And, resting on this couch of moss,
Other romantic fancies cross
My brain, and scenes and faces strange
Appear, and then to others change;
As oft, in drowsy lassitude,
Life's panorama is renew'd.
The Hall is roof'd once more, the stars
Are turn'd to lamps, the mullion bars
Are hung with Norman tapestry,
And, to the sound of minstrelsy,
Many a gorgeous-vested Knight
And many a Lady rarely dight
Over the tasselated floor
The mazes of the dance explore :
One Knight in stature and in grace
Excelling all, and his fair face,
Though high the features, wears a smile That might the haughtiest Dame beguile.
It is proud, gay Piers Gaveston,
Who hath the Cornish Earldom won,
And of this Castle now is lord.
He well can handle lance or sword,
Whether in tournament or field,
And all to him in bower must yield;
In festal hall without a peer;
His voice is melody to hear,
And, when his fingers touch the lute,
Not Blondell could with him dispute
The prize for skill; but in the dance
He is a vision of Romance,
And Venus, had she seen him glide,
Had fled from Mars with him to bide.
Fair is the Lady whom he leads,
She wears no wreath, no gem she needs,
No rose could match her blooming cheek,
The bees her dimpled mouth would seek.
Her auburn tresses float as free
As wavelets of the summer sea,
Whose azure tints her eyes have borrow'd, And look as though they ne'er had sorrow'd,
As if they had not shed one tear,
So soft, so lucid, and so clear.
And worthy of her face her form,
Throbbing with life, as pure as warm,
Her steps pulsating to her heart;
And, while she does fresh grace impart
To her co-mate, he round her throws
Lustre like sunshine on a rose.
But the dance ceases-hark! the chords
Prelude the strain, and these the words
The Master of Restormel sings,
While to his touch respond the strings :
I quaff'd the purple Lusian wine,
I cull'd the bloom of Cyprus' vine,
And 'neath the stars of Palestine
I saw the black eyes flashing;
I watch'd the Paynim war-steeds bound,
Like lightning leaping o'er the ground,
And with the thunder heard the sound
Of drums and cymbals clashing.
But I survived the potent grape,
I weather'd Calpe's gusty Cape,
And did the Syrens' Rocks escape,
Where many a bark is stranded :
I did not to the houris yield,
I had a lance and bore a shield,
And 'gainst their lovers in the field
I ventured single-handed.
Yet when again I reach'd fair France,
And caracoled through gay Provence,
I found each glance was like a lance,
Nor could my shield avail me:
So here across the stormy Sea
I did from the encounter flee,
And vainly hoped I safe should be,
Whoever might assail me.
But love did still my steps pursue,
And then I saw the eyes were blue
That pierced my hauberk through and through,
Nor at the stroke relented:
I would again have cross'd the Main,
And given my restive steed the rein,
And spurr'd to Salem's towers again,
Had not those eyes prevented.
Frown not, sweet maid! when clarions call
If still my war-steed paws the stall,
My lance leans rusting on the wall,
My glaive unsheath'd is never;
My shield is lost, my gauntlets stray,
And, if I with thy tresses play,
Or touch the lute, or breathe a lay,
Forgive my weak endeavour.
Let others quaff the Lusian wine,
Let others cull the Cyprian vine,
And go where darker eyes than thine
From Eastern bowers are flashing:
Yet bid me, and once more I'll bound
O'er Ocean, and on God's own ground
Hail the shrill trumpet's glorious sound,
And the drums and cymbals clashing.
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