Tales and Historic Scenes/The Troubadour, and Richard Cœur de Lion

by Felicia Hemans

For other versions of this work, see The Troubadour and Richard Cœur de Lion.

THE TROUBADOUR,

AND

RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.

"Not only the place of Richard's confinement," (when thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria) "if we believe the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive enemies: and both might have remained unknown but for the grateful attachment of a Provençal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince's friendship, and tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired to the place; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself, partly by Richard; and, to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive—(Hist. Troubadours.) To this discovery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed his release."—See Russell's Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369.

THE TROUBADOUR,

AND

RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.

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The Troubadour o'er many a plain
Hath roam'd unwearied, but in vain.
O'er many a rugged mountain-scene,
And forest-wild, his track hath been;
Beneath Calabria's glowing sky
He hath sung the songs of chivalry,
His voice hath swell'd on the Alpine breeze,
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees;
From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave,
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave,
And yet, if still on earth thou art,
O monarch of the lion-heart!

The faithful spirit, which distress
But heightens to devotedness,
By toil and trial vanquish'd not,
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.

He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine,
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine;
The feudal towers that crest its height
Frown in unconquerable might;
Dark is their aspect of sullen state,
No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate^1[1]
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest,
At the chieftain's board a welcome guest;
Vainly rich evening's parting smile
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile,
That midst bright sunshine lowers on high,
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer-sky.

Not these the halls where a child of song
Awhile may speed the hours along;
Their echos should repeat alone
The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan,
Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast,
When his phantom-train are hurrying past.^2[2]

The weary minstrel paused—his eye
Roved o'er the scene despondingly:
Within the lengthening shadow, cast
By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast,
Lingering he gazed—the rocks around
Sublime in savage grandeur frown'd;
Proud guardians of the regal flood,
In giant strength the mountains stood;
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven,
Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven.
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow,
But the Rhine all shadowy roll'd below;
In purple tints the vineyards smiled,
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild;
Nor pastoral pipe, nor convent's bell,
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell,
But all was lonely, silent, rude,
A stern, yet glorious solitude.

But hark! that solemn stillness breaking,
The Troubadour's wild song is waking.
Full oft that song, in days gone by,
Hath cheer'd the sons of chivalry;

It hath swell'd o'er Judah’s mountains lone,
Hermon thy echos have learn'd its tone;
On the Great Plain^3[3] its notes have rung,
The leagued Crusaders' tents among;
'Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won
The palm in the field of Ascalon;
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine
Peals the bold strain of Palestine.

THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG.

"Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,"
    The Soldan cried to the captive knight,
"And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met
    To gaze on the fearful sight.

"But be our faith by thy lips profess'd,
    The faith of Mecca's shrine,
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest,
    And life shall yet be thine."

"I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood,
    And gazed with undaunted eye;
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood,
    And think'st thou I fear to die?

"I have stood where thousands, by Salem's towers,
    Have fall'n for the name divine;
And the faith that cheer'd their closing hours
    Shall be the light of mine."

"Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health,
    And the glow of youth's fresh bloom?
Thou art offer'd life, and pomp, and wealth,
    Or torture and the tomb."

"I have been where the crown of thorns was twined
    For a dying Saviour's brow;
He spurn'd the treasures that lure mankind,
    And I reject them now!"

"Art thou the son of a noble line
    In a land that is fair and blest?
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine,
    Again on its shores to rest?

"Thine own is the choice to hail once more
    The soil of thy fathers' birth,
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er,
    Forgotten in foreign earth."

"Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise
    In the country of my love;
But yet, though cloudless my native skies,
    There's a brighter clime above!"

The bard hath paused—for another tone
Blends with the music of his own;
And his heart beats high with hope again,
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain.

"Are there none within thy father's hall,
    Far o'er the wide blue main,
Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall,
    With sorrow deep and vain?"

"There are hearts that still, through all the past,
    Unchanging have loved me well;
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast
    When I bade my home farewell.

"Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier
    Than th' apostate's living stain;
There's a land where those who loved, when here,
    Shall meet to love again."

'Tis he! thy prince—long sought, long lost,
The leader of the red-cross host!
'Tis he!—to none thy joy betray,
Young Troubadour! away, away!
Away to the island of the brave,
The gem on the bosom of the wave,^4[4]
Arouse the sons of the noble soil,
To win their lion from the toil;
And free the wassail-cup shall flow,
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow;
The festal board shall be richly crown'd,
While knights and chieftains revel round,
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring,
When merry England hails her king.

NOTES.

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1. Note 1, page 202, line 10.
   No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate.

   It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in the romance of 'Perceforest,' "ils fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un heaulme, en signe que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel comme en leur propre."

2. Note 2, page 202, lines 21 and 22.

   Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast,
   When his phantom-train are hurrying past.

   Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the haunt of the wild Jäger, or supernatural huntsman—the superstitious tales relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace's Classical Tour; and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnellerts.-See the "Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin," and "Autumn on the Rhine."

3. Note 3, page 204, line 3.
   On the Great Plain its notes have rung.

   The Plain of Esdraelon, called by way of eminence the "Great Plain;" in Scripture, and elsewhere, the "field of Megiddo," the "Galilæan Plain." This plain, the most fertile part of all the land of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the first ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman empire, the Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a chosen place for encampment in every contest carried on in this country, from the days of Nabuchodonosor, king of the Assyrians, until the disastrous march of Bonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out of "every nation which is under heaven" have pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdraelon, and have beheld the various banners of their nations wet with the dews of Hermon and Thabôr.—Dr. Clarke's Travels.

4. Note 4, page 207, line 6.
   The gem on the bosom of the wave.

   "This precious stone set in the silver sea."
   Shakespeare's Richard II.