The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/The Falcon

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For works with similar titles, see The Falcon.

    The next who rose had that martial air,
Such as stately warrior wont to wear;
Haughty his step, and sun and toil
Had left on his check their darker soil,
And on his brow of pride was the scar,
The soldier's sign of glorious war;
And the notes came forth like the bearing bold
Of the knightly deeds which their numbers told.



I hear a sound o'er hill and plain,
    It doth not pass away.
Is it the valleys that ring forth
    Their welcome to the day?
Or is it that the lofty woods,
    Touch'd by the morn, rejoice?
No, 'tis another sound than these,—
    It is the battle's voice.
I see the martial ranks, I see
    Their banners floating there,
And plume and spear rise meteor like
    Upon the reddening air.
One mark'd I most of all,—he was
    Mine own familiar friend;

A blessing after him was all
    My distant lip could send.
Curse on the feeble arm that hung
    Then useless by my side!
I lay before my tent and watch'd
    Onwards the warriors ride.
De Valance he was first of all,
    Upon his foam-white steed;
Never knight curb'd more gallantly
    A fiery courser's speed.
His silver armour shone like light,
    In the young morning's ray;
And around his helm the snowy plume
    Danced like the ocean spray.
Sudden a bird burst through the air,—
    I knew his falcon's flight;

He perch’d beside his master's hand,—
    Loud shouts rose at the sight.
For many there deem'd the brave bird
    Augur'd a glorious day;
To my dark thoughts, his fond caress
    Seem'd a farewell to say.
One moment and he spread his wings,
    The bird was seen no more;
Like the sea waves, the armed ranks
    Swept onwards as before.
The height whereon I lay look'd down
    On a thick-wooded land,
And soon amid the forest shade
    I lost the noble band.
The snow-white steed, the silver shield,     
    Amid the foliage shone;

But thicker closed the heavy boughs,
    And even these were gone.
Yet still I heard the ringing steps
    Of soldiers clad in mail,
And heard the stirring trumpet send
    Defiance on the gale.
Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell
    When foes meet hand to hand,—
The shout, the yell, the iron clang
    Of meeting spear and brand.
I have stood when my own life-blood
    Pour'd down like winter rain;
But rather would I shed its last
    Than live that day again.
Squire, page, and leech my feverish haste
    To seek me tidings sent;

And day was closing as I paced
    Alone beside my tent;
When suddenly upon my hand
    A bird sank down to rest,—
The falcon,—but its head was droop'd,
    And soil'd and stain'd its breast
A light glanced through the trees: I knew
    His courser's snowy hide,—
But that was dash'd with blood; one bound,
    And at my feet it died.
I rush'd towards my sword,—alas,
    My arm hung in its sling;
But, as to lead my venture,
    The falcon spread its wing.
I met its large beseeching eye
    Turn'd to mine, as in prayer;

I follow'd, such was its strange power,
    Its circuit through the air.
It led me on,—before my path
    The tangled branches yield;
It led me on till we had gain'd
    The morning's battle-field.
The fallen confused, and numberless!
    "O grief! it is in vain,
My own beloved friend, to seek
    For thee amid the slain."
Yet paused the falcon, where heap'd dead
    Spoke thickest of the fray;
There, compass'd by a hostile ring,
    Its noble master lay.
None of his band were near, around
    Were only foes o'erthrown;

It seem'd as desperate he rush'd,
    And fought, and fell alone.
The helm, with its white plumes, was off;
    The silver shield blood-stain'd;
But yet within the red right hand
    The broken sword remain'd.
That night I watch'd beside, and kept
    The hungry wolves away,
And twice the falcon's beak was dipp'd
    In blood of birds of prey.
The morning rose, another step
    With mine was on the plain;
A hermit, who with pious aid
    Sought where life might remain.
We made De Valence there a grave,
    The spot which now he prest;

For shroud, he had his blood-stain'd mail,—
    Such suits the soldier best.
A chestnut tree grew on the spot;
    It was as if he sought,
From the press of surrounding foes,
    Its shelter while he fought.
The grave was dug, a cross was raised,
    The prayers were duly said,
While perch'd upon a low-hung bough
    The bird moan'd overhead.
We laid the last sod on the grave,—
    The falcon dropp'd like lead;
I placed it in my breast in vain,
    Its gallant life was fled.
We bade the faithful creature share
    Its master's place of rest;

I took two feathers from its wing,
    They are my only crest.
Spring leaves were green upon the trees
    What time De Valance fell;
Let autumn's yellow forests say
    If I avenged him well.
And then I laid aside my sword,
    And took my lute to thee,
And vow'd for my sworn brother's sake
    I would a wanderer be.
Till for a year I had proclaim'd
    In distant lands his fame,
And taught to many a foreign court
    De Valence’s brave name.
Never was heart more kind and true,
    Never was hand more bold;

Never was there more loyal knight.—
    Gentles, my tale is told.