辈 CANTO FIRST I WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain That may match with the Baron of Triermain? She must be lovely and constant and kind, Holy and pure and humble of mind, Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood, Courteous and generous and noble of blood- When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Constant and true as the widowed dove, Humble as maiden that loves in vain, Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies, Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain. See Note 2. II Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, The foray was long and the skirmish hot; All in the castle must hold them still, With the slow soft tunes he loves the best Like the dew on a summer hill. III It was the dawn of an autumn day; When that baron bold awoke. Starting he woke and loudly did call, While hastily he spoke. IV 'Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seemed an angel's whispered call To an expiring saint? And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where V Answered him Richard de Bretville; he Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy, 'Silent, noble chieftain, we Have sat since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings And hushed you to repose. Answered Philip of Fasthwaite tall; He kept guard in the outer-hall, 'Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal crossed; Else had I heard the steps, though low And light they fell as when earth receives In morn of frost the withered leaves That drop when no winds blow.' VI 'Then come thou hither, Henry, my page, And reddened all the Nine-stane Hill, And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering smoke, Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. The trustiest thou of all my train, My fleetest courser thou must rein, And from the Baron of Triermain Greet well that sage of power. He is sprung from Druid sires And British bards that tuned their lyres To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.1 He the characters can trace Of kingdoms' fall and fate of wars, From mystic dreams and course of stars. He shall tell if middle earth To that enchanting shape gave birth, Or if 't was but an airy thing Such as fantastic slumbers bring, Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes If that fair form breathe vital air, Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!' VII The faithful page he mounts his steed, And soon he crossed green Irthing's mead, Dashed o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, And Eden barred his course in vain. He passed red Penrith's Table Round," 1 See Note 3. See Note 4. |