Charades

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt;Sooth, ’twas an awful day!And though in that old age of sportThe rufflers of the camp and courtHad little time to pray,’Tis said Sir Hilary muttered thereTwo syllables by way of prayer:

My First to all the brave and proudWho see to-morrow’s sun:My next, with her cold and quiet cloud,To those who find their dewy shroudBefore to-day’s be done:And both together to all blue eyes,That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

My First in torrents bleak and blackWas rustling from the sky,When with my Second at his backYoung Cupid wandered by;“Now take me in; the moon hath past;I pray ye, take me in!The lightnings flash, the hail falls fast,All Hades rides the thunder-blast;I’m dripping to the skin!”

“I know thee well, thy songs and sighs;A wicked god thou art,And yet most welcome to the eyes,Most witching to the heart!”The wanderer prayed another prayer,And shook his drooping wing;The Lover bade him enter there,And wrung my First from out his hair,And dried my Second’s string.And therefore--(so the urchin swore,By Styx, the fearful river,And by the shafts his quiver bore,And by his shining quiver)--That Lover aye shall see my WholeIn life’s tempestuous Heaven;And when the lightnings cease to roll,Shall fix thereon his dreaming soulIn the deep calm of even.

Alas! for that forgotten dayWhen chivalry was nourished,When none but friars learned to pray,And beef and beauty flourished;And fraud in kings was held accurst,And falsehood sin was reckoned,And mighty chargers bore my First,And fat monks wore my Second!

Oh, then I carried sword and shield,And casque with flaunting feather,And earned my spurs in battlefield,In winter and rough weather;And polished many a sonnet upTo ladies’ eyes and tresses,And learned to drain my father’s cup,And loose my falcon’s jesses.But dim is now my grandeur’s gleam;The mongrel mob grows prouder;And everything is done by steam,And men are killed by powder:And now I feel my swift decay,And give unheeded orders,And rot in paltry state away,With Sheriffs and Recorders.

On the casement frame the wind beat high;Never a star was in the sky;All Kenneth Hold was wrapt in gloom,And Sir Everard slept in the Haunted Room.

I sat and sang beside his bed;Never a single word I said,Yet did I scare his slumber;And a fitful light in his eyeball glistened,And his cheek grew pale as he lay and listened,For he thought or dreamt that Fiends and FaysWere reckoning o’er his fleeting daysAnd telling out their number.Was it my Second’s ceaseless tone?On my Second’s hand he laid his own;The hand that trembled in his claspWas crushed by his convulsive grasp.

Sir Everard did not fear my First;--He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst,In many a field and flood;Yet in the darkness of that dreadHis tongue was parched and his reason fled,And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim,To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,Come dabbled o’er with blood.

Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;He prayed for light and he prayed for day,Till terror checked his prayer;And ever I muttered, clear and well,“Click, click,” like a tolling bell,Till, bound by fancy’s magic spell,Sir Everard fainted there.

And oft from that remembered night,Around the taper’s flickering lightThe wrinkled beldames told,Sir Everard had knowledge wonOf many a murder darkly done,Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,And ghosts that walk their midnight roundsIn the tower of Kenneth Hold!

The canvas rattled on the mastAs rose the swelling sail,And gallantly the vessel pastBefore the cheering gale;And on my First Sir Florice stood,As the far shore faded now,And looked upon the lengthening floodWith a pale and pensive brow:--“When I shall bear thy silken gloveWhere the proudest Moslem flee,My lady love, my lady love,--O waste one thought on me!”

Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cellWith none to soothe or save,And high above his chamber fellThe echo of the wave;But still he struck my Second there,And bade its tones renewThese hours when every hue was fairAnd every hope was true:--“If still your angel footsteps moveWhere mine may never be,My lady love, my lady love,O dream one dream of me!”

Not long the Christian captive pined!My Whole was round his neck;A sadder necklace ne’er was twinedSo white a skin to deck:Queen Folly ne’er was yet contentWith gems or golden store,But he who wears this ornamentWill rarely sigh for more:--“My spirit to the Heaven above,My body to the sea,My heart to thee, my lady love,--O weep one tear for me!”

Row on, row on!--The First may lightMy shallop o’er the wave to-night,But she will hide in a little whileThe lustre of her silent smile;For fickle she is, and changeful still,As a madman’s wish, or a woman’s will.

Row on, row on!--The Second is highIn my own bright lady’s balcony;And she beside it, pale and mute,Untold her beads, untouched her lute,Is wondering why her lover’s skiffSo slowly glides to the lonely cliff.

Row on, row on!--When the Whole is fled,The song will be hushed and the rapture dead,And I must go in my grief againTo the toils of day and the haunts of men,--To a future of fear and a present of care,And Memory’s dream of the things that were.

I graced Don Pedro’s revelryAll drest in fur and feather,When Loveliness and ChivalryWere met to feast together;He flung the slave who moved the lidA purse of maravedis,--And this that gallant Spaniard didFor me, and for the Ladies.

He vowed a vow, that noble knight,Before he went to table,To make his only sport the fight,His only couch the stable,Till he had dragged, as he was bid,Five score of Turks to Cadiz,--And this that gallant Spaniard did,For me, and for the Ladies.

To ride through mountains, where my FirstA banquet would be reckoned,--Through deserts where to quench their thirst,Men vainly turn my Second;--To leave the gates of fair Madrid,To dare the gate of Hades,--And this that gallant Spaniard did,For me and for the Ladies.