PART FIRST.
1 At Rouen Richard kept his state,
Released from captive thrall;
And girt with many a warrior guest
He feasted in the hall!
2 The rich metheglin mantled high,
The wine was berry red,
When tidings came that Salisbury,
His early friend, was dead;
3 And that his sole surviving child,
The heiress of his wealth,
By crafty kinsmen and allies
Was borne away by stealth;
4 Was borne away from Normandy,
Where, secretly confined,
She heard no voice of those she loved,
But sighed to the north wind.
5 Haply from some lone castle's tower
Or solitary strand,
Even now she gazes o'er the deep,
That laves her father's land!
6 King Richard cries, My minstrel knights,
Who will the task achieve,
To seek through France and Normandy
The orphan left to grieve?
7 Young William Talbot then did speak,
Betide me weal or woe,
From Michael's castle[211] through the land
A pilgrim I will go.
8 He clad him in his pilgrim weeds,
With trusty staff in hand,
And scallop shell, and took his way,
A wanderer through the land.
9 For two long years he journeyed on,
A pilgrim, day by day,
Through many a forest dark and drear,
By many a castle gray.
10 At length, when one clear morn of frost
Was shining on the main,
Forth issuing from a castle gate
He saw a female train!
11 With lightsome step and waving hair,
Before them ran a child,
And gathering from the sands a shell,
Ran back to them, and smiled.
12 Himself unseen among the rocks,
He saw her point her hand;
And cry, I would go home, go home,
To my poor father's land.
13 The bell tolled from the turret gray,
Cold freezing fell the dew,
To the portcullis hastening back
The female train withdrew.
14 Those turrets and the battlements,
Time and the storm had beat,
And sullenly the ocean tide
Came rolling at his feet.
15 Young Talbot cast away his staff,
The harp is in his hand,
A minstrel at the castle gate,
A porter saw him stand.
16 And who art thou, the porter cried,
Young troubadour, now say,
For welcome in the castle hall
Will be to-night thy lay;
17 For this the birthday is of one,
Whose father now is cold;
An English maiden, rich in fee,
And this year twelve years old.
18 I love, myself, now growing old,
To hear the wild harp's sound:
But whence, young harper, dost thou come,
And whither art thou bound?
19 Though I am young, the harper said,
From Syria's sands I come,
A minstrel warrior of the Cross,
Now poor and wandering home.
20 And I can tell of mighty deeds,
By bold King Richard done,
King Richard of "the Lion's heart,"
Foes quail to look upon.
21 Then lead me to the castle hall,
And let the fire be bright,
For never hall nor bower hath heard
A lay like mine to-night.
22 The windows gleam within the hall,
The fire is blazing bright,
And the young harper's hair and harp
Are shining in the light.
23 Fair dames and warriors clad in steel
Now gather round to hear,
And oft that little maiden's eyes
Are glistening with a tear.
24 For, when the minstrel sang of wars,
At times, with softer sound,
He touched the chords, as mourning those
Now laid in the cold ground.
25 He sang how brave King Richard pined
In a dark tower immured,
And of the long and weary nights,
A captive, he endured.
26 The faithful Blondel to his harp
One song began to sing;
It ceased; the king takes up the strain;
It is his lord and king!
27 Of Sarum then, and Sarum's plain,
That poor child heard him speak,
When the first tear-drop in her eye
Fell silent on her cheek.
28 For, as the minstrel told his tale,
The breathless orphan maid
Thought of the land where, in the grave,
Her father's bones were laid.
29 Hush, hush! the winds are piping loud,
The midnight hour is sped,
The hours of morn are stealing fast,
Harper, to bed! to bed!