A TOMB by skilful hands is raised, Close to a sainted shrine, And there is laid a stalwart Knight, The last of all his line. Beside that noble monument, A Squire doth silent stand, Leaning in pensive wise upon The cross-hilt of his brand. Around him peals the harmony Of friars at even-song, He notes them not, as passing by The hymning brothers throng: And he hath watched the monument Three weary nights and days, And ever on the marble cold Is fixed his steadfast gaze. "I pray thee, wakeful Squire, unfold" -- Proud Rosabella said -- "The story of the warrior bold, Who in this tomb is laid?" "A champion of the Cross was he" -- The Squire made low reply -- "And on the shore of Galilee, In battle did he die, "He bound me by a solemn vow, His body to convey Where lived his love -- there rests it now, Until the judgment-day: And by his stone of record here, In loyalty I stand, Until I greet his leman dear -- The Lady of the Land!" "Fair stranger, I would learn of thee The gentle warrior's name, Who fighting fell at Galilee And won a deathless name?" The Squire hath fixed an eye of light Full on the Lady tall -- "Men called," he said, "that hapless Knight Sir Roland of the Hall! "His foot was foremost in the fray, And last to leave the field -- A braver arm in danger's day Ne'er shivered lance on shield!" "In death, what said he of his love -- Thou faithful soldier tell?" "Meekly he prayed to Him above For perjured Rosabelle." "Thy task is done -- my course is run -- (O fast her tears did fall!) I am indeed a perjured one -- Dear Roland of the Hall!" Even as the marble cold and pale, Waxed Rosabella's cheek; The faithful Squire resumed travail -- The Lady's heart did break! |