Du Guesclin named, who truncheon claimed as Constable of France.
II.
In Brittany, where Rennes doth lie, Du Guesclin first drew breath;
Born for emprise — in counsel wise, brave, loyal unto death.
With hand and sword, with heart and word, served well this baron bold
The azure scutcheon that displayed three fleur-de-lis of gold.
III.
Like Guesclin bold of warriors old in prowess there was none,
‘Mid peers that stood ‘round Arthur good, Baldwin or brave Bouillon:
Nor, as I ween, hath knighthood seen a chief more puissantly
With staff advance the flower of France ‘gainst hostile chivalry.
IV.
Guesclin is dead! and with him fled the bravest and the best,
That ever yet, by foe beset, maintained fair Gallia’s crest!
His soul God shrive! — were he alive, his spear were couched again
To guard the three gold lilies from the white cross of Lorrain!”
THE SWORD OF BAYARD.
The famous engagement with the Swiss, near Milan, in which Francis
the First came off victorious. Fleuranges places the ceremony of the
king’s knighthood before the battle. The “Loyal Servant,” however,
states that it occurred, as is most probable, after the conflict.
I.
“A BOON I crave, my Bayard brave— ’twas thus King Francis spoke;
“The field is won, the battle done, yet deal one other stroke. —
For by this light, to dub us knight, none worthy is as thou,
“Whom nor reproach nor fear approach, of prince or peer we trow.”
II.
“Sire!” said the knight, “you judge not right, who owns a kingdom fair,
‘Neath his command all knights do stand — no service can he share.”
“Nay! by our fay!” the king did say, “lo! at thy feet we kneel,
Let silken rules sway tiltyard schools, our laws are here of steel.”
III.
With gracious mien did Bayard then his sword draw from his side;
“By God! St. Michael! and St. George! I dub thee knight!” he cried.
“Arise, good king! weal may this bring — such grace on thee confer,
As erst from blow of Charles did flow, Roland or Oliver!”
IV.
With belted blade, the king arrayed — the knight the spur applied,
And then his neck with chain did deck — and accolade supplied —
“Do thy devoir at ghostly choir — maintain high courtesie,
And from the fray in war’s array, God grant thou never flee!”
V.
“Certes, good blade,” then Bayard said, his own sword waving high,
“Thou shalt, perdie, as relic be preserved full carefully!
Right fortunate art thou, good sword, a king so brave to knight!
And with strong love, all arms above, rest honoured in my sight.
VI.
And never more, as heretofore, by Christian chivalry,
My trenchant blade shalt thou be rayed, or e’er endangered be!
For Paynim foes reserve thy blows — the Saracen and Moor
Thine edge shall smite in bitter fight, or merciless estour!”
VII.
Years, since that day, have rolled away, and Bayard hurt to death,
‘Neath grey Rebecco’s walls outstretched, exhales his latest breath.
On Heaven he cried, or ere lie died — but cross had none, I wist,
Save that good sword-hilt cruciform, which with pale lips he kissed.
VIII.
Knight! whom reproach could ne’er approach, no name like unto thine,
With honour bright, unsullied, white, on Fame’s proud scroll shall shine!
But were it not to mortal lot denied by grace divine,
Should Bayard’s breath, and Bayard’s death, and his good sword be mine.
THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER.
I.
FROM Scotia’s clime to laughing France
The peerless Crichton came;
Like him no knight could shiver lance,
Wield sword, or worship dame.
Alas! each maiden sighs in vain,
He turns a careless ear:
For queenly fetters fast enchain
The Scottish cavalier!
II.
But not o’er camp and court, alone,
Resistless Crichton rules; — .
Logicians next, defeated, own
His empire o’er the Schools.
‘Gainst sophists shrewd shall wit prevail,
Though tome on tome they rear;
And pedants pale, as victor, hail
The Scottish cavalier!
THE BLOOD-RED KNIGHT.
I.
SLOWLY unto the listed field I rode,
Rouge was my charger’s wide caparison;
And the same hue that on his housing glowed,
Dyed, as with blood, my lance and morion.
II.
Rouge was my couvrechief, that swept the sward,
Rouge the tall plume that nodded on my crest;
And the rich scarf — my loyalty’s reward —
Blushed, like a timorous virgin, on my breast.
III.
My broad ensanguined shield bore this device,
In golden letters writ, that all might see
How for bold deeds will lightest worth suffice;
And thus it ran: “LES PLUS ROUGES Y SONT PRIS.”
HYMN OF THE CONSPIRATORS IN THE GUNPOWDER PLOT.
I.
THE heretic and heathen, Lord,
Consume with fire, cut down with sword;
The spoilers from thy temples thrust,
Their altars trample in the dust.
II.
False princes and false priests lay low,
Their habitations fill with woe.
Scatter them, Lord, with sword and flame,
And bring them utterly to shame.
III.
Thy vengeful arm no longer stay,
Arise! O Lord, arise! and slay.
So shall thy fallen worship be
Restored to its prosperity!
DIRGE OF BOURBON.
I.
WHEN the good Count of Nassau
Saw Bourbon lie dead,
“By. Saint Barbe and St. Nicholas!
Forward!” he said.
II.
“Bring engine — bring ladder,
Yon old walls to scale;
All Rome, by Saint Peter!
For Bourbon shall wail.”
ANACREONTIC ODE.
I.
WHEN Bacchus’ gift assails my brain,
Care flies, and all her gloomy train;
My pulses throb, my youth returns,
With its old fire my bosom burns;
Before my kindling vision rise
A thousand glorious phantasies!
Sudden my empty coffers swell
With riches inconsumable;
And mightier treasures ‘round me spring
Than Croesus owned, or Phrygia’s king.
II.
Nought seek I in that frenzied hour,
Save love’s intoxicating power;
An arm to guide me in the dance,
An eye to thrill me with its glance,
A lip impassioned words to breathe,
A hand my temples to enwreathe:
Rank, honour, wealth, and worldly weal,
Scornful, I crush beneath my heel.
III.
Then fill the chalice till it shine
Bright as a gem incarnadine!
Fill! till its fumes have freed me wholly
From the black phantom — Melancholy!
Better inebriate ’tis to lie,
And dying live, than living die!
MARGUERITE DE VALOIS.
I.
&nb
sp; MARGUERITE, with early wiles —
Marguerite
On light Charms and D’Antragues smiles —
Margot, Marguerite.
Older grown, she favours then,
Smooth Martigues, and bluff Turenne.
The latter but a foolish pas,
Margot, Marguerite en bas.
But no more these galliards please,
Marguerite.
Softly sues the gallant Guise,
Margot, Marguerite.
Guise succeeds, like God of war,
Valiant Henri of Navarre;
Better stop, than further go,
Margot, Marguerite en haut.
II.
Loudly next bewails La Mole,
Marguerite,
On the block his head must roll,
Margot, Marguerite.
Soon consoles herself again,
With Brantome, Bussi, and Mayenne,
Boon companion gros et gras,
Margot, Marguerite en bas.
Who shall next your shrine adore,
Marguerite?
You have but one lover more,
Margot, Marguerite!
Crichton comes — the preux, the wise,
You may well your conquest prize;
Beyond him you cannot go,
Margot, Marguerite en haut.
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON.
A SONG I’LL write on
Matchless Crichton;
In wit a bright one,
Form, a slight one,
Love, a light one!
Who talketh Greek with us
Like great Busbequius;
Knoweth the Cabala
Well as Mirandola;
Fate can reveal to us,
Like wise Cornelius;
Reasoneth like Socrates,
Or old Zenocrates;
Whose system ethical,
Sound, dialectical,
Aristotelian,
Pantagruelian,
Like to chameleon,
Choppeth and changeth,
Everywhere rangeth!
Who rides like Centaur,
Preaches like Mentor,
Drinks like Lyaeus,
Sings like Tyrtseus,
Beads like Budscus,
Vaulteth like Tuccaro,
Painteth like Zucchero,
Diceth like Spaniard,
Danceth like galliard,
Tilts like Orlando,
Does all man can do!
“Qui pupas nobilcs
Innumerabiles,
Amat amabiles;
Atque Reginam
Navarrae divinam!”
Whose rare prosperity,
Grace and dexterity,
Courage, temerity,
Shall, for a verity,
Puzzle posterity.
THE THREE ORGIES.
I.
IN banquet ball, beside the king,
Sat proud Thyestes revelling.
The festal board was covered fair,
The festal meats were rich and rare;
Thyestes ate full daintily,
Thyestes laughed full lustily;
But soon his haughty visage fell —
A dish was brought — and, we to tell!
A gory head that charger bore!
An infant’s look the features wore!
Thyestes shrieked — King Atreus smiled —
The father had devoured his child!
Till the goblet — fill it high —
To Thyestes’ revelry.
Of blood-red wines the brightest choose,
The glorious grape of Syracuse!
II.
Tor a victory obtained
O’er the savage Getae chained,
In his grand Caesarean hall
Domitian holds high festival.
To a solemn feast besought
Thither are the senate brought.
As he joins the stately crowd,
Smiles each pleased patrician proud,
One by one each guest is led
Where Domitian’s feast is spread;
Each recoiling stares aghast
At the ominous repast;
Round marble slab of blackest shade
Black triclinia are laid,
Sable vases deck the board
With dark-coloured viands stored;
Shaped like tombs, on either hand,
Rows of dusky pillars stand;
O’er each pillar in a line,
Pale sepulchral lychni shine;
Cinerary urns are seen,
Graved each with a name, I ween,
By the sickly radiance shown
Every guest may read his own!
Forth then issue swarthy slaves,
Each a torch and dagger waves;
Some like Manes habited,
Figures ghastly as the dead!
Some as Lemures attired,
Larvae some, with vengeance fired.
See, the throat of every guest
By a murderous gripe is prest!
While the wretch, with horror dumb,
Thinks his latest hour is come!
Loud then laugh’d Domitian,
Thus his solemn feast began.
Fill the goblet — fill it high —
To Domitian’s revelry.
Let our glowing goblet be
Crown’d with wine of Sicily.
III.
Borgia holds a papal fete,
And Zizime, with heart elate,
With his chiefs barbarian
Seeks the gorgeous Vatican.
’Tis a wondrous sight to see
In Christian hall that company!
But the Othman warriors soon
Scout the precepts of Mahoun.
Wines of Sicily and Spain,
Joyously those paynims drain;
While Borgia’s words their laughter stir,
“Bibimus Papaliter!”
At a signal, pages three,
With gold goblets, bend the knee;
Borgia pours the purple stream
Till beads upon its surface gleam.
“Do us a reason, noble guest,”
Thus Zizime, the pontiff pressed?
“By our triple-crown there lies
In that wine-cup Paradise!”
High Zizime the goblet raised —
Loud Zizime the Cyprus praised —
To each guest in order slow,
Next the felon pages go.
Each in turn the Cyprus quaffs,
Like Zizime each wildly laughs, ——
Laughter horrible and strange!
Quick ensues a fearful change,
Stifled soon is every cry,
Azrael is standing by.
Glared Zizime — but spake no more;
Borgia’s fatal feast was o’er!
Fill the goblet — fill it high —
With the wines of Italy;
Borgia’s words our laughter stir —
Bibimus Papaliter!
ALL-SPICE, OR A SPICE OF ALL.
THE people endure all,
The men-at-arms cure all,
The favourites sway all,
Their reverences flay all,
The citizens pay all,
Our good king affirms all,
The senate confirms all,
The chancellor seals all,
Queen Catherine conceals all,
Queen Louise instructs all,
Queen Margot conducts all,
The Leaguers contrive all,
The Jacobins shrive all,
The Lutherans doubt all,
The Zuiuglians scout all,
The Jesuits flout all,
The Sorbonists rout all,
Brother Henri believes all,
Pierre de Gondy receives all,
Ruggieri defiles all,
Mad Siblot reviles all,
The bilboquets please all,
The sarbacanes tease all,
The D
uc de Guise tries all,
Rare Crichton outvies all,
Abbe Brantome retails all,
Bussy d’Amboise assails all,
Old Ronsard recants all,
Young Jodelle enchants all,
Fat Villequier crams all,
His Holiness damns all,
Esclairmonde bright outshines all,
And wisely declines all,
La Rebours will bless all,
La Posseuse confess all,
La Guyol will fly all,
Torigni deny all,
John Calvin misguide all,
Wise Chicot deride all,
Spanish Philip may crave all,
The Bearnais brave all,
THE DEVIL WILL HAVE ALL!
DEATH TO THE HUGUENOT.
DEATH to the Huguenot! fagot and flame,
Death to the Huguenot! torture and shame!
Death! Death!
Heretics’ lips sue for mercy in vain,
Drown their loud cries in the waters of Seine!
Drown! Drown!
Hew down, consume them with fire and with sword!
A good work ye do in the sight of the Lord!
Kill! Kill!
Hurl down their temples! their ministers slay!
Let them bleed as they bled on Barthelemy’s day!
LA GITANILLA.
I.
BY the Guadalquivir,
Ere the sun be flown,
By that glorious river
Sits a maid alone.
Like the sunset splendour
Of that current bright,
Shone her dark eyes tender
As its witching light;
Like the ripple flowing,
Tinged with purple sheen,
Darkly, richly glowing,
Is her warm cheek seen.
’Tis the Gitanilla
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 842
