Стихи и поэмы

It was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone by, And the bloom of her beauty was fled:'Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam'd in her eye,And all but the Monarch could plainly descryFrom whence came her white and her red.Yet he thought with Agatha none might compare,And he gloried in wearing her chain;The court was a desert if she were not there,To him she alone among women seem'd fair,Such dotage possess'd Charlemain.The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid,Alike the proud leman detest;And the good old Archbishop, who ceased to upbraid,Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray'dThat he soon might consign her to rest.A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all,For Agatha sickens and dies.And now they are ready with bier and with pall,The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall,And the strains of the requiem arise.But Charlemain sent them in anger away,For she should not be buried, he said;

And despite of all counsel, for many a day,Where array'd in her costly apparel she lay,The Monarch would sit by the dead.The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain,And the army cry out for their Lord;The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain,Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemain,And still he unsheathes not the sword.The Soldiers they clamour, the Monks bend in prayerIn the quiet retreats of the cell;The Physicians to counsel together repair,And with common consent, one and all they declareThat his senses are bound by a spell.Then with relics protected, and confident grown,And telling devoutly his beads,The good old Archbishop, when this was made known,Steals in when he hears that the corpse is alone,And to look for the spell he proceeds.He searches with care, though with tremulous haste,For the spell that bewitches the King;And under her tongue for security placed,Its margin with mystical characters traced,

At length he discovers a ring.Rejoicing he seized it and hasten'd away,The Monarch re-enter'd the room;The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gayHe bade the attendants no longer delay,But bear her with speed to the tomb.Now merriment, joyaunce, and feasting againEnliven'd the palace of Aix;And now by his heralds did King CharlemainInvite to his palace the courtier trainTo hold a high festival day.And anxiously now for the festival dayThe highly-born Maidens prepare;And now, all apparell'd in costly array,Exulting they come to the palace of Aix,Young and aged, the brave and the fair.Oh! happy the Damsel who 'mid her compeersFor a moment engaged the King's eye!Now glowing with hopes and now fever'd with fears,Each maid or triumphant, or jealous, appears,As noticed by him, or pass'd by.And now as the evening approach'd, to the ball

In anxious suspense they advance,Hoping each on herself that the King's choice might fall,When lo! to the utter confusion of all,He ask'd the Archbishop to dance.The damsels they laugh, and the barons they stare,'Twas mirth and astonishment all;And the Archbishop started, and mutter'd a prayer,And, wroth at receiving such mockery there,In haste he withdrew from the hall.The moon dimpled over the water with lightAs he wander'd along the lake side;But the King had pursued, and o'erjoyed at his sight,"Oh turn thee, Archbishop, my joy and delight,Oh turn thee, my charmer," he cried;"Oh come where the feast and the dance and the songInvite thee to mirth and to love;Or at this happy moment away from the throngTo the shade of yon wood let us hasten along, .The moon never pierces that grove."As thus by new madness the King seem'd possest,In new wonder the Archbishop heard;Then Charlemain warmly and eagerly prest

The good old man's poor wither'd hand to his breastAnd kiss'd his long grey grizzle beard."Let us well then these fortunate moments employ!"Cried the Monarch with passionate tone:"Come away then, dear charmer, . my angel, . my joy,Nay struggle not now, . 'tis in vain to be coy, .And remember that we are alone.""Blessed Mary, protect me!" the Archbishop cried;"What madness has come to the King!"In vain to escape from the Monarch he tried,When luckily he on his finger espiedThe glitter of Agatha's ring.Overjoy'd, the good prelate remember'd the spell,And far in the lake flung the ring;The waters closed round it, and wondrous to tell,Released from the cursed enchantment of hell,His reason return'd to the King.But he built him a palace there close by the bay,And there did he love to remain;And the traveller who will, may behold at this dayA monument still in the ruins at AixOf the spell that possess'd Charlemain.