Rosamond, Queen of the Lombards

Her long black hair came curling down 1Above her shoulders bare, Upon her brow a jewelled crown,— And o’er her violet eyes a frown, 1And a look of lone despair.

She sate those bearded lords among, 1Scorning the Lombard swine, While they, with burly battle song, Drained down, with clamours loud and long, 1The dark Falernian wine.

The king in wrath hath started up: 1Grim grew his face and red, By the bleeding Rood! but thou shalt sup The good wine from thy master’s cup, 1Made of thy father’s head.”

The king’s red face grew pale with ire, 1He smote upon the board: Pour up the wine which flames like fire, And drink damnation to thy sire, 1And glory to thy lord!

Thy sire is rotting in his grave, 1Thy sire, my beaten hound, And thou art but my leman-slave, The whitest-bosomed toy I have, 1My lady Rosamond!”

She raised the scull-cup to her lips, 1Queenlike she gazed around, Across her heart a shadow slips— Ah me! how sharp the memory grips 1Of wild Lord Cunimond!”

Smiling, she touched it, bubbling fresh, 1Like the broth of a wizard’s charm.— That night she caught him in her mesh, And slew him, gorged with wine and flesh, 1With her ivory-moulded arm.

So sharply to his false heart sped 1The knife of Rosamond: With his wild eyes all blurred with red, Within the dwellings of the dead, 1He met Lord Cunimond!