Classic Poem

ONE CANTO OF AN ANCIENT POEM, CALLED

I.

The Mattin-bell had sounded long,
The Cocks had sung their morning song,
When lo! the tuneful Clarions' sound,
(Wherein all other noise was drown'd)
Did echo to the rooms around,
And greet the ears of champions strong;
" Arise, arise from downy bed,
For sun doth 'gin to shew his head! "

II.

Then each did don in seemly gear,
What armour each beseem'd to wear,
And on each shield devices shone,
Of wounded hearts and battles won,
All curious and nice each one;
With many a tassell'd spear;
And, mounted each one on a steed,
Unwist, made ladies' hearts to bleed.

III.

Heralds each side the clarions wound,
The horses started at the sound;
The knights each one did point the lance,
And to the combats did advance;
From Hiberne, Scotland, eke from France;
Their prancing horses tore the ground;
All strove to reach the place of fight.
The first to exercise their might —

IV.

O'Rocke upon his courser fleet,
Swift as lightning were his feet,
First gain'd the lists and gat him fame;
From West Hibernee Isle he came,
His might depictured in his name.
All dreaded such an one to meet;
Bold as a mountain-wolf he stood,
Upon his sword sat grim death and blood.

V.

But when he threw downe his asenglave,
Next came in Syr Botelier bold and brave,
The death of many a Saracen;
They thought him a devil from Hell's black den,
Not thinking that any of mortal men
Could send so many to the grave.
For his life to John Rumsee he render'd his thanks,
Descended from Godred, the King of the Manks.

VI.

Within his sure resThe settled his spear,
And ran at O'Rocke in full career;
Their lances with the furious stroke
Into a thousand shivers broke,
Even as the thunder tears the oak,
And scatters splinters here and there:
So great the shock, their senses did depart,
The blood all ran to strengthen up the heart.

VII.

Syr Botelier Rumsie first came from his trance,
And from the Marshal took the lance;
O'Rocke eke chose another spear,
And ran at Syr Botelier [in] full career;
His prancing steed the ground did tear;
In haste he made a false advance;
Syr Botelier seeing, with might amain,
Felled him down upon the plain.

VIII.

Syr Pigotte Novlin at the Clarions' sound,
On a milk-white steed with gold trappings around,
He couched in his rest his silver-point spear,
And fiercely ran up in full career;
But for his appearance he paid full dear,
In the first course laid on the ground;
Besmear'd in the dust with his silver and gold,
No longer a glorious sight to behold.

IX.

Syr Botelier then having conquer'd his twain,
Rode conqueror off the tourneying plain;
Receiving a garland from Alice's hand,
The fairest lady in the land.
Sir Pigotte this view'd, and furious did stand,
Tormented in mind and bodily pain.
Syr Botelier crown'd, most gallantly stood,
As some tall oak within the thick wood.

X.

Awhile the shrill clarions sounded the word;
Next rode in Syr John, of Adderleigh lord,
Who over his back his thick shield did bring,
In checkee of red and silver shining,
With steed and gold trappings beseeming a king,
A gilded fine adder twined round his sword.
De Bretville advanced, a man of great might,
And couched his lance in his rest for the fight.

XI.

Fierce as the falling waters of the lough,
That tumble headlong from the mountain's brow,
Ev'n so they met in dreary sound;
De Bretville fell upon the ground,
The blood from inward bruised wound
Did out his stained helmet flow;
As some tall bark upon the foamy main,
So lay De Bretville on the plain.

XII.

Syr John, of the Dale, or Compton, hight,
Advanced next in lists of fight;
He knew the tricks of tourneying full well,
In running race no man could him excel,
Or how to wield a sword better tell,
And eke he was a man of might:
On a black steed with silver trappings dight
He dared the dangers of the tourney'd fight.

XIII.

Within their rests their spears they set,
So furiously each other met,
That Compton's well-intended spear
Syr John his shield in pieces tare,
And wounded his hand in furious geir;
Syr John's steel assenglave was wet:
Syr John then to the marshal turn'd,
His breast with mickle fury burn'd.

XIV.

The 'tenders of the field came in,
And bade the champions not begin;
Each tourney but one hour should last,
And then one hour was gone and past.