sifted.

But the sturdy churls would not give way,
Though Richard in person rushed to the fray
With all of his rash proclivity
For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame
In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,
The hero of Jaffa changed his game
To a masterly inactivity.

He stretched his lines in a circle round,
And pitched his tent on a rising ground
For general supervision
Of both the hostile camps, while he
Could join with Blondel in minstrel glee,
Or drink, or dice with Marcadee,
And _they_--consume provision.

To starve a garrison day by day
You may not think a chivalrous way
To take a fortification.
The story is dull: by way of relief,
I make a digression, very brief,
And leave the "ins" to swallow their beef,
The "outs" their mortification.

Many there were in Richard's train
More known to fame and of higher degree,
But none that suited his fickle vein
So well as Blondel and Marcadee.
Blondel had grown from a minstrel-boy
To a very romantic troubadour
Whose soul was music, whose song was joy,
Whose only motto was _Vive l'amour!_
In lady's bower, in lordly hall,
From the king himself to the poorest clown,
A joyous welcome he had from all,
And Care in his presence forgot to frown.
Sadly romantic, fantastic and vain,
His heart for his head still made amends;
For he never sang a malicious strain.
And never was known to fail his friends.
Who but he, when the captive king,
By a brother betrayed, was left to rot,
Would have gone disguised to seek and sing,
Till he heard his tale and the tidings brought?
Little the listening sentries dreamed,
As they watched the king and a minstrel play,
That what but an idle rhyming seemed
Would rouse all England another day!
'Twas the timely aid of a friend in need,
And, seldom as Richard felt the power
Of a service past, he remembered the deed
And cherished him ever from that hour:
He made him his bard, with nought to do
But court the ladies and court the Nine,
And every day bring something new
To sing for the revellers over their wine;
With once a year a pipe of Sherry,
A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison,
To make himself and his fellows merry,--
The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.

Marcadee was a stout Brabancon,
With conscience weak and muscles strong,
Who roamed a