apocryphal exploits of Taillefer, possess considerable interest, it may be well to introduce them here in the garb in which they have been clothed by Mr. Amyot, in the Archæologia,[96]
“Foremost in the bands of France,
Arm’d with hauberk and with lance,
And helmet glittering in the air,
As if a warrior-knight he were,
Rushed forth the minstrel Taillefer.—
Borne on his courser swift and strong,
He gaily bounded o’er the plain,
And raised the heart-inspiring song
(Loud echoed by the warlike throng)
Of Roland and of Charlemagne,
Of Oliver, brave peer of old,
Untaught to fly, unknown to yield,
And many a knight and vassal bold,
Whose hallowed blood, in crimson flood,
Dyed Roncevalles’ field.
Harold’s host he soon descried,
Clustering on the hill’s steep side:
Then, turned him back brave Taillefer,
And thus to William urged his prayer:
‘Great Sire, it fits not me to tell
How long I’ve served you, or how well;
Yet if reward my lays may claim,
Grant now the boon I dare to name:
Minstrel no more, be mine the blow
That first shall strike yon perjured foe.’
‘Thy suit is gained,’ the Duke replied,
‘Our gallant minstrel be our guide.’
‘Enough,’ he cried, ‘with joy I speed,
Foremost to vanquish or to bleed.’
And still of Roland’s deeds he sung,
While Norman shouts responsive rung,
As high in air his lance he flung,
With well directed might;
Back came the lance into his hand,
Like urchin’s ball, or juggler’s wand,
And twice again, at his command,
Whirled it’s unerring flight.—
While doubting whether skill or charm
Had thus inspired the minstrel’s arm,
The Saxons saw the wondrous dart
Fixed in their standard-bearer’s heart.
Now thrice aloft his sword he threw,
’Midst sparkling sunbeams dancing,
And downward thrice the weapon flew,
Like meteor o’er the evening dew,
From summer sky swift glancing:
And while amazement gasped for breath,
Another Saxon groaned in death.
More wonders yet!—on signal made,
With mane erect, and eye-balls flashing,
The well-taught courser rears his head,
His teeth in ravenous fury gnashing;
He snorts—he foams—and upward springs—
Plunging he fastens on the foe,
And down his writhing victim flings,
Crushed by the wily minstrel’s blow.
Thus seems it to the hostile band
Enchantment all, and fairy land.
Fain would I leave the rest unsung:—
The Saxon ranks, to madness stung,
Headlong rushed with frenzied start,
Hurling javelin, mace, and dart;
No shelter from the iron shower
Sought Taillefer in that sad hour;
Yet still he beckoned to the field,
‘Frenchmen, come on.—the Saxons yield—
Strike quick—strike home—in Roland’s name—
For William’s glory—Harold’s shame.’
Then pierced with wounds, stretched side by side,
The minstrel and his courser died.”
The charge of Taillefer roused the mettle of both parties. “Forthwith arose the noise and cry of war, and on either side the people put themselves in motion.” “Some were striking, others urging onwards; and all were bold, and cast aside fear.”