The Tournay. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

Rose of Lancaster.
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Encircled by a blooming band
Of peerless damsels, fair and young,
Reclined yon canopy beneath,
How bright she seems that train among;
How soft the accents of her tongue.
I trow composed of so sweet breath: —
With graceful mein she notes the Knights,
Who for her sake from these delights,
And they enchanted all, — I ween,
Name her their Love and Beauty's Queen.
And yet methinks her cheek is pale,
And oh! how delicately fair,
But mark a roseate hue prevail, —
She starts, she notes the warlike air
Of yonder Knight, on courser tall,
Who enters the proud lists withal,
Nor is she sooth, the only one,
Who loves to look, that Knight upon.
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His was a form, whose perfect symmetry
Gave grace to beauty, Nature's fairest gift.
Of middle height — or scarce above it — he
With noblest action, — and right gracefully
Reins his swift steed, — his plumed crest doth lift
And dauntless gaze around. The fiery eye
Of darkest hazel, partially seen
Through his bright visor, sparkleth fearfully,
Forthwith emitting threatening glance I ween,
Which well accordeth with his desperate mein.
The proud, and lofty charger he bestrode,
In shape unequalled, was of brighest roan,
While the commanding Knight who on him rode,
Yielded I trow, in horsemanship to none.
And still with air, and manner unconstrain'd,
Careless he gazed, and the bold beast restrain'd,
Which all impatient neighed, and champ'd the bit,
And proudly paw'd the ground — accoutred so
As doth the estate of gentlest Knight befit;
Shining like gold in burnish'd armour — lo!
He dazzleth all: yet not the coming storm
Doth in deep gloom, more terrible appear,
Than the dread bearing of that dauntless form,
Whose kindling ire, betokeneth danger near!
'I prithee Blanche,' the lady said,
And turn'd her towards a blooming maid —
'An if thou lovest me quickly tell
What Knight is yond' of warlike bearing,
Whose blood-red plume doth graceful swell,
Who for the combat seems preparing,
And reins his steed, so passing well? —
Methinks of all the sons of men,
That 'till this hour have met mine eye,
I never saw his match, — and then
He bears him with such majesty: —
Not Mars himself, doth surely wield
His conquering lance with comelier grace:
O! all that meet him well may yield;
And if allied to noble race,
I'd give my bravest hawk so tame,
Nay, my best steed, — to know his name! —
Speak then sweet Blanche, say knowest thou ought
Of the bright stranger?' —
'Lady. — Nought
Do I of yon bright stranger know,
Save, that he seems our House's foe.'
'Two days I ween Sir Aylmer's lance
Hath lightly borne away the prize;
Yet he methinks, by some mischance
Finds little favor in thine eyes! —
Now see him to the charge advance,
Whiles through the ranks his challenge flies;
More nimbly doth his palfrey prance,
And brighter sparkles flashing rise!
His snowy barb all else beyond
More gaily is caparison'd;
Whiles on his rich accoutrement
All other eyes, save thine are bent!
He comes, he come — or to demand
Or crave a pledge at thy fair hand!'
And now behold with motion slight
She greets her squire the Silver Knight,
And bites her scarlet lip for spite —
That she must needs some trophy fling,
Detaching from her locks a string
Of wat'ry pearl, she casts it forth,
Then scornful turns — and though a thing
Of costly price, and real worth,
So coyly given — so carelessly,
It waxeth poor in Aylmer's eye;
And to the earth that eye is bent,
Certes his cheek of youth doth glow
With wounded pride, and discontent,
Must with him to the combat go!
The blooming Blanche beheld with grief
The Silver Knight's profound dejection;
Who bow'd, and took a parting brief
Of her who own'd his heart's affection
E'en till that hour —
'Thou art unkind!'
('Twas thus to Amoret she spake
And sooth to his perfections blind —
'O, e'er it be too late, awake
From these fond dreams, 'twere folly sure
To widen wounds none else can cure. —
What seeks thine eye? Thou heedest not
My sage discourse, or I'm mistaken,
Yon fierce, and wayward wight, I wot,
In love's light bonds thy heart hath taken
Lo, hither wends his charger roan:
Nay by this light, thy color's gone,
Thou'rt pale indeed!' —
'The badge he bears
Our rival rose embroider'd wears.
O Blanche, I trow his lady love
Fix'd to his shield that silken glove.
I'faith I would he were our friend,
And might thro' life my champion be,
But if a foe, ye powers forefend —
My future life were misery!' —
The knight bow'd gracefully — and courteous quoth
Fair lady Amoret, tho' somewhat loath
To interrupt the well-accustom'd mirth,
To which our tilts, and tournaments give birth,
With discord fell; yet am I fain to say,
That I came hitherward, far hence, this day
To break a lance even with yon favor'd Knight,
And prove his prowess, in no friendly fight.
Long time an outlaw, cast on foreign shore —
My fair lands confiscate — then sold — nay more —
His sire depriv'd me, to his lasting shame,
Of my fair lineal right, and lofty name —
Turned the full current of my youthful joy!
The bare remembrance breeds me much annoy,
Yea every ill, which from my birth I rue,
Sprung from the hated house of Montagu,
That he hath wrong'd me doth appear in this,
I seek redress, nor this good chance may miss,
Tho' chosen sweet, thy champion bold, I wis.
Fair creature, fair befal thee — thou art one
Pure as the snow, tho' basking in the sun
Of princely favor — on my fay, a gem
Meet to adorn a royal diadem! —
Doth Warwick well to keep thee cloister'd here,
Closely encaged, like high priz'd marguerite,
Lest some unbidden, some unhallow'd ear
Should list him, haply, to thy warblings sweet;
And whiles he hides thee here, for wanton sport?
Now 'tis a crying sin I say, and swear,
To take the while his dingy birds to court,
And keep from kingly eyes a phoenix rare!
And wilt thou fair sweet Rose thy charms bestow
On you tall stripling, my inveterate foe? —
Thorns be his portion! — Hah! — let lances tell
Who wears the Rose! — Queen of Young Love, farewell!
Now as the trumpet sounds to arms
The Stranger Knight his visor raises:
Mark how a martial spirit warms
The dauntless youth on whom he gazes,
Nor heeds he the portentous frown
Of him that looks defiance round:
Then lightly flings his gauntlet down,
With vengeful portance to the ground. —
The young Sir Aylmer, with a bound
Advancing, doth accept the gauge!
And to the foe such glance doth give,
As plainly quoth, that one doth live
Who ne'er will quail beneath his rage! —
* * * * *
The sun is shining in his strength;
'Tis high mid-day, and now at length
See page, and poursuivant advance;
Lo squires on nimble palfreys prance,
The heralds shout, — The signal sounds;
Then like the falcon to her flight,
Forth from the ranks each true knight bounds,
And doth address him to the fight! —
And 'kerchiefs wave, and pennants dance;
And steed fronts steed, and lance strikes lance;
And spear, and shield, and harness clash:
Loudly they ring, and brightly flash; —
Each glittering spear is pois'd on high,
Each at his foe takes fearful aim —
And either bears him gallantly,
As knight well vers'd in fields of fame. —
I said the sun was shining bright,
In the full blaze of noon-tide light;
But his last beam shall gild the West,
Ere rival knights and chargers rest. —
For those who feed on vanity,
I marvel not 'twas fair to see
That day's well-foughten chivalry!
Long time they strove in doubtful fray,
As each in turn made desperate play. —
They strove, — but soft, forbear to tell
How Nevill's Gallant Kinsman fell,
Or how the Silver Knight was foil'd! —
Unhors'd, unarmed, his fair crest soil'd,
And hauberk rent! — His gallant steed
Close to him lies: his snowy hide
Is lav'd in blood. — And he doth bleed,
Who lately prancing in his pride
Dazzled each eye. Now dark as death
He pants — he struggling pants for breath! —
One desperate tug, to grasp his steel
Sir Aylmer makes, but ebbing life
His eyes in a death-swoon doth seal —
And soothly ends the appalling strife! —
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