The falcon and the sparrow-hawk Stood forward for the fight:
Ready to do, and not to talk, They voted for the knight.
And Blanchflor's heart began to fail, Till rose the strong-voiced lark, And, after him, the nightingale, And pleaded for the clerk.
The nightingale prevailed at length, Her pleading had such charms;
So eloquence can conquer strength, And arts can conquer arms.
The lovely Florence tore her hair, And died upon the place;
And all the birds assembled there Bewailed the mournful case.
They piled up leaves and flowerets rare Above the maiden bright, And sang: "Farewell to Florence fair, Who too well loved her knight."
Several others of the party sang in the intervals of the dances.
Mr. Chainmail handed to Mr. Trillo another ballad of the twelfth century, of a merrier character than the former. Mr. Trillo readily accommodated it with an air, and sang:
THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRY TREE.
Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare, And merrily trotted along to the fair?
Of creature more tractable none ever heard;
In the height of her speed she would stop at a word, And again with a word, when the curate said Hey, She put forth her mettle, and galloped away.
As near to the gates of the city he rode, While the sun of September all brilliantly glowed, The good priest discovered, with eyes of desire, A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild briar, On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot, Hung large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit.
The curate was hungry, and thirsty to boot;
He shrunk from the thorns, though he longed for the fruit;
With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed, And he stood up erect on the back of his steed;
On the saddle he stood, while the creature stood still, And he gathered the fruit, till he took his good fill.
"Sure never," he thought, "was a creature so rare, So docile, so true, as my excellent mare.
Lo, here, how I stand" (and he gazed all around), "As safe and as steady as if on the ground, Yet how had it been, if some traveller this way, Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry Hey?"
He stood with his head in the mulberry tree, And he spoke out aloud in his fond reverie.
At the sound of the word, the good mare made a push, And down went the priest in the wild-briar bush.
He remembered too late, on his thorny green bed, Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said.
Lady Clarinda, being prevailed on to take the harp in her turn, sang the following stanzas.
In the days of old, Lovers felt true passion, Deeming years of sorrow By a smile repaid.
Now the charms of gold, Spells of pride and fashion, Bid them say good morrow To the best-loved maid.
Through the forests wild, O'er the mountains lonely, They were never weary Honour to pursue.
If the damsel smiled Once in seven years only, All their wanderings dreary Ample guerdon knew.
Now one day's caprice Weighs down years of smiling, Youthful hearts are rovers, Love is bought and sold:
Fortune's gifts may cease, Love is less beguiling;
Wisest were the lovers In the days of old.
The glance which she threw at the captain, as she sang the last verse, awakened his dormant hopes. Looking round for his rival, he saw that he was not in the hall; and, approaching the lady of his heart, he received one of the sweetest smiles of their earlier days.
After a time, the ladies, and all the females of the party, retired. The males remained on duty with punch and wassail, and dropped off one by one into sweet forgetfulness; so that when the rising sun of December looked through the painted windows on mouldering embers and flickering lamps, the vaulted roof was echoing to a mellifluous concert of noses, from the clarionet of the waiting-boy at one end of the hall, to the double bass of the Reverend Doctor, ringing over the empty punch-bowl, at the other.
