Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel

Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel
Charlotte Brontë

Charlotte Brontë

Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel

Richard Cœur de Lion and Blondel

The blush, the light, the gorgeous glow of Eve
Waned 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 glide
On 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 still
Frown’d the dark turrets of a feudal Keep.
Its folded flag, hung in the air asleep;
The breathless beauty of the Summer night
Gave not that Austrian standard, to the sweep
Of fresh’ning Zepyr, or wild Storm-blast’s might;
But motionless, it drooped, in eve’s soft, dying light

In 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 hour
And 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 nigh
A wand’ring minstrel, from his shoulders hung
A 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 sing
In the lone-wood, or the far lonelier sky.
O! none but Blondel but the minstrel king
Could 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 arise
A 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 Song

The 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 lie

The 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 tree
Which 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 lance
And 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 met
To 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.