THE RIDING TO THE TOURNAMENT.
OVER meadows purple-flowered, Through the dark lanes oak-embowered Over commons dry and brown, Through the silent red-roofed town, Past the reapers and the sheaves, Over white roads strewn with leaves, By the gipsy's ragged tent,
Rode we to the Tournament.1
Over clover wet with dew,
Whence the sky-lark, startled, flew, Through brown fallows, where the hare
Leapt up from its subtle lair,
Past the mill-stream and the reeds Where the stately heron feeds,
By the warren's sunny wall,
Where the dry leaves shake and fall,
By the hall's ancestral trees,
Bent and writhing in the breeze, Rode we all with one intent, Gaily to the Tournament.
Golden sparkles, flashing gem, Lit the robes of each of them, Cloak of velvet, robe of silk, Mantle snowy-white as milk
Rings upon our bridle-hand,
Jewels on our belt and band, Bells upon our golden reins, Tinkling spurs and shining chains— In such merry mob we went Riding to the Tournament.
Laughing voices, scraps of song, Lusty music loud and strong, Rustling of the banners blowing, Whispers as of rivers flowing, Whistle of the hawks 2 we bore As they rise and as they soar, Now and then a clash of drums As the rabble louder hums,
Now and then a burst of horns Sounding over brooks and bourns, As in merry guise we went Riding to the Tournament.
There were abbots fat and sleek, Nuns in couples, pale and meek, Jugglers tossing cups and knives, Yeomen with their buxom wives, Pages playing with the curls Of the rosy village girls,
Grizzly knights with faces scarred, Staring through their visors barred, Huntsmen cheering with a shout At the wild stag breaking out, Harper, stately as a king, Touching now and then a string, As our revel laughing went To the solemn Tournament.
Charger with the massy chest, Foam-spots flecking mane and breast, Pacing stately, pawing ground, Fretting for the trumpet's sound, White and sorrel, roan and bay, Dappled, spotted, black and grey, Palfreys snowy as the dawn, Ponies sallow as the fawn, All together neighing went Trampling to the Tournament.
Long hair scattered in the wind, Curls that flew a yard behind, Flags that struggled like a bird Chained and restive-not a word But half-buried in a laugh; And the lance's gilded staff Shaking when the bearer shook At the jester's merry look, As he grins upon his mule, Like an urchin leaving school, Shaking bauble, tossing bells, At the merry jest he tells- So in happy mood we went, Laughing to the Tournament.
What a bustle at the inn, What a stir, without-within, Filling flagons, brimming bowls For a hundred thirsty souls: Froth in snow-flakes flowing down, From the pitcher big and brown, While the tankards brim and bubble With the balm for human trouble;
How the maiden coyly sips, How the yeoman wipes his lips, How the old knight drains the cup Slowly and with calmness up, And the abbot, with a prayer, Fills the silver goblet rare, Praying to the saints for strength As he holds it at arm's length; How the jester spins the bowl
On his thumb, then quaffs the whole; How the pompous steward bends And bows to half-a-dozen friends, As in thirsty mood we went Dusty to the Tournament.
Then again the country over, Through the stubble and the clover, By the crystal-dropping springs, Where the road-dust clogs and clings To the pearl-leaf of the rose, Where the tawdry nightshade blows, And the bramble twines its chains Through the sunny village lanes, Where the thistle sheds its seed, And the goldfinch loves to feed, By the milestone green with moss, By the broken wayside cross, In a merry band we went Shouting to the Tournament.
Pilgrims with their hood and cowl,
Pursy burghers cheek-by-jowl, Archers with the peacock's wing
Fitting to the waxen string,
Pedlars with their pack and bags, Beggars with their coloured rags, Silent monks, whose stony eyes Rest in trance upon the skies, Children sleeping at the breast, Merchants from the distant West, All in gay confusion went To the royal Tournament.
Players with the painted face And a drunken man's grimace, Grooms who praise their raw-boned steeds, Old wives telling maple beads,8 Blackbirds from the hedges broke,
Black crows from the beeches croak,
Glossy swallows in dismay
From the mill-stream fled away,
The angry swan, with ruffled breast,
Frowned upon her osier nest,
The wren hopped restless on the brake, The otter made the sedges shake,
The butterfly before our rout
Flew like a blossom blown about, The coloured leaves, a globe of life, Spun round and scattered as in strife) Sweeping down the narrow lane Like the slant shower of the rain, The lark in terror from the sod, Flew up and straight appealed to God, As a noisy band we went
Trotting to the Tournament.
But when we saw the holy town,
With its river and its down,
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