Alas! my king!

         No gold existeth in thy treasury.

         Then gold must be procured. It must not be

         That bards unhonored from our court depart.

         'Tis they who make our barren sceptre bloom,

         'Tis they who wreath around our fruitless crown

         Life's joyous branch of never-fading green.

         Reigning, they justly rank themselves as kings,

         Of gentle wishes they erect their throne,

         Their harmless realm existeth not in space;

         Hence should the bard accompany the king,

         Life's higher sphere the heritage of both!

         My royal liege! I sought to spare thine ear

         So long as aid and counsel could be found;

         Now dire necessity doth loose my tongue.

         Naught hast thou now in presents to bestow,

         Thou hast not wherewithal to live to-morrow!

         The spring-tide of thy fortune is run out,

         And lowest ebb is in thy treasury!

         The soldiers, disappointed of their pay,

         With sullen murmurs, threaten to retire.

         My counsel faileth, not with royal splendor

         But meagerly, to furnish out thy household.

         My royal customs pledge, and borrow gold

         From the Lombardians.

                     Sire, thy revenues,

         Thy royal customs are for three years pledged.

         And pledge meanwhile and kingdom both are lost.

         Still many rich and beauteous lands are ours.

         So long as God and Talbot's sword permit!

         When Orleans falleth into English hands

         Then with King Rene thou may'st tend thy sheep!

         Still at this king thou lov'st to point thy jest;

         Yet 'tis this lackland monarch who to-day

         Hath with a princely crown invested me.

         Not, in the name of heaven, with that of Naples,

         Which is for sale, I hear, since he kept sheep.

         It is a sportive festival, a jest,

         Wherein he giveth to his fancy play,

         To found a world all innocent and pure

         In this barbaric, rude reality.

         Yet noble – ay, right royal is his aim!

         He will again restore the golden age,

         When gentle manners reigned, when faithful love

         The heroic hearts of valiant knights inspired,

         And noble women, whose accomplished taste

         Diffuseth grace around, in judgment sat.

         The old man dwelleth in those bygone times,

         And in our workday world would realize

         The dreams of ancient bards, who picture life

         'Mid bowers celestial, throned on golden clouds.

         He hath established hence a court of love

         Where valiant knights may dwell, and homage yield

         To noble women, who are there enthroned,

         And where pure love and true may find a home.

         Me he hath chosen as the prince of love.

         I am not such a base, degenerate churl

         As love's dominion rudely to assail.

         I am her son, from her derive my name,

         And in her kingdom lies my heritage.

         The Prince of Orleans was my sire, and while

         No woman's heart was proof against his love,

         No hostile fortress could withstand his shock!

         Wilt thou, indeed, with honor name thyself

         The prince of love – be bravest of the brave!

         As I have read in those old chronicles,

         Love aye went coupled with heroic deeds,

         And valiant heroes, not inglorious shepherds,

         So legends tell us, graced King Arthur's board.

         The man whose valor is not beauty's shield

         Is all unworthy of her golden prize.

         Here the arena! combat for the crown,

         Thy royal heritage! With knightly sword

         Thy lady's honor and thy realm defend —

         And hast thou with hot valor snatched the crown

         From streams of hostile blood, – then is the time,

         And it would well become thee as a prince,

         Love's myrtle chaplet round thy brows to wreathe.

         What is the matter?

                    Senators from Orleans

         Entreat an audience, sire.

                       Conduct them hither!

         Doubtless they succor need; what can I do,

         Myself all-succorless!

         Welcome, my trusty citizens of Orleans!

         What tidings bring ye from my faithful town?

         Doth she continue with her wonted zeal

         Still bravely to withstand the leaguering foe?

         Ah, sire! the city's peril is extreme;

         And giant ruin, waxing hour by hour,

         Still onward strides. The bulwarks are destroyed —

         The foe at each assault advantage gains;

         Bare of defenders are the city walls,

         For with rash valor forth our soldiers rush,