# Tales and Historic Scenes/The Troubadour, and Richard Cœur de Lion

THE TROUBADOUR,
AND
RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.
​"Not only the place of Richard's confinement," (when thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria) "if we believe the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive enemies: and both might have remained unknown but for the grateful attachment of a Provençal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince's friendship, and tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired to the place; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself, partly by Richard; and, to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive—(Hist. Troubadours.) To this discovery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed his release."—See Russell's Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369.
THE TROUBADOUR,
AND
RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.
The Troubadour o'er many a plain Hath roam'd unwearied, but in vain. O'er many a rugged mountain-scene, And forest-wild, his track hath been; Beneath Calabria's glowing sky He hath sung the songs of chivalry, His voice hath swell'd on the Alpine breeze, And rung through the snowy Pyrenees; From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave, He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave, And yet, if still on earth thou art, O monarch of the lion-heart!
The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil and trial vanquish'd not, Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.
He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine; The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might; Dark is their aspect of sullen state, No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate$^1$ To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain's board a welcome guest; Vainly rich evening's parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer-sky.
Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along; Their echos should repeat alone The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, When his phantom-train are hurrying past.$^2$
The weary minstrel paused—his eye Roved o'er the scene despondingly: Within the lengthening shadow, cast By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, Lingering he gazed—the rocks around Sublime in savage grandeur frown'd; Proud guardians of the regal flood, In giant strength the mountains stood; By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, But the Rhine all shadowy roll'd below; In purple tints the vineyards smiled, But the woods beyond waved dark and wild; Nor pastoral pipe, nor convent's bell, Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell, But all was lonely, silent, rude, A stern, yet glorious solitude.
But hark! that solemn stillness breaking, The Troubadour's wild song is waking. Full oft that song, in days gone by, Hath cheer'd the sons of chivalry;
It hath swell'd o'er Judah’s mountains lone, Hermon thy echos have learn'd its tone; On the Great Plain$^3$ its notes have rung, The leagued Crusaders' tents among; 'Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won The palm in the field of Ascalon; And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine Peals the bold strain of Palestine.
THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG.
"Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,"  The Soldan cried to the captive knight, "And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met  To gaze on the fearful sight.
"But be our faith by thy lips profess'd,  The faith of Mecca's shrine, Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest,  And life shall yet be thine."
"I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood,  And gazed with undaunted eye; I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood,  And think'st thou I fear to die?
"I have stood where thousands, by Salem's towers,  Have fall'n for the name divine; And the faith that cheer'd their closing hours  Shall be the light of mine."
"Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health,  And the glow of youth's fresh bloom? Thou art offer'd life, and pomp, and wealth,  Or torture and the tomb."
"I have been where the crown of thorns was twined  For a dying Saviour's brow; He spurn'd the treasures that lure mankind,  And I reject them now!"
"Art thou the son of a noble line  In a land that is fair and blest? And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine,  Again on its shores to rest?
"Thine own is the choice to hail once more  The soil of thy fathers' birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er,  Forgotten in foreign earth."
"Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise  In the country of my love; But yet, though cloudless my native skies,  There's a brighter clime above!"
The bard hath paused—for another tone Blends with the music of his own; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain.
"Are there none within thy father's hall,  Far o'er the wide blue main, Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall,  With sorrow deep and vain?"
"There are hearts that still, through all the past,  Unchanging have loved me well; There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast  When I bade my home farewell.
"Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier  Than th' apostate's living stain; There's a land where those who loved, when here,  Shall meet to love again."
'Tis he! thy prince—long sought, long lost, The leader of the red-cross host! 'Tis he!—to none thy joy betray, Young Troubadour! away, away! Away to the island of the brave, The gem on the bosom of the wave,$^4$ Arouse the sons of the noble soil, To win their lion from the toil; And free the wassail-cup shall flow, Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow; The festal board shall be richly crown'd, While knights and chieftains revel round, And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, When merry England hails her king.
NOTES.