The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/Sir Walter Manny
Rose the last minstrel; he was one
Well the eye loves to look upon.
Slight, but tall, the gallant knight
Had the martial step he had used in fight;
Dark and rich curl'd the auburn hair
O'er a brow, like the ocean by moonlight, fair;
His island colour was on his cheek,
Enough of youth in his health to speak;
But shaded it was with manly brown,
From much of toil and of peril known:
Frank was his courtesy, and sweet
The smile he wore at fair lady's feet;
Yet haughty his step, and his mien was high
Half softness, half fire his falcon eye.
England, fair England, hath earth or sea,
Land of hearth and home, aught to liken with thee!
SIR WALTER MANNY AT HIS FATHER'S TOMB:
THE ENGLISH KNIGHT'S BALLAD.
"Oh! show me the grave where my father is laid,
Show his lowly grave to me;
A hundred pieces of broad red gold.
Old man, shall thy guerdon be."
With torch in hand, and bared head,
The old man led the way;
And cold and shrill pass'd the midnight wind
Through his hair of silvery grey.
A stately knight follow'd his steps,
And his form was tall and proud;
But his step fell soft, and his helm was off,
And his head on his bosom bow'd.
They pass'd through the cathedral aisles,
Whose sculptured walls declare
The deeds of many a noble knight;
De Manny’s name was not there.
They pass'd next a low and humble church,
Scarce seen amid the gloom;
There was many a grave, yet not even there
Had his father found a tomb.
They traversed a bleak and barren heath,
Till they came to a gloomy wood,
Where the dark trees droop'd, and the dark grass grew,
As cursed with the sight of blood.
There stood a lorn and blasted tree,
As heaven and earth were its foes,
And beneath was a piled up mound of stones,
Whence a rude gray cross arose.
"And lo!" said the ancient servitor,
"It is here thy father is laid;
No mass has bless'd the lowly grave
Which his humblest follower made.
"I would have wander'd through every land
Where his gallant name was known,
To have pray'd a mass for the soul of the dead,
And a monumental stone.
"But I knew thy father had a son,
To whom the task would be dear:
Young knight, I kept the warrior's grave
For thee, and thou art here."
Sir Walter grasp'd the old man's hand,
But spoke he never a word;—
So still it was, that the fall of tears
On his mailed vest was heard.
Oh! the heart has all too many tears;
But none are like those that wait
On the blighted love, the loneliness
Of the young orphan's fate.
He call'd to mind when for knighthood's badge
He knelt at Edward’s throne ;
How many stood by a parent's side,
But he stood there alone!
He thought how often his heart had pined,
When his was the victor's name;
Thrice desolate, strangers might give,
But could not share his fame.
Down he knelt in silent prayer
On the grave where his father slept;
And many the tears, and bitter the thoughts,
As the warrior his vigil kept.
And he built a little chapel there;
And bade the deathbell toll,
And prayers be said, and mass be sung,
For the weal of the warrior's soul.
Years pass'd, and ever Sir Walter was first
Where warlike deeds were done;
But who would not look for the gallant knight
In the leal and loyal son.