Volume 5 — From Once a Week. Sir Ralph De Blanc-Minster. The Vow.

Hush! 'tis a tale of the elder time, Caught from an old barbaric rhyme, How the fierce Sir Ralph of the haughty hand Harnessed him for our Saviour's land! "Time trieth troth!" thus the lady said, "And a warrior must rest in Bertha's bed; Three years let the severing seas divide, And strike thou for Christ and thy trusting bride!" So he buckled on the beamy blade, That Gaspar of Spanish Leon made, Whose hilted cross is the awful sign: It must burn for the Lord and his tarnished shrine! The Adieu. "Now a long farewell! tall Stratton tower, Dark Bude! thy fatal sea: And God thee speed, in hall and bower, My manor of Bien-aimè! "Thou, too, farewell! my chosen bride, Thou rose of Rou-tor land: Though all on earth were false beside, I trust thy plighted hand. "Dark seas may swell, and tempests lower, And surging billows foam; The cresset of thy bridal bower Shall guide the wanderer home! "On! for the cross! in Jesu's land, When Syrian armies flee, One thought shall thrill my lifted hand, I strike for God and thee!"

The Battle. Hark! how the brattling trumpets blare! Lo! the red banners flaunt the air! And see! his good sword girded on, The stern Sir Ralph to the war is gone! Hurrah! for the Syrian dastards flee: Charge! charge! ye western chivalry! Sweet is the strife for God's renown, The Cross is up and the Crescent down! The weary warrior seeks his tent: For the good Sir Ralph is pale and spent; Five wounds he reaped in the field of fame, Five in his blessèd Master's name. The solemn leech looks sad and grim, As he binds and soothes each gory limb; And the girded priest must chant and pray, Lest the soul unhouseled pass away. The Treachery. A sound of horsehoofs on the sand! And ha! a page from Cornish land. "Tidings," he said, as he bent the knee; "Tidings, my lord, from Bien-aimè. "The owl shrieked thrice from the warder's tower: The crown-rose withered in her bower: Thy good gray foal, at evening fed. Lay in the sunrise stark and dead!" "Dark omens three!" the sick man cried; "Say on the woe thy looks betide." "Master! at bold Sir Rupert's call, Thy Lady Bertha fled the hall!" The Scroll. "Bring me," he said, "that scribe of fame, Symeon el Siddekah his name; With parchment skin, and pen in hand, I would devise my Cornish land! "Seven goodly manors, fair and wide, Stretch from the sea to Tamar-side, And Bien-aimè, my hall and bower, Nestles beneath tall Stratton tower!

"All these I render to my God! By seal and signet, knife and sod: I give and grant to church and poor, In franc almoign for evermore! "Choose ye seven men among the just, And bid them hold my lands in trust, On Michael's morn and Mary's day To deal the dole and watch and pray! "Then bear me, coldly, o'er the deep, 'Mid my own people I would sleep: Their hearts shall melt, their prayers will breathe, Where he who loved them rests beneath. "Mould me in stone, as here I lie, My face upturned to Syria's sky; Carve ye this good sword at my side, And write the legend, 'True and tried!' "Let mass be said, and requiem sung; And that sweet chime I loved be rung: Those sounds along the northern wall Shall thrill me like a trumpet-call!" Thus said he and at set of sun The bold crusader's race was run. Seek ye his ruined hall and bower? Then stand beneath tall Stratton tower! The Mort-main. Now the demon watched for the warrior's soul 'Mid the din of war where blood-streams roll; He had waited long on the dabbled sand Ere the priest had cleansed the gory hand. Then as he heard the stately dole Wherewith Sir Ralph had soothed his soul, The unclean spirit turned away With a baffled glare of grim dismay. But when he caught those words of trust, That sevenfold choice among the just, "Ho! ho!" cried the fiend, with a mock at heaven, "I have lost but one I shall win the seven!"