Poems from Eastern Sources: The Steadfast Prince; and Other Poems

THE STEADFAST PRINCE.

Richard Chenevix Trench

Only the best composed and worthiest hearts

God sets to act the hard’st and constant’st parts.—Daniel.

PART I.

Of all the princes that in lofty place

With lowly virtues did adornÈd stand,

Whom better did these lowly virtues grace

Than all their worldly state, might none demand

A nobler mead of praise than Ferdinand,

Brother of him, whose sceptre ruled of old

Where Tagus pours its waves o’er sands of gold.

II.

His was no higher gladness than to tend

The poor, the needy, whom uncomforted

Not ever from his portals he would send,

Whom sick he watched beside contagious bed,

And whom an-hungered his large bounty fed;

While loving words made ever doubly prized

The gracious acts which he for all devised.

III.

And only was he rigid and severe

With his own self, his weak frame chastening still

With long-drawn fasts and discipline austere,

With vigils which the long night-watches fill:

Yet leaving not to seek all knightly skill

In lists of arms, arrayed in knightly weeds,

Against some coming day of martial deeds.

IV.

For like a clear flame in his bosom burned,

As on an holy altar, fiery zeal,

Though not for meeds of earthly fame he yearned,

Nor willingly for these had bared his steel;

But greatly longed some land that now did feel

The yoke of misbelieving men, once more

To his Redeemer’s kingdoms to restore.

He, long confined unto unwelcome ease,

To see renewed his Father’s glories yearned,

Who with two hundred vessels crossed the seas,

And for himself a noble title earned,

As first, who to the infidels returned

The wrongs they wrought on Spain, and with high hand

Made Ceuta his, the key of all their land.

VI.

Oh day, when many a heart beat high and fast,

When his exultingly did bound and leap,

For that despaired of long was come at last,—

Once more a gallant host was on the deep,

And every vessel did its due course keep

For Afric, and at each prow unconfined

A Red-cross banner floated on the wind.

VII.

Far off, that fleet might seem a wandering troop

Of huge sea-monsters gambolling at will

Upon the topmost surge—or clouds that stoop

And lean on Ocean’s breast, themselves to fill

With water, which they back in rain distil,

Or flock of snow-white sea-birds, that expand

Huge never-wearied pinions, far from land.

VIII.

Or now he might that goodly sight compare,

Who saw it from afar, to forest vast

In motion, that did all its pines upbear—

They tossing their tall heads, as every mast

Now rose, now yielded to the unsteady blast;

Or now had deemed them, proudly thus advancing,

A city on the inconstant billows dancing.

IX.

Oh joy, when they by tempests unassailed

Set their firm feet upon the Libyan shore,

While loud and clear the holy hymn prevailed,

Which ofttimes heard in Palestine before,—

“The standards of the King advance,”—once more

Filled now the air, and seemed the prelude high

Of near success and certain victory.

—Long were it and a mournful task to tell

How this fair dawn of triumph was defaced

With wrack of envious clouds, and how befell,

And by whose fault that with untimely haste

They were entangled in the desert waste;

Wherein they deeper day by day were led,

Still thinking that the foe before them fled:

XI.

Till when the scorching heat of Afric’s sun,

With alternating dews of chilly night,

And pain and travail had their office done,

And theirs already was an evil plight,

A dawning morning showed them every height

Crowned with innumerous hosts, that hemmed their way,

Then rushed to seize an unresisting prey.

XII.

Yet did not then that instant peril tame

The courage of that high heroic band:

The bold Crusaders, worthy that high name,

With dauntless front from morn to evening stand;

Although when darkness did at length command

Brief truce from arms, the boldest needs must own

That to retrace their steps remained alone.

XIII.

Back to their ships they wound in sad retreat,

Enveloped ever in a fiery cloud

Of dust and burning sand, which by their feet

Stirred, hung around them like a dismal shroud:

And choked by agony of thirst, they crowd

Round scanty desert wells, and thence in vain

Strive to assuage their fierce and torturing pain.

XIV.

The hopes of triumph now had quite departed,

But an austerer glory still remained,—

Still to abide mid failing hearts high-hearted;

And though the light that lit their path had waned,

And by no hope of victory sustained,

Still to do well, what still was to be done;—

The Prince amid defeat this glory won.

XV.

But ever as they drew the shore more near,

And as each ship received its willing freight,

The Moorish squadrons on their feeble rear

And their diminishing ranks with added weight,

With louder cries and more tumultuous hate

Thronged, pressing on more fiercely and more fast:

He who had been the first, was now the last.

XVI.

He fain the last would quit the hostile shore,

Who leaped the foremost on its fatal strand:

Around him throng the Moors, behind, before:

Of those true-hearted that beside him stand

Some fall in death—the noble Ferdinand,

(Skill courage and despair alike in vain,)

In the foe’s hands a captive must remain.

XVII.

—“Not in ignoble bondage, nor for long,

If Christian hearts can worth or valour prize,

O gallant Prince, shalt thou endure this wrong,

This unbeseeming yoke, which on thee lies;”

With such well-sounding gentle courtesies

The Mauritanian king him greeted fair,

When of his prisoner’s high estate aware.

XVIII.

“To-morrow a swift ship shall cleave the main,

Bearing this message to the Tagus’ shore,

That freedom shall to thee be given again,

If Ceuta will thy brother hold no more,

But unto us its rightful lords restore;

This for a brother will not be denied;

Meanwhile with me, my guest thou shalt abide.”

XIX.

Frank recognition of his grace the Prince

Rendered again—yet did not, when he heard

Of that so near deliverance, joy evince,

Nor of that ransom answered he a word:

Only it seemed some thought within him stirred,

That some large thought was stirring in his breast,

Which he had well-nigh spoke and then represt.

XX.

But now there waned not many moons, before

By favouring breezes wafted o’er the sea

They came, the prompt embassadors that bore

Large powers to set the princely captive free;

Whom at this cost did ransom willingly

His loving brother, and did only yearn

That he should hasten his desired return.

XXI.

And all seemed finished now, when “Hear me,” cried

The Prince—“Hear me, although a captive thrall;

Ye know that if my brother childless died,

Mine would be then the throne of Portugal:

While this is so, no power has he at all

Aught of its state to alienate or lose,

Unless with my consent, which I refuse.

XXII.

“Shall that fair city, on whose walls my Sire

With his own hands first planted the five shields

Of Portugal—shall Ceuta, glorious hire

Of labours long on stormy battle-fields,

Which o’er this land such broad dominion wields,

Be in a moment bartered for one poor

And worthless life? who would such thought endure?

XXIII.

“Its golden crosses glittering in the air,

Shall they give place to crescents foul and pale?

And for glad bells that call to Christian prayer,

The muezzin’s melancholy voice prevail,

Bidding to impious rites? and at the tail

Of horses shall our images divine

Be dragged?—to stables turned each sacred shrine?

XXIV.

“No—rather if just ransom thou for me,

Such as a faithful man can pay, refuse,

And for my partners in captivity,—

For I not any liberty will use,

In which they share not,—then I rather choose

Of this poor life whatever may remain,

Till death release, to spend in captive pain.”

XXV.

More he had said, but him the Moorish king

Not suffered to proceed—“And dost thou ween

To find captivity that easy thing,

Which by my grace it hitherto has been?

While thou in me this grace hast only seen,

Without thine harm thou thinkest to despoil

Us of the just reward of all our toil.

XXVI.

“Oh fool, to think I have no power nor will

To make thy bondage bitter unto thee—

That I with gall and wormwood cannot fill

Brimming the cup of thy captivity!

Thou art my slave—a slave’s lot thine shall be,

Labour and pains—and harder to be borne,

Insult and ignominy, stripes and scorn.

XXVII.

“But when sore laden with thy shameful task,

Of thy long bondage thou shalt weary be,

And when mid basest labours thou shalt ask

For pity, ask it of thyself—not me:

For thou dost in thine own hands hold the key

Of thine own prison—yield to me that place,

Else shalt thou vainly crave the poorest grace.

XXVIII.

“And ye, that did your bootless message bring,

Go back and say what sight these lands afford—

A Christian prince, the brother of your king,

Tending the horses of his Moorish lord.

Come and redeem him with the spear and sword,

If ye are willing once again to try

The welcome of our Moslem chivalry.”

XXIX.

By this from off his shoulders rudest men

Had torn his decent robes, and garmented

In prison-dress of coarsest serge, and then

Him to his task dishonourable led,

He nought resisting—only this he said,

“If that herein there be dishonour, thine

Is the dishonour and the shame, not mine.”

XXX.

And his companions each and all were borne

One way or other to some servile toil,

Mid blows and curses and tumultuous scorn,—

Whom all were free to buffet and to spoil,

Until they wet that cruel Afric soil

With mingled blood and tears, and scarcely thought

They would with life to that day’s end be brought:

XXXI.

So that when they were thrust in harshest wise

Into a noisome vault at that day’s close,

That noisome vault appeared a paradise,

Because it gave some shelter from the blows,

The taunts and insults of their cruel foes—

Because its bars and iron-strengthened gate

Rose strong between them and that clamorous hate.

XXXII.

But when there lacked not of their number one,

The Prince so joyed, as though he found reward

For all the suffering he that day had known:

Yet when a light permitted to regard

Their garments rent, swoln hands, and faces marred,

He, strong before all weakness to restrain,

Not any longer might from tears refrain.

XXXIII.

—“Dear friends, that I have dragged you down with me

Into this gulf of woe, this makes my smart,

That of this suffering and captivity

I may not for myself claim every part:

Oh this it is that causes my weak heart

To die within me;—tell me you forgive

Only this wrong, and I again shall live.”

XXXIV.

Nothing they spake—but of that faithful band

One after other rising from his place

Drew near, and knelt and kissed the Prince’s hand,

As though that hand dispersed all gifts and grace:

He raised and wound them in a strict embrace

One after other—“Brothers of my heart,

Henceforth for good or ill we never part.”

XXXV.

—“Oh wish us not then any more away,

Our dear, dear Lord—nor grudge to us our share

In this high suffering”—so they all did say—

“What could we wish more goodly or more fair,

Than that when men hereafter shall declare

Thy noble acts, that they should then as well

Of us thy servants and true comrades tell?”

XXXVI.

But he to them—“We know not what shall be,

Nor whither these things tend—if that we bore

To-day of outrage and indignity

Be but the first and least, and far, far more—

Yea, mortal suffering be for us in store;

Or if, when God awhile our faith has proved,

All suffering shall from us be then removed.

XXXVII.

“But He who knoweth that we hither came

Not in the lust of spoil, nor heat of pride,

Nor with the hope to win ourselves a name,

But the dear faith of Christ to spread more wide,

Can give us strength in patience to abide,

Till one way or another grief has end;

Then let us unto him our cause commend.”

XXXVIII.

What of the night remained, when thus the smart

Of their new bleeding wounds had been allayed

With the sweet balm of loving words, in part

Was spent in holy prayer; they knelt and made

Their supplications unto God for aid;

And then they did their weary eyelids close

In blest oblivion of all earthly woes.

XXXIX.

In dreams they wandered by familiar places

In their own land, unto their childhood dear;

And some were locked in loving, fond embraces,

And sweet the voices of their home and clear

Came to them;—pain was gone, and doubt and fear;

And all the dreary and the dread Between

Was gone, like aught which had not ever been.

XL.

What happy dreams, blest visions without number

Were scattered by their rude tormentors’ tone,

Snapping in twain the golden links of slumber!

Then each poor captive staggering rose, as one

From off whose heart there had been rolled a stone

A little moment—to return again

With added weight, a sense of hopeless pain.

XLI.

And this their mournful life continued long

Without a change, unless when some new day

Brought with it some new insult or new wrong,

Sharp taunt or scorn, which they might not gainsay

Nor seem to feel; which, if one did repay

With but an angry look, he then would find

That there was worse and keener wrong behind.

XLII.

But, oh! what gladness was it when they met,

The long day’s miserable task-work o’er,

In their dank vault, and shared the black bread set,

With water from the pools drawn, them before!

Then made they of that coarse and scanty store

A glorious meal, while love makes all things sweet,

And it is always joy, when brethren meet.

XLIII.

Yet oft the wantonness of fell despite

Would grudge them this poor respite of their woes;

And then harsh voices in the middle night,

Just as their leaden eyelids ’gan to close,

And their tired limbs were sinking to repose,

Would bid them forth, and task them to renew

The past day’s work, or merely to undo.

XLIV.

Yet amid all still kept his constant mind,

Not to be wearied out by toil or pain,

Or all which malice could of outrage find,

The steadfast Prince; on him were spent in vain

All shafts of malice—able to sustain

Not his own heart alone, but aye to speak

Strength to the fainting, courage to the weak.

XLV.

Yet if they cursed their foes, or wished them dead,

With gentle words, but firm, he would put down

Such evil thoughts:—“Shall we be angerÈd

With them that help us to a martyr’s crown?

Shall we not rather our tormentors own

As scourges with which God doth scourge our sin,

And far unhappier than are we therein?

XLVI.

“Your curses cannot harm them, but can make

Of your own hearts a hell instead of heaven;

Its healing virtue from affliction take,

And mar all gracious ends for which ’twas given.

With mortal men ye gloriously have striven;

An harder task remains you—to oppose

Revenge, and scorn, and hate, far deadlier foes.”

XLVII.

Yet once, what time the others sleeping lay,

To one, an aged and faithful servant true,

Who, though he ’scaped that last disastrous day,

Yet when his lord’s captivity he knew,

To share his bondage and his sufferings flew,—

He once unto this faithful servant old

More of his inmost bosom did unfold:

XLVIII.

“To these, my poor companions, seem I strong,

And at some times such am I, as a rock

That has upstood in middle ocean long,

And braved the winds’ and waters’ angriest shock,

Counting their fury but an idle mock;

Yet sometimes weaker than the weakest wave

That dies about its base, when storms forget to rave.

XLIX.

“I from my God such strength have sometimes won,

That all the dark, dark future I am bold

To face;—but, oh! far otherwise anon,

When my heart sinks and sinks to depths untold,

Till Being seems no deeper depth to hold,

Unfathomed by the line of my despair;

And with my spirit so it now doth fare.

“O God, that I had fall’n with them who fell

In that disastrous conflict by Tangiers!

Oh happy you, my brethren, ending well!

Oh, not to be lamented with such tears

As we, condemned to waste inglorious years

In this captivity, which shall extend,

Without release, unto life’s utmost end!

LI.

“Yet is not here the answer to my prayer?

For I remember when upon my nod

Men waited, and the world did speak me fair,

Then thinking on my Saviour and my God,

And on the thorny path of life he trod

With bleeding feet, deep shame possessed my heart,

That I should in his sufferings bear no part.

LII.

“And then in secret prayed I earnestly

That I might to some likeness with my Lord

Be brought—not courted, praised, and honoured be,

While he was scorned, and buffeted, and gored

With cruel wounds:—I knew my prayer was heard,

Though on what side affliction would appear,

I strove in vain to guess;—now all is clear.”

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