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Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel
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Charlotte Brontë
Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel
Richard Cœur de Lion and Blondel
The blush, the light, the gorgeous glow of EveWaned from the radiant chambers of the west;Now, twilight’s robe, dim, orient shadows weave:One star, gleams faintly lustrous, in the east;Far down it shines, on the blue Danube’s breast,As calmly, wavelessly its waters glideOn to th’ appointed regions of their rest,The Sea, profound and hoary, waste and wide;Whose black’ning billows swell in ever restless pride.High o’er the river rose a rocky hill,With barren sides, precipitous, and steep:There, ’gainst the sunset heav’ns, serene, and stillFrown’d the dark turrets of a feudal Keep.Its folded flag, hung in the air asleep;The breathless beauty of the Summer nightGave not that Austrian standard, to the sweepOf fresh’ning Zepyr, or wild Storm-blast’s might;But motionless, it drooped, in eve’s soft, dying lightIn that Stern Fortess, there were arch, and tow’r,And Iron-wrought lattice, narrow, deep-embaye’d;Where the gloom gather’d thick as night’s mid hourAnd round about it, hung a chilling shade,Which told of dungeons, where the light ne’er play’d,Of prison-walls, of fetter-bolt and chain;Of Captives, ’neath a Tyrant’s durance laid;Never, to view the sun’s bright face again;Never to breathe the air, of free, wild hill and plain.The moon had risen, a host of stars among,When, to th’ embattled castle walls, drew nighA wand’ring minstrel, from his shoulders hungA harp, sweet instrument of melody.He paus’d awhile, beneath the turret high,Then took his harp, and all the sweet chords swept,Till a sound swell’d beneath the silent sky,And holiest music, on the charmed air crept,Waked from the magic strings, Where till that hour they slept.O! how that wild strain o’er the river swelled,And mingled with its gentle murmuring,From the true fount of Song divine, it welled;Music’s own simple undefiled spring;Notes rose, and dyed such as the wild birds singIn the lone-wood, or the far lonelier sky.O! none but Blondel but the minstrel kingCould waken such transcendant melody;Sweet as a fairy’s lute, soft as a passing sigh.The strain he sung, was some antique romance,Some long forgotten song of other years;Born in the cloudless clime of sunny France,Where Earth, in vernal loveliness appears;Where the bright grape distils its purple tears;And clear streams flow, and dim, blue hills ariseA gleaming crown of snows Each mountain wears;And there are cities, ’neath her starry skies,As fair as ever blest, with beauty, mortal eyes.Blondel’s SongThe moonlight; sleeps low, on the hills of Provence;The stars are all tracking, their paths in the sky:How softly, and brightly, their golden orbs glance,Where the long shining waves, of the silver Rhone lieThe tow’rs of De Courcy rise high in the beam,From sky to earth trembling, so lustrous and pale,Around them there dwells the deep hush of a dream,And stilled is the murmur of River, and Gale.There are groves in the moonlight, all sparkling with dew,There are dim garden-paths, round that Castle of Pride;Where the bud of the rose, and the hyacinth blue,Close their leaves, to the balm, of the moist even-tide.And long is the alley, dark, bowery, and dim,Where sits a white form ’neath a tall chestnut treeWhich waves its brown branches, all dark’ling and grim,O’er the young Rose of Courcy, Sweet Anna Marie.And who kneels beside her? A warrior in mail.On his helm there’s a plume In his hand there’s a lanceAnd why does the cheek of the lady turn pale?Why weeps in her beauty The Flower of Provence?She weeps for her lover, this night, are they metTo breathe a farewell, ’Neath love’s own holy star;For to-morrow the crest of the young Lavalette,Will float highest, and first in the van of the war.Thus far sung Blondel, when a sudden tone,of quivering harp-strings, on his ear upsprung;It sounded, like an echo of his own:So faintly, that mysterious music rung,So sweet, it floated, those dark towers among,And seemed to issue from their topmost height;Then there were words, in measured cadence sung.Now soft and low, then with a master’s might,Poured forth that varying strain, upon the stilly nightWho sings? the minstrel knows there is but one,Whose voice has music half so rich, and deepWhose hand can summon from the harp a tone,So thrilling, that it calls from latent sleepHeroic thoughts, dims eyes, that seldom weep,With tears of extasy, and fires the breast,Till listening warriors, from their chargers leap,Assume the glittering helm, and nodding crest,Unsheathe the ready sword And lay the lance in restBut not of war, nor of the battle blast,Sung now the kingly harper. No his strainWas mournful, as a dream of days long past.At times it swelled, but quickly died again;And oh! the sadness of that wild refrain!Suited full well with the lone, solemn hour,Too sad for joy, too exquisite for pain,It touched the heart Subdued the spirit’s powerBlent with the Danube’s moan, and wailed around the towerRichard’s SongThrice, the great fadeless lights of heavenThe moon, and the eternal sunAs God’s unchanging law was given,Have each their course appointed run.Three times the Earth, her mighty wayHath measured o’er a shoreless sea;While hopeless still from day, to day,I’ve sat in lone captivity;Listening the wind, and River’s moan,Wakening my wild harp’s solemn tone,And longing to be free.Blondel! my heart seems cold, and dead;My soul, has lost its ancient might;The sun of chivalry is fledAnd dark despair’s, unholy nightAbove me closes still and deep;While wearily each lapsing dayLeads onward, to the last, long sleep;The hour when all shall pass away;When King, and Captive, Lord, and SlaveMust rest unparted, in the graveA mass of soulless clay.O long I’ve listened to the sound,Of winter’s blast, and summer’s breeze,As their sweet voices sung around,Through echoing caves, and wind-waved trees.And long I’ve viewed from prison barsSunset, and dawn, and night, and noon:Watched the uprising of the stars,Seen the calm advent of the moon:But blast and breeze and star, and SunAll vainly swept, all vainly shone,I filled a living tomb.God of my fathers! Can it be?Must I, the chosen of thy might?Whose name alone, brought victory,Whose battle cry was God my RightClosed, in a Tyrant’s dungeon cell,Wear out the remnant of my life?And never hear again, the swellOf high and hot and glorious strifeWhere trumpet’s peal, and bugles sing,And minstrels sweep the martial string,And war, and fame are rife.No Blondel! thou wert sent by heaven,Thy King, thy Lion-King to free,To thee, the high command was givenTo rescue from captivity.Haste from the Tyrant Austrian’s Hold,Cross rapidly the rolling sea,And go, where dwell the brave, the bold,By stream and Hill and green-wood tree.Minstrel let merry England, ringWith tidings of her Lion-King,And bring back liberty.Such was the lay, the monarch-minstrel sung,A few bright moons, waned from the silent heavensAnd Albion, with a shout of Triumph rung;As once again her worshipped King, was givenBack to her breast, his bonds asunder rivenAnd the Sweet Empress of the subject SeaSent up her hymn of gratitude to heavenThrough all her coasts she hailed him crowned and freeThe Champion of God’s hosts The pride of liberty.Charlotte BrontëDecbr 27th 1833Haworth nr Bradford
