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

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      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 the timely aid of a friend in need,

      And, seldom as Richard felt the power

      Of a service past, he remembered the deed

      And cherished him ever from that hour:

      He made him his bard, with nought to do

      But court the ladies and court the Nine,

      And every day bring something new

      To sing for the revellers over their wine;

      With once a year a pipe of Sherry,

      A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison,

      To make himself and his fellows merry,–

      The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.

      Marcadee was a stout Brabançon,

      With conscience weak and muscles strong,

      Who roamed about from clime to clime,

      The side of virtue or yet of crime

      Ready to take in a regular way

      For any leader and regular pay;

      Who trusted steel, and thought it odd

      To fear the Devil or honor God.

      His forte was not in the field alone,

      He was no common fighter,

      For in all accomplishments he shone,–

      At least, in all the lighter.

      To lance or lute alike au fait,

      With grasp now firm, now light,

      He flourished this to knightly lay,

      And that to lay a knight.

      Ready in fashion to lead the ton,

      In the battle-field his men,

      He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on,

      Could walk his mile in ten.

      And Nature gave him such a frame,

      His tailor such a fit,

      That, whether a head or a heart his aim,

      He always made a hit.

      Wherever he went, the ladies dear

      Would very soon adore him,

      And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,–

      But never sneer before him!

      Perhaps it fared with the ladies worse

      Than it fared with their gallants;

      For he broke a vow with as slight remorse

      As he ever broke a lance.

      Thus, tilting here and jilting there,

      He fought a foe or he fooled a fair,

      But little recking how;

      So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain,

      He might have made a capital Cain,

      Or a splendid dandy now.

      In short, if you looked o'er land and sea,

      From London to the Niger,

      You certainly must have said with me,–

      If Richard was lion, Marcadee

      Might well have been the tiger.

      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."

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