And his face is blanched, and sorrow sits
Carven upon his brow,
And his right arm slacks for the battle-axe,
The warlike field to plough.
And yet and anon comes Leopold
His captive lord to see,
And revenge to taste, as he sees him waste,
"How fares the Lion?" cries he.
"Cousinly questioned," says the King,
And kingly flashes his eye;
"Let the hog beware of the lion's lair,
Though the lion couchant lie."
And then gives back Duke Leopold,
And his laugh has a hollow ring;
Once more he goes, and the shadows close
Round the head and the heart of the King.
Then word comes suddenly, flying fast,
"Masters, the King is found!"
And from distant lands the poet stands
At last upon English ground.
"I have found him, Blondel de Nesle!
As I wandered, harp in hand,
Through breadth and length of Austria's strength,
I saw a tower stand,
"And nearer drew, I knew not why,
Till I heard a man's voice sing
With something of skill, and my heart stood still—
'Twas the voice of Richard the King,
"Singing a fitte that we both had made
Once in a banquet hall,
When his heart was light, of a captive knight
Who out upon Fate did call.
"Then I took up King Richard's words
And sang the fitte again,
And did descry—Oh! hope was high!—-
That he of it was fain.
"So I struck my harp and sang once more
Of a minstrel wandering far,
Till he reached the strand of a distant land
Where trusty yeomen are,