CHARADES.

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt; Sooth, ’twas an awful day! And though in that old age of sport The rufflers of the camp and court Had little time to pray, ’Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there Two syllables by way of prayer: My First to all the brave and proud Who see to-morrow’s sun: My next, with her cold and quiet cloud, To those who find their dewy shroud Before to-day’s be done: And both together to all blue eyes, That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

My First in torrents bleak and black Was rustling from the sky, When with my Second at his back Young Cupid wandered by; “Now take me in; the moon hath past; I pray ye, take me in! The lightnings flash, the hail falls fast, All Hades rides the thunder-blast; I’m dripping to the skin!” “I know thee well, thy songs and sighs; A wicked god thou art, And yet most welcome to the eyes, Most witching to the heart!” The wanderer prayed another prayer, And shook his drooping wing; The Lover bade him enter there, And wrung my First from out his hair, And dried my Second’s string. And therefore—(so the urchin swore, By Styx, the fearful river, And by the shafts his quiver bore, And by his shining quiver)— That Lover aye shall see my Whole In life’s tempestuous Heaven; And when the lightnings cease to roll, Shall fix thereon his dreaming soul In the deep calm of even.

Alas! for that forgotten day When chivalry was nourished, When none but friars learned to pray, And beef and beauty flourished; And fraud in kings was held accurst, And falsehood sin was reckoned, And mighty chargers bore my First, And fat monks wore my Second! Oh, then I carried sword and shield, And casque with flaunting feather, And earned my spurs in battlefield, In winter and rough weather; And polished many a sonnet up To ladies’ eyes and tresses, And learned to drain my father’s cup, And loose my falcon’s jesses. But dim is now my grandeur’s gleam; The mongrel mob grows prouder; And everything is done by steam, And men are killed by powder: And now I feel my swift decay, And give unheeded orders, And rot in paltry state away, With Sheriffs and Recorders.

On the casement frame the wind beat high; Never a star was in the sky; All Kenneth Hold was wrapt in gloom, And Sir Everard slept in the Haunted Room.

I sat and sang beside his bed; Never a single word I said, Yet did I scare his slumber; And a fitful light in his eyeball glistened, And his cheek grew pale as he lay and listened, For he thought or dreamt that Fiends and Fays Were reckoning o’er his fleeting days And telling out their number. Was it my Second’s ceaseless tone? On my Second’s hand he laid his own; The hand that trembled in his clasp Was crushed by his convulsive grasp. Sir Everard did not fear my First;— He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst, In many a field and flood; Yet in the darkness of that dread His tongue was parched and his reason fled, And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim, To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim, Come dabbled o’er with blood. Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray; He prayed for light and he prayed for day, Till terror checked his prayer; And ever I muttered, clear and well, “Click, click,” like a tolling bell, Till, bound by fancy’s magic spell, Sir Everard fainted there. And oft from that remembered night, Around the taper’s flickering light The wrinkled beldames told, Sir Everard had knowledge won Of many a murder darkly done, Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds, And ghosts that walk their midnight rounds In the tower of Kenneth Hold!

The canvas rattled on the mast As rose the swelling sail, And gallantly the vessel past Before the cheering gale; And on my First Sir Florice stood, As the far shore faded now, And looked upon the lengthening flood With a pale and pensive brow:— “When I shall bear thy silken glove Where the proudest Moslem flee, My lady love, my lady love,— O waste one thought on me!” Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell With none to soothe or save, And high above his chamber fell The echo of the wave; But still he struck my Second there, And bade its tones renew These hours when every hue was fair And every hope was true:— “If still your angel footsteps move Where mine may never be, My lady love, my lady love, O dream one dream of me!” Not long the Christian captive pined! My Whole was round his neck; A sadder necklace ne’er was twined So white a skin to deck: Queen Folly ne’er was yet content With gems or golden store, But he who wears this ornament Will rarely sigh for more:— “My spirit to the Heaven above, My body to the sea, My heart to thee, my lady love,— O weep one tear for me!”

Row on, row on!—The First may light My shallop o’er the wave to-night, But she will hide in a little while The lustre of her silent smile; For fickle she is, and changeful still, As a madman’s wish, or a woman’s will. Row on, row on!—The Second is high In my own bright lady’s balcony; And she beside it, pale and mute, Untold her beads, untouched her lute, Is wondering why her lover’s skiff So slowly glides to the lonely cliff. Row on, row on!—When the Whole is fled, The song will be hushed and the rapture dead, And I must go in my grief again To the toils of day and the haunts of men,— To a future of fear and a present of care, And Memory’s dream of the things that were.

I graced Don Pedro’s revelry All drest in fur and feather, When Loveliness and Chivalry Were met to feast together; He flung the slave who moved the lid A purse of maravedis,— And this that gallant Spaniard did For me, and for the Ladies. He vowed a vow, that noble knight, Before he went to table, To make his only sport the fight, His only couch the stable, Till he had dragged, as he was bid, Five score of Turks to Cadiz,— And this that gallant Spaniard did, For me, and for the Ladies. To ride through mountains, where my First A banquet would be reckoned,— Through deserts where to quench their thirst, Men vainly turn my Second;— To leave the gates of fair Madrid, To dare the gate of Hades,— And this that gallant Spaniard did, For me and for the Ladies.