136 



LAY OF SIR ROLAND. 



And as it nears, the flash of spears bursts brightly from its shroud, 



As bursts the vengeful lightning blaze from the electric cloud ; 



Their fiery pace an instant's space they check an instant more 



And down they thunder, earth and sky resounding to their roar. 



" Revenge for Roland \" was the shout he marked her basnet's crest, 



And ere her stifled voice revived, his spear was in her breast ; 



His spear was in her lily breast, and she lay pale and prone 



F the blood dabbled dust, ere woke her wild low woman's moan. 



A child, with sword of reed, might then have struck him to the ground. 



He staggered from his rearing steed, and gazed bewildered round 



He raised her up, and murmured, in a hoarse and hollow tone, 



" On the accursed heaven wreaks its ire, by the accursed alone." 



'Neath the lone smile she turned on him, he felt his heart-strings cower 



A sad sick smile like moonlight-fall upon some ruined tower. 



He strained to his convulsive breast her darkening, dying charms, 



And caught the sigh that breathed away her life within his arms. 



He laid her calmly gently down ; and, turning to his squire, 



He said while kindled in his eyes a fierce and frantic fire 



" Thus, Vidault, have I won at last re-union with my bride, 



And festal lights must burn to-night to grace a lover's pride !" 



A wild and lurid glare that night the troubled sky overspread, 

 And thrilled through air the shrill despair of horror, death, and dread. 

 The morrow's sun looked down, I ween, upon another sight 

 On Warcourt's stern embattled tower, than left he yesternight. 

 For not one heart that round its lord his maddened onset braved ; 

 And not one part from fire and sword his crushing vengeance saved. 

 It seemed as though he sternly strove to brand for ever there, 

 The black and burning impress of his own heart's despair ! 



In the crusader's camp was one, the first in every fight, 



Cased cap-a-pie in sable steel a stern and stalwart knight ; 



An arrow and a cloven heart upon his shield he bore, 



The motto " Heaven drew the bolt" they knew of him no more. 



But though they knew not of the past, they of the present know 



That blade more deadly than his own, no mortal ever drew ; 



Where danger turned his darkest front to terror and despair, 



High over all his sable plume was ever waving there. 



All stark and cold upon a field with crimson carnage spread, 



One battle eve they found him on a mound of Paynim dead. 



Oh, if the stains of early sin upon the soul e'er yield 



To withering years of lone remorse Sir Roland was aneled ! 



W. G. A. 



