each good knight speaks The story of his fame! Dear are thy gifts, O glory! Dear is thy crown unstain'd, When the true heart bears witness That it was nobly gain'd! Room for the queen! she cometh To grace the conqueror now, With a chaplet of green laurel She stoops to wreath his brow! A kiss—a gem—a garland— These hath his good lance won, And the king's own lips give honour To the deeds that he hath done. With dance, and song, and banquet, The festive day shall close, Till, wearied out with pleasure, The warriors seek repose. Yet lasts the giddy revel Till the shining east grows pale,— Ah, what a bright beginning For such a darksome tale! Even then the storm had gather'd Which should burst in coming years, For the reign of the second Edward Was a reign of blood and tears!
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