LITMIR.BIZ

      An hour, for his morning exercise,

      He swayed that sword of wondrous size,–

      'Twas called his great "persuader";

      Then a mace of steel he smote in two,–

      A feat which the king would often do,

      Since Saladin wondered at that coup

      When he met our stout crusader.

      A trifle for him: he "trained to light,"–

      Grown lazy now: but his appetite,

      On the whole, was satisfactory,–

      As the vanishing viands, warm and cold,

      Most amply proved, ere, minus the gold,

      The herald returned and trembling told

      How the Count had proved refractory:

      Had owned it true that his serfs had found

      A treasure buried somewhere in the ground,–

      Perhaps not strictly a nugget:

      Though none but Norman lawyers chose

      To count it tort, if the finders "froze"

      To treasure-trove,–especially those

      Who held the land where they dug it,–

      For quits he'd give up half,–down,–cash;

      And that, for one who had gone to smash,

      Was a liberal restitution:

      His neighbor Shent-per-Shent did sue

      On a better claim, and put it through,–

      Recovered his suit, but not a sou

      At the tail of an execution.

      Coeur gazed around with the ominous glare

      Of the lion deprived of the lion's share,–

      A look there was no mistaking,–

      A look which the courtiers never saw

      Without a sudden desire to draw

      Away from the sweep of the lion's paw

      Before their bones were aching.

      He caught the herald,–'twas by the slack

      Of garments below and behind his back,–

      Then twirled him round for a minute;

      And when at last he let him free,

      He shied him at a neighboring tree,

      A distance of thirty yards and three,

      And lodged him handsomely in it:

      Then seized his ponderous battle-axe,

      And bade his followers mount their hacks,

      With a look on his countenance so stern,

      So little of fun, so full of fight,

      That, when he came in the Count's full sight,

      In something of haste and more of fright,

      The Count rode out of the postern;

      And crowding leagues from his angry liege,

      He left his castle to storm or siege,–

      His poor beef-eaters to hold out,

      Or save themselves as well as they could,

      Or be food for crows: what noble should

      Waste thought on such? As a noble would,

      He prudently smuggled the gold out.

      In the feudal days, in the good old times

      Of feudal virtues and feudal crimes,

      A point of honor they'd make in it,

      Though sure in the end their flag must fall,

      To show stout fight and never to call

      A truce till they saw a hole in the wall

      Or a larder without any steak in it.

      The fight began. Shouts filled the air,–

      "St. George!" "St. Denis!"–as here and there

      The shock of the battle shifted;

      There were catapult-shots and shots by hand,

      Ladders with desperate climbers manned,

      Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sand

      On the heads of the climbers sifted.

      But the sturdy churls would not give way,

      Though Richard in person rushed to the fray

      With all of his rash proclivity

      For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame

      In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,

      The hero of Jaffa changed his game

      To a masterly inactivity.

      He stretched his lines in a circle round,

      And pitched his tent on a rising ground

      For general supervision

      Of both the hostile camps, while he

      Could join with Blondel in minstrel glee,

      Or drink, or dice with Marcadee,

      And they-– consume provision.

      To starve a garrison day by day

      You may not think a chivalrous way

      To take a fortification.

      The story is dull: by way of relief,

      I make a digression, very brief,

      And leave the "ins" to swallow their beef,

      The "outs" their mortification.

      Many there were in Richard's train

      More known to fame and of higher degree,

      But none that suited his fickle vein

      So well as Blondel and Marcadee.

      Blondel had grown from a minstrel-boy

      To a very romantic troubadour

      Whose soul was music, whose song was joy,

      Whose only motto was Vive l'amour!

      In lady's bower, in lordly hall,

      From the king himself to the poorest clown,

      A joyous welcome he had from all,

      And Care in his presence forgot to frown.

      Sadly romantic, fantastic and vain,

      His heart for his head still made amends;

      For he never sang a malicious strain.

      And never was known to fail his friends.

      Who but he, when the captive king,

      By a brother betrayed, was left to rot,

      Would have gone disguised to seek and sing,

      Till he heard his tale and the tidings brought?

      Little the listening sentries dreamed,

      As they watched the king and a minstrel play,

      That what but an idle rhyming seemed

      Would rouse all England another day!

      'Twas

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