Many there were in Richard's train

More known to fame and of higher degree,

But none that suited his fickle vein

So well as Blondel and Marcadee.
Blondel had grown from a minstrel-boy
To a very romantic troubadour
Whose soul was music, whose song was joy,
Whose only motto was Vive l'amour!
In lady's bower, in lordly hall,

From the king himself to the poorest clown,
A joyous welcome he had from all,

And Care in his presence forgot to frown. Sadly romantic, fantastic and vain,

His heart for his head still made amends;

For he never sang a malicious strain,

And never was known to fail his friends. Who but he, when the captive king,

By a brother betrayed, was left to rot, Would have gone disguised to seek and sing, Till he heard his tale and the tidings brought? Little the listening sentries dreamed,

As they watched the king and a minstrel play, That what but an idle rhyming seemed

Would rouse all England another day!
"Twas the timely aid of a friend in need,
And, seldom as Richard felt the power
Of a service past, he remembered the deed
And cherished him ever from that hour:
He made him his bard, with nought to do
But court the ladies and court the Nine,
And every day bring something new

To sing for the revellers over their wine;
With once a year a pipe of Sherry,

A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison, To make himself and his fellows merry,The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.

Marcadee was a stout Brabançon,
With conscience weak and muscles strong,

Who roamed about from clime to clime,
The side of virtue or yet of crime
Ready to take in a regular way
For any leader and regular pay;
Who trusted steel, and thought it odd
To fear the Devil or honor God.
His forte was not in the field alone,
He was no common fighter,
For in all accomplishments he shone,-
At least, in all the lighter.

To lance or lute alike au fait,

With grasp now firm, now light,
He flourished this to knightly lay,
And that to lay a knight.
Ready in fashion to lead the ton,
In the battle-field his men,

He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on,
Could walk his mile in ten.

And Nature gave him such a frame,

His tailor such a fit,

That, whether a head or a heart his aim,

He always made a hit.

Wherever he went, the ladies dear

Would very soon adore him,

And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,— But never sneer before him!

Perhaps it fared with the ladies worse

Than it fared with their gallants;
For he broke a vow with as slight remorse
As he ever broke a lance.

Thus, tilting here and jilting there,
He fought a foe or he fooled a fair,
But little recking how;

So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain,
He might have made a capital Cain,
Or a splendid dandy now.

In short, if you looked o'er land and sea,
From London to the Niger,

You certainly must have said with me,-
If Richard was lion, Marcadee

Might well have been the tiger.

A MONTH went by. They lay there still,
And chafed with nothing but time to kill,—
A tough old foe. Observe the way
They laid him out, as thus:- One day,—
'Twas after dinner and afternoon,
When the noise was over of knife and fork,
And only was heard an occasional cork

And Blondel idly thrumming a tune,—

Of course they drank with a right good will,
For they never missed a chance "to fill."
And yet a few, I'm sorry to own,

Made side-remarks in an undertone,
Like those we hear, when, nowadays,

Good-natured friends, with seeming praise,
Contrive to damn. In the midst of the hum
They heard a loud and slashing thrum:
'Twas the king: and each his breath drew in
Till you might have heard a falling pin.
Some little excuse, at first, he made,
While over the lute his fingers strayed:-
"You know my way,-as the fancies come,
I improvise."-There was ink on his thumb.
That morning, alone, good hours he spent
In writing despatches never sent.

RICHARD.

THERE is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing And Beauty is willing; but more

Where the battle is deadly and gory,

Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed,
Where the path is before me to glory,
Is pleasure for me, and the best.

Let me live in proud chivalry's story,
Or die with my lance in its rest!

The plaudits followed him loud and free
As he tossed the lute to Marcadee,
Who caught it featly, bowing low,
And said, "My liege, I may not know
To improvise; but I'll give a song,

The song of our camp,- we've known it long.
It suits not well this tinkle and thrum,
But needs to be heard with a rattling drum.
Ho, there! Tambour!-He knows it well,-
'The Brabançon !'-Now make it tell;
Let your elbows now with a spirit wag
In the outside roll and the double drag."

A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,I'd fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold: Hurrah for the gold!

He turned to the king, as he finished the verse,

And threw on the table a heavy purse

With a pair of dice; another, I trow,

Still lurked incog. for a lucky throw:

""Tis mine; 'twas thine. If the king would play, Perchance he'd find his revenge to-day.

Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin;

I always repent- unless I win."

At this unlucky point in the game
A herald was ushered in. He came
With a flag of truce, commissioned to say
The garrison now were willing to lay
The keys of the castle at his feet,

If he'd let them go and let them eat:
They'd done their best; could do no more
Than humbly wait the fortune of war
And Richard's word. It came in tones
That grated harshly:— “D—n the bones
And double-six! Marcadee, you've won.-
Take back my word to each mother's son,
And tell them Richard swore it :

Be the smoke of their den their funeral pall!
By the Holy Tomb, I'll hang them all!
They've hung out so well behind their wall,
They'll hang out well before it."

Then Richard laughed in his hearty way,
Enjoying his joke, as a monarch may;
He laughed till he ached for want of breath:
If it lacked in life, it was full of death:
Like many, believing the next best thing
To a joke with a point is a joke with a sting.
Loud he laughed; but he laughed not long
Ere he leaped to the back of his charger strong,
And bounded forward, axe on high,
Circling the tents with his battle-cry, -
"Away! away! we shall win the day:

In the front of the fight you'll find me: The first to get in my spurs shall win,— My boots to the wight behind me!"

They have reached the moat; The draw is up, but a wooden float Is thrust across, and onward they run; The bank is gained and the barbican won; The outer gate goes down with a crash; Through the portcullis they madly dash, And with shouts of triumph they now assail The innermost gate. The crushing hail Of rocks and beams goes through the mass, Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass; They falter, they waver. A stalwart form Breaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm: "Tis the Lion King!—“ How, now, ye knaves! Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!”One blow to the left, one blow to the right,— Two recreants fall;— - no more of flight. One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke, His curtle-axe rends the double oak. Down shower the missiles; they fall in vain ;

They scatter like drops from the lion's mane.