/\js6-'Yr^ /(/3//?02_ Cornell University Library PR4765.H9L3 1887 The last crusade, and other poems. 3 1924 013 480 912 The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013480912 THE LAST CRUSADE AND OTHER POEMS. THE LAST CRUSADE AND OTHER POEMS. BY ALFRED HAYES, M.A., NEW COLL., OXON. SECOND EDITION. BIRMINGHAM : CORNISH BROTHERS, 37, NEW STREET. LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 1887. ^.l5s^s^ [Ail rights reserved.'X CONTENTS. THE LAST CRUSADE The Death of Saint Louis . . i The Burial of Saint Louis ... 67 The Storming of Nazareth . . . 105 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS . . 131 PRINTED AT THE HERALD PRESS, KIRMI.NG H AM, BY WRIGHT, DAIN, rEYTON, AND CO. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. The summer sea lay fair as any flower Whose blue eye rests upon its mother sky ; A million sparkles danced, till far away They seemed one liquid diamond ; whisperingly Wave melted into wave ; and smile chased smile Across the dappled waters, till each flake Of purple vanished with its parent cloud In that wide dreamland, where, dissolved in mist. The sky and sea are one. Noon held her breath ; The sea-bird slept upon the crestless wave. The ripple scarcely kissed the foamless shore, The warm rocks trembled in the giddy air ; And basking in serene transparent depths The bright sea- ferns, that nestled round their feet, Stirred not a frond. O'er all this loveliness. Like a mild mother o'er her dimpled babe, Whose beauteous calm is mirrored in her face, Bent the blue heaven. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Far as the eye could strain, As 'twere beyond the faint horizon-line, Faded the lily-wingfed fleet of France, Fraught with the flower of all her chivalry. Fraught with her purest saint, her noblest king, Fraught with the failing hope of Christendom. Behind them lay what most the earthly heart Holds dear ; broad pastures, miles of sunny corn, Silvery valleys with their bosomed slopes Clad in the russet garment of the grape. Quaint chateaux with their files of marshalled trees. Rich chambers eloquent with heraldry, The constant quiet joy of gentle wives. The careful hope of princely babes, and all The pride and art and luxury of life. Before them lay the perils of the deep, Remorseless weary wastes of blinding sand, A sun, as fierce as love transformed to hate, Glaring destruction from a tearless sky. The tiger-breath of poisonous blasts that drain The last sap lurking in the shrivelled limbs, The jackal's howl, the vulture's silent swoop. The gloating grin of an abhorred foe. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. ;: Famine and torture, pestilence and death — Beyond all these, the Sepulchre of Christ. So sailed the liiy-vvingfed fleet of France. On many a deck stood many a goodly knight Shading with level hand a gnarled brow, Straining dim eyes lest, but a moment lost, The drowning coast should sink for evermore ; They watched the glittering harbour of Marseilles Dwindle to scarce a star, till none could tell Whether he saw or fancied that he saw ; Then turning paced the deck in sullen mood. Or talked in gathering knots regretfully ; For now the loadstar of Jerusalem Had well-nigh set ; the passion, that had wrapt Prince, baron, priest, and serf in one wild flame, Was now in ashes ; not a soldier there Save one, and he sublime above them all. But wore his cross for gold. He, saint and king, Thought but a moment of his own fair realm And loving people, of his faithful queen. And those long hours of anguish when she lay THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. In Damietta, tended by one squire Of eighty winters, and a son was born, While conquering armies thundered at the gates, And he lay captive in the Sultan's power, Disdaining all his tortures. — Then he sought His recreant lords, and marking how they drooped, Rallied them thus: — "Soldiers of Christ! 'tis meet That we commend our loved ones unto God In faith and prayer. That done, let us take heart. Thinking on Him Who for our sakes braved all. See on our breasts the Cross, whereby we live, Dyed with His blood! — O friends, the worst that we, Guilty of that dear blood, may bear for Him, Is light to what He, sinless, bore for us. And trust me, friends, 'tis not the foeman's rage, Nor scorching blast, nor thirst, nor pestilence, That hitherto hath foiled the arms of Christ, And mocked us with the mirage of His tomb ; — No ! 'tis our own most foul, most faithless hearts ! Soldiers ! shall we, while very infidels Are faithful to their master, Antichrist, Turn traitors to our Captain ? Shall we call THE DKATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 5 The curse of Achor on us ? Shall we sap Our strength with crawling jealousies, or stain Our tents with lust ? — O, Sirs ! if they whom Christ Stamped for His type, if they whom God's own Son Clasped in His arms and blest, if they of whom His kingdom is, if Christian little ones. Clad in full faith, approved of Holy Church, A bloodless armament of snow-white doves. Went forth and failed — then marvel not that we, Clogged with our sins, faint-hearted, lacking love. Stand yet upon the border-land and view The promise from afar. Then, in God's name, Let us unlock the closet of our heart, Pluck forth the cherished thing that doth offend, And shut in Christ's pure presence !" At these words A spirit like the breath of Pentecost ■ Rushed through the ship ; two hundred cheeks .caught fire, Two hundred leaden eyes flashed sacred flame, A hundred hearts leapt up, a hundred blades Dazzled the sunshine, and the cry, ■" Christ lives !" Rang o'er the silvery laughter of the sea ; The very air stirred in its noontide dream, THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Its light breath struggled into panting gusts, And ocean's tender-heaving bosom shook With quickened pulse ; the lazy, flapping sails Swelled firmly Eastwards, and the hissing spray Danced at the bows. Thus onward to his doom Went Louis, King and Saint, midst one wide smile Of peaceful blue ; oft wrapt in silent prayer, When Morn lay half-awake upon the wave Pillowed on downy mist, till Evening drew Her opal-tinted mantle o'er her face. And overhead the Eagle and the Swan Soared on their milky way with star-set wings. But no man knew as yet, not ev'n the King, Whither their voyage tended ; so they furled Their sails, and let their bubbling anchors down Off Cagliari, and the bugle's throat Sang out a royal summons, loud and clear, Startling the sea-bird on the distant cliff; Then quick from many a slowly-swaying ship Dropped the light boats, and fast from every side Flocked Count and Baron, till the royal deck AVas all one blaze of banners and bright arms. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. And as the sun, arrayed in golden clouds, Rises majestic o'er the glancing waves, Lending them each some beauty of his own, Yet far outshining all — so rose the King Above the glitter of that wavering throng, And crossing first his heaven-reflecting breast Spake to them thus : — " My lords, the hour is come When we must choose our ground whereon to fight The cause of Christ ; whether to turn our helms And bend the eager bosoms of our sails Southwards, where fair Tunissa, phoenix-like, Mounteth triumphant o'er the buried dust Of Rome's proud rival ; or to seek that shore. That thousand-channelled plain, half land, half lake. Where, choked with rich abundance of his spoils, Old Nilus labours slowly out to sea. Now inasmuch as one, our firmest prop Save God, is absent, one whose promised aid With hope and courage nerves our enterprise — Charles of Anjou, Sicilia's prudent king — 'Tis meet, or e'er the molten gold of thought Harden to cold resolve, that it receive 5 THE DEATH OF SAINT I,5UIS. His Sterling impress. Know ye then, my lords, The mind of royal Sicily, inspired No less by martial sense than Christian zeal. Is wholly fixed on Tunis. I perceive The judgment of so strong and staunch a friend Is not without due moment. For awhile I would withhold my own resolve, hard-won From many a night spent wide-awake with Care, In hope the thoughts of some in this wise throng May lend it strength. — My lords, I pray you, speak !" Then rose the Count of Flanders, huge and slow, With eyes as dull as calm November seas. Fringed o'er with hempen locks, his broad white brow- Seemed a blank page, where neither pain nor thought Had traced one single record. Like an oak, That spreads athwart a wall of iced-planed rock. Branched the green cross embroidered on his breast. Low and yet full he spake, like some great bell Tolled with a muffled tongue : — " My lords, methinks, Remembering all the pains we have endured From heat and thirst and sickness in times past — THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Foes against whom no human arms are proof — 'Twere best we carry, wheresoe'er we go, The shield of caution. Egypt heretofore Hath been to us no better than a tomb, And those few hopes we bore away from thence Are worn and famished. Sirs, the bravest hounds Need sometimes fleshing, and our jaded host, Much lamed of late by quarry overstrong. Will fight the bolder, drunken with the blood Of some fat conquest ; therefore let us rouse Our sinking appetites with easy spoil ; Tunis in all her wealth and loveliness, Tunis our prey, lies close and unaware ! " Next spake the Count of rock-bound Brittany, A sorrow-seasoned man, whose patient eyes. Like mellow sunshine o'er chill autumn fields. Kindled his aging countenance with light Of unimpassioned thought : — •'My liege, my lords, Methinks our brave companion hath said well. Moreover, Tunis conquered, the control Of this great inland sea is thenceforth ours, THE DEATH OF bAINT LOUIS. The Mamelukes do lose high vantage-ground, Whence we, its gainers, may with full-fed hopes, Dread reputation and rich spoil, descend On Egypt.'' But the dark Count of Champagne, With twitching forehead and impatient eyes : — "My lords, we know not what fair arguments Lie hid behind these masks ; but this we know. That somewhat less than zeal for Holy AVar Hath moved the King of Sicily to urge Our expedition, and direct its aim So far beside the mark. Let him who will Stain his pure sword, and lavish precious life. Most solemnly devote to Jesu's cross. In private feud. But know that I at least Shed not one drop of blood, one bead of sweat. For any man's behoof ! I say, my lords. We are not mustered here to fight the cause Of any Count or King, save only Christ ! " With that a storm of savage lightning-looks Flashed out from many a thunder-clouded brow, Wakina; a murmur like the smothered roar THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. I That rides before the hurricane. Then rose King Louis, with firm lip but gentle front, And eyes as meek as stars of Paradise : — " Sirs ! I beseech you, sprinkle on your wrath The holy dew of Christian charity — Nay, lay not any man an impious hand Upon his sword, to turn the arms of God Against Himself, or sow His sacred field With seed of bloody discord ! Sirs, for shame ! My lord of Champagne, 'twas too rashly spoke ; Allow, Sir Count, to others that pure zeal Which all confess and all admire in you ; But let not any, brooding o'er his words With warm and jealous breast, derive therefrom More than was meant. Remember, gentlemen. We all are servants of one master, Christ ; Bound by one law, redeemed by one love. And every brow sealed with the self-same print Of blessed brotherhood. It matters not How wide soever we may stand removed In rank, or wealth, or might, if but our hearts Are all attuned to one clear harmony ; THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. It matters little how we be disjoined In outward strategy, if but our souls Are urged by one great motive to one end. For sacred conquest, such as that we seek, Comes not of cunning, is not won by storm, But waits on quiet faith, and fervent prayer. Therefore be patient, while each counsellor Unfolds his thought.'' So spake the righteous king ; And for awhile dead silence held the ranks, Made sensible by lapse of languid waves Against the prow, and the short lonely note Of sea-gulls, and a mingled hum of life From the dim harbour. Then — for eager looks Implored him — rose the Count of Poictiers. An early frost had kissed his iron hair Lightly, as when the layers of morning mist Wreathe from late summer lawns, and every blade Gleams with a bright uncertain diadem. Half icicle, half dewdrop ; but as yet The lusty vintage of departed youth Mantled within his veins ; his swarthy cheek THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 13 Was carved with many a silent tragedy Of strangled passion ; and his lofty eye, Waited upon by quick obedient thoughts, Ruled like a monarch from his marble throne. — ■ He rose, and crossed his mailed breast, and spake ; — "Most gracious Sire, my peers, with all goodwill I do concede to those renowned lords. The Counts of Flanders and fair Brittany, And all who share their mind, the purest zeal ; Yet am I but the voice of many hearts, Contending 'twere a sin to spend our strength Or turn the headlong current of our wrath On Tunis, while the Holy Land cries out For instant succour. I do fear, my lords. While we are lingering on an unknown coast. Besieging a strong city unexplored. Blunting our lances on a harmless foe Two hundred leagues from Egypt, I do fear Lest the affrighted towns of Palestine, So hardly rescued from the infidel By costly blood of many a Christian knight, Should yield them to the Saracen. We know 14 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. With whom we have to do, the fierce Bibars, Sultan of Egypt, enemy of God, Whose power corrupteth like a mortal plague From Uor to Ptolemais. Doth he lie In Tunis ? —Nay, two hundred leagues from thence ! Two hundred leagues nearer the tomb of Christ ! Beside that river, that proud-swelling Nile, Which oft hath blushed with blood of Christian France, And borne our brethren to a moaning grave In the all-cleansing, wide, forgetful sea. Then let us up, and, ere he be advised. Carry our wrath unchecked, our swords unduUed, Into the inmost bosom of his realm ! " He ceased: but ere the echo of his voice Had reached the heedless waves, a swelling shout. Like that which bruits some vanquished citadel, Burst from the throng. Whereat, as though a cloud Had sailed across the sun, deep shadow fell Athwart the hope-lit forehead of the king ; A chillness smote his heart, and for awhile His high resolve drooped like a sapless flower. Then lifting up his thirsting eyes to Heaven, THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 1 5 He slaked them at the fountain of all life, And turning on his counsellors a face Illumined with that love, whose gentle breath, Like springtime melting winter's frozen heart, Prevaileth over all opposing storms, . Spake to them thus : — " My brave and faithful peers, Brothers and fellow-soldiers of the Cross ! I know the lightning of your headlong wrath Springs from a' captive heat of holy zeal, And is not kindled at the reeky torch Of earth-born passion. Yet beware, beware ! For oftentimes the very sword of God, Wielded by uncelestial hands, hath dealt Most fearfully amiss. My lords, there sits On the eternal judgment-seat of Heaven A Counsellor whose name is Prince of. Peace; Who, though He left a sword upon the earth, Wills not that any use it but to win Souls to Himself ; and if they may be won Without the cost of bloodshed, bids us sheathe His sword in loving-kindness, lest it turn Upon ourselves, his worthless instruments. 1 6 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Our counsels therefore should be wholly swayed By two regards : the chief, how best to fill The vacant room in Christ's wide fold ; the next, How to achieve such Heavenly victory With lightest loss, not only of those lives Already one with Him, but those dark souls That may be His hereafter. Both regards Do point one way — to Tunis. Ye well know How oft of late her king hath sent to France Ambassadors, as many deemed through fear, Few sounding his deep purpose, which in truth Is nothing less than to receive the rite Of baptism at my most unworthy hands, Fie, and through him his people. — O ! my lords, That were a glory to make dull the glare Of sordid conquest, shrivel up the bays Of mortal triumph, and outshine to death The blood-red planet, kindling in its stead The pastoral star that shone o'er Bethlehem. That were a victory to make high Heaven Ring o'er with joy and drown with angel-song All the unlovely discords of poor Earth. For but to sow one seed of Christian love THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 1 7 Is worthier in the eyes of Heaven than fields Of slaughter, and the lightest grain of faith Weighs heavier in the balances of God Than warfare's richest harvest. — Where is now The pride of Carthage ? Where her palaces Soft-lined with luxury, her silken beds, The tinkling feet of pleasure-breathing girls, The music of her fountains echoing Through halls of marble coolness ? Where her marts Aching with costly merchandise, her fanes Filled with sweet incense and the hymns of old ? — Conquered and trampled, buried and decayed ! Her dust lies lower than the withered grass ! Yet from those ashes, if we do but plant The Cross of Christ, shall spring a wondrous growth, Wide as the world, sublime as Heaven itself, The eternal Tree of Life ! — which to achieve, Most joyfully would I embrace the worst That flesh can fear ; would quit this living air. And pass the bitter remnant of my days In some foul dungeon, where the healing sun Ne'er shed a ray, nor morning-breath of flowers E'er entered, nor the song of bird or bee. THE DEATH OF SAINT l.OUIS. Where reptiles sicken, and the very weed Dies on the slimy wall — yea ! but for sin, Would cast away the heritage of Heaven, And spurn the immortal crown ! — O ! gentlemen. Bear with my seeming madness till you hear My warranty for this. Ye all do know How I have watched of late when all things slept. And inly wrestled many a teeming hour In thought made pure by fasts and constant prayer, So haply I might win the ear of saints, Or catch some whisper from the throne of God, To point our wavering steps ; and not in vain Was heavenly guidance asked ; for yesternight. When all the huddling fleet was rocked to sleep With murmurous lullaby of wind and wave, I left my trouble-haunted couch, and sought The influence of those silent counsellors Who, since the cloudless night when first they met In Man's strange horoscope, have never ceased To utter the vast tranquil thoughts of God To fretful souls. Then, as I watched and prayed, Methought the radiance of the jewelled Lyre Grew ever brighter, nearer; and I saw THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. ig An angel take it, and with glittering hands Sweep the great chords, till all the sky was full Of wondrous music, and the furthest star Throbbed like a fire ; and when those holy strains Drew back to heaven, I saw the Northern Crown Descend upon the angel, and he fell Swift as a moonbeam fledged with whispering wings, And held the crown above me, and I read " Tunissa " wrought in stars ; but when I moved To take it, a full blast of harmony Rapt him away, and surged across the deep Thundering " Tunis, Tunis ;" then the night Grew slowly silent, and a mystic gleam Stole like the dawn of Heaven along the sea. And smote the dead grey level of the main Into a million crystals, till the air Glistened with diamond-dust, and every wave Lisped, as it fell, " Tunissa." — Last there came A weight of mist upon me, and methinks I lay entranced ; for, when the veil removed, I heard the beating of my laboured heart Blend with the sounds of day about the ship, And felt the sun's kiss hot upon my cheek, THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. And saw the sea-birds, with white heads down-bent, Float o'er my face beneath the naked blue. My lords, the finger of the Most High God Hath traced this vision, and a glorious crown Remains for Tunis, and a deathless name For you whom Christ hath chosen to fulfil His boundless purposes of love and peace. We go to pluck no earthly kingdom down. To bind no bloody laurels round our brows, Nor glut our baser part on others' pain. We go to win a royalty for Christ, To sign a nation's forehead with the Cross, To bid our brethren to the marriage feast That shall not close till all be gathered in. Let them that don the livery of Hell Divide the spoil of lust with reeking hands, And gulp the wine of conquest mixed with tears ; But we, who wear the badge of God's fair Son, Be ours this stainless glory, to bestow A crown on Tunis, whose mysterious sheen Shall light the utmost nations of the East, Till all that dusky brotherhood, whom we, Proud fools, despise, albeit the King of Heaven THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Sprang from their midst, shall join our whiter flock, And all the world be one celestial fold !" So spake the king ; and they that listened marked An aureole, like the mellow zone of light That breathes around a planet in the mist. Glow from his sacred head, and steep his face In living glory, shining through his mail Like sunshine through a pearl, until his form Grew radiant as an angel's, all beside Earthy, and dull, and cold ; and none dared lift A thwarting voice, but all with one consent Murmured "So be it; " and the doom was sealed. That night, or e'er the giddy lights of earth Danced in the island harbour, while the lamps Of Heaven shone pale upon the dying sun, A gentle breeze woke from its noontide sleep Along the shore, and fluttered out to sea Laden with sounds of loveliest harmony ; " Veni Creator," chanted by a band Of snow-white priests, who watched the holy fleet Shrink to a sail upon the southern sky ; THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. And they within the ships first heard the hymn Swelling and falling in sweet gusts, and next A whisper scarcely caught between the laps Of prattling waves, and last a memory, So like the straining sense, that wind and wave Seemed to repeat the subtlest cadences When all had sunk to silence. So the fleet Was wafted on towards the lidless sun. Two days she drifted like a white-winged bird Lost in a perfect orb of spotless blue ; Two nights within a closer orb, thick-set With twinkling gems, she drew her radiant train. Bright as a comet, far along the sea ; But ere the azure of the second morn Melted to rose and silver, landward birds Flew crying round the ships, and like a dream The distant mountains grew upon the sight ; And ere the sun was hid, they heard the surge Unfolding slowly down the level shore. And watched the glittering fish glance in and out Through the bright dingles deep beneath the keel ; And anchored in the beauteous calm, and saw, THB DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 23 (Like Dido, when the softness of the scene Went to her soul and bred an empire there,) The mountains full five leagues across the bay Double their splendour in the glassy deep. But over all the solitary plain Dead silence hung. The Carthage that had fought For fair dominion of the glorious sea Lay buried deep beneath the buried wrecks Of Carthage Roman-reared ; and those few stones That yet remained had hid their trampled heads Low in the smothered grass and sifted sand. And as, where once some lovely garden bloomed, A meaner life of noisome weed upsteals. More desolate than utter barrenness. So on the two-fold grave of that proud realm Had grown a scanty village ; and a port. As 'twere in scorn of her whose bosom nursed The fleets of nations, fed a squalid few. To whom the name of Carthage — her that shook The world with terror — was a sound unknown. The good king gazed and marvelled ; for no sign Of human life was on that lonely shore ; 24 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. No thin blue smoke slept o'er the little town Or curled in darker wreaths against the sky, And the few barks which lay within the port Dozed listlessly upon the stagnant brine. Therefore he bade Florent, who ruled the fleet, Take boat with some few trusty men, and prove If treachery might not lurk beneath that hush. For once a cry of terror — like the cry Of some wild creature, that has writhed and bled All night upon the snare, and suddenly, Her eyes dilate with anguish, hears afar The crackling twigs, and sees the fowler's shape Burst through the bush, and tears her swollen wound In one last frantic struggle to be free — Once, even such a cry startled the ears That listened from the ships, then all was still. But ere an hour had passed, Florent returned, And met the king with cheerful eyes, and said : — " My lord, an easy triumph will be ours. If that no time be lost. We found the ships And houses hollow-empty, but in some The ashes yet were warm upon the hearth, THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 25 And cats basked tamely at the open doors. One human face alone we saw, and she A wretched woman, old and sick and blind. Who crouched within a filthy hut, and clutched With skinny hands her hoary locks, and shrieked In terror when we entered. Doubtless, Sire, The dwellers on the coast have taken flight. At sight of us, to Tunis. Ere day break The city will be armed ; but if we land This very night, and scour across the plain Three cool and starlit leagues, and scale the walls Ere they be manned, the startled citizens Will crouch like conies when a polecat storms The crowded warren with his needle-tooth. And Tunis will be ours without a blow ! " But the king answered : — " Truly, good Florent, Thou speakest like a soldier, and thy words Are wisdom of this world ; but thou forget'st Our sacred bent ; we are not here to force Beneath an earthly yoke an earthly foe, But in a willing bond wed East to West, The gende tie of Christian fellowship. 2 6 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. How can we hope our brother will join hands With Christ's fair Church, if she put on the mask Of bloody hatred and unfaithful war ? To-morrow in God's name I mean to send A messenger of peace, to call to mind That holy purpose, and acquaint the king Why we are here. If he refuse to keep His Christian vow, there will be time enough Alas ! to cast away the olive-branch And draw the hateful sword. But furthermore. We may not venture any enterprise Till Sicily be here, on whose accord Our strength depends. Too much of bitterness Was slowly borne in Egypt through the speed Of self-sufificient rashness. This attempt Let caution manage and firm prudence curb.'' So rare occasion slipped ; and all that night The restive soldiers tossed upon the wave, Baulked into idleness ; but when the face Of Alorn peered here and there between the folds Of sea-mist rolling off the sluggard shore. It glanced on flashing arms, and steeds that seemed THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 27 Giants to draw the chariot of the sun ; And as each curtain lifted, and rolled up, A snowy cloud dissolving to clear blue, It showed the coast thick-strewn with Saracens, Gay with rich colours, like a garden sown And blooming in a night. And when the king Could not restrain his eager lords, he gave The word to land, and fast from every ship Fell boats o'ercharged with knights and blazoned arms Almost to sinking, till the sea itself Was hidden, and the fronting hosts appeared Two sheets of summer blossom which a stream Of sparkling foam divides. But when the Moors Beheld the banners of the host of France Nodding towards the shore, a sudden fright, Like that which scares a file of staring sheep. Ran shuddering through them, and they turned and fled ; And ere the shining pebbles, streaming back With each receding billow, hailed against The grazing gunwale of the foremost boat. They seemed a swarm of flies across the plain. So the wide shore was won without a blow ; THK DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. But all the host was drawn up battle-wise, In jealous order, each battalion crowned With its own gay-wrought ensign, waving high Above the glittering lances, as a pink Waves high above its bristling close array Of steel-blue spears. And when the shifting troops Were firmly marshalled, the king's almoner, Pierre de Conde, stood before the host, And clarion-clear his silver-tempered voice Rang through the bright blue morning : — " In the name Of our Lord Jesus Christ, and in the name Of Louis, King of France, His Serjeant, I take possession of this land and realm." And there they pitched their tents, and girt their camp With fosse and mound, and manned the ancient tower That stood upon the wave-worn promontory, A steadfast sentinel of land and sea ; And with the next dawn half-a-thousand men Planted the lily-broidered flag of France High o'er the battered castle ; and they housed THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 29 Their sick and women in the vacant homes That stared on vacant pathways ; but the men Abode beneath their tents, and all day long Whetted their keen arms till the wasted edge Must be fresh-whetted, and explored the plain, And chafed like beasts, and thirsted after blood. Then to the king, still fondling in his breast One darling hope, (for early yestermorn A peaceful embassy had left the camp. And still he trusted, though delay blew cold,) Came dark-browed legates from the Moorish prince ; Who, when the king had bid them to his tent, Made humble-proud obei'ssance, and said : — " To Louis, King of France, and all his pack Of Christian hounds, Tunissa's faithful king Sends uttermost defiance ; and will meet The Paynim with a hundred thousand men To-morrow on the battlefield, to claim There at his hands the baptism of his blood. Moreover he hath seized since yestermorn All Christian infidels within his realm, 30 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. And tetliered them with chains, so to abide Till every foreign dog hath quit this shore ; And if one hair of these his messengers Be wounded, or the Christian king advance One step towards his capital, they die." Whereat a sudden blast of manly wrath Shook the king's firmly-balanced heart, and fired To boiling all the royal blood of France ; But fleshly passion could not long prevail In one whose pulse was governed by the flow Of constant deep communion with his God ; For, like a silver sunshaft piercing through A purple pall of storm-cloud, came the thought Of Him Who turned the torture-notes of death To everlasting music, when He prayed Faint on the cross for those that nailed Him there ; And, lighted by that thought, the Christ-like king Forbore awhile to speak, and so returned A soft reply, and sent the Saracens Wondering back. But such rare gentleness THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 3 1 Seemed craven to their heathen sense, and swelled Their puny hearts with pride ; and day and night They prowled like wolves around the Christian camp, With wolfish greed for easy straggling prey. With wolfish panic at the bugle call ; For when, made bold by darkness, they had rained A shower of arrows on the sleeping tents, And stung some half-armed warrior as he lay, Who rose and blew a blast of loud alarm Waking the clank of steel through all the host, They waited only till the dancing shields Glanced in the moonlight, dipping down the trench, Then wheeled their steeds, and shocked the whispering night With worse than brutal bowlings, and struck spur, Scouring like jackals when the lion nears. And once three hundred Moslems on their knees Crawled through the lines, beseeching to be crossed With holy water, while a hundred more Crept in their trail ; and when the guileless king Was serpent-charmed, and would have wrought their will, Four hundred stings of poisoned steel flashed forth, Four hundred foul mouths hissed out deadly hate, Four hundred base forms writhed from off the earth 32 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. And darted forward ; but his nearest knights RalHed around their king, and held their ground, And cried for succour ; and ere long, the snakes. Environed from without by those who watched Expectant of some vile attempt, were hacked To pieces ; but the few that still could crawl Lay in their fellow-reptiles' thickening blood, Pleading for mercy at the hands of those ^V'honl they would fain have tortured with slow death And the proud knights, disdaining such a foe, Beat them with flat swords whining from the camp. Then stung to rage, and chafing at the curb. The lords of France besought the gentle king To check their speed no longer for a friend AVho, lagging thus, would prove their dearest foe ; And when, each morning, grown by custom bold, The Moorish hordes were seen upon the plain Taunting to battle, scarcely could the king. Recalling all the evils that ensued In Egyi)t from rash onset, and their strength In Charles, and his sure coming, rein his host. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 33 By this the crescent moon, which quaked and ran In silver links along the rippling sea, That night before the fatal fleet set sail, Had reigned her golden prime, and worn away, And sunk, a phantom, underneath the plain; And now a new-born crescent streaked the waves With one thin line of broken light, and peered Betwixt the mottled leaves and purpling grapes That slumbered on the silent slopes of France ; And all that while from town and desert tent Pressed help to Tunis, and the din of arms Was heard along the rich reposeful shore Of Nilus, and the fierce Bibars himself Sent word of speedy succour ; so the foe Waxed proud with numbers and unchallenged strength. But all that weary while, by night and day. The lily-bannered host lay under arms. Harried by worse than human enemies ; For dry and scorching as the sand below Glared pitiless the beating sky above; The choking air between was seen to reel ; And naught remained to feed their shrivelled throats 34 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Save salted meats, which stung the cracking lips And maddened the parched tongue ; yet not a drop Could all their prayers wring from the staring heavens, And, ever tempting them, the great salt sea Laughed at their thirst. Moreover, torrid blasts Licked their sun-blistered cheeks with tongues of flame, And cunnmg in their hate the Saracens Mounted the panting hills with mighty flails. And raised great storms of sand, which, northward blown Towards the tortured, whirled in burning showers On to the camp, filled all their tents with dust, Entered their eyes and ears like stinging flies, Found every crevice in their mail, crept deep Into unhealing wounds, and crammed with death The throats of those that cried. But still the King, Misjudging by his own firm faithfulness. Which never borrowed weak strength of an oath, Nor ever brake his Christian Yea or Nay Ev'n to the basest, rested on a prince More false than quicksand, and a murderer's word Brittle as hollow ice. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 35 Last, the same sun Which, smiling o'er a thousand azure miles Of winking wavelets, lit the crystal belt, That girt the shores of France, with rainbow-spray, And o'er her rustling cornfields shed the glow Of golden peace, and tanned the reaper's cheek As ruddy as his sheaf, and blessed the land With ripeness and rich health, — the selfsame sun, Commingling foully with the stale low air Which lay pest-laden on that stagnant strand, Gave life and force to many an unseen germ ; Which, being breathed, grew to a raging fire Within the breast, devoured the wholesome flesh, Seethed in the entrails, palsied the firm heart, Rotted the belly, and, in fewer hours Than blossoms fade in, left the soundest frame A putrid horror. Then full many a cheek, Which proudly wore the seams of grisly wounds And glowed for scorn of danger, paled and sank, Touched by the carrion finger of the Plague; Full many an eye, that foremost in the charge Seemed mad for love of death, grew dull and glazed And shrank within its socket at the glance 36 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Of green-eyed Pestilence ; full many a front, Which some sweet lady, kneeling far away For her dear lord, had kissed a moon ago, And thought between her tears, " Was ever brow So noble ? " — now was blotched with loathsome boils And knit with agony. The camp, which shone So snowy-cool to view, ere long became A charnel-ground of whited sepulchres, Each tent a tomb, 'midst which the stricken men, Unshamed by anguish, reeled in maniac rage. Stark naked, rolled upon the burning sand To ease by smart the itch of fiery blains, Or staggered to the sea, and shrieking sank Against the breaking wave, and let the surge Wash them to death ; some fell upon their swords ; Some sought the ships, and writhed within the hold, Hearing the wavelet lap the baking board, Till, faint with pain and smothered by the smell Of melting pitch that oozed between the planks, They clambered on to deck, either to swoon Beneath the downright sun, or crawl aside, And staring down upon the throbbing blue Drop by the board and sink without a cry. THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 37 Then, guided by the kind but artless hand Of that dark age, the rudely-fashioned knife Did cruel service ; for the cheeks of those, Whose strength of core withstood triumphing Death, Became as rotten parchment, and their jaws Blackened and festered and decayed away ; Till, fearful for the ear and so the brain. The anxious steel carved out the putrid parts With ghastly patience, leaving the poor face. That once was proud, a fixed and hideous yawn. Never to speak, never to smile again. And still the King said, Wait ! albeit himself Was nigh to sicken ; and by this his knights. Though no constraining voice had held them back. Could scarce have fought ; for, lean and pale and faint. His strongest, who had borne their galling arms Through all those scorching days and stifling nights. His bravest, who had robbed their own parched lips Of those few precious drops that were their due. To cool some dying plague-corrupted brow. His noblest and his courtliest and his best, Moved like their ghosts. One held the twitching hand 38 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Of some sick knight, whose fixed and glazing stare Knew not the iron face made soft with mist Of manly pity ; one bent down a head Bared to the deathful sun, to catch perchance Some gasping syllable of love for those At home in France, half lost amid the buzz Of flies within his ears; but ere the stars Put forth their quiet mockery, he himself Lay in delirium, muttering o'er the words That ran and raged like fire along his brain, Mixed with a roar of fllies. Then every night Was heard the dismal requiem, and the surge Low-moaning in the moonlight seemed the wail Of love left desolate beyond the deep ; But night by night the awful harmony Grew thinner, and the slimy beach at ebb Flickered with fewer torches, and the air Was laden with less incense, till at last No solemn mass obscured the naked clank Of pick and spade, but muffled soldiers bore Loads to the common grave, and swung them in Without a prayer, in wild haste ; for the dead Outnumbered them that buried. thf: death of saint louis. 39 So they toiled, The dying 'midst the dead ; and staggering oft From hunger, heat, and spasms of fierce disease, Purged the foul camp so long as strength remained, And hid their ghastly burdens 'neath the earth ; Till, all worn out with watching 'mid the sights They saw, the sounds they heard, the air they breathed, They ceased their sickening labours, and sank down In sheer despair. The ditch that girt the camp Became a nameless horror ; o'er it hung An ochre pall of pestilential gas, So horrible that not the boldest knight Dared to approach its margin, but the corpse Rotted where first it fell ; whence soon that pall Spread over all the camp ; a fungus, like To putrid flesh, grew on the very tents ; And such a stench arose, that wandering birds Fell senseless flying over it. Each tide Receding left more bodies on the shore, Swollen with brine and mangled by the teeth Of loathsome fish ; and thicker every day Gathered the swarms of filthy-feeding flies On that which vultures shrank from. 40 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. But one eve, When the brave King lay sick within his tent, His sons attending, he that should succeed. And he that came most near his father's heart, Tristan, the son of sorrow, Egypt-born, A sudden shout shook all the stagnant air That stank throughout the camp, and whilst it died There came a footfall, lighter than had been For many a weary week, towards the tent ; And ere the King, whose watchful heart was quick To catch an answer to unceasing prayer. Could raise his head, the curtain of the tent Was parted, and Florent, who ruled the fleet, Stood over him with eager face : — " My liege, Be cheerful ; there is hope ; the sentinel That watches on the castle-tower hath seen A sail upon the distance, winging straight Towards the shore ; he lands while yet I speak, Olivier de Termes, the harbinger Of many a goodly ship and gallant crew Now hither bound from Sicily, whose king. Though he come late indeed, could scarce have come More longed-for." THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS, 4I Then the king, with far-off eyes And wasted hands tight-clasped : — " Blessed be God For all. his tender mercies. — Go, Florent, And tell my patient warriors, that the King Would share their joy, as they have shared his woe, And greet them once again before he die. Go, bid them range themselves about my tent, That I may see them all and say farewell." " Nay, lord," began the other ; but the King, Raising a hand whose trembling more availed Than sternest bidding, checked his faltering tongue : — " Nay, good Florent ; my hour is almost here; As thou wert alway loyal to my love. Do me this latest service." So Florent Turned heart-sick from the king, and wrought his will With aching, faithfulness ; and when the knights Were ranged before the tent, the stricken saint Leant forward, with wide eyes that seemed to count Each hair of them and search their inmost souls, Till every fault seemed precious, and the ill More hard to part from than the leal and true. 42 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. So some fond mother, when her wilful boys Break from their village home to brave the world, Grieves most o'er him that most hath slighted her; So Christ himself, the very heart of love, While faithful women lingered by the cross, Spake comfort rather to the dying thief But when the death-light of those yearning eyes Fell on him, not the purest soldier there Could meet their truth, but hung the head, and some Dared not to raise it more. Then faint yet firm. The voice, that ne'er had breathed a truant word Unfit for angel ears, stirred the sad air : — " Brothers in Christ ! Not all our sins have power, How deep soe'er they be, to quench the hope Of mercy at the last ; then be ye strong. Seeing that Heaven hath heard our feeble prayers, And sent its angel at our sorest need. Oh, were it but for thankfulness, be strong ! And fear not Christ will utterly forsake His cause for which ye wrestle, nor His sons Whom he hath bought with suffering more intense Than all earth's misery Sirs, I cannot speak THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 43 That which I would. The guiding hand of Death Beckons me gently, from beyond this gloom Of thought and fear and strivings after speech, To perfect light and silence." And no tongue Said " Nay, lord ; " for the look that held their speech Was as the look upon the face of one Who, after years of parted toil and pain. Sees yet afar the love for whom he toiled Waving him welcome ; but all bowed the head In prayerful silence, then with lingering gaze Moved slowly past, like mourners from a grave, Who feel the one they leave less pitiable Than they who leave him ; yet for him they weep. And not from selfish sorrow. But the King Lay long with waxen eyelids closely drawn, And parted lips, through which the failing breath Came not as strongly as the faintest sigh Of summer twilight, when the quaking-grass Scarce trembles, and the aspen-leaves are dumb. And while he lay as dead, his darling son. The child of sorrow, who till now had hushed 44 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. His own complaint for love of one more dear, Was sorely stricken. So the earliest sounds That smote the saint-king's ears, when yet again He crept from out the shadow of the grave And staggered on its brink, were muttering tones And broken ravings of that winsome voice. Whose every accent to a father's love Had hitherto been music. Then those few That watched beside the King, perceiving Death Had seized already on the tenderer prey. Gave word, ere yet the father's helpless lips Could frame remonstrance, and the son was borne Senseless away from those entreating eyes, Whose fondness shone ev'n through the mist of death, Following, as when the new-made slave, that stands Bound in the mart, follows with struggling eyes His child, sold first, and borne he knows not where. But Love, Death's foe and conqueror, deeply shook The smothered embers, till the flame of life Glowed through the ashen lips, and once again The hectic flashed across the hollow cheek ; THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 45 And the strong fervour pulsing from the heart Quickened the palsied tongue to steady speech ; — " My son, my son ! — Where have they borne my son ? " '• Sire, to the ships, in hope the ocean-air, Less close than that which reeks within the camp. May heal him ; and we would that our dear lord Would seek him there." Then for a little space A tremor stirred the father's lips, and tears Were blended with the death-mist ; not for long ; For with firm voice but weaker : — "Well for him; And ye did well ; but I must live and die With these whom I have brought to suffer thus." So death awhile was baffled, and the saint — In whom self-love had perished, other-love Sprung in its stead, as fairest flowers arise From ashes of foul weeds — ceased not to toil, Howe'er his brain might throb, while any shift Could ease the tortured army ; neither ceased To offer up his will a sacrifice Each hour to Heaven ; yet ever and anon. More often through the listening hush of night, 46 THK DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Sent word for him who lay within the ship, Now three days still. Long shrank the boldest lips From blurting forth a truth grown half a He By hiding ; till one night the messenger, Charged with fair falsehood, 'neath the searching light Of eyes that seemed a part of God's own eyes, Quailed ; and a sudden lightning seemed to scorch All cunning, as a web is shrivelled up By touch of flame ; and all the tent was dumb. Then slowly, with a stifled voice that came As from the inmost caverns of his heart, Spake the sick King : — "Philip, my son, lay thou Thy hand in mine ; nay, tremble not ; the worst Is known, the best is in the hands of God ; I vainly wished to pass before my son ; God's will be done ; he waits for me in Heaven." And Philip said " He waits." Then all the love, That still had held the holy king to life. Was melted, and the prince felt heavy tears Burst on his hand, whose smart in after time THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 47 Was more remembered than re-opening wounds. Again the life-glow sank and left the cheek Ashy and hollow, and across the eyes Was woven once again the film of death. One held the cross before him, the worn hands Outstretched towards it, and the pallid lips Moving in prayer. Meantime without the tent There reigned a silence sadder than all sounds Of mourning, such a hush as scarcely breathes Around the death-bed while the rattle fails In the dear throat and yet the brow is warm. For numb with terror of the blow, that hung Over themselves and France and Christendom, His warriors scarcely felt the mortal bite Of pestilence, but merged their own full woes In deeper sorrow ; those half-angry prayers. That day and night had still besieged Heaven, Were spent like smoke, and in their hearts remained Only a smothered fire of fierce despair. Sleepless they hovered round the tent where lay Their withering hope, and clutched with nervous grasp Each knight that left it, ere his hand had loosed THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. The curtain ; but at sight of his sad eyes Fell back with drooping head and tottering knees To wait for yet another ; till at last Suspense itself grew precious, and none dared With eager beck or question any more To tempt the fateful silence. So the hours Crawled onward, clogged with woe and weariness. But- now the whisper of the wings of Death Was heard within the tent ; a desperate shock Braced all the fainting powers, and that strange light Which seems not of this world, like snow-white heat Or marble lit with life, was seen to breathe Through all the wasted features of the King. And while the watchers bent, with prisoned breath And hearts whose laboured throbbing seemed a sin, A hand, through which the night-lamp's tempered glow Was almost seen, shook beckoning through the gloom To Philip. Swiftly, softly knelt the son Beside the couch, and felt the father's touch Tremble along his brow, compelling forth The swelling tears that long had ached within ; Then, while his head was deeply bowed, and all THE DEAl'H OF SAINT LOUIS. 49 Were kneeling, in a hush so full of grief, Of fear, of love, of passionate thought, it seemed A lifetime, once again the bloodless lips AVere kindled into speech, which, fainter far Than midnight's secret, rang within his ears, Wrought to a thousand-fold in that last hour. Louder than thunder. " My belovfed son, A little space, and all this troubled life Will be to me no more ; the grosser clouds. That wrap about the kingdoms of the world. Are parting, and beyond I see a vast Of pure tranquillity, where love is light. The everlasting countenance of God. There shall we meet, when all our anguish here Will be remembered only as the joy Of winning ; but as yet it cannot be ; For ere thou come to that eternal peace Much must thou do and suffer. Thou, my son, Hast not the liberty of lowlier men To rest awhile in grief, since the same stroke. That ends my being, forges thee a crown Which thou must needs endure. I leave thee king D 50 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Of a great people ; loyal in their depths, But tossed upon the face with many a flaw; Strong with the strength and peril of a storm ; Swift to be thrown, yet swifter to rebound ; Most hard to bridle, but when managed well Able for any enterprise ; bedecked With every outward charm and subtle grace, Nor wanting that fine polish which can stand On sterling metal only ; yet most prone, From very nimbleness of sense and thouglit. To dire excess. To such a government Art thou, my son, now called by France and God, — A post most sacred and beset with toil, Which I would render easier, ere I die. And yet more full of loving-anxious care Than I, the faultful king, have ever given. By these last counsels. Before all, my son, This, without which no effort of thine own, How pure, how true soe'er, availeth aught ; — Confirm and guard from ill throughout thy realm The holy tie that binds this world to Heaven In mystic union : cherish and protect Its blessed ministers, that day by day THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 5 1 Their moving prayers may intercede for thee Before the throne of Wisdom. Above all, Fear to offend the majesty of God, In Whose eternal presence earthly kings Are less than beggars, Whose deep-searching eye Sees all our worth as sin, sees fear in faith. Self-love in sacrifice, desire and hate In courage, and behind our noblest deeds The arch-fiend Pride. Act ever as if Christ Stood over thee ; so will thine eyes be turned Not on the good thou dost, not on thyself. The instrument — no more — but on thy King Who wrought both it and thee. And, seeing that He Hath taught us, kinsmen though we be of those That slew Him, how we yet may succour Him, Give richly to the needy, feed the poor And serve them at thy table ; but beware Lest, stooping thus, as once thy Master stooped To wash His servants' feet, thy lightened heart Be lifted up with saintly vanity ; For there be some, my son, in every age. Who, toiling for the weal of Publicans, Are yet the Pharisee. 52 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. When thou art crowned, Strive to be worthy in thy hghtest act Of that mysterious unction which hath bahned The head of many a noble ancestor ; Be just in all, nor suffer fear or hope To turn thee from the perfect path of truth. If e'er the widow or the fatherless Contend before thee with a mighty foe, Be loftier than brute Nature, and incline Towards the weaker, till the right appear. If e'er a cause be brought to thee, wherein Thou hast a heart, lean thou, howe'er it strain Thy wilful self, towards the opposing side, Lest that thy counsellors should shrink to speak Against thy liking, and a sweet-tongued lie Should breed a court of flatterers. Beware Most watchfully of aught that might inflame The ready fuel of thy warriors' hearts 'Gainst any Christian people ; for the fire Of war once kindled, who can mete its bounds? And ye are brothers all. But if a day, Which Heaven keep far, should see thy chivalry ^Marshalled of dire necessity to match THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. S3 Some neighbour nation, be thy chiefest care The innocent poor, in whom the blast of war Wakens but terror, seeing that victory Is bought with their scant bread and glory's sun Shines not on them. Quench thou the earliest sparks ■Of civil strife, and to that end maintain Well-chosen provosts, whom, being wise and just. Thou may'st securely furnish with full power ; But spare not to chastise with iron arm — For falsehood in high places stinketh most — The man that walled around with kingly strength Maketh the sacred fortress of the law A bandit's hold. Beware of pomp, whose cost Is ever wrung from out the patient poor; But rather spend the surplus, that abides When royal state is fed, on them whose toil Sustaineth thee. Correct with careful fear Whate'er is faulty in thy kingdom's laws. But seek not to molest the ancient rights Bequeathed by thy fathers ; for the hearts Of all thy people, using them, are filled With pious love and worship, as the soul Of one, that stands and listens in the dusk S4 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Of some great minster, feels the subtle scent Of bygone years breathe from the wood and stone, And loveth it and worships ; so they feel Towards their olden charters, and their hearts Are then most loyal, and thyself most strong, And all thy foes most helpless. These precepts Write in thy heart, and may the King of Kings Fulfil thee with His mercy, love, and truth ! And now, my son, the icy hand of Death Lies heavy on my bosom, and the voice That summons to the judgment-hall of God Rings through the folding darkness. Fare thee well ! Leave me alone, save for these holy men Whose prayers shall be my escort from this world. Their chanting in my ears until I hear The angels chiming on the further shore ; Alone with God. Beloved, we shall meet — Thy lips one moment on my brow — sweet son. Think, when thy heart is boisterous with the wine New-pressed from out the swelling fruit of life, When lusty health, or sport, or lofty art, Or poet's praise, or woman's yielding e5'es THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 55 Seem to thee present Heaven, think of this kiss ; And all that makes the riddle of Man's life, Its ignorance and its cunning, its vast scope, Its quivering subtleties, its loves and hates. Its exquisite variety, its wild maze Of woe and joy, of wealth and poverty, Its passions, manners, follies, hopes, and fears. All that bewilders and o'erwhelms thee now, Shall seem a simple nothing. — Fare thee well ! — Beloved, succour me with ceaseless prayers And solemn masses, for the wrath of God Is even as His mercy, infinite. With all a father's tenderness I lay My dying blessing on thee, and beseech My Lord and thine to guard thee of His grace From evil, and from aught that may offend His holy will, and afterward to join Father to son where we shall see His face. And love and praise Him everlastingly ! " He ceased ; and, while the silence shook with sobs. Rose Philip from his knees, and clasping yet The strengthless hand, and reading on the brow 56 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Death's awful signature, felt all the past Swell in his heart and overflow his eyes, And all the future looming through the dark. "My king ! — my father !" — but the dewy front Knew not love's impress, and the bloodless lips "Were murmuring faint, " Alone — alone — with God." Then, Uke a flood that bursting from a dyke, I.ong pent in vain, sweeps headlong, fury-blind, O'er flower and field and forest, and at last. Its passion spent, leaves all the ruined plain A waste of sullen water, even so Came rushing desolation o'er the soul Of Philip. Long he stood, the helpless hand Locked in his grasp, and stared upon the face That never more would own him ; till the touch Of those that waited with the oil of death Convulsed him, and with one despairing cry He turned, and heard the curtain of the tent Rustle behind him, and "Alone with God " Blurred by the moaning of the deep, and felt A myriad cold, small, narrow eyes look down From empty vasts of darkness. THE DEATH OF SATNT LOUIS. 57 But the King Lay like a saint within his marble shrine, Peaceful and white and still, his almoners Chanting in tremulous harmony the prayers. Of Holy Church ; and ever and anon Those thin lips quivered, answering them, and called. But with an inward voice that scarce might drown A whisper, like a far-off cry for help. On good Saint Denis, for their hapless sakes Who soon would stand unguided. Then the priests, Marking the shadow of the flight of Death Steal o'er the heaven-lit face, as shadows cast By satin-shining clouds glide silently Athwart a gleaming meadow, raised the king, More gently than a mother her sick child, And laid him, following out his last command. Low on a bed of ashes ; softly pressed The holy wafer 'twixt his failing lips, And poured the sacred oil. Without, the sun Toiled sweating up the morning steep ; but when It blazed triumphant on the height of noon. Peaceful, as when a tender-nurtured babe Wakes from a dreamless sleep, the dying King S8 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Unveiled his eyes, and raising them to Heaven, Aflame with love and spiritual radiance, Cried with the fulness of an angel's voice, — " Into Thy house, O Lord ! —To worship Thee For ever in Thy holy tabernacle ! " — Then sank and slept, and, in the self-same hour Wherein our Saviour tasted of the gall And hung for once the head, he passed away. That very hour, ere yet the weary flood Was stagnant in the worn-out heart, ere yet The dew of death was dry upon the brow, While moans of agony throughout the camp Made horrid discord with loud-tongued despair And curses on the prince, whose laggard craft Had wrought their ruin, along the desert shore Was heard the sound of martial minstrelsy. And like a mocking laugh the bugle's crow Shocked through the tent of Death. But not a man Stirred, not a word of welcome left their lips. Each hand was clenched, each brow was knit, each foot Stamped where it stood ; and when false Sicily Rode stumbling over death from tent to tent, THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. 59 There fell an utter silence, and the camp Was seen as when the angel of the Lord Breathed o'er the Syrian host. The unburied dead Stared helplessly, the dying held their wail, And they that lived stood fast with folded arms Like sentinels of stone. With shuddering heart, Not daring question, the shame-stricken prince Urged on his frighted charger, whose fine sense Quaked at the poisonous reek, until he saw The lily-banner of the royal tent Droop in the dull air ; then he sprang to earth And loosed the rein ; whereat the maddened steed. With glowing nostril and dilated eye. Fled neighing from the horror. But the prince, ,, Crossing his craven bosom, drew aside The curtain, and, still grasping it, beheld His victim, that one king whom neither pain Nor fear nor love could move to break his troth, That saint, whose faith in Christ was all too rich For petty victory of pride and hate. Whose charity knew neither East nor West, But only one vast brotherhood to be, 60 THE DEATH OF SAINT LOUIS. Low on a bed of ashes. Long he stood, Heart-frozen, staring speechless at the dead. Until the silver cross upon the breast Seemed heaving, and the sweet forgiving smile. Engraven by the master-hand of Death, Seemed not the record of a blameless life But living welcome ; then with one great sob He fell upon the earth, and bathed with tears. Such tears as Judas wept, those quiet feet That ne'er had trod unhallowed ground, nor shunned The slippery steep of duty ; kissed his robe, And called him lord and brother : and so lay Lost in remorse, nor heeded those that stood Silent, with bowed heads, round about the tent, Nor marked the swinging censer, nor the priests Moaning their slow-drawn requiem, nor descried The fierce light growing in the eyes of one That watched with head unbowed and bitten lip. But railed upon his tarrying, cursed aloud The ears that had not drunk the dying charge Of earth's best king, and smote upon his breast With such a hollow clang as well bespake The fashion of his sorrow. THE DEA'l'H OF SAINT LOUIS. 6 1 Then, as when A forked flash tears a jaggfed path through heavens Thick-stuffed with livid cloud the loosened storm, That long has muttered distant threats, leaps forth. Shattering all the sultry air, so leapt Quick passion from the stifled heart of him That stood unbowed, the dark Count of Champagne. " It well beseemeth thee, remorseful prince. To rail upon thyself; thou hast good cause ; For thou hast slowly slain the noblest heart That ever wore the cross ; 'twas bravely done ; And 'tis most brave to wallow weeping there About his feet. Arise ! let fall thy tears On those meek marble lips — they will not chide, That never uttered e'en thy name in wrath ; Kiss that victorious brow — it will not heed The venom. Out upon thy tears, false prince ! Take them where there is yet a dying wretch To curse thee ; offer them for balm ; go, slake His raging throat with gushing penitence ; Or else seek out — thou need'st not wander far — Some foul untended corpse, and wash it clean 62 THE DEATH OF SAINT I.OUIS. With thy pure tears ; maybe the harlot Plague, Now well-nigh weary of our failing strength, ^^'iii kiss thee too ! " He ceased, and once again, As when the storm has crashed its full and fled Deep-muttering far away a clearer hush Succeeds, ere yet the cowering birds dare lift A timorous note to welcome the keen sun Bright-glancing through the dripping leaves, ev n so Fell silence through the tent, the murmuring tones Of those that echoed wrath grew slowly faint, And only the low requiem still wailed on, Like autumn twilight sighing to her rest Among the withered reeds. Then rose the prince. Stood fixed awhile, with shifting eyes downcast. Tongue-tied as in a nightmare, and so shrank Crippled with shame and terror from the tent. But far across the leagues of rosy waves. The same dear sun, that saw the death of Christ And hid its crimson face, shed one deep blush O'er orphaned France, and smote through many a pane, THE DEATH OF SAINT "LOUIS. 63 Dyed with His blood, on many a head that bowed Low in the vast cathedrals for their king ; Then sank beneath the west, whose shadow passed O'er meadow, wood and wave, to where he lay, With all the mystery of a human life Frozen for ever into one still smile. THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Dead silence o'er the pass, from Alp to Alp. The silence of a midnight, whose thin breath Slept silvered on the torrent dumb with frost. The silence of eternal towers of ice. The silence of eternal glades of snow, The silence of the ghostly mountain-tops, And crowning these the silence of the stars. A death-white wilderness, whereon a moon Of gleaming marble from an ice-green sky Gazed as upon her mirror. Like a shroud The glistening snow-slope swept in shaded folds Down from the peak, and spread its wrinkled skirts Far o'er the solid lake, whose polished face, Muffled to scarce a tarn by curving drifts, Lay twinkling with a million miles of depth. Heaving and vast the moonlit glaciers stared. Streaked with huge wrecks and riven to the base, 68 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. As if, when grappling storms were at their full In some wild Arctic channel, while the bergs Boomed, and the billows swilled their heads with foam, A sudden hush had fallen, and the breath Of the great God had smitten all to ice. Dead silence ; and a loneliness so vast, So awful in its self-sufficient calm, The very shadows of the starward spires, Scarce creeping, flake by flake, along the snow, Seemed fearful of their presence, stealing past Like sinners that have entered unawares The Holiest of Holies ; for it seemed Death's inmost temple, whose high psalmody Is silence, and whose worship breathlessness. Death's solemn temple, whose huge buttresses Where planted and its deep foundations laid In molten crystal, when this world was yet One furnace ; whose gigantic aisles were hewn By earthquake ; whose stern columns were upreared By fire, and carven by the stormy hand Of everlasting winter ; whose wide floor THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 69 Was paved with ice and strewn with winnowed snow, Grain upon grain, for ages ; and its dome, Girdled with fretted pinnacles of pearl, Built without bound and gemmed with countless worlds. Death's chosen temple, waiting but for one Worthy of such a vast and spotless shrine. Dead silence ; yet the silence of a death That seemed the utmost life ; like to the calm Which sleeps upon the whirlpool's glassy breast, Or some great spirit motionless with thought ; That hush of heart which is the open grave • Of deepest agony. For yesternight The bosom of the mountains shook with storm. And all the mighty orchestra of heaven. From ravined crypt to trembling spire, crashed With God's own passion-music ; the big blasts Were hurled from height to height ; the scudding mists Writhed in their pain ; the rattling ice-flakes flew ; And limbs of mountain, bristling with black pines. Leapt thundering down and down, from ridge to ridge. To shatter and be shattered in the depths Of yelling forests and abysmal floods 70 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Dammed with their ruin. But or e'er the moon Had groped her blindfold way through shaggy clouds Hounding her westward, the great symphony Had told its heart of sorrow ; and all day Moaned in its sleep or woke in rarer bursts Of fitful anguish ; till with eventide The mighty instruments lay hushed below, The worn-out echo of its parting breath Had died upon the distance, and no sound. Not e'en the whisper of a feathery flake. Profaned the utter silence. Nor in vain Did Heaven proclaim her passion ; nor in vain Her loveliest star kept watch with veilless eyes, And all that awful sanctuary lay Breathless with expectation. For to-night The purest kingly heart that ever glowed With love to the dear God that lives in man. Must rest awhile amid the mountain-tops, Icy and still as they. And even now, Far in the phantom depths ; athwart the bridge That spanned the ice-choked torrent; through strait chasms THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 7 1 Steeped on one hand with moonlight, one with gloom ; Up winding terraces, whence sheer below Sank precipices whose dim base was lost In distance, and above rose flanks of rock Smoothed by a thousand snow-slips ; long and slow, With muffled tread and voices dumb with awe. Crept on the dark procession — the dead hope Of Christendom, the ashes of that flame Whose throbbing for two hundred years had fired All Europe to a hero, and now lay Quenched in her blood. Nearer, but scarcely heard, Moved the sad blot across the waste of white. The remnant of the chivalry of France, The wreck of that fair Eastward host which left, But six moons since, with proudly-tossing plumes. Their summer land, dazzling the village crowds With blaze of shield and bickering of lance. While greybeards left their world beside the hearth To wave the crutch, and beldams knelt to pray. And mothers held their babes toward the sight, And maidens blest them, and the very leaves Shook with God-speed — the wreck of that fair host ; THE BX7RIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Heads deeply bowed, and shoulders stooped in pain ; Soiled arms, that flashed no longer to the moon ; Eyes, that were wont to lighten for the fray. Sodden and bleared and bent upon the snow ; A prince sore sick, half-longing for the grave. Orphaned of father, brother, sister, wife. Of him whose death was widowhood to France, Of that one Christian king who ruled for Christ, And bearing now their bones at last to rest. Over the winter-world, beneath one pall Stiff-set with frost and glistering with rime. Onward and upward, till the mountain-stairs And over-reaching cornices of ice Lay far beneath them, looming through the wreaths Of moonlit vapour, and they stood amazed Within that lofty temple draped with snow, And spake no word, but falling on their knees Felt the eternal majesty of Death. Then Philip beckoned; and with trembling hands They laid their solemn burden on the snow. And all that night held fearful watch, with eyes THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 73 That dared not close, and lips that dared not speak ; While, ranged around, the lonely mountain-tops Stood sentinel, and overhead the stars Kept boundless vigil o'er the sacred heart. Dead silence ; save that once a smothered sound, Like echo of far thunder, from above Boomed, and grew downward, shocking with great leaps The feeling hush ; till, with one gathered crash, It left the shelving pass ; and then a pause, Long as a man might hold his breath ; and then, Scarce heard, the dreadful message of its doom Far down upon the glacier ; and again, But that each watcher heard his startled heart, Dead silence. So the awful night wore on. And crystal grew to crystal o'er the pall, And starker every fold that wrapt the urn, And sparkling white with frost the rigid men Seemed fragments of the ice whereby they crouched, And seen like mist their breathing rose to heaven. But care lay tossing on the troubled breast Of Philip, and his heart was swollen with pain, 74 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. And sore with its own restlessness, nor drew The nestUng silence in, but evermore Leapt hotter from itself, as one that flees Starts at the echo of his own wild steps ; For still the plague was smouldering in his veins. And in that realm of mind, where princely will Was wont to rule o'er serviceable thoughts. Disorder now ran riot ; and a crowd Of vague forebodings and dark memories Whirled hotly through the brain's still council-hall, Stifling each other in their eager throng. Once more he heard the moaning of the surge, Unutterably sad, swell forth, and sink. And swell again, along the desert shore. Once more he felt the panic of the plague Curdle his wholesome blood, till the night-air. That missed the sense for very purity. Seemed laden with the reek of pestilence. And the white peaks dim-glimmering 'mid the stars Seemed tents beset with corpses. Once again He knelt beside a father's dying bed. And felt the pressure of the parting hand. THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 75 So weak, so strong, until the frosty damp About his lips chilled like the damp of death. Then, as the crag down- thundered, heard again The roar of battle, yell and curse and groan. With clash of scimitar and snap of lance. And felt his good sword stagger in the bulk Of many a flying Saracen, or swung Its deadly lightnings right and left ; and knelt Victorious by that unimpassioned form. Printing a kiss upon the sealbd eyes. Then, as he stared upon the gulfs of ice, The wide crevasses ran like furrowed sea, The long moraines were seen to rise and fall Like lines of huddling wreck, and once again He reeled on the steep slippery deck, and clung, And heard the gurgling cry of drowning men. And saw the stout ships take their last slow plunge Beneath the boiling billows, and the flood Suck down, and whirl, and bubble where they sank. Last, when his labouring brain was near to burst. Saw that which many a sleepless night had saved His soul from madness, softening agony To tenderest tears ; saw his true-hearted wife, 76 THIC BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Robed in a texture like the green wall-moss Lit by a flash of April, gently stroke With grateful words her palfrey's glossy neck, Pausing to let him drink, while the swift stream Chafed pettishly against his weary feet ; Heard the false rattle of the slimy stones — The cry — and felt his heart give one great leap That choked him, as she fell, and with her fell The unborn hope of France. Then with a moan He turned to where her form, despoiled of love, Lay 'neath the frozen pall, and heart-wrung tears Fretted the senseless snow. But when that storm Of stifled pain had sobbed itself to rest, And life with all its dragging load of cares Seemed a dull dream, as when some passionate child Has cried himself to weakness, the sick prince Upraised his glistening eyes, and his purged soul Lost in the vast tranquillity of Heaven, Grew as it gazed, and touched the feet of God. Then every form of thought, which heretofore Had veiled for him that dreadful Majesty, THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 77 Fell earthward to its birthplace, and he stood Before his very Maker unafraid ; And saw no frown of judgment, but a brow Of passionless repose ; and heard no voice Pealing the doom of nations, but a stillness Beyond all utterance ; and felt the arms Of everlasting pity fold the world. And so he gazed and listened, till he heard The heart of all things beating with his own. And his great grief went forth in chastened prayer. " Father ! — forgive the passion of a woe That murmured at Thy bidding — it is well. Thou teachest every star its hour to set, Thou teachest every flake its hour to fall. Thou tellest every grave beneath the moon ; And they, who were the pledges of Thy love. Are in Thy faithful keeping — it is well. Pardon the sin of prayer that thwarts Thy will. The ignorance of the prayer that cries for good ; Shall God do wrong because His children weep, Or stifle the strong promptings of His love yo THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Because we know them not ? — Yet we believe, If love Divine admitteth more and less, Thou, as an earthly father his weak babes, Most lovest when we seek Thy heart in prayer. Saviour of men 1 — not for the far-off dead My spirit pleads ; the dead are past our reach ; For them a thousand requiems shall make moan Unceasingly — who knows with what avail? — But these, Thy weary tempest-driven sheep. These, the long-suffering soldiers of Thy Cross, Are still to help ; and I, their feeble stay, Totter beneath the burden, and would lean On Thy Almighty arm. — O King of kings. Whose throne is Heaven, Whose reign Eternity, Whose realm exceedeth unimagined space. By Whose right hand the world-sown Universe Was fashioned and directed, yet Who deign'st To make Thy home within the broken heart ; Thou Light of lights, by Whose eternal Sun Our brightest thoughts are but as shadows cast, Illume my soul with somewhat of that ray Which lit the life now nearer to Thyself By all my sorrow's distance ; that my yoke THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 79 May lie as light as his on stricken France, That men may feel his firmly gentle hand Still guiding them, though oft against their will. To their own good, and hear his temperate voice Warning them still to truth and righteousness. Father ! now most my Father ! — for we feel The sacred dead are almost one with Thee — Father ! forgive, hear me, and answer ! " He ceased ; — and, while he listened, the deep hush Grew ever deeper ; the vast loneliness More desolate ; the stars, that seemed erewhile To quiver as with some celestial life, Were glazed like dying eyes, and death seemed lord ; Death in the moon, death on the world of ice. Death 'neath the pall, and death about his heart, Till Heaven itself seemed lifeless, and a chill Smote to his very spirit, and his head Sank on his breast in uttermost despair. But now a whisper, like the voice of God, Quickened the silence ; and the western stars Paled, one by one, and slowly drowned themselves 8o THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. In that which seemed a dream of golden sea; AVhile round the topmost spires there played a tint Faint as a primrose wan in maidenhood, And all the East deepened to purple gloom. Then, as the West grew livid, every height Became a folded rose, and blushing swift From pink to crimson cast dark sapphire streaks Far o'er the snowfields, till the moon-light shades Faded abashed ; then the wide grave of night Was filled with colour, ocean's deepest blue. The lurid flush of thunder, and above Pale turquoise ; and the golden mountain-loins Were girt with scarves of rainbow ; and the sky Was ringed with rub}', amethyst, and pearl, Zone upon zone ; but when the dawn-flash flew Downward from height to height, as butterflies From bloom to bloom, the lightening peaks of snow Swam in a dove-hued softness, bathing all The round horizon-line, and overhead Melting to searchless azure. Last, there rayed Great beams of glory upward from the East, As if the dungeoned monarch of the morn Gilded, ere yet he burst, the bars of night ; THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Ol Which, ever widening, spread, a giant fan Of silver ribs o'erwebbed with opal gauze, E'en to the zenith, while each jaggfed ridge Was rimmed with molten gold. Then from behind, Rejoicing in the splendour he had wrought. Uprose the living sun ; and, as a dream Dissolveth in the waking of the bliss That gave it birth, so vanished those fair mists Before that dazzling flood of sudden sheen, Until the air itself was lost in light, Till every col flashed like a cataract Cloven by crags of crystal, every peak Was hewn from one great diamond, and the plain Heaped with its countless brilliants. Over all A calm of spotless blue ; so near, it seemed To kiss the snow ; so far, it seemed to faint If any eye would fathom its pure depth. Then all the woe which bound the young king's blood Was thawed by that full glory, and he felt The spirit of the morning flush his veins With vigour, and a stream of thankfulness Rushed from his swelling heart. 82 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. " Thanks be to God ! And praisfed be the Father of all life ! Who hideth not the radiance of His face E'en from His meanest creature, but doth shed His bounteous warmth alike on weed and flower, His bounteous love alike on wretch and king. Thine is the first grey glimmer that foretells The fresh dominion of ascending day, Ere yet the birds have thrust with dewy wing The beaded twigs aside, and shyly chirped The half-remembered music of their dreams : Thine the first frail anemone that lifts A starry head above the mouldering leaves, To tell the naked underwood of Spring ; Thine the first sunbeam on the latest snow ; Thine the first laughter of the new-born babe ; And Thine, dear God, the earliest ray of hope That gilds the night and winter of despair. Blest be the silent-growing power of Day, Blest be the slowly-widening dawn of Truth, Blest be the ever-conquering might of Good, And blest the surely-coming reign of Love. Let shine Thy light ! — we long to see, nor flinch THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 83 From naked fact ; if ill await, 'twill be, However hid, and hidden seems the worst ; But if not ill — as deeply, 'mid the storms Of doubt and dread and wreckage of our joys, We still have faith — then, the same fostering hand. That sowed the seed of hope in darksomeness. Will bring it to fair blossom and full fruit In open sunlight. — Shine upon the dead ! We dare, in the strong buoyancy of morn, To look that gross corruption in the face, Whose phantom was the terror of the night ; We listen in the darkness — and the hush Of the stilled heart, the hollow of the cheek, The sunken eyelid, and the marble chill Seem all the man ; we view it in broad light — And these, the worn-out vesture of the soul, Are empty, and the life is far away, Thou knowest where.— Shine upon darkened France ! Let Thy bright comfort, smiling through her tears, Weave the full rainbow of celestial hope. Proclaiming the rich promise of a day When, widely storming from a blood-red dawn, Her beams of thought shall lighten through the West, 84 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Break up the frost of hardened centuries, And melt the barren ice of selfish use To streams of fertile freedom. Shine on Man, Thine own benighted and bewildered child, Striving, with many a stumble, many a halt And wilful wandering, still towards Thy light ; That from his eyes may pass the blearing fog Of ignorant fore-judgment ; that the life, Bright-bounding through the channels of his heart,. May sweep it clear of avarice and lust. And crawling pride, and trembling tyranny, And all that loves the darkness which it makes ; That never may his limbs grow stiff in sloth, Never the sacred sword of manful deed Rust in its scabbard, but, whate'er attained, A somewhat nobler tempt him, till he reach Full liberty, and scale the heights of Heaven ! " Thus thankfulness, as oft from hungry hearts, Became a loftier prayer, and braced the soul Of the sore-proven prince still to endure ; And sweetly on his jaded senses came The trickling of the secret mountain-rill. THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Sj Swelling its way beneath the splintered ice. The tinkle of the falling icicle, The sun-awakened stir amid the flakes, And all the subtle music of the morn. As when the spring-song of a mated thrush Breaks on the ear of one, that all night long Hath watched beside the death-bed of his love; Gently he draws aside the casement-blind. And meets the grey untroubled eyes of Dawn ; Nor grudges the poor bird its happiness. But feels the scene withdrawing through his tears, Leaving within his heart an undertone Of hope amid the discords of despair, And raving anguish hallowed to deep calm. So tenderly the beauty of the morn Touched the sore heart of Philip, and his grief Softened to tranquil strength. By this, the sun Had quenched the watch-fires, which the live-long night Had gamboled with the moonbeams o'er the ice In sparkling rivalry, to hoary ash ; And lit the lines of many an anxious brow That hour by hour had stooped around the flames, 86 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Lightening darkly in the fickle glow, And now, scarce conscious of the crowned dawn, Still brooded o'er the embers. Then the prince Gave word, and caring little for their life, Yet holding by it, as a trusty watch Stands by the desperate post he knows must fall, They ate their bread in silence, and once more The sad procession whispered through the snow Its painful passage. Slow, with faltering haste. That feared itself yet dared not slacken speed, With struggling pantings strangled in the birth. Toiled on the broken army of the Cross ; In dread, at every step, to hear above The stealthy hiss of the long avalanche Sliding, a snowy snake, adown the slope ; In dread, lest echo of the faintest sound. Shivering along the frosty sunlit calm. Might wake the whirlwind's slumber, and arouse The monster couching on the burdened heights ; Who, leaping with a low growl from his lair. And roaring ever louder as he neared, Would bound, through following rocks and crashing woods, THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 87 A rushing storm-cloud of tempestuous snow, Charged with terrific bolts of crag and ice, Down on his prey, and bury as he slew. But safely grew the young day to its prime, And firmly the broad bosom of the noon Arrayed itself in steel against the towers Of glittering white ; and not a harsher sound Jarred on the crystal silence than the cry Of the high eagle, poised with level wings. Lone in his peerless kingship, the dull threats Of the frost-throttled torrent, the shrill notes Of chattering runnels, and the measured drip Of the sun-smitten cornice. So they passed, With quick weak hearts, beneath the roof of snow, Where curling over, like a giant wave Proud-lingering' o'er its fall, it hung aloft, Fringed with transparent javelins of ice. That breathed again the atmosphere they shed Of emerald lost in azure, till the air And ice were all one gleam, and the dazed men Seemed to be standing in the radiant heart Of some great jewel. THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Then they wound their way Along the skirts of a wide steep of pine, That wrapt the mountain with a dark-lined robe Of spotless ermine ; and they heard the voice Of the hoarse torrent, wrestling deep below. Grow slowly nearer, till at length they felt The damp of its chill breath upon their cheek ; And stood before the mouth of a dim cave, AVhose horrid jaws bristled with teeth of ice. Like some huge monster yawning for its prey ; While from its throat resounded the career Of plunging waters, thundering their mad way. With echoes drumming all along the roof, On to the cataract ; and a narrow ledge Of ice-clad rock, wet with perpetual foam, Lessened, a fearful pathway, toward a disc Of far-off blue, the lofty roof of France. Then with a short instinctive cry to Heaven — Not that they held their shattered lives so dear, Yet longing to be laid in some still spot Of hallowed ground, where the mild evening sun Might rest upon their grave, and homely flowers THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 89 Utter the simple tenderness of love, And not to lie engulfed in that loud chasm, The ghastly plaything of the demon flood — So praying, the o'erwearied men crept on In deafened silence, every step a thought ; Till, toiling for an hour towards the light. They reached a sudden precipice, and saw The eager waters make a glassy arch. Through which there gleamed unruffled the black slab Of polished rock, while mountain-deep below, And smothered 'neath a cloud of spray, arose The dull reverberation of the fall. Midway, upon a jutting crag, there clung A single tree, whose leafless tresses swayed Upon the wind begotten of the flood ; And, like a pennon in the thunderous smoke Of battle, half a rainbow faintly smiled Athwart the veiled abysm. With shrinking eyes, And feet rebellious to the daring will. They bore the royal dead along the brink Of that stupendous gulf, and gained the point. Marked by a storm-stained cross, where gallant hearts. 90 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Mindful of others in their own sore need, Had planted ladders 'gainst the upright rock. Gently they lowered their sacred burden down ; And, that steep peril passed, with steadier hearts Threaded the horror of the dark defile ; Till, rounding a sharp curve, which from afar Seemed the barred gate of hope, a shout of joy Burst from their breasts, nor wronged the quiet dead ; For stretching far away beneath their feet, Asleep in the still sunshine, half revealed, Half hidden in its own deep loveliness, Lay the soft-sloping bosom of Savoy ; A mile below, warm-nestling in a fold Of the rich robe that wrapt the mountain's feet, The stooping gables of a little thorpe Peeped through a brooding haze of hoary smoke ; And dreaming o'er the distance, the faint hills. Lost in the misty border of the sky, Seemed the horizon of a sea becalmed. At that fair sight the weary months of pain, Remorseful memory and deluded hope, Vanished, as when one waketh from a night THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 9 1 Of crowded anguish struggling with itself, And finds his pillow wet with passionate tears, And the warm sunbeam reddening through his lids, And cries aloud ''Thank God, it was a dream !" So lightened, the sick prince spake words of cheer ; And that sweet pain which hungers in the soul Rapt on a lovely scene, as if some sense Were wanting to embrace its loveliness. Welled up in the worn hearts ; and yearningly They thought of their true wives and tender babes And lordly homes beyond the bourn of sight, While ever the black wall of mountain scowled Higher behind them, and the village-roofs Broadened beneath their feet ; till at the last They halted in the sleepy street, and watched The great sun sink upon his snowy couch, And one by one the blushing mountain-heads Draw their grey mantles round them, and the moon Steal the faint beauty of the afterglow. And sweet it was to see the peaceful smoke Drowsily curl from the warm hearths of men Athwart the crimson sky ; once more to hear 92 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. The low of homeward oxen, and the chime Of children's voices, and the chapel-bell Pleading for evening worship ; and when all Had long lain hushed beneath the quivering stars, 'Twas sweet to think upon that last dread night. And hear the watch-dog's bark, and cheery crow Of the first cock chiding the sluggard morn. But ere the herdsman left his dreamless sleep, Rich meed of wholesome toil, while yet the sun Was weaving low beyond the moonlit peaks His daily-fresh apparel, the young king. Roused by the sight of his fair fatherland To lend a speedy hand to her grave cares. And spurred by anxious thoughts of coming state. Urged on the solemn progress. So they left The narrow village slumbering, and passed forth Into a world of coral, every twig Crusted with heavy rime, and every bud Glassed in an ice-drop. But when scarce three leagues Of the crisp road were printed with their feet, The risen sun, whose sovereign influence THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 93 Had slowly steeped the breathing morn with light, Burst through the threadbare mist, and far and wide Scattered his flashing jewels o'er the land. Then sprinkling lightest music the hoar frost Dissolved, and the dry earth sucked in the dew At every pore, and many a lowly plant Felt the strong nurture mantling in its veins ; While glistening threads of sunny rain unsealed The pointed sheath wherein the chestnut's fan Slept folded round its bloom, and Overflowed The daisy's red-rimmed cup, and brightly kissed The honeysuckle's winter-braving buds, And moved the modest-drooping violet To fragrant tears of joy. The neighbouring woods Were changing their warm winter-robe of brown And dusky purple for the soft grey veil They wear before they don their golden green ; And fringing them the hazel's tasselled twigs Were gemmed with ruby-tufted flowers, most like The tiny sea-anemone, that spreads Its fairy arms deep in some tranquil dell Of ocean, while the great storms swing above Nor stir its silent home. The same faint smell f4 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. That reached the nostrils of the angry God, Relenting o'er the water-silenced world, Rose from the growing earth ; a quintessence Of pure spring-scents ; the breathing of young buds. The steam of wayside brooklets bearing forth The fragrance of their mosses, the warm reek Giddily dancing o'er the tender crops And strips of fresh-turned soil, with all the sweets Distilled by sun and moisture from wild life ; While over all the upward-quivering lark Poured wave on wave of overflowing song, And almost burst his heart for ecstasy. Thrice rode the sun across the noontide blue In dazzling panoply of silver-white ; Thrice lashed his steeds adown the western slope, Hastening with smoking flanks to their repose ; But when the netted shadows of the trees Doubled their stature eastward, and the star Of the third eve was lonely, far away They heard the faint, weird murmur of a town Swell on the hushing twilight ; and when day Lay buried, and the distant poplar-plumes THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 95 Stood ranged like lingering mourners, sable-tall, Against the pallor brooding o'er his grave, They gained the peopled pride of Lyonnais, And saw the starlit bosom of the Saone Blend with its mightier sister-tide, and bound With one full pulse on to the longing sea. And so from dawn to gloaming, ten fair days Of girlish Spring, the shadow of their woe Passed onward, darkening all the lusty land ; Onward through treeless plains, where every clod Was clothed with promised harvest, and the road, Straight-seen for miles, a narrowing line of white, Wakened a lonely sadness ; through the hush Of pine-woods, where the darkened solitude Seemed as a house of death ; o'er many a bridge Flecked with the smiles of under-dancing waves, Where the quick trout took shelter in the gleam Of eddies mingling o'er the reeling stones. Or darted 'neath the tresses of the nymphs Hiding their faces in the shining sand ; On through sequestered hamlets, where for hours The eager hinds had flocked from miles around. 96 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Leaving the plough-share gleaming in the loam, To line the way with whispering files, and lounge, When the rare sight had passed, in gossip-groups Through half the day — a rich experience told To make their grandsons gape ; onward through towns Idle in grief and thronged with curious awe ; Till, looming grandly through the vapour-pall That hid the mother-city from the stars, Towered the sombre bulk of Notre Dame. Thither they bore the dead, and all that night The shadowy aisles and dusty -raftered roof, Scarce seen by the faint glow of pendent lamps Slow-swaying in the incense-laden gloom, Re-echoed to the muffled bass of priests Moaning their ceaseless requiem ; and wan Dawn, Stealing athwart the twilight sanctuary. Found the young king a watcher by the dead. But when the summer of high noon declined Into that weary autumn pensiveness Which saddens ere the sunset, Philip raised The urn wherein his father's worn-out heart THR BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 97 Lay sleeping, and with hardly-measured tread Passed from the hushed cathedral. Twice a league Of living road, whose banks were human throngs. Silent, save only when a stronger sob Burst from its prison ; lines of soldiery With arms reversed and eyes upon the earth, Bare-headed priests whose sorrow was a prayer. Women with infants cowering to the breast, Maidens with snowy garlands fresh with tears. Children with smileless faces wonder-wide. Rich nobles poor as beggars in their loss, And beggars poorer by their servant-king. Two leagues of reverent worship of the dead. Two leagues of loyalty to him who bore Upon his shoulder all that could decay Of that great heart. Onward for two deep hours Moved the bowed prince — a kinglier funeral. And worthier of the pride-disdaining dead, Than all the pomp of hired pageantry. And wheresoe'er he stayed to rest awhile His sacred load, arose a graceful cross. 98 THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Mute witness to the ages yet unborn Of the good king. But when the setting sun Mellowed the sculptured porch of Saint Denis — That aged abbey, where the Lords of France, Gathered around their father Dagobert, Lay in the fretless fellowship of death — And stained the chequered pavement with blurred form Of saint and prophet, peopling the rich glass That darkened all it lightened ; while the bell With sorrow-stifled tongue tolled heavily The lengthening moments, and the waiting priests Stretched, a black aisle, from door to outer gate ; Then, trembling 'neath his burden, stepped the prince Across the threshold, blind with beating thought. Yet ever after the vague memory Haunted his eyelids ; slowlier paced the aisle Whose distance seemed a lifetime ; and stood girt With priests and knights, facing the lofty tomb Of Dagobert, reared southward in the choir, At his behest, whose chiefest minister And abbot of the royal fane had laid The floor with costliest marble-work and filled THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 99 The windows' branching tracery with Heaven, At his behest, whose silence was the soul Of that day's mourning. Then, while all the roof Sighed with the dying music, Philip took The oriflamme, dulled by the jealous sun Of Tunis, and with kingly reverence Laid it behind the altar, praying thus : — "Strong Saint of France! I thought not, when the hand Of my good father plucked thy oriflamme From this, its solemn resting-place, to waft Thy blessing o'er the host, I litde thought That I, his worthless son, should render it Again to thee, standing beside his death. Thou knowest the pang that wrings a nation's heart, Thou knowest the after-ache of dull regret, Thou knowest the lasting sorrow clinging-sweet ; And, knowing, wilt forgive us when we make Our blindfold love blaspheme thy providence. O lend us some small measure of the faith Which conquers through defeat. He hath not failed. That royal soul, so gentle and so brave, THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. Thy care on earth, thy latest friend in Heaven, Bore not thy banner vainly, if so be That love and truth are stronger than all lust, And Caesar less than Christ. I yield it back More sacred than when first he bore it hence. More potent unto final victory. By that heroic patience whose effect, However foiled, yet in a noble cause Endureth beyond death and is the strength Of all that follow." So with fuller trust Turned the bereaved prince, and stood once more Beside the grave ; and, while a trembling hush Held all the glooming abbey, and without The lonely wind moaned like a spirit fled, They laid the weary heart at last to rest. To rest, till that wild time when the deep hell. That somewhere lurks in every human breast, Boiled from the riven volcano-heart of France And weltered on the surface ; when the thirst Of patient men to fare no worse than beasts. The thirst that kings had scarcely deigned to scorn, THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS. 101 Was slaked with blood of princes, and the force Compressed for ages hijirst with awful right The bonds of serfdom ; when, for three fierce days, The hands that haled a monarch to his doom Rifled the royal treasure-house of Death, And half a hundred tombs stood gaping wide, And half a hundred mangled bodies rolled, Trampled with unknown dust, to one vile trench. And so the ashes of the guileless king Were scattered o'er the bleeding land, whose wounds His hand had ever been the first to heal ; And the loud clamour of a thousand tongues, Wagging for selfish prominence, hath drowned The quiet memory of his gentle sway. He was a ruler after Christ's own heart, Who, judging all things by the Master's law. Dealt justice to the weak ones of his realm, Revered the poor, and sought not his own name ; Who, staggering oft — as who of men shall not. When Christ himself prayed that the cup might pass — Yet bore his burden bravely to the end. Led by the loadstar of an aim sublime ; THE BURIAL OF SAINT LOUIS Who, gazing down the ages' avenue, When other thrones sought but to quench the fire Of God's bright East, saw far ahead but sure The universal brotherhood of man. One fold, one shepherd, and laid down his life To bring it nearer. But the dull-eyed crowd. Caught by the vulgar spangle of the names That lime will tarnish, misses the rare jewel Whose inward glow outlasts the centuries. His very loftiness to lower minds Seemed wavering ; as when one stands beneath Some heaven-aspiring tower, and looks up, And sees the light clouds skimming o'er its head, And thinks it totters, till he turns to find His own weak footsteps reeling, but the tower Erect against the everlasting blue. THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. The storming of the village-home of Christ, The last page of that heavy book of blood, Scored with the fierce accounts of East and West, Red with the record of two hundred years Of valour wasted in the desert sand. Of sacred passion grovelling down to lust. Of carnage fathered on the Prince of Peace, Till, with its last and saddest reckoning writ, It closed from very weariness of hate. The holy king lay low within the tent, Cold on his couch of ashes ; nor as yet Had the swift finger of Corruption soiled The stainless beauty of that peacefulness Which smiles behind the rending storm of death. But all the camp was stricken dumb with woe ; And marking the long silence of their grief. And knowing not the strength that sorrow lends Jo5 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. To men of finer nerve, the Moslem hordes Swooped round the tents, like craven birds of prey That dare not strike the living, shrieking threats Of chains and torture. Then those knights of France, Whom pestilence had spared or lightlier scourged. Felt all the courage of the patient king Bound in their veins, and all tlicir love for him Boil up within their hearts ; and since the prince Lay sick almost to death, they joined the host Of brave-tongued Sicily, and bade him lead Their fury to its mark, stifling the smart Of wounded honour in a common hate. Thrice rang the hideous music of the war From shield and brand, and thrice the yelling throngs Drew back in screens of dust before the might Of desperate grief; while he, that should have been Their heart of fight, lay sheltered from the stroke Of sword and sun, deep in the secret shade Of marble grottoes, drowsing in the lap Of some fair slave. But when the irksome tale Of treble rout and close-beleacruered walls THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. IQ.7 Jarred on his sensual dream, the same loose lips, That two days since had wagged with idle boasts, Now cried his peace for sale, and sent forthwith Smooth tonguesters to the conquering host, to be The chapmen of his honour; not in vain; For, spent with famine, drought and pestilence, Heartsick of endless sand and throbbing sky. And longing for a breath of meadow-breeze. And children's laughter, and the glad, low voice Of waiting love, arid reft of that strong soul That kindled all, the champions of the Cross Spurned their own conquest, and base Sicily, The slave from first to last of greed and gold. Bartered his faith for forty thousand crowns. But ere three suns had blushed upon the deed, Dim from the ocean's scarcely-curving breast Arose a full-fledged fleet, whose far grey wings Grew whiter toward the shore, while first was heard The cheery English horn, and then the wail Of bagpipes, like the garrulous monotone Of Highland streams ; and when the steadied ships Chased the short ripple of the quiet bay Io8 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. And hailed the shore, a ringing shout of joy Burst from the host ; and eagerly they pressed Far out into the shallow ebb, and hauled The grounding boats in welcome to the strand ; And showed all honour to that English prince. That nobler nephew of the Lion-heart, Whose boyhood had upheld the tottering throne Of our third Henry, whose majestic soul. Stout as his arm, rough-hewed this Kingdom's shape And stamped it with his image. Grand he stood Upon the barren shore, his mighty bust Towering above the crowd, his royal brow Close-knit with strength, and his bright wealth of hair Shaming his helmet's glitter; — the first prince Whose Norman breast swelled with an English heart And bore it through in triumph. But a storm Of sudden wrath, like that which swept the face Of Ilion's terror, darkened his fair front, Hearing the shameful story of the peace ; And, hurling down one glance of utter scorn On Sicily, he muttered 'twixt his teeth : — THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. I09 " God's blood ! 'twas not to sell the sword of Christ I took His Cross upon me, not to play The huckster with a Moslem dog ! —My lord, I swear by him who lies 'neath yonder pall, Deaf to this outrage, that a day shall dawn When Syria shall repent this haggled truce ; And you — go hug your gold — your better part — And buy your own peace as your conscience will, And prate away the cause of Christendom, But spare me from your councils ! " So he turned, And sharply drew the curtain of the tent. While those around stood staring at the spot Where late he stood, as if the earth should gape To swallow them ; and spake no word, but slunk Like beaten curs away ; and the stale plain Seemed yet more hateful to their shame-sick eyes, And the bare sky more brazen, and the East A burden, and the Cross a thing of naught. And all those months of patience \mto death Were spent in vain ; unless there be no waste In Earth's profuse economy, but all Which seems to us most prodigal, the frost 10 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. That nips the opening bud, the blight that spoils The full-blown flower, the mildew that devours The garnered fruit, the worm within the heart Of young life flushed with promise, wreck and ruin, Hunger and pain and death, \'ea, sin itself, Have each some saving office and promote, Somehow, somewhere, the good they seem to blast. Not with that blessed weariness which crowns A duty hardly done and leaves the soul No taste for meaner pleasure, but with hearts Benumbed with failure, sailed the knights of France From that loathed coast. But when the welcome shore Of Sicily now beckoned through the mist, And Tunis with her load of woe and shame Was lost in thoughts of home, the heavens, whose smile Had ever mocked their course, threw off" the mask Of favour and arrayed themselves in wrath ; The sky grew one black scowl, the sea one plain Of billowy lead, while far away the storm Muttered its stuttering threats ; and ere the fleet Could reach the paling harbour, all the trumps Of Heaven spake forth, and all its muffled drums THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. Ill Rolled long reverberations o'er the deep ; The lightnings tore the purple clouds in twain, The wild white horses reared aloft and flung Their windy manes against the lowering rack, And the doomed ships now reeled upon the ridge Of the huge wave, now dived adown the slope, And now were hidden in the gulf that yawned Betwixt the watery mountains ; the strong masts Were bent like reeds and snapped their whistling shrouds, The sails streamed loose in tatters, and the boards Groaned with the buffets of the demon sea ; And eighteen gallant ships that night went down, And twice two thousand hearts that wore the Cross Lay still beneath the tempest. But the bark That bore the sacred ashes of the king Drave safe to port ; and with the flare of morn Drifted the shattered remnant of the fleet Through tangled wreckage onward to the land ; And when the stricken prince had somewhat won Of strength, and tidings of his kingdom's grief Ached in his ear, he bade his fretful knights Meet Sicily and England round his couch, THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. To mingle counsel, ere they sought their homes, How best the withered laurels of the Cross Might be refreshed. Then, when the tongues of all Clamoured for rest and darted hints of hate At him who wrought their ruin, a sudden wave Of generous passion heaved proud Edward's breast. And, like a lion's growl above the din Of meaner beasts, his accents shook the air : — " For shame, my lords ! — think ye to heal your hurts, Or win again the honour ye have lost. By vain upbraidings of your host ? — For shame ! — The past is dead, and let your ill-timed rage Die with it ; but the future yet remains. To pile the inglorious grave of what is done With such a monument of gallant acts, As shall for ever hide it from the eyes Of after men. Here will we rest awhile, To weld in one the fragments of our strength. And dip the half-extinguished torch of zeal In fire of holy purpose ; then let him Whose sword hath still an edge, whose lance a point, Whose seasoned manhood is not wholly warped THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. 113 By sun and storm, whose faithful heart yet throbs With the remembrance of a hero-king, Follow my banner, and wreak out his wrath Where wrath avails. — Your hands, my lords; your hands! — God's death ! — not one ? — Then hear me while I swear. By the Lord's blood, though all my countrymen, The lusty hearts of my dear island-realm, Should here desert me, yet will I, alone With Fowin, keeper of my palfrey, fare To Palestine, there to require the blood Of him whose selfless courage made my sword Leap from its sheath for this — ay, and the blood Of every Christian warrior that now lies Rotting at Tunis ; I will rouse to arms The soldier-monks, and for each costly drop That dyed the Carthage sand will have a life ; And he, your king, shall be as that dread corpse. Whose bulk thrice-quartered spread the word of war Through Israel's tribes ; and ye shall sit at home. Telling your scars, if any be to tell. Chewing the cud of indolent content, While deeds of wonder ringing through the world Proclaim you traitors to the cause of Christ ! " 114 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. He ceased ; and, sullen-cowering 'neath the lash Of those indignant words, the bolder bloods Snarled angry vindication, and made oath Four summers thence to waste God's chosen East With fire and sword ; and kept not one his faith ; But, bearing their lost leader to his rest, Buried his longings with him, and forgat Their oath, and held the honour of the Cross A distant toil to heighten present ease. Not so firm England's prince. For when the woods, That hid the castles, where the lords of France Lay toying with light Peace, were filled with green. And children wandered o'er the English fields With warm hands full of drooping woodland flowers, The sails of Edward, swelling toward the shore. Sent rapture through the hearts of those that watched From Acre's walls, and terror to the breast Of him who couched, like some strong beast of prey. Patient for blood, without the city gates — The fell Bibars, chief foeman of the Cross ; Who tarried not to brave the lion's brood. But, trembling at the memory of that king THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. 115 Whose name quick-whispered by the Moslem nurse Would still her peevish child, drew off his host, While the freed city reeled with joy and flung Its barred gates wide in welcome. Yet the prince Loosed not, as men are wont, good Fortune's hand. To bask him in the memory of her smile. But grasped it hard and followed where she led. For thrice ten days he scoured the country round, Learning its meanest dell ; for thrice ten days The cloister-knights of Palestine spurred in, Hot from pursuit, to fight beneath his flag. Then, when the scanty thousand of his own Were seven-fold swelled by these, he marshalled all Before him, and his manly bass rang out Beyond the farthest listener : — " My brave lords. True knights and fellow-soldiers of the Cross, Bethink you well or e'er ye plight your troth To this our desperate business ; for we stand A handful 'gainst a host ; so Gideon stood ; And so, like him, I bid that man begone Who holdeth not his ease, his wealth, his life, Il6 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. All but his honour, cheap, all but his God. I and the remnant have a thing to do That never half-hearts virought. There lies, my lords. Ten barren leagues from hence, a little town. Where the great Master left His throne in Heaven To bear the yoke of childhood ; where the fount Still darkens deep, wherein He stooping saw His Godhead's image, and the very stones That knew the pressure of His blessed feet Are yet uncrumbled. There the Moslem walks. And dogs of heathen vomit forth His name With bestial loathing of its sacredness. And pagan hags give suck to pagan spawn Within those very walls where once High God Lay sleeping on the Maiden Mother's breast. There shall ye see Her church, the fairest fane That bore the Cross in Palestine, a heap Of trampled ashes, and the crescent-flag Flaunting above its ruin. Sirs, how long Shall this endure? Ye know the dead Saint-king, When late-delivered from the Sultan's chains, And all aglow with gratitude to God, Took up the pilgrim-staff, and unesquired. THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. II7 Save for his trusty seneschal, did bend His painful footsteps toward the home of Christ. Thus did the king in lowly guise; but we, Who, reverencing the white heat of his zeal. Yet lack his tender saintliness, will make Our pilgrimage according to our faith, Not clad in weeds of meekness, but begirt With the swift sword of vengeance ; that the doom Of Nazareth may re-echo to the doom Of that beleaguered city which the Lord Gave into Joshua's hand, and not a tongue. The quavering voice of age, the liquid tones Of woman, nor the lisping of a child, Be left to tell its tale." Thus spake the prince ; And all the army, heartened by his words, Rang with acclaim. So when the great sun sank A blood-red dome whereto a path of blood Ran o'er the purple deep, and the moon rose A blood-red dome above the sandy verge. They left the cooling city and all night Marched through the mellow silence, till broad day Smote fierce upon their mail and laid them low Il8 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. Beneath the shadow of a stooping rock ; But when the monarch of the sky had left His kingdom to the stars, and a fresh breeze From seaward woke new vigour in their limbs, They took again their way ; and when the moon Had floated far above the mists that swelled Her golden fulness, and rode high in Heaven A dwindling disc of silver, and the night Seemed like a solemn day, so clear, so still, They reached the opening of a narrow glen. That, winding, clove a barrier of grey rock. Its walls were clad with many a twisted growth Of fig and olive, and the cedar stretched Its level arms and layers of dusky green Far o'er the gorge ; the oleander slept A tower of rosy fragrance, and the path Was fringed with fiery poppies quenched in night, And folded wind-flowers, whose bright-blended hues Of purple, white, and scarlet, glistened dim Amid the moonbeams ; while the air was faint With perfume of rich hyacinths, somewhere spread, Like to a fallen sky, beneath the trees Whose gloom now hid them. THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. 119 Onward through the shade For half a league they marched, and not a sound Vexed earth's deep slumber, save the measured tread Of their own steps, or rustle of the leaves When some bright bird broke from his dewy bower, And down the valley with a startled cry Flew to a deeper shelter. But the walls Of riven limestone, glimmering to the stars. Grew ever wider parted, till they made A sloping circle, like the storm-worn wreck Of some great amphitheatre ; and midway Adown the slope, and nestling to the plain, Asleep beneath the breathing moonlight, lay The village-home of Christ. O ye, who deem The din of cities better than the hush Of the bare hills, the pomp of painted roofs More glorious than the starry vault of Heaven, The strife of factions sweeter than the song Of woodland birds, the raiment of a king More lovely than the lily, and the roar Of nations greater than the still small voice ; Ponder it well, or e'er your ears grow deaf THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. To God's deep music, that earth's strongest soul, Who best hath known to cope with pain, and grief, And shame, and sin. Who best hath held His way Unflinching through the tempest of the world. Most nobly wrestled with the powers of Hell, And looked most calmly in the face of Death, Drew His vast might, not from the turbid flow Of crowded streets, but those pure influences Which spring from star and bird and wayside flower. P"oIded in sleep the holy village lay. Unconscious of its doom ; as in the depths Of some entangled wild a gentle fawn Sleeps, resting on its mother's dappled neck. Nor sees the panther couching for the leap. The narrow streets were hushed, and softly laid With strips of moonlight ; on the white house-tops The doves slept side by side ; and low within The simple dwellings many a weary form Lay dreaming its last dream ; the infant's hand, That fell asleep dimpling the soft brown breast It could not clasp, drooped o'er it sweetly curled ; The mother's fondling arm had loosed its hold. And fallen, a lovely curve, beside the babe ; THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. 121 And the faint whisper of their peaceful breath And the warm heaving of their bosoms made Unbroken music ; ev'n the father's brow, Scarred with the early hardships of the poor, Was smoothed by Slumber's tender-nursing hand ; Yet once he turned and started, as the neigh Of a far war-horse broke the crystal calm ; But the swift weaver Thought, to lull his fear, Wove from that sudden sound a subtle dream, And, half-aroused, he shed a tender smile Upon his loved ones, and again he slept. But ere that moon went down, he lay half-dead Beside the outraged body of his wife. Beside the butchered body of his child. And clasping still the household axe wherewith He dearly sold their lives ; and while the blood Throbbed struggling from his heart, and while his eyes Gazed fiercely-fondly on his ruined home, He heard the iron voice of Edward ring Above the shrieks of maids, the groans of men, " Slay, slay, and spare not ! 'tis the cause of Christ ! Slay all — their wives, their babes, their very beasts ! THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. Slay on, slay on !" and, staggering to his feet, He gasped a hideous laugh, and vented forth A moan that shook the last wild flicker out, And falling back upon his mangled child Hissed through his teeth, "A curse upon their Christ!" And never, since the innocent eyes of Morn Shrank from the first foul murder, rose the sun Upon a sadder sight. Christ's simple home. The chosen dwelling of the Son of Man, Steeped in man's helpless blood ; pure women slain And outraged in the name of Him Who spake Compassion to the harlot ; tender babes Strangled and quartered for His sake Who bade All men be mild as they ; black pools of gore Blotting those streets, wherein His faultless feet Did pace for thirty years the lovely path Of meekness and divine obedience ; Blood in the fountain where His thirst was quenched, Blood on the lilies that He loved so well And dowered with the pearl of all His words. Blood on the matted fleeces of His lambs. Blood on the rufHed bosoms of His doves. And all for Him Who is the Prince of Peace. THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. 1 23 O God ! — we fools of pride and lust and hate ! Tyrants and slaves of ignorance ! — We stand Alone within the darkness, and put out Each man his fellow's dimly-flickering light, And think our own the one pure ray from Heaven ; We gird us with the sword of self-esteem. Call it the sword of faith, and so hew down Our brother's hard-wrought idol, while we boast Our own an image of the Most High God ; We rear fair altars to the Lord of Love, And every temple is a hold of hate Besieged with angry tongues ; we sign our babes With the deep symbol of self-sacrifice. And still the strong wage war upon the weak. And the wide world is bathed in harmless blood. And Time is sick Of carnage. What avails That rack and boot and thumbscrew rust away, Lost in the hideous lumber of the past ; That never more the reek of human flesh Blackens the open forehead of the day ; That no young victim, whiter than her shroud, With bloodshot eyes fixed wildly upon naught, The funeral-candle trembling in her hand. 134 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. Totters between the ranks of austere priests, Beneath the shadow of the crucifix, On to her living grave ? — The same foul fiend Still lives, but mantled in a subtler garb, Not striking with the sudden hand of force, But slowly slaying with the little stings Of rancour and the blight of social scorn ; Whilst one by one the beacon-fires of old. Whereby our fathers steered, faint out and leave The darkness closer, and no pilot's voice Rings through the gathering storms, and no new light Flashes across the bosom of the deep. Nor need vve any ; for those bright lights of old. That seemed to man's young eyes reflected beams From some far heaven, were but the first grey streaks Of that slow dawn now widening through the world. Whose sun is man himself; and the same fire. Whose quick flame leapt to life in the great heart Of Eastern sage and prophet, burneth still, But kindling through a thousand thousand souls Where then it lit but one. — What need of light ? — There glows within the breast of every man. THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. 125 However smothered by the fogs of sin, The light that never yet hath led astray, The light that was in Christ, the light of love. Take up the burden of humanity, The changeless load of sorrow, pain, and death ; Thy father bore it, and thy children's children Shall stoop beneath its weight ; not Christ Himself Can lift it from thy shoulder ; murmur not ; For all thy woe but quickens that keen sense Of others' sorrow which is woe's best balm ; And the black void which deepens round the world But swells the radiance of the lamp of love. Makes soul seek soul in livelier sympathy, As children cling together in the dark , And lightens each one's burden by the help Of all that bear it. But for pity's sake Lay not upon thy brother's bowed neck The yoke of persecution ; goad him not With the fine point of scorn to loathe thy face ; For, love once quenched, no other light remains. But all is utter darkness, and the pain 126 THE STORMING OF NAZARETH Of hate hath no consoler. Yet take heart ; For the Eternal Power, Who sowed the seed Of all things, hath ordained that hate shall tire, And love grow ever stronger. So the strife Which sprang from the fierce hate of East and West, And fed itself on hate, grew sick at last Of that which lent it life ; and those wild swords, Whose ruthless frenzy, for two hundred years, Wounded the Spirit of the living Christ To win his tomb, were sheathed for evermore Amid the ruins of His childhood's home. For the same blow, whose venom well-nigh stilled The savage heart of Edward, when he turned. Flushed with unnatural pride, to rest again His fever-stricken men within the walls Of sea-fanned Acre, was the death-stroke dealt To this, the last Crusade. And we, who stand Through others' toil upon a loftier height, And see the little realms of human creed Spread like a map beneath the voiceless sky. Marvel at that hard pride, which made one faith THE STORMING OF NAZARETH. 12J The measure of the universe, and strove To war it through all nations in the name Of Him Who laid His curse upon the sword. And yet, so potent is the growth of good, That not the rankest poison-weeds of sin Can wholly choke it ; and the very chains, That bigots. forged to fetter bigot foes, Bound East to West in ever-strengthening ties Of mutual helpfulness, that shall not snap Till all the world be grafted in one growth. And one full tide of ever-swelling love Flow in the hearts of all men. For Christ lives ; Lives in despite of them who made " Christ lives " The battle-cry of hatred, and still make ; Lives in the happy hearts of trustful babes, Lives in the patient souls of simple maids. Lives in the wider, gentler minds of men, And shall not die till love be known no more. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. Evening has lost her throne ; the rosy smile Fades from her disenchanted realms ; Now darker shadows lengthen from the file Of lofty-dreaming elms ; The fields lie silent, waiting for the love Of yonder moon, who lingers pale. Like a young bride behind her scarce-seen veil. Faint with sweet eagerness, yet shy To leave the bosom of her mother-grove And bare her brightness to the lonely sky. 132 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. Awake, awake ! — The breezes shout Good morrow to the bustling rills ; The birds are up, the sun is out, Wafting light kisses to the hills ; The sunbeams, radiant with delight, Chase the quick swallows as they fly ; The white clouds, giddy with their height. Are reeling from the open sky. O pure, pure Loveliness, that smiled So brightly on the world's first Spring, Older than sorrow, yet a child. That taught each careless bird to sing, That tinted the wild rose and tied His rainbow-necklace round the dove, My playmate, mistress, and my bride. The Earth holds naught to nlatch thy love ! LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. 1 33 A WELSH HOMESTEAD. Nestled in loveliness, where four deep glens Blend their low voices in one harmony, One ever-restful, ever-resdess song, Lulling-the soul with vague monotony, Stirring it with a thousand undernotes That swell and sink and nevermore return. Muffled in woods, whose Winter nakedness Is fair as their Spring raiment, where the foot Falls soft as silence, and the meanest crag Is rich with clinging beauty, while the life Of butterfly and floweret lies asleep. A warm home, bosomed in the inmost folds Of Nature's robe ; an islet in the main Of cold gray rock, loud torrent, sodden moor. And lonely lakes, deep as the sullen steeps That wall them round, dark as the eyes of Fate. A treasure-house, where forms most delicate Find shelter 'neath the shadow of the strong, Where the film-fern's unceasing thirst is laved With spray-dew of resistless waterfalls. And at the buried foot of ice-worn rocks The violet hides her meek face in the moss. 134 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. Moan, wretched wind ; drive the sad clouds Along the blindfold plain ; Ye leaves, whirl on your lonely crowds ; Weep on, remorseless rain ! O for one smile of buried Spring, O for one note of May ; O for one sunny hour to fling My aching heart awa} ! LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. I35 TO THE REDBREAST. Minstrel of Autumn ! when a sadder sun Swoons night by night along the weeping West, When thrush and merle, their wealth of love-song spent, Crouch shivering, each beside his ruined nest, When, fluttering down, the dead leaves, one by one, Whisper o'er dying flowers a slow lament. Then thou, bright bird, the latest and the best. Perched on the arm of some dismantled tree, Dost utter from thy full and glowing breast Such rapturous strains of happy minstrelsy. That neither mouldering leaves nor sobbing skies Can damp the faith in life that never dies. 136 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS, SWEET SEPTEMBER. O sweet September, second Spring ! The wind is warbling fresh and free, The merry brooklets dance and sing. And music is in every tree ; The meadows gleam, the sun shines bright On leaves that twinkle from the shower. And fickle shade and fickle light Are dappling through the long lane-bower. O sweet September, second Spring ! The eyes of May were ne'er so blue. And never on so white a wing The driven fleet of cloudlets flew; Yon fir-tree never leant so fair Against the softness of the sky, For till this morn my heart was ne'er So tuned to Nature's harmony. O sweet September, second Spring ! I love to see thy dim blue breath Steal where thy frosty kisses sting The freckled leaves to beauteous death ; To watch the azure dragon-fly, With gauzy pinions levelled, rest Over the brazen sun-flower's eye Bending a bold gaze toward the West. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. I37 sweet September, second Spring ! I love to hear, o'er far fields borne. When evening mists begin to cling, The murmur of the threshing corn ; 1 love to see the downy peach Sunning its soft cheek by the wall, And lightly o'er the grey-limbed beech The wavering shadows rise and fall. I love the afternoon sunshine That dozes on the sleepy farm, I love the dim horizon-line Of stubble gleaming golden-warm, The tiny glistening gnats that dance Translucent in the haze above ; And sweet September's countenance Is more than answer to my love. O sweet September, when I woke This morning, all the wakened world Was creeping from its slumber-cloak, And all the steaming lawn was pearled With Nature's jewellery ; each flower Decked with a diamond ; emerald zones Around me ; and above, one bower Of sapphire, girt with opal thrones. 138 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. The swallows circled light as air Between the tawny-tasselled sheaves, Or cast quick-glancing shadows where The creeper blushed beneath the eaves ; I wondered, as I watched them dart In gathering swarms about the pool, 1 wondered how they had the heart To leave a land so beautiful. The brooding sun warmed into birth A myriad twinkling stars of dew ; Heaven's radiant ladders, wedding Earth, Were scarcely seen against the blue ; The purple clematis was lit Into a rich transparent sheen ; It seemed a royal garment, fit For sweet September, Autumn's queen. O sweet September ! Thou art all One loveliness. Where'er I turn, 'Tis beauty, beauty ; the grey pall Thou spreadest o'er the dying fern. The blue smoke stealing through the trees. The rainbow bounding boundless realms, The homestead in its own green leas, The cattle nestled 'neatli the elms. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. O sweet September ! 'tis more sweet To loiter in the rambling lanes, Singing thy praises at thy feet, Than all the world and all its gains. Let laurels wreathe the conqueror's sword, Ambition hug his hard-won prize ; To love thee is its own reward. To win thy love is Paradise. sweet September ! When I sing Of all the loveliness I see. Of all the joy my love doth bring, And all thy beauty is to me, 1 seem to clasp thee in my arms, I seem to hear thy whispering voice, And feel the heart-pulse of thy charms Bidding my favoured heart rejoice. The wild wet azure of thy skies Has blinded me with happy tears, Thy dazzling cloud-light fills my eyes, Thy laughing breezes flood my ears. O, if the song were only lit By that which makes the singer reel ! And yet, if I could utter it. It would not be the joy I feel. 139 140 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. O what a lovely magic hath been here, Silently weaving through a winter night Its most exquisite influences. The air Is clear almost past breathing; woods and rocks Are robed in dazzling rime — By Heaven ! it seems A world of crystal. 'Tis as if the moon, Who gazed so lingeringly on all that lay Last night beneath her tenderness, had breathed All her full silver heart over the land And left it frozen there — so wan her cheek. Her wasted cheek fast fading from the sky. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. I4I My spirit is too wide awake To taste its joy ; I scarcely feel The molten silver dancing o'er the lake, The quick pulse of the water-wheel. For thoughts come quicker than the leaves That burst upon a million sprays ; And love, like yonder sun. Dazzles with all its eager rays The world of loveliness it weaves. Glancing o'er all things ere the heart be won. 14^ LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. Eternal seems this summer hour, The butterfly lolls from flower to flower, Wind and wave in one cradle rest. The cloudlet melteth on heaven's blue breast. Drowsy with sweetness and warmth and scent. The honey-bee hangs from the blossom bent ; Not a breath in the drooping corn Or the tree-shadows laced on the hayfield shorn. The mirrored sun in the lap of the lake Palpitates when her ripples wake ; But now he lieth in slumber still, Waitin" to waken at her lit;ht will. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. I43 The moon has risen in the great pure sky ; A myriad stars are small and pale With modesty at her full-flooded light ; Dreamy and dark the shadows streak the vale ; The folded flowers are glistening tearfully — Peace ! — God alone can show thee such a night. 144 LYRICAL AND OTHKR TOLMS. I Stand amid the tumbled grass Heavy with beads of dew ; the morn Lies folded, half-awake ; smooth as grey glass The stream breathes 'neath the willows worn Its mist of sleep away ; and save that where The sad boughs droop to kiss its chilly cheek A noiseless, silver-gliding streak Quivers for ever, one would scarcely know Which way the spirit of its bosom fair Doth in its dreaming flow. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEIIS. I45 At last the overwearied year Heavily lays her hectic cheek To slumber ; now the midnight tear Swells from the flower, and orchards reek At noontide ; now a drowsier morn Breathes thick along the pearly leas, And tatters of the garnered corn Droop from the drooping trees. Now in the narrow lane, that twines Chill through the sandstone, the late sun Scarce flickers ; but his blessing shines On all that patient work hath won From the low, faithful fields, on all That laboured while the labourer slept, Till it grew golden, full and tall, And Spring's rich promise richly kept. Mother of all things, who hast nurst The poor child, Man, upon thy breast For ages, and, when pain is worst. Dost take him gently home to rest, O blessed Mother, there have been Far loftier singers o'er and o'er, Who more have lisped and learnt and seen. But never one that loved thee more. 146 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. Sleep breathes upon the village, The sea lies grey and still, The sun is slowly sinking Behind the sheltering hill; His latest glance is nestling Beneath the ivy-spray, 'I'hat crests the ruined castle Glassed in the silent bay. The white-winged boats are gliding Into their waveless fold, The sky is softly weeping, The flower is scarcely cold. The hum of day still lingers Around the darkening quay. And a delicious longing Is stealing over me. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. I47 The nightingale is silent, and the wind Sleeps on the forest's bosom ; silvery mist Enfolds the vale and woodland glades behind The distant mere ; the leaves have fainted — hist ! 'Twas but a dewdrop that a moonbeam kist ; One spirit holds its peace between the trees, The mountains and the stars ; and in my soul Swells, like the mingling of a thousand seas, Lulled into calm by their own melodies. The vast, harmonious silence of the whole. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. TO MABEL DARE. Lady, forgive, if tiiere be need For pardon. — But if I should meet A floweret on a wayside bank, And call it fair and sweet ; And thank it for its careless smile, The lovelier since all unsought ; Then onward, with a heart more light For having told its thought ; Say, would you blame ? — Or if that flower Were lighted with a soul, and knew The magic of pink petal lips And eyes of twilight blue ; Should I keep silence ? — Then I'll sin, And bind about my heart, sweet Dare, The blue-bell wreath that could not bind The harvest of thy hair. LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. 1 49 So passing from this gentle land Of lordly trees and golden crops, That rustle where a mighty hand Hath smoothed the mountain-tops, Spite of thy pretty palmistry, That would have narrowed down my heart, I still will keep a nook for thee, If thou wilt own a part. "f MM