Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel

Thus far sung Blondel, when a sudden tone,
of quivering harp-strings, on his ear upsprung;
It sounded, like an echo of his own:
So faintly, that mysterious music rung,
So sweet, it floated, those dark towers among,
And seemed to issue from their topmost height;
Then there were words, in measured cadence sung.
Now soft and low, then with a master’s might,
Poured forth that varying strain, upon the stilly night

Who sings? the minstrel knows there is but one,
Whose voice has music half so rich, and deep
Whose hand can summon from the harp a tone,
So thrilling, that it calls from latent sleep
Heroic thoughts, dims eyes, that seldom weep,
With tears of extasy, and fires the breast,
Till listening warriors, from their chargers leap,
Assume the glittering helm, and nodding crest,
Unsheathe the ready sword And lay the lance in rest

But not of war, nor of the battle blast,
Sung now the kingly harper. No his strain
Was mournful, as a dream of days long past.
At times it swelled, but quickly died again;
And oh! the sadness of that wild refrain!
Suited full well with the lone, solemn hour,
Too sad for joy, too exquisite for pain,
It touched the heart Subdued the spirit’s power
Blent with the Danube’s moan, and wailed around the tower

Richard’s Song

Thrice, the great fadeless lights of heaven
The moon, and the eternal sun
As God’s unchanging law was given,
Have each their course appointed run.
Three times the Earth, her mighty way
Hath measured o’er a shoreless sea;
While hopeless still from day, to day,
I’ve sat in lone captivity;
Listening the wind, and River’s moan,
Wakening my wild harp’s solemn tone,
And longing to be free.

Blondel! my heart seems cold, and dead;
My soul, has lost its ancient might;
The sun of chivalry is fled
And dark despair’s, unholy night
Above me closes still and deep;
While wearily each lapsing day
Leads onward, to the last, long sleep;
The hour when all shall pass away;
When King, and Captive, Lord, and Slave
Must rest unparted, in the grave
A mass of soulless clay.

O long I’ve listened to the sound,
Of winter’s blast, and summer’s breeze,
As their sweet voices sung around,
Through echoing caves, and wind-waved trees.
And long I’ve viewed from prison bars
Sunset, and dawn, and night, and noon:
Watched the uprising of the stars,
Seen the calm advent of the moon:
But blast and breeze and star, and Sun
All vainly swept, all vainly shone,
I filled a living tomb.

God of my fathers! Can it be?
Must I, the chosen of thy might?
Whose name alone, brought victory,
Whose battle cry was God my Right
Closed, in a Tyrant’s dungeon cell,
Wear out the remnant of my life?
And never hear again, the swell
Of high and hot and glorious strife
Where trumpet’s peal, and bugles sing,
And minstrels sweep the martial string,
And war, and fame are rife.

No Blondel! thou wert sent by heaven,
Thy King, thy Lion-King to free,
To thee, the high command was given
To rescue from captivity.
Haste from the Tyrant Austrian’s Hold,
Cross rapidly the rolling sea,
And go, where dwell the brave, the bold,
By stream and Hill and green-wood tree.
Minstrel let merry England, ring
With tidings of her Lion-King,
And bring back liberty.

Such was the lay, the monarch-minstrel sung,
A few bright moons, waned from the silent heavens
And Albion, with a shout of Triumph rung;
As once again her worshipped King, was given
Back to her breast, his bonds asunder riven
And the Sweet Empress of the subject Sea
Sent up her hymn of gratitude to heaven