in his bed, and that in his head,He kept by turns revolving.
That selfsame day, not very far
From the country castle of Vidomar,
The king had been progressing:
A courtly phrase, when the king was out
On a chivalrous bender; any route
As good as another: what about
Were little good in guessing.
That night, as he sat and drank, he frowned,
While courtiers moodily stood around,
All wondering what the journey meant,
Till a scout reported, "Treasure found!"–
With a rap that made the glasses bound,
He swore, "By Arthur's table round,
I'll have another tournament!"
No more, as he sat and drank, he frowned,
Or courtiers moodily stood around,
But all were singing, drinking;
And louder than all the songs he led,
And louder he said, "Ho! pass the red!"
Till he went to bed with a ring in his head
That seemed like gold a- chinking.
'Twere wrong to infer from what you're read
That Richard awoke with an aching head;
For nerves like his resisted
With wonderful ease what we might deem
Enough to stagger a Polypheme,
And his spirits would never more than seem
A trifle too much "assisted."
And yet in the morn no fumes were there,
And his eyes were bright,–almost as a pair
Of eyes that you and I know;
For his head, the best authorities write,
(See the Story of Tuck,) was always right
And sound as ever after a night
Of "Pellite curas vino!"
As soon as the light broke into his tent,
Without delay for a herald he sent,
And bade him don his tabard,
And away to the Count to say, "By law
That gold was the king's: unless he saw
The same ere noon, his sword he would draw
And throw away the scabbard."
An hour, for his morning exercise,
He swayed that sword of wondrous size,–
'Twas called his great "persuader";
Then a mace of steel he smote in two,–
A feat which the king would often do,
Since Saladin wondered at that coup
When he met our stout crusader.
A trifle for him: he "trained to light,"–
Grown lazy now: but his appetite,
On the whole, was satisfactory,–
As the vanishing viands, warm and cold,
Most amply proved, ere, minus the gold,
The herald returned and trembling told
How the Count had proved refractory:
Had owned it true that his serfs had found
A treasure buried somewhere in the ground,–
Perhaps not strictly a nugget:
Though none but Norman lawyers chose
To count it tort, if the finders "froze"
To treasure-trove,–especially those
Who held the land where they dug it,–
For quits he'd give up half,–down,–cash;
And that, for one who had gone to smash,
Was a liberal restitution:
His neighbor Shent-per-Shent did sue
On a better claim, and put it through,–
Recovered his suit, but not a sou
At the tail of an execution.
Coeur gazed around with the ominous glare
Of the lion deprived of the lion's share,–
A look there was no mistaking,–
A look which the courtiers never saw
Without a sudden desire to draw
Away from the sweep of the lion's paw
Before their bones were aching.
He caught the herald,–'twas by the slack
Of garments below and behind his back,–
Then twirled him round for a minute;
And when at last he let him free,
He shied him at a neighboring tree,
A distance of thirty yards and three,
And lodged him handsomely in it:
Then seized his ponderous battle-axe,
And bade his followers mount their hacks,
With a look on his countenance so stern,
So little of fun, so full of fight,
That, when he came in the Count's full sight,
In something of haste and more of fright,
The Count rode out of the postern;
And crowding leagues from his angry liege,
He left his castle to storm or siege,–
His poor beef-eaters to hold out,
Or save themselves as well as they could,
Or be food for crows: what noble should
Waste thought on such? As a noble would,
He prudently smuggled the gold out.
In the feudal days, in the good old times
Of feudal virtues and feudal crimes,
A point of honor they'd make in it,
Though sure in the end their flag must fall,
To show stout fight and never to call
A truce till they saw a hole in the wall
Or a larder without any steak in it.
The fight began. Shouts filled the air,–
"St. George!" "St. Denis!"–as here and there
The shock of the battle shifted;
There were catapult-shots and shots by hand,
Ladders with desperate climbers manned,
Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sand
On the heads of the climbers sifted.
But the sturdy churls would not give way,
Though Richard in person rushed to the fray
With all of his rash proclivity
For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame
In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,
The hero of Jaffa changed his game
To a masterly inactivity.
He
