# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Battle

Raymond thought on that song next day When bleeding that young warrior lay, While his hand, in its death-pang, prest A bright curl to his wounded breast.
And waning stars, and brightening sky, And on the clouds a crimson dye, And fresher breeze, and opening flowers, Tell the approach of morning hours.
Oh, how can breath, and light, and bloom, Herald a day of death and doom! With knightly pennons, which were spread Like mirror's for the morning's red, Gather the ranks, while shout and horn Are o'er the distant mountains borne.
 'Twas a fair sight, that arm'd array Winding through the deep vale their way, Helmet and breast-plate gleaming in gold, Banners waving their crimson fold, Like clouds of the day-break: hark to the peal Of the war-cry, answer'd by clanging steel! The young chief strokes his courser's neck, The ire himself had provoked to check,
Impatient for that battle plain He may reach but never leave again; And with flashing eye and sudden start,  He hears the trumpet's stately tone, Like the echo of his beating heart,  And meant to rouse his ear alone. And by his side the warrior grey, With hair as white as the plumes that play Over his head, yet spurs he as proud, As keen as the youngest knight of the crowd: And glad and glorious on they ride In strength and beauty, power and pride. And such the morning, but let day Close on that gallant fair array, The moon will see another sight Than that which met the dawning light.—
Look on that field,—'tis the battle field! Look on what harvest victory will yield! There the steed and his rider o'erthrown, Crouch together, their warfare is done: The bolt is undrawn, the bow is unbent, And the archer lies like his arrow spent. Deep is the banner of crimson dyed, But not with the red of its morning pride; Torn and trampled with soil and stain, When will it float on the breeze again;— And over the ghastly plain are spread, Pillow'd together, the dying and dead.
 There lay one with an unclosed eye Set in bright, cold vacancy, While on its fix'd gaze the moonbeam shone, Light mocking the eye whose light was gone;
And by his side another lay, The life-blood ebbing fast away, But calm his cheek and calm his eye, As if leant on his mother's bosom to die. Too weak to move, he feebly eyed A wolf and a vulture close to his side, Watching and waiting, himself the prey, While each one kept the other away.
 Little of this the young warrior deems When, with heart and head all hopes and dreams, He hastes for the battle:—The trumpet's call Waken'd Raymond the first of all; His the first step that to stirrup sprung, His the first banner upwards flung; And brow and cheek with his spirit glow'd, When first at De Valence's side he rode.
The quiet glen is left behind, The dark wood lost in the blue sky;  When other sounds come on the wind, And other pennons float on high. With snow-white plumes and glancing crest, And standard raised, and spear in rest, On a small river's farther banks Wait their approach Sir Herbert's ranks.— One silent gaze, as if each band Could slaughter both with eye and hand. Then peals the war-cry! then the dash Amid the waters! and the crash Of spears,—the falchion's iron ring,—
The arrow hissing from the string, Tell they have met. Thus from the height The torrent rushes in its might.
With the lightning's speed, the thunder's peal, Flashes the lance, and strikes the steel. Many a steed to the earth is borne, Many a banner trampled and torn; Or ever its brand could strike a blow, Many a gallant arm lies low;— Many a scarf, many a crest, Float with the leaves on the river's breast; And strange it is to see how around Buds and flowers strew the ground, For the banks were cover'd with wild rose trees, Oh! what should they do amid scenes like these.
 In the blue stream, as it hovered o'er, A hawk was mirror'd, and before Its wings could reach yon pine, which stands A bow-shot off from the struggling bands,
The stain of death was on the flood, And the red waters roll'd dark with blood.— Raymond's spear was the first that flew, He the first who dash'd the deep river through; His step the first on the hostile strand, And the first that fell was borne down by his hand.
 The fight is ended:—the same sun Has seen the battle lost and won; The field is cover'd with dying and dead, With the valiant who stood, and the coward who fled. And a gallant salute the trumpets sound, As the warriors gather from victory around.
 On a hill that skirted the purple flood, With his peers around, De Valence stood,
And with bended knee, and forehead bare, Save its cloud of raven hair, And beautiful as some wild star Come in its glory and light from afar, With his dark eyes flashing stern and bright, And his cheek o'erflooded with crimson light, And the foeman's banner over his head, His first field's trophy proudly spread, Knelt Raymond down his boon to name,— The knightly spurs he so well might claim: And a softness stole to De Valence's eyes, As he bade the new-made knight arise.— From his own belt he took the brand, And gave it into Raymond's hand, And said it might a memory yield Of his father's friend, and his own first field.
Pleasant through the darkening night Shines from Clarin's towers the light. Home from the battle the warriors ride, In the soldiers' triumph, and soldiers' pride: The drawbridge is lower'd, and in they pour, Like the sudden rush of a summer shower, While the red torch-light bursts through the gloom, Over banner and breast-plate, helm and plume.
 Sudden a flood of lustre play'd Over a lofty ballustrade, Music and perfume swept the air, Messengers sweet for the spring to prepare; And like a sunny vision sent For worship and astonishment, Aside a radiant ladye flung The veil that o'er her beauty hung.
With stately grace to those below, She bent her gem encircled brow, And bade them welcome in the name Of her they saved, the castle's dame, Who had not let another pay Thanks, greeting to their brave array,— But she had vow'd the battle night To fasting, prayer, and holy rite.
 On the air the last tones of the music die, The odour passes away like a sigh, The torches flash a parting gleam, And she vanishes as she came, like a dream. But many an eye dwelt on the shade, Till fancy again her form display'd, And still again seem'd many an ear The softness of her voice to hear.
And many a heart had a vision that night, Which future years never banish'd quite.
 And sign and sound of festival Are ringing through that castle hall; Tapers, whose flame send a perfumed cloud, Flash their light o'er a gorgeous crowd; With a thousand colours the tapestry falls Over the carved and gilded walls, And, between, the polish'd oak pannels bear, Like dark mirrors, the image of each one there. At one end the piled up hearth is spread With sparkling embers of glowing red: Above the branching antlers have place, Sign of many a hard won chase; And beneath, in many a polish'd line, The arms of the hunter and warrior shine;
And around the fire, like a laurell'd arch, Raised for some victor's triumphal march, The wood is fretted with tracery fair, And green boughs and flowers are waving there. Lamps, like faery planets shine, O'er massive cups of the genial wine, And shed a ray more soft and fair Than the broad red gleam of the torch's glare; And, flitting like a rainbow, plays In beautiful and changing rays, When from the pictured windows fall The colour'd shadows o'er the hall; As every pane some bright hue lent To vary the lighted element.
 The ladye of the festive board Was ward to the castle's absent lord;
The Ladye Adeline,—the same Bright vision that with their greeting came Maidens four stood behind her chair, Each one was young, and each one fair; Yet they were but as the stars at night When the moon shines forth in her fullness of light On the knot of her wreathed hair was set A blood-red ruby coronet; But among the midnight cloud of curls That hung o'er her brow were eastern pearls, As if to tell their wealth of snow, How white her forehead could look below. Around her floated a veil of white, Like the silvery rack round the star of twilight; And down to the ground her mantle's fold Spread its length of purple and gold;
And sparkling gems were around her arm, That shone like marble, only warm, With the blue veins wandering tide, And the hand with its crimson blush inside. A zone of precious stones embraced The graceful circle of her waist, Sparkling as if they were proud Of the clasp to them allow'd. But yet there was 'mid this excess Of soft and dazzling loveliness, A something in the eye, and hand, And forehead, speaking of command: An eye whose dark flash seem'd allied To even more than beauty's pride,— A hand as only used to wave Its sign to worshipper and slave,—
A forehead, but that was too fair To read of aught but beauty there!
 And Raymond had the place of pride, The place so envied by her side,— The victor's seat,—and overhead The banner he had won was spread. His health was pledged!—he only heard The murmur of one silver word; The pageant seem'd to fade away, Vanish'd the board and glad array, The gorgeous hall around grew dim, There shone one only light for him, That radiant form, whose brightness fell In power upon him like a spell,
Laid in its strength by Love to reign Despotic over heart and brain. Silent he stood amid the mirth, Oh, love is timid in its birth! Watching her lightest look or stir, As he but look'd and breathed with her. Gay words were passing, but he leant In silence; yet, one quick glance sent,— His secret is no more his own, When has woman her power not known?
 The feast broke up:—that midnight shade Heard many a gentle serenade Beneath the ladye's lattice. One Breathed after all the rest were gone.