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

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      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.

      'Twere wrong to infer from what you're read

      That Richard awoke with an aching head;

      For nerves like his resisted

      With wonderful ease what we might deem

      Enough to stagger a Polypheme,

      And his spirits would never more than seem

      A trifle too much "assisted."

      And yet in the morn no fumes were there,

      And his eyes were bright,–almost as a pair

      Of eyes that you and I know;

      For his head, the best authorities write,

      (See the Story of Tuck,) was always right

      And sound as ever after a night

      Of "Pellite curas vino!"

      As soon as the light broke into his tent,

      Without delay for a herald he sent,

      And bade him don his tabard,

      And away to the Count to say, "By law

      That gold was the king's: unless he saw

      The same ere noon, his sword he would draw

      And throw away the scabbard."

      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 СКАЧАТЬ