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 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 vizors 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 a thirsty mood we went

Duly 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 their 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,—

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,

Then the drums began to beat

And the flutes piped mellow sweet;

Then the deep and full bassoon

Murmured like a wood in June,

And the fifes, so sharp and bleak,

All at once began to speak.

Hear the trumpets clear and loud,

Full-tongued, eloquent and proud,

And the dulcimer that ranges

Through such wild and plaintive changes;

Merry sounds the jester’s shawm[56],

To our gladness giving form;

And the shepherd’s chalumeau[57],

Rich and soft and sad and low;

Hark! the bagpipes squeak and groan—

Every herdsman has his own;

So in measured step we went

Pacing to the Tournament.

All at once the chimes break out,

Then we hear the townsmen shout,

And the morris-dancers’ bells

Tinkling in the grassy dells;

The bell thunder from the tower

Adds its sound of doom and power,

As the cannon’s loud salute

For a moment made us mute;

Then again the laugh and joke

On the startled silence broke;—

Thus in merry mood we went

Laughing to the Tournament.