The Troubadour and Richard Cœur De Lion

The Troubadour o’er many a plainHath roam’d unwearied, but in vain.O’er many a rugged mountain-sceneAnd forest wild his track hath been:Beneath Calabria’s glowing skyHe hath sung the songs of chivalry;His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze,And rung through the snowy Pyrenees;From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave,He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave;And yet, if still on earth thou art,Monarch of the lion-heart!The faithful spirit, which distressBut heightens to devotedness,By toil and trial vanquish’d not,Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.

He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine,And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine:The feudal towers that crest its heightFrown in unconquerable might;Dark is their aspect of sullen state--No helmet hangs o’er the massy gateTo bid the wearied pilgrim rest,At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest;Vainly rich evening’s parting smileWould chase the gloom of the haughty pile,That midst bright sunshine lowers on high,Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky.

Not these the halls where a child of songAwhile may speed the hours along;Their echoes should repeat aloneThe tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan,Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast,When his phantom train are hurrying past.The weary minstrel paused--his eyeRoved o’er the scene despondingly:Within the length’ning shadow, castBy the fortress-towers and ramparts vast,Lingering he gazed. The rocks aroundSublime in savage grandeur frown’d;Proud guardians of the regal flood,In giant strength the mountains stood--By torrents cleft, by tempests riven,Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven.Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow,But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below;In purple tints the vineyards smiled,But the woods beyond waved dark and wild;Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bellWas heard on the sighing breeze to swell;But all was lonely, silent, rude,A stern, yet glorious solitude.

But hark! that solemn stillness breaking,The Troubadour’s wild song is waking.Full oft that song in days gone byHath cheer’d the sons of chivalry:It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone,Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone;On the Great Plain its notes have rung,The leagued Crusaders’ tents among;Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who wonThe palm in the field of Ascalon;And now afar o’er the rocks of RhinePeals the bold strain of Palestine.