“His robe was of the azure dye, Snow-white his scattered hairs, And even such a cross he bore As good Saint Andrew bears. “‘Why go ye forth, Lord James,’ he said, ‘With spear and belted brand? Why do you take its dearest pledge From this our Scottish land? “‘The sultry breeze of Galilee Creeps through its groves of palm, The olives on the Holy Mount Stand glittering in the calm. “‘But ’tis not there that Scotland’s Heart Shall rest by God’s decree, Till the great Angel calls the dead To rise from earth and sea! “‘Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede! That Heart shall pass once more In fiery fight against the foe, As it was wont of yore. “‘And it shall pass beneath the Cross, And save King Robert’s vow; But other hands shall bear it back, Not, James of Douglas, thou!’ “Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray, Sir Simon of the Lee— For truer friend had never man Than thou hast been to me— “If ne’er upon the Holy Land ’Tis mine in life to tread, Bear thou to Scotland’s kindly earth The relics of her dead.” The tear was in Sir Simon’s eye As he wrung the warrior’s hand— “Betide me weal, betide me woe, I’ll hold by thy command. “But if in battle-front, Lord James, ’Tis ours once more to ride, Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend, Shall cleave me from thy side!” PART IIAnd aye we sailed and aye we sailed, Across the weary sea, Until one morn the coast of Spain Rose grimly on our lee. And as we rounded to the port, Beneath the watch-tower’s wall, We heard the clash of the atabals, And the trumpet’s wavering call. “Why sounds yon Eastern music here So wantonly and long, And whose the crowd of armed men That round yon standard throng?” “The Moors have come from Africa To spoil and waste and slay, And King Alonzo of Castile Must fight with them to-day.” “Now shame it were,” cried good Lord James, “Shall never be said of me, That I and mine have turned aside From the Cross in jeopardie! “Have down, have down, my merrymen all— Have down unto the plain; We’ll let the Scottish lion loose Within the fields of Spain!” “Now welcome to me, noble Lord, Thou and thy stalwart power; Dear is the sight of a Christian Knight, Who comes in such an hour! “Is it for bond or faith you come, Or yet for golden fee? Or bring ye France’s lilies here, Or the flower of Burgundie?” “God greet thee well, thou valiant King, Thee and thy belted peers— Sir James of Douglas am I called, And these are Scottish spears. “We do not fight for bond or plight, Nor yet for golden fee; But for the sake of our blessed Lord, Who died upon the tree. “We bring our great King Robert’s Heart Across the weltering wave, To lay it in the holy soil Hard by the Saviour’s grave. “True Pilgrims we, by land or sea, Where danger bars the way; And therefore are we here, Lord King, To ride with thee this day!” The King has bent his stately head, And the tears were in his eyne— “God’s blessing on thee, noble Knight, For this brave thought of thine! “I know thy name full well, Lord James; And honoured may I be, That those who fought beside the Bruce Should fight this day for me! “Take thou the leading of the van, And charge the Moors amain; There is not such a lance as thine In all the host of Spain!” The Douglas turned towards us then, Oh, but his glance was high!— “There is not one of all my men But is as bold as I. “There is not one of all my Knights But bears as true a spear— Then onwards, Scottish gentlemen, And think King Robert’s here!” PART IIIThe trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew, The arrows flashed like flame, As spur in side, and spear in rest, Against the foe we came. And many a bearded Saracen Went down, both horse and man; For through their ranks we rode like corn, So furiously we ran! But in behind our path they closed, Though fain to let us through, For they were forty thousand men, And we were wondrous few. We might not see a lance’s length, So dense was their array, But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade Still held them hard at bay. “Make in! make in!” Lord Douglas cried— “Make in, my brethren dear! Sir William of Saint Clair is down; We may not leave him here!” But thicker, thicker grew the swarm, And sharper shot the rain, And the horses reared amid the press, But they would not charge again. “Now Jesu help thee,” said Lord James, “Thou kind and true Saint Clair! An’ if I may not bring thee off, I’ll die beside thee there!” Then in his stirrups up he stood, So lionlike and bold, And held the precious Heart aloft All in its case of gold. He flung it from him, far ahead, And never spake he more, But—“Pass thee first, thou dauntless Heart, As thou wert wont of yore!” The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, And heavier still the stour, Till the spears of Spain came shivering in, And swept away the Moor. “Now praised be God, the day is won! They fly o’er flood and fell— Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good Knight, that fought so well?” “Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!” he said, “And leave the dead to me, For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree! “There lies, above his master’s Heart, The Douglas, stark and grim; And woe is me I should be here, Not side by side with him!” The King he lighted from his horse, He flung his brand away, And took the Douglas by the hand, So stately as he lay. “God give thee rest, thou valiant soul! That fought so well for Spain; I’d rather half my land were gone, So thou wert here again!” We bore the good Lord James away, And the priceless Heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore. No welcome greeted our return, Nor clang of martial tread, But all were dumb and hushed as death Before the mighty dead. We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, The Heart in fair Melrose; And woeful men were we that day— God grant their souls repose! William Edmondstoune Aytoun. (Condensed) John Greenleaf Whittier William Allingham (The Quest of the Holy Grail) My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel; They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies’ hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall; But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine, I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden’s hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer, A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns. Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark. I leap on board; no helmsman steers; I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three Angels bear the Holy Grail; With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides, the glory slides, And starlike mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro’ dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail But o’er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden Knight—to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of Heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an Angel’s hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro’ the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear; “O just and faithful Knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near.” So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-armed I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail. Alfred, Lord Tennyson And this is mine eternal Plea, To Him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea, That since my Flesh must die so soon, And want a Head to dine next Noon, Just at the Stroke, when my Veins start and spread, Set on my Soul an everlasting Head. Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit, To tread those blest Paths which before I writ. Sir Walter Raleigh. (Condensed) “Turn, turn unto this greenwood shade, And rest beneath His Tree, With little birds on every bough To sing His peace to thee. “A loyal King doth here abide, Here is his Royal Court; His carpet green’s enamelled bright With flowers of every sort. “His subjects, all the wildwood things, He feedeth from His hand; His messengers are birds and winds, His will they understand. “His table is bedecked with moss; His almoners are bees, The berry-vine, the leaping stream, And all the fruitful trees. “Here shalt thou find a Royal Court Where flatt’ry holds no sway; And gentle is the royal eye, Here friendship comes to stay. “Turn, turn unto the sweet greenwood, O happy One! and sing Praise with the birds and all good life, To Christ who is our King!” Modern, anon. John Bunyan (from reprint of first edition) “He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But after death, out of His grave There sprang twelve stalks of Wheat; Which many wondering at got some of those To plant and set. “It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the Earth; For they that taste it do rehearse That virtue lies therein,— A secret virtue, bringing Peace and Mirth By flight of Sin. “Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you: Make bread of it; and that repose And Peace, which ev’ry where With so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there.” George Herbert The Star was so beautiful, large, and clear, That all the other stars of the sky, Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell. And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well. “Of the Child that is born,” said Baltasar, “Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his Star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews.” And the people answered, “You ask in vain; We know of no King but Herod the Great!” They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new King.” So they rode away; and the Star stood still, The only one in the grey of morn; Yes, it stopped—it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The City of David, where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little Child in the manger lay, The Child, that would be King one day Of a Kingdom not human but divine. His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odour sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body’s burying. And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David’s throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
|
|
