sects and parties; it has obtained the sanction of the benchers, after a cautious examination into its merits; it has attracted the notice of foreigners engaged in similar duties, who hail it with joy as a fellowlabourer in the cause of advancing the empire of law; but without the support of the students themselves it must ultimately fall. If they fail to appreciate the advantages which it holds out to them, and rally not with good will about it, it must eventually fall a victim to the jealousy with which every institution bearing the slightest tinge of nationality in this country is regarded. On them must eventually rest the responsibility of leaving their country without any School of Jurisprudence,-a reproach to which England alone of civilised countries is liable, and from which we would fain exempt our own land. To them the opportunity is held out of assisting the growth of such an institution in their country; on them alone must light the shame of its blight, if in consequence of their neglect (absit omen) it should fail to attain its well deserved meed of success. THE RAMBLER. "Come hither, ho! my pretty boy! upon this bank recline. My hair was like the raven then, my tears could almost start, So late amid the solitude the cottages had grown, Their tale of years that lovely child might number by his own; The gentle hand whose skill had led the jasmine o'er the wall- And one, the maid, whose mirthful laugh brought joy where'er she came— Oh death! and shame! thou sterner blight, that even from the grave I dreamed not in the verdure of this new and pleasant place, C. THE KING AND THE TROUBADOUR. ROMANCE. BY WILLIAM DOWE. The tradition of the imprisonment and release of King Richard I. of England has been long dear to romance. About the year 1193, at the close of the Eastern Crusade, alone, or but slightly attended, he is said to have set out on his return home, in the dress of a Palmer, his way lying through the dominions of Austria. He was seized and imprisoned by Duke Leopold, and afterwards delivered up to Henry the Sixth, Emperor of Germany. The places of his seizure and confinement have been matters of much uncertainty and discussion. Some assert that he was arrested at Ratisbon, and sent to one of the imperial castles in the Tyrol. Others, with a greater show of probability, contend that he was taken prisoner near Vienna, and shut up in the strong fortress of Dornstein, or Durrenstein, whose magnificent ruins, at this day, form an interesting feature in the scenery of the Danube. The part taken by Blondel is thus related by an ancient author: "He (the king) had trained up in his court, a rimer or minstrill called Blundell de Nesle, who (saith the manuscript of old Poesies, and an auncient manuscript French Chronicle) being so long without sight of his lord, his life seemed wearisome to him, and he became confounded with melancholy. Knowne it was that he came back from the Holy Land, but none could tell in what country he arrived. Whereupon, this Blundel, resolving to make search for him in many countries, but he would hear some news of him -Mons. Favine's Treatise of Honour and Knighthood, translated, London, 1623. It was a gallant troubadour, And sad he seemed, and travel-sore; His harp he carried by his side, PART I. And, Palmer-wise, a staff he bore; Valley and mount, since dawn of day, For many a league, he journeyed o'er; And noon was past, and o'er the land Shadows of evening were at hand. Then firmer fell the minstrel's foot, Arose a guarded fortress nigh: Rose o'er the plain, where, sweeping by, Why gazed he on that fortalice? But slender promise was expressed, Which minstrel ever loves the best. Blondel de Nesle! ah! woe the chance No heart of hope attuned to mirth Yet, midst his brothers of the harp, From Notre Dame to Rouncival? The first and favoured minstrel he, Of him, that famous Christian king, And all that harper loves to sing; Ne'er to more princely paladin Was vowed the love of grateful bard; But days of revelry were gone: From mighty warfare waged remote, In Paynim lands beyond the sea, The king came not again; nor aught Of certainty was found to show Of his far sojourn, or his lot. Rumours were heard abroad, and there The true and false commingled were. When war was o'er in Paynimrie, And weary warriors sought the west, And then, 'twas said, the island chief, Was done to death, or haply ta'en All Christendom with shame did chide Then did he leave his home-alas! By hamlet, castle, and abbaye, "Twere long to tell his devious track Throughout Armorica and France; Then, o'er the fair and famous Rhine, And spouse and brother mourned; but ah! The spoil of rapine freely kept, Before the chivalry of France, Amid the foeman's arrowy rain, The bridle on his destrier's mane, His peerage round him, leads the charge, Beneath the banner of St. George. And where the strife still hottest burns, So wrought the dream that, as he lay, The captive's brow and cheek grew flushed; His hands were clenched, his breath came short, As though to mortal strife he rushed:Anon the troubled moment passed, And the subsiding heart was hushed; While o'er his dream's mysterious glass The changing visions rise and pass. There is another scene:-he seems Or halls of knightly Normandie. Gallants are there, with spurs of gold, And high-born ladies, fair to see, And welcome harpers, joyous all, Make glad the royal banquet hall. Again he hears each wonted song Than e'er in thought or dream before, One lay of noble Spanish knight, And pitying daughter of the Moor Comes, in familiar tones, and clear Thro' his dim dungeon floating near. He woke and deemed he slept, and dreamed: For, lo! the self-same music rung Still in his ears,-awhile he paused With beating heart, nor doubted long: Up rose the captive from his couch; It was no visionary song,- [tale,That well-known harp, and voice, and Nay, can it be?-it is De Nesle! Yet stay; were certain tidings none To lead the minstrel's footsteps there; And not in wonted track of those That on the minstrel's errand fare, That fortress lay: still, sadly sweet, A simple, rude, and plaintive air, Oft heard in Berengaria's bower, Rose from beneath his prison tower. And dost thou sleep, the ladye said, But I would give the lands so broad, And castles nine, to bid thee forth, But the stout warders watch too well, "Yes, it is he, my faithful knave!" With joyful flush the monarch cried. Then from the wall his harp he took ; With eager hands the strings he tried; Then paused, and while beneath the wall The viewless minstrel's accents died, He bore the strain's response, and sung, Thus, in the old Provençal tongue : Gramercy, evermore, ladye, But if thou would'st restore me back To friends beyond the sea; The song was o'er; the dark night fell. His mission done, his heart at ease, Swift went the happy troubadour, Homeward, athwart the narrow seas. Of England's wealthy ransom paid, And her brave monarch's glad release From durance drear in foreign hold, In the old chronicles are told. Once more in Windsor's royal towers, Cork, 1842. |