Lady Alda's Dream

In Paris sits the lady that shall be Sir Roland's bride,
Three hundred damsels with her, her bidding to abide;
All clothed in the same fashion, both the mantle and the shoon
All eating at one table, within her hall at noon:
All, save the Lady Alda, she is lady of them all,
She keeps her place upon the dais, and they serve her in her hall;
The thread of gold a hundred spin, the lawn a hundred weave,
And a hundred play sweet melody within Alda's bower at eve.

With the sound of their sweet playing, the lady falls asleep,
And she dreams a doleful dream, and her damsels hear her weep;
There is sorrow in her slumber, and she waketh with a cry,
And she calleth for her damsels, and swiftly they come nigh.
"Now, what is it, Lady Alda," (you may hear the words they say,)
"Bringeth sorrow to thy pillow, and chaseth sleep away?"—
"O, my maidens!" quoth the lady, "my heart it is full sore!
I have dreamt a dream of evil, and can slumber never more.

"For I was upon a mountain, in a bare and desert place,
And I saw a mighty eagle, and a faulcon he did chase;
And to me the faulcon came, and I hid it in my breast,
But the mighty bird, pursuing, came and rent away my vest;
And he scatter'd all the feathers, and blood was on his beak,
And ever, as he tore and tore, I heard the faulcon shriek:—
Now read my vision, damsels, now read my dream to me,
For my heart may well be heavy that doleful sight to see."—

Out spake the foremost damsel was in her chamber there—
(You may hear the words she says,) "Oh! my lady's dream is fair—
The mountain is St Denis' choir; and thou the faulcon art,
And the eagle strong that teareth the garment from thy heart,
And scattereth the feathers, he is the Paladin—
That, when again he comes from Spain, must sleep thy bower within;—
Then be blythe of cheer, my lady, for the dream thou must not grieve,
It means but that thy bridegroom shall come to thee at eve."—

"If thou hast read my vision, and read it cunningly"—
Thus said the Lady Alda, "thou shalt not lack thy fee."—
But wo is me for Alda! there was heard, at morning hour,
A voice of lamentation within that lady's bower;
For there had come to Paris a messenger by night,
And his horse it was a-weary, and his visage it was white;
And there's weeping in the chamber, and there's silence in the hall,
For Sir Roland has been slaughter'd, in the chase of Roncesval.