1833 All that is written in this book, must be in a good, plain and legible hand. P.B. Richard Coeur de Lion [1] and Blondel The blush, the light, the gorgeous glow of Eve Waned from the radiant chambers of the west; Now, twilight's robe, dim, orient shadows weave: One star, gleams faintly lustrous, in the east; Far down it shines, on the blue Danube's breast, As calmly, wavelessly its waters glide On to th' appointed regions of their rest, The Sea, profound and hoary, waste and wide; Whose black'ning billows swell in ever restless pride. High o'er the river rose a rocky hill, With barren sides, precipitous, and steep: There, 'gainst the sunset heav'ns, serene, and still Frown'd the dark turrets of a feudal Keep. Its folded flag, hung in the air asleep; The breathless beauty of the Summer night Gave not that Austrian standard, to the sweep [2] Of fresh'ning Zepyr, or wild Storm-blast's might; But motionless, it drooped, in eve's soft, dying light In that Stern Fortess, there were arch, and tow'r, And Iron-wrought lattice, narrow, deep-embaye'd; Where the gloom gather'd thick as night's mid hour And round about it, hung a chilling shade, Which told of dungeons, where the light ne'er play'd, Of prison-walls, of fetter-bolt and chain; Of Captives, 'neath a Tyrant's durance laid; Never, to view the sun's bright face again; Never to breathe the air, of free, wild hill and plain. The moon had risen, a host of stars among, When, to th' embattled castle walls, drew nigh A wand'ring minstrel, from his shoulders hung A harp, sweet instrument of melody. He paus'd awhile, beneath the turret high, Then took his harp, and all the sweet chords swept, [3] Till a sound swell'd beneath the silent sky, And holiest music, on the charmed air crept, Waked from the magic strings, Where till that hour they slept. O! how that wild strain o'er the river swelled, And mingled with its gentle murmuring, From the true fount of Song divine, it welled; Music's own simple undefiled spring; Notes rose, and dyed such as the wild birds sing In the lone-wood, or the far lonelier sky. O! none but Blondel but the minstrel king Could waken such transcendant melody; Sweet as a fairy's lute, soft as a passing sigh. The strain he sung, was some antique romance, Some long forgotten song of other years; Born in the cloudless clime of sunny France, Where Earth, in vernal loveliness appears; Where the bright grape distils its purple tears; [4] And clear streams flow, and dim, blue hills arise A gleaming crown of snows Each mountain wears; And there are cities, 'neath her starry skies, As fair as ever blest, with beauty, mortal eyes. Blondel's Song.