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

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      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! СКАЧАТЬ