FIRST 'mid the lion Richard's host,
Sir Aymer fought in Holy Land;
And they loved him well for his honest heart,
And they feared, for his stalwart hand.
Once on a glorious battle eve,
The Paynim legions wildly flying,
Sir Aymer paused front his work of blood,
Where an eastern knight lay dying.
He was the latest guard of one,
The Soldan's fair and favorite bride,
And there on the trampled and crimson sod
She moaned by the warrior's side.
No strength had he to shield his charge;
But mild the Christian victor's face;
And the lady knew, as she gazed thereon,
That his mercy would grant her grace.
The Paynim died: "I am thy guide,"
The brave Sir Aymer softly said;
"By my father's faith thou art safe from scaith,
Wheresoever thou would'st be led."
True to his word, through friend, through foe,
He bore the lady fast and far,
Till the hostile sheen of the Moslem spears
Flashed under the evening star.
The Soldan's self with speechless joy,
With glistening eyes and bated breath
The queen of his house and heart embraced,
As if claiming his Love from death!
"Now, Christian knight, by this pure light,
No vain nor empty thanks are mine;
So, name thee the guerdon a king may grant,
And believe me, it shall be thine."
"No guerdon, prince, for simple ruth
The Christian warrior deigns to take;
He has vowed to rescue the lorn and weak,
For his own sweet lady's sake.'
"All proofs of zeal the grateful feel,
Surely, fair knight, thou would'st not shun?
An honored guest, thou wilt tarry and rest,
At least till the morrow's sun?"
Thus, in the Soldan's tent he stayed--
What time the queen with passionate eyes,
Struck blind to the harem's splendor, dreamed
Of his beauty with love-sick sighs:
And ere that morrow's sun had set,
With scarce it blush her love she told;
But Sir Aymer hearkened with haughty mien,
And the words that he spake were cold.
Then flushed the imperious forehead high,
A dark flame glittered in her eyes,
And the hate of the deadly orient quelled
The breath of her tender sighs.
"Sir knight, enough; thou scorn'st my love!
Put ere thou goest, take instead
This marvellous steed of the jet-black breed,
In the land of the Magi bred.
"O stern in fight! O swift in flight!
This matchless steed will serve thee well,
Whether thy lure be a lady's bower,
Or the vanward war-trump's swell."
He took the gift, he bowed him low,
And gained the Christian camp at noon;
"O courser of might in strife or flight!"
Quoth he, "I shall prove thee soon."
The conflict joins; the hosts are hot;
That gallant Destrier "holds his own;"
Aghast at the rush of his whirlwind course,
Whole legions are overthrown.
In twice three mortal combats more
The same fell ruin marked his path,
Till the Saracens deemed, as their life-blood streamed,
'Twas a fiend of hell in his wrath.
But once, alas! alas! the day!
The Moslem's sudden war-cry rose,
And the knight his "Avè" forgot to say,
Ere he hastened to meet his foes.
St. Paul! what wizard spell is this?
The Destrier spurns the hands that guide,
And full on the front of the Christian host
Sweeps back through the battle tide.
Gramercy! 'twas a dreadful sight
Which met the gathering thousands there,
When the war-horse charged like a blazing star,
Through a halo of blood-red air.
With bristling mane, and hot disdain
Against the mail-clad lines he came;
And his red orbs burned with a frenzied ire,
And his nostrils darted flame.
Thus raging from the heathen van,
Strange steed and awful rider rushed,
And the souls of the boldest shrank appalled,
And the wildest voice was hushed;
Till swift towards King Richard's camp
The fiery-fronted portent bore,
From the fetlock firm to the horrent crest
All reeking with Christian gore.
There, on a sudden paused the barb,
Still, as if carved in marble black,
And from silent knight and terrible steed
The pale throng shuddered back:
But now from out the trembling crowd
A priest with holy water passed,
He sprinkled the knight, he sprinkled the steed
With the pure lymph free and fast:
When lo! the fatal charm dissolved--
Prone, with a hollow, rattling sound
In the clasp of his unscathed armor, fell
The knight to the bloody ground:
They loosed his hauberk and his helm,
But dead and wan his eyeballs shone,
As if they had gazed on a nameless dread
Which had frozen their life to stone!
They felt his pulseless heart, his brow
Dim with the death-shade's mystic gloom,
While ruthless and stern are the looks they turn
On the demon that wrought his doom.
But pallid as a waning cloud
Athwart the summer moon-disc blown,
The shadowy form of a demon steed
In the ghost-like eve had grown:
Only--his supernatural eyes
One moment shot a vengeful spark,
Ere the glimmering Syrian twilight closed
On the steps of the sudden dark.
