Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ENTRANCE INTO ROUEN OF CHARLES THE BOLD, by PAUL FORT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ENTRANCE INTO ROUEN OF CHARLES THE BOLD, by                    
First Line: Counts, barons, captains, chevaliers, all gentlemen of lineage high
Last Line: Flattering buzz of hushed applause through all the galleries.
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Upper Classes; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens


Counts, barons, captains, chevaliers, all gentlemen of lineage high, and,
proudest of the Frankish peers, the greatest, the most glorious one with whom no
lesser light might vie, brave Charles of Charolais, eclipsing all the rest, on a
day when pure the azure shone and bells were ringing into Rouen, that goodly
city pressed. And 'twas sweet pleasure to behold casques and cuirasses all
ashine and gleaming housings manifold, bright housings cut from cloth of gold or
velvet edged with ermine fine, while some pure damask did combine with fur of
sable, and some, (God wot their cost was high), all of gold were wrought; and
'twas sweet pleasure to behold the scurrying pages, children fair, most richly
dressed, and, dancing there, before that lordly legislature, rude peasants in a
state of nature and lovely women nude, and, whirling 'mid the horses' hoofs
dwarfs, pink, red, green, and maidens, too, in rustic coifs and o'er the roofs
to see the floating standards blue sprinkled with golden stars, and gules,
where, sable, a rampant lion cools his wrath, that with banners all white were
blent, and, from the cathedral's sacred fount, in incensed pomp, across the
square to see the violet clergy mount King Louis to hail, the envoy pale, of so
grand a count, of so grand a count, and the blue sky laughed through belfries
high, all the bells rang out with joy or pain, how the gun-butts shone, how the
lances gleamed! . . . 'Twas sweet pleasure to watch the crimson rain of jetting
fountains where sweet wine streamed, hypocras, that all the assemblage quaffed:
and, naked, on a scantling stage, three sirens like Eve in Paradise, that played
on lutes sweet, grave and rare, suave and imperial melodies; squires, on the
great bridge o'er the Seine, unhooded ouselets painted blue and scattered all
the city through one could find a thousand pleasures more that cost full many a
louis d'or.

And then it was that the turn of the tourney came.

Charles, in black armour dressed, where glinted golden fires, laying his lance
in rest cried, "For the King, messires!" and on his war-horse good he rode with
headlong force towards stout Jean des Moulins, erect upon his horse. Mighty the
onset was. Sonorous was the shock.
Alas, Sir Jean, alas! He fell as falls a block.
Whereat one saw the strong shudders of grief that ran through all the seated
throng in hennin, scarf or fan, and, as in dreams, one heard a hum as when hives
are stirred that many lips prolong to a faint and sibilant breeze, the
flattering buzz of hushed applause through all the galleries.





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