Go, yet preserve an indolence of ease- Lazily bend your saucy eyes on each Fair face with some soft nothing of a speech; FRANCIS I. RECEIVING KNIGHTHOOD ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE, FROM THE HANDS OF THE CHEVALIER BAYARD. BY T. K. HERVEY. After the battle of Marignan, the king, who had killed many with his own hand, and performed feats of great valour, determined, in the spirit of that chivalry which was then almost extinct, to receive knighthood from the hands of the Chevalier Bayard. This he accordingly did on the spot, and afterwards knighted many of his followers. I. THE battle-din is over, And the battle-fire is cold, And a thousand tales are acting there, Which never shall be told; And pain is writ in characters Love tries in vain to spell, Where pulse-throbs, low and far between, Are like a passing-bell! II. The sturdy soldier's battle-shout, And his snowy vest is crimson-dyed, And painfully-oh! painfully, III. The battle-shock is over, And the mourners sit apart, And few the actors gathered round But of its thousand episodes The world was told but one! IV. Amid the blaze of tapers tall, That light the holy sign, But cannot quench the scent of blood, Within that warrior-shrine, 'Mid banners that are waving yet, As in the battle-breeze, And forms that serve (the king—not God) V. 'Mid gentle hearts, that learn to hear The silken page's tale, Whose troth-plight mingles in their ear, With yonder widow's wail; The monarch, with his war-vow stands, (Hark to that dying cry ! ) And the white-robed priest, with upraised hands, (What curse goes groaning by!) VI. And there, upon that bloody field, And with religion's kiss, The promise-covenant is sealed Of many fields like this! Oh, mitred priest!-the priests of old Put ashes on the head, Amid earth's plagues,-and stood between The living and the dead! VII. 'Mid hecatombs of slain, The king becomes a knight, And girds the sword he swears to stain, In many another fight; While the dying soldier, at the door, Collects his labouring breath, To hear the vow that dedicates VIII. The maiden through the curtain-fold, Looks wan and wildly in, Her brother by the tent lies cold, Her lover sits within ! Oh! that all earth's bad pageantries, Like this, were banished far! The age of Chivalry is gone, Why not the age of War! |