Christine [pp. 335-353]

Christine: A Troubadour's Song.
And thrice the heralds cried it aloud,
While a wondering whisper ran
From the central lists to the circling crowd,
For all knew the virgin hand was vowed
To the heir of Miolan.
Quick at the Dauphin's plighted word
Full many an eye flashed fire,
Full many a knight took a truer sword,
Tried buckle and girth, and many a lord
Chose a stouter lance from his squire.
Back to the barrier's measured bound
Each gallant speedeth away;
Then, forward fast to the trumpet's sound,
A hundred horsemen shake the ground
And meet in the mad melee.
Crimsoi the spur and crimson the spear,
The blood of the brave flows fast;
But Christine is deaf to the dying prayer,
Blind to the dying eyes that glare
On her as they look their last.
She sees but a Black Knight striking so well
That the bravest shun his path;
His name or his nation none may tell,
But wherever he struck a victim fell
At the feet of that shape of wrath.
"'Fore God," quoth thle Dauphin, "that unknown sword
Is making a merry day!"
But where, oloh where is the Savoyard,
For low in the slime of that trampled sward
Lie the flower of the Dauphinee!
And the victor stranger rideth alone,
Wiping his bloody blade;
And now that to meet him there is none,
Now that the warrior work is done,
He moveth toward thle maid.
Sternly, as if he came to kill,
Toward the damsel he turneth his rein;
tis trumpet sounding a challenge shrill,
While the fatal lists of La Sbne are still
As he paces the purple plain.
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