Part 20

Sweet Ida, the daughter of Montmolon’s lord (How blest to possess such a daughter!), Was fairest of fair demoiselles--in a word, All the marrying bachelors sought her.

VI.

But “attentions” she cared for but little, said she, And, really, seemed scarcely to heed’em; And for marrying! oh! ’twas like “felo de se,” If you could keep your spinsterly freedom.

VII.

So she turned up her aquiline nose at them all, And refused a round dozen of offers From lords and from knights, who would constantly fall At her feet with their hearts and their coffers.

VIII.

Till fate in her way threw Sir Roderick Fowle, Before he departed this war on, Then love made the damsel as blind as an owl, And she promised herself to the Baron.

IX.

The {231}war was declared--there was no time to woo, When legions and armies were forming, But, handsome and bold, he knew well what to do, So he carried the fortress by storming.

And she promised to wed, if he shouldn’t be dead, When the Christians had settled the Paynim. He must go there, he said; but she wanted, instead, By her apron-string still to detain him.

XI.

But he’d promised to go, and he would, and he must (These men are such obstinate cattle!), So his heart to her keeping the lover did trust, And set off, like a man, to the battle.

XII.

He went, and he came, and sustained his great name, For when was a Fowle e’er behindhand? And returned to receive the sweet laurels of fame From his Ida’s most willing and kind hand.

XIII.

When a man’s seeking laurels, to keep him at bay Is a deed most exceedingly cruel, So we’ll hasten our baron along on his way To the casket which held his bright jewel.

XIV.

Lofty and high were the Montmolon towers, And fortified, too, beyond measure, Lest any bold lord of the neighbouring powers Should harry the Montmolon treasure.

XV.

Sir {232}Roderick gazed on the gloomy old wall, Which the ivy was slowly corroding, When a sight met his eyes which his heart did appal, And fill with a fearful foreboding.

XVI.

Where the Montmolon banner of old used to wave, And merrily flaunt in the breezes, No banner hung now--all was still as the grave, Or the form that death’s quietude seizes.

XVII.

The place looked so bleak--‘tis a sad thing to speak, But sad things sometimes must be spoken; And the winds they did shriek through that castle antique, For there wasn’t a window unbroken!

XVIII.

The mark of a foe did Sir Roderick know Full well--far too well to mistake it; And he groaned deep and low, in sad accents of woe, Ere he turned round his horse to forsake it.

XIX.

But he stopped; for a groan quite as sad as his own Seemed to come from the shrubberies near him, And an old man he spied, sitting there all alone, Who appeared in no manner to fear him.