CXCV.
THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.
O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray,
Where, in his last, strong agony, a dying warrior lay,—
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.
"They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er,
That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more;
They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I,
Their own liege lord and master born, that I—ha! ha! must die.
"And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear;
Think ye he's entered at my gate—has come to seek me here?
I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot;—
I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!—defy—and fear him not!
"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin;
Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in.
Up with my banner on the wall,—the banquet board prepare,—
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"
An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread,
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread;
While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall,
Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic
hall.
Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured,
On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board;
While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state,
Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with gilded falchion, sat.
"Fill every beaker up, my men! pour forth the cheering wine!
There 's life and strength in every drop,—thanksgiving to the vine!
Are ye all there, my vassals true?—mine eyes are waxing dim:
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim!
"Ye're there, but yet I see you not!—forth draw each trusty sword,
And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board!
I hear it faintly!—louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath?
Up, all!—and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!'"