Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel

 
Around them there dwells the deep hush of a dream,
And stilled is the murmur of River, and Gale.
 
 
There are groves in the moonlight, all sparkling with dew,
There are dim garden-paths, round that Castle of Pride;
Where the bud of the rose, and the hyacinth blue,
Close their leaves, to the balm, of the moist even-tide.
 
 
And long is the alley, dark, bowery, and dim,
Where sits a white form ’neath a tall chestnut tree
Which waves its brown branches, all dark’ling and grim,
O’er the young Rose of Courcy, Sweet Anna Marie.
 
 
And who kneels beside her? A warrior in mail.
On his helm there’s a plume In his hand there’s a lance
And why does the cheek of the lady turn pale?
Why weeps in her beauty The Flower of Provence?
 
 
She weeps for her lover, this night, are they met
To breathe a farewell, ’Neath love’s own holy star;
For to-morrow the crest of the young Lavalette,
Will float highest, and first in the van of the war.
 

 
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