Ballads | Page 7

gallant Harold, in that day,?Elate with regal power;?Becalm'd his stately vessel lay,?Near Geoffrin's high tower.
The royal mercy to surprize,?He now resolves with speed;?"Haste, hither bring," he wildly cries,?"My strongest favourite steed."
It was a steed of noblest kind,?In spirit and in limb,?On which the desp'rate knight design'd?To the king's ship to swim!
Now by the swelling ocean's side,?He mounts his courser brave!?Spurs him with domineering pride,?And plunges in the wave!
Us'd to his bold caprices oft,?And equal to his weight,?The courser toss'd his mane aloft,?And swam with breast elate.
The knight now flourishes his sword,?As near the ship he draws;?The wond'rous sight strikes all on board,?Who throng to find the cause:
The sailors round their sov'reign croud,?Who on the vessels stern,?Now hails the knight's approach aloud,?Eager, his aim to learn.
"Provok'd by villains, one I slew,?And own him rashly slain;?Hence to thy clemency I flew,?My pardon to obtain!"
"Now by St. George, thou vent'rous knight,?Thy steed has nobly done;?Swim back, and pardon make thee light,?Thy pardon he has won!"
The knight now with a joyous spring?His horse's neck embrac'd;?Then blessing thrice his gracious king,?He steer'd him back in haste.
Now, as he touch'd his native sand,?And near his castle gate,?He saw the weeping widow stand,?And mock'd her mournful state.
"Woman, thy threats touch me no more,?I ride on safety's wing;?My brave horse brings me safe to shore,?With pardon from my king!"
"Kings seem to grant what God denies,?Trust my prophetic breath,"?(So the indignant dame replies)?"That horse shall prove thy death!"
She spoke, and with a voice so keen,?It search'd his inmost soul,?And caus'd a storm of fearful spleen,?Thro' his dark brain to roll
Half credulous, half wildly brave,?Now doubt, now rage prevails:?He stood like a black suspended wave,?Struck by two adverse gales.
A doubt by superstition nurst,?Made all just thoughts recede;?Frantic he wav'd his sword, and pierc'd?His life-preserving steed!
"Thy prophecies I thus destroy,"?He cried, "thou wretched crone;?Threats on my days no more employ,?But tremble for thy own."
Striding away, his steed he left?In his pure blood to roll,?He quickly, of all aid bereft,?Breath'd out his nobler soul.
The boastful knight, now gay with pride?By his successful crimes,?Floating on folly's golden tide,?Prosper'd in stormy times.
Ungrateful both to man and beast?His sovereign he betray'd,?And lent, ere Harold's empire ceas'd,?The Norman treacherous aid.
The Norman tyrant much carest?This proud and abject slave,?And lands, by worthier lords possest,?For his base succour gave.
Now years, since that eventful hour,?In which his courser bled,?Had pour'd increase of wealth, and pow'r?On his aspiring head.
As near, with much enlarged estate,?To his domain he drew;?He chanc'd, before his castle gate,?A signal scene to view.
The scene his war-steel'd nerves could shock,?Seated on mossy stones?The widow, leaning 'gainst a rock,?Wept o'er his horse's bones.
Enrag'd from his new steed he vaults,?Quick with his foot to spurn?These bones, that bid his bloody faults?To his base mind return.
The head, now bleach'd, his proud foot strikes?With such indignant speed,?The bone its fierce aggressor spikes;?It is his turn to bleed.
The trivial wound the wrathful knight?Disdains to search with care.?But soon he finds, the wound tho' slight,?Death lurks in ambush there.
Now to his bed of sorrow bound,?By penitential pain,?He seems, by this heart-reaching wound,?A purer mind to gain.
Near to his couch he bids, with care,?The widow to be brought,?And speaks to her, with soften'd air,?His self-correcting thought.
"True prophetess! I feel thee now;?So God my crimes forgive,?As I with thee true concord vow:?In comfort may'st thou live."
"Behold upon this charter'd scroll,?A pictur'd cottage stand,?I give it thee, with all my soul,?And its adjacent land."
"The only rent I will assume,?Be this. At close of day,?Sit thou, with pity, on my tomb,?And for my spirit pray!"
"That tomb be rais'd by sculpture's aid,?To warn men from my guilt;?My horse's head beside me laid,?Whose blood I basely spilt!"
He spoke, he died, the tomb was made,?His statue look'd to Heaven!?And daily then the widow pray'd,?His crimes might be forgiven!

THE LION.
BALLAD THE NINTH.
Lovely woman! how brave is thy soul,?When duty and love are combin'd!?Then danger in vain would controul?Thy tender, yet resolute mind.
Boulla thus in an African glade,?In her season of beauty and youth,?In the deadliest danger display'd?All the quick-sighted courage of truth.
Tho' the wife of a peasant, yet none?Her grandeur of heart rose above;?And her husband was nature's true son?In simplicity, labour, and love.
'Twas his task, and he manag'd it well,?The herd of his master to guide,?Where a marshy and desolate dell?Daily drink to the cattle supplied.
In this toil a dear playfellow shar'd,?A little, brave, sensible boy!?Who nobly for manhood prepar'd,?Made every kind office his joy.
One day as the dell they drew near,?They perceiv'd all the cattle around?Starting wild, in tumultuous fear,?As if thunder had shaken the ground.
The peasant, in wonder and awe,?Keenly search'd for the cause of their fright;?Very soon it's just motive he saw,?And he shudder'd himself at the sight;
For couch'd in the midst of the glade?An enormous fierce Lion he view'd;?His eye-balls shot flame thro' the shade,?And with